The morning sun cast warm light through the training yard. Lucan winced as he wrapped a bandage around his forearm, the aftermath of his second spar with Thorne.
"You're taking the day off," Thorne had said gruffly after the match, tossing Lucan a half-smile. "Don't argue. It's an order."
And so he found himself wandering aimlessly through the keep, feeling useless.
"You look miserable," came a teasing voice. He turned to see Lady Lyra seated near one of the arched windows, her chin propped on her palm. "Is the mighty swordsman bored without someone to spar?"
Lucan chuckled. "A bit. Not used to doing nothing."
She sighed dramatically. "Tell me about it. I wish I could leave the keep, even just for a little while. I'd love to walk through Brightstead again."
Lucan blinked. "You mean the town? Outside the keep? That would cause a stir."
She smirked and leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "What if we snuck out? Just for a bit."
He glanced nervously to the corner where Veyne stood, arms crossed, silent as a statue but eyes sharp. "Your father's watchdog might have something to say about that."
Lyra grinned mischievously. "Leave Veyne to me. I have an idea."
Ten minutes later, there was a minor uproar. Lyra had orchestrated a well-timed distraction. One servant accidentally dropped a tray of tankards in front of Veyne, while another began loudly protesting about missing silverware nearby. The commotion drew Veyne's attention, if briefly. As he stepped in to deal with it, Lyra seized the moment, grabbed Lucan by the wrist, and whispered, "Now!"
Then she took off down the corridor, dragging a very reluctant Lucan behind her.
They dashed through the keep, past confused attendants and startled guards. Lucan sputtered protests, but Lyra only laughed as they wove through narrow halls and stairwells.
Finally, they reached a wooden hatch tucked low by the wall.
"You have an escape route?" Lucan panted.
"Of course," she said proudly. "Used it all the time as a kid. Come on."
They crawled through the tunnel beneath the wall and emerged into a grove just beyond the keep. Lucan brushed dirt from his clothes and eyed her elegant attire. "You're going to stand out."
She gasped in mock offence. "Excuse me?"
He raised an eyebrow.
With a laugh, she pointed to a tree nearby. From a hollow beneath its roots, she pulled out a small bundle of worn clothes.
"I come prepared," she said, slipping behind a bush to change. When she re-emerged, she wore a simple cloak. "You don't need anything. You already look like you've been living in the stables."
Lucan rolled his eyes. "Thanks."
Brightstead was bustling, merchants shouted, children laughed, and carts rolled past stacked with goods. The grain treaty had revived the town. Lyra led him through the market, introducing him to stalls with honeyed nuts, cheap trinkets, and handwoven scarves.
Eventually, they reached a small park. Trees arched above them, swaying in the breeze.
They sat in the shade, and Lucan found himself relaxing.
"So," he asked, "when do you think Veyne will find us?"
"Probably soon," she said, completely unconcerned. "He's probably steaming."
Lucan was about to respond when he noticed movement across the park. Three men stood watching them. One of them whispered to another, who slipped away.
Lucan tensed. "We need to go."
"What? Why?"
"Just trust me. Come on."
They made their way through the streets. Lucan glanced over his shoulder, noting figures shifting in the alleys and corners.
Then a man stepped in front of them.
"Mel?" he said. "Is that you? Gods above, I thought you were my cousin for a moment. Could you pull back your hood?"
Lucan stepped between them. "She's not your cousin. Move."
The man smiled tightly. "She looks just like her though, just let me see her face for a moment."
Lucan scanned the area. More figures. Watching. Closing in.
He whispered to Lyra, "When I shout, run. Head toward the market. I saw soldiers there."
"What about you?"
"Don't worry. Just run."
Then, louder, he said, "If you're looking for a fight, I'll give you one. Otherwise, let us through."
The trap sprung. One lunged at Lucan with a blade. He sidestepped, grabbed the attacker's wrist, and slammed his fist into the man's throat. Another came in from the left but Lucan ducked, swept his legs, and threw an elbow into the third man's jaw.
The townsfolk on the street had begun to yell and scream over the street brawl. Lucan had hoped this would alert the soldiers as soon as possible.
He fought like a cornered wolf, fast and brutal. No sword. Just his fists and instincts. One man grabbed his cloak but Lucan headbutted him and sent him staggering.
He dropped another with a spinning kick to the knee and cracked the fifth's nose with a savage hook.
Bloodied, panting, but upright, he turned to Lyra.
"Run! Now!"
She hesitated, eyes wide, but then bolted.
Lucan turned, but it was too late.
A blade slashed across his chest. He stumbled back, blood soaking his shirt.
More emerged. Ten. Fifteen. Surrounding him.
Who were these guys, and why did they have so many?
A flash of silver.
Veyne descended upon them like a hawk hunting mice. His blade chirped, clawing through the attackers with terrifying speed. One lunged but Veyne caught his arm mid-strike and drove his sword through his gut.
Another tried to flee. Veyne grabbed a dagger from the man in his grip and threw it into the fleeing man's spine without looking.
One of the men had grabbed Lyra. She screamed.
Veyne reached him in a blink. His blade came down clean. The man's hand hit the ground before he did.
Blood pooled. Bodies slumped.
Veyne stood among the dead, panting only slightly, face expressionless.
He turned to Lyra, voice low but hard as iron. "You are never to do that again, my lady."
She nodded, visibly shaken.
Lucan walked over, his cut not too deep.
"Next time," Veyne growled, "bring your sword."
Lucan shamefully nodded.