The snow had deepened by the time May reached the river bend.
She moved like a shadow beneath the trees, her cloak heavy with frost, a thick scarf wrapped over her mouth and nose. Her hood was drawn low, her boots muffled by the snowdrifts. Each step was measured. Precise. The wind didn't touch her.
The river was frozen over — a wide sheet of glass framed by willows and pale stone. And just ahead, she spotted them: three royal couriers, cloaked in dark navy, the seal of Thessalyn stitched beneath their collars. One of them scanned the ridge behind them, uneasy.
They weren't used to being followed.
But May had been on them for hours. She knew this path. She had taken it in another life, long ago — when she still believed in fate.
She waited for the right moment. Breath steady. No movement. One courier bent to adjust his satchel. The others turned, murmuring about the path ahead.
She struck.
No war cry. No warning. Just speed.
The first courier dropped with a gasp as a blunt blow struck his ribs from behind — the dagger never pierced, but it sent him to the snow, stunned. Before the second could draw his weapon, May swept his legs and pressed a blade to his throat, eyes sharp behind the half-mask.
The third courier ran.
She let him.
Then—vanished.
Like a wraith, she reappeared just ahead of him, sliding across the ice. Her boot found his knee, toppling him to the frozen riverbed. He skidded, groaned, rolled over—and froze.
She stood above him, calm and utterly still, blade lowered but not sheathed.
He reached for his satchel.
"Don't."
Her voice was soft — steady, unshaken. But it carried weight. Finality.
The courier froze, fingers trembling just above the clasp.
May knelt, careful, and unlatched the scroll pouch herself.
She pulled the sealed document free. A single red wax crest gleamed on its front — the royal insignia. She held it up to the moonlight for a moment. Then pulled a small lighter from her belt pouch.
A flick. A spark.
Flame danced quietly in the windless pocket between their bodies — blue-white and hungry.
She burned the scroll.
It curled in on itself like a dying leaf. The wax melted into ash.
"You'll deliver nothing. Not yet."
The courier watched, horrified. She looked up and met his eyes — brown, wide, terrified. But she didn't flinch. She bound his hands with frost-lined cord and returned to the others. Each one was dazed, bruised, but alive. She left them that way.
No deaths. No names spoken. Only silence, wind, and the crackle of paper turned to cinders.
And as she vanished into the woods again, cloak fluttering behind her like the tail of a fading comet, one courier whispered:
"She wasn't a rebel…"
The other, groaning, answered through grit teeth:
"…She was something worse."
---
The princess stood stiffly, arms folded, jaw set. She hadn't spoken since arriving, not even when the Queen dismissed the attendants. The doors shut behind her with a thud like a sealed vault.
Across the table, her mother's eyes — always tired, but never unsteady — regarded her.
"You said you would explain," the princess said, voice clipped. "Start."
The Queen's hands remained folded in her lap.
"There was a child," she began softly. "A boy. Born two years before you."
The princess didn't react. She already knew this part.
"What happened to him?"
The Queen looked to the fire. "He was stolen."
The words hung in the air. Simple. Small. But enormous in weight.
"It happened in the middle of the night," she continued. "Quiet. No alarm. By dawn, he was gone. And no one had seen a thing."
The princess's mouth pressed into a line.
"We searched for weeks. Months. Then we received word — a trail, a name. He'd been taken to Velgrath."
A beat passed.
"That's when Father ordered the gates sealed."
The Queen nodded once.
"Yes."
The princess exhaled, slow. "And?"
"He was with a pair of travelers. They posed as artisans, but they were known thieves — smugglers. Velgrath harbors many such people."
"They were hiding him."
The Queen nodded again, slower this time.
"He thought they were his parents."
The princess blinked. "What?"
"He was only a baby when he was taken. By the time we found them, he was old enough to speak — and he called them 'Mama' and 'Papa.' He didn't know us."
The fire cracked.
The Queen's voice went quiet.
"I ordered a peaceful return. I told our people to bring them home safely — all three. I wanted to speak to the thieves. To understand."
"But that's not what happened," the princess said tightly.
The Queen looked away.
"No. There was… confusion. A struggle. A soldier drew steel — and it turned bloody. The thieves fought back. They died."
The silence between them stretched, sharp and splintering.
The princess sat slowly.
"He saw it, didn't he?"
The Queen closed her eyes. "He ran before they caught him. Disappeared into the alleys. We searched Velgrath for weeks. But by then, it was too late. The boy had vanished."
"And you never told me," the princess said. Her voice broke — just slightly.
A pause.
"No one told me I had a brother."
The Queen opened her mouth.
And then closed it.
"It wasn't my decision," she said quietly.
The princess turned sharply.
Across the chamber, the King stood at the window, back to them. Still. Silent.
He'd been there the whole time.
"Father," the princess said. "Is that true?"
No answer.
"Did you know?"
He didn't move.
"You knew this entire time—!"
Still nothing.
"You let me believe I was the only child. That I was meant to rule. That fate—"
"I did what was necessary," the King said at last. His voice was low. Final. "Do you think I wanted to lose a son?"
The princess stood. "You wanted to forget him."
Silence.
"You believed the prophecy. You thought—if he came back, it would happen."
The King didn't deny it.
The Queen's gaze was distant now — not absent, but worn thin.
"I couldn't fight both fate and my own house," she whispered.
The princess's breath hitched. Her hands curled at her sides.
"I looked up to you," she said softly. "I believed every word you ever told me. And now—"
She broke off.
No one moved.
She turned on her heel.
"I need air."
Neither parent stopped her.
As the doors shut behind her, the silence in the solar returned — deeper this time. Like snowfall after thunder.
---
The cold didn't bite. Not the way it should have.
The princess stood with her gloves clutched in one hand, the other pressed to the railing. Snow gathered softly on her shoulders. Her breath left in long, visible ribbons — calm on the outside, even as the storm brewed within.
She had grown up in these halls.
Taught to speak with dignity, to hold posture through pain. She had learned of bloodlines, of duty, of legacy.
She had been told her family was whole. That her crown would pass undivided. That her fate was chosen because she was the only one who could carry it.
She stared at her palm now.
Small, pale, steady.
She'd been trained with a sword since she could lift one. Had dueled half the royal guard by age ten. She was no stranger to hard truths.
But this…
This was a lie stretched over seventeen winters.
She whispered to herself, "He was real."
A lost brother.
A life outside the castle, stolen before it began.
And her father… had let it vanish. Had sealed the truth behind gates and silence. All in the name of prophecy.
Her jaw tightened.
All the speeches. All the discipline. All the times she had been told she had no equal — because she was the kingdom's only heir.
But she wasn't.
She had never been.
She turned her eyes toward the city below. Between the spires and smoke, she could just barely make out the edge of the common districts — and beyond that, the neighborhood where they were staying.
Where he was staying.
Her brother.
Maybe.
She didn't even know his name.
But she'd looked him in the eye.
She'd walked beside him. Fought with him. Laughed — against her better judgment.
And now?
Now she wasn't sure if anything she'd believed was true. Not her role. Not her father. Not the stories she'd lived inside for so long.
A flicker of movement caught her eye.
Across the court, near the gates of the training yard — someone stood in the snow.
Ronell.
Her hair was wind-tangled. Her scarf loose. She was still. Just watching the sky, like she wasn't really in the moment.
And something in the princess broke.
Not in anger.
Not in jealousy.
But in the raw need to do something. To move — to cut — to test the limits of what she still had control over.
Because everything else was slipping. Truth, trust, history — all of it cracking under her feet like a frozen lake ready to give way.
She stepped away from the overlook, fists clenched.
Ronell turned as she approached.
There was a pause. Quiet. Respectful.
Then:
"You look cold," Ronell said gently.
The princess didn't answer right away.
She stopped just a few paces from her.
And then, evenly:
"Duel me."
Ronell blinked.
"What?"
"Right here. Right now. You and me."
"…Why?"
The princess's voice was quiet — strained at the edges.
"Because you're the only thing that hasn't lied to me."
---
The blades met in a burst of steel and frost.
Ronell twisted to the side, boots slipping slightly on the snow-packed stone, but she recovered fast. Her stance was lighter than the princess's, more reactive — the dance of someone who had learned to adapt rather than control.
The princess's blade moved like certainty.
Calculated. Pressured. Every swing held the weight of a lifetime of lessons.
Ronell gritted her teeth, ducking low as a sweep came toward her ribs. She spun into a sidestep and launched a counter-blow — fast, not perfect, but enough to force the princess back.
"You've improved," the princess said between breaths, circling her.
Ronell adjusted her grip. "Didn't think this was a test."
"It's not." A pause. "It's clarity."
And then she came again — fast, fierce.
Ronell blocked, but her arm shook from the impact. Her foot slipped. The princess pushed her momentum, driving her toward the edge of the courtyard.
They weren't holding back.
There were no wooden swords. No dulled edges.
Each clash sparked white against the cold.
Ronell's style was unorthodox. She fought like someone used to compensating — for strength she didn't have, for expectations she never asked for. But she was fast. And clever. Her dodges grew sharper, her movements more fluid.
And the princess… paused.
Only for a second. But it was enough to register surprise.
"You're not just surviving," she said quietly.
Ronell's chest heaved. "Neither are you."
They lunged at the same time.
Ronell's blade skimmed the princess's shoulder. The princess's landed flat against Ronell's hip. The two stumbled apart — and then closed the gap again.
For a moment, they were equals.
Until they weren't.
The princess slipped past Ronell's guard, ducked a high swing, and pivoted with precision. Her blade pressed against Ronell's collarbone — not piercing, but solid. Definitive.
Ronell froze.
Snowflakes drifted between them, catching on their lashes.
The princess's chest rose and fell. She held her sword still.
And in that second — just one second — her grip tightened.
A flicker of something darker passed through her eyes. Not hatred. But desperation. As if, for one twisted heartbeat, she wondered if this was how to fix it all. If striking down her shadow might wake her up from the madness.
Ronell didn't move.
She looked the princess in the eye and whispered, "I'm not your enemy."
And from across the courtyard—
"STOP!"
Moore's voice rang out, sharp and raw.
The princess jerked — as if pulled from a trance. Her gaze snapped toward him. Her breath caught.
She looked down at her blade.
Then dropped it.
It hit the snow with a heavy, wrong sound.
She staggered a step back.
Ronell didn't pursue. She simply stood there, heart pounding, snow clinging to her sleeves.
The princess stared at her hands, then covered her face.
And sank to her knees.
---
The sword hit the ground like a final breath — half muffled by snow, half echoing with something heavier.
The princess stared at it. At the mark it left in the snow. At her hands — trembling now that the adrenaline had vanished.
Then she dropped to her knees.
Her breath hitched, sharp in her throat. She didn't sob — not yet — but something inside her had cracked wide open. Her arms curled loosely at her sides, fingers twitching in the snow.
"I thought…" Her voice shook. "I thought if I could just face you… maybe it would all start to make sense again."
Ronell didn't speak.
"I don't hate you," the princess whispered. "I liked you. From the start. Even when I told myself not to. And Moore too. You made this place feel—alive."
She looked up then — her eyes glassy, lost.
"But I don't know what's real anymore. My mother lied. My father lied. I have a brother I don't remember. And every time I think I've found something solid, the ground breaks again."
Her hands clenched in the snow. "I keep wondering—what if this is just some dream? Some simulation? What if I'm not even real?"
Ronell stepped forward. Slowly. Her boots crunching faintly in the frost.
She crouched in front of her. "You're real to me."
The princess blinked.
Ronell gave a tiny, crooked smile. "You're bossy. Kind of mean. Awkward with compliments. And smarter than everyone in the room. I don't care what world this is — that's you."
For a second, the princess looked like she might crack a bitter smile — but then her shoulders shook. Just once. And then again.
Her lips trembled.
"I just want to wake up," she whispered. "Not from you. Not from Moore. Just… from everything else."
Ronell didn't hesitate.
She reached forward and pulled her into a hug.
The princess stiffened — unused to being held — but then she collapsed into it, like all the strength had drained from her. Her breath hitched again, this time against Ronell's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she choked out. "I didn't mean to— I didn't want to—"
"I know," Ronell said softly.
Snow kept falling around them — quiet, endless — as the world stilled around two girls, one sword, and the storm in their hearts.
---
The snow had thinned by the time they reached the outer courtyard. Most of the crowd from the duel had drifted away — only scattered footprints remained, crisscrossing the stone like ghosts of watchers past.
Ronell walked beside Moore in silence. Her breath puffed white before her, hands stuffed into her sleeves. She wasn't shivering — not from the cold, at least.
She hadn't said much since the duel.
Moore glanced at her now and then, but didn't press. He knew that look — the one where her eyes weren't on the street ahead, but somewhere far off. Inside her own thoughts.
Still, he said softly, "You okay?"
She didn't answer at first. Just kept walking, her boots crunching lightly with each step.
Then — her voice, distant.
"I don't know."
Moore's brow furrowed. "Is it about what she said?"
Ronell nodded faintly.
"She lost a brother. She found out her father lied. And then she tried to kill me," she said with a strange, wry softness. "It's a lot."
Moore exhaled through his nose. "You held your own."
Ronell looked down. "Only because she let me."
Moore was about to say something more — when she suddenly stopped.
He turned — just in time to see her looking up.
Not at him.
At the sky.
It was still snowing. Quiet, soft flakes. The world was pale and blue-tinted.
But her face had gone strange.
Moore followed her gaze — but saw nothing.
Then Ronell whispered, "Did you see that?"
He blinked. "See what?"
"The sky. Just now. It looked like…"
She didn't finish.
Moore stepped in front of her. "Hey." He touched her shoulder, grounding. "You're just tired. It's been a day."
She blinked hard — and when her eyes returned to him, they refocused. Grounded.
"Yeah," she murmured. "Just tired."
But as they started walking again, she glanced at the sky one last time.
Something inside her still itched — like a memory not quite remembered.
As they neared the square outside the market, a small group of adventurers passed by — two women and a tall man in mismatched armor, their voices low but urgent.
"Did you hear?" one murmured. "They posted it this morning — an emergency commission. High priority. Royal seal."
"Didn't think the guild took royal work," the other said.
"They don't. Not unless someone's desperate."
Moore and Ronell slowed slightly.
"Apparently the operation went south," the tall man added. "Only one made it out."
The voices faded as the group turned down another street, but the silence between Ronell and Moore deepened.
They looked at each other — not surprised, exactly. But alert.
Moore raised an eyebrow. "Emergency royal work, huh?"
Ronell adjusted her scarf. "We should check the board."
He nodded.
And without another word, they turned toward the Tarnished Crest.
The snow continued to fall.
But something else had begun to stir beneath it.
---
The walk from the city square to the Tarnished Crest took them through quieter streets — narrow and stone-lined, with icicles hanging from eaves like teeth. Blacksmiths had gone silent for the night, but the smoke still lingered faintly in the cold air. Moore kicked a half-frozen pebble down the path, letting it skip and clack ahead of them.
The guildhall came into view just as the lanterns above the door were being lit. The faded sign creaked softly in the breeze:
THE TARNISHED CRESTGuildhall & Mercenary Contract House
Its old timber frame looked worn but sturdy, like a retired warrior still standing tall out of stubbornness alone.
Inside, the guildhall was hushed.
No clatter of boots, no chorus of laughter or clash of tankards — just the soft creak of old timber and the muffled groan of snow melting off the eaves. The hearth near the wall had been banked low, its coals glowing faintly, casting long shadows across the empty hall.
Desks were deserted. The job board stood bare aside from a few curled notices, the ink faded from age. A silence hung in the air — not lifeless, but waiting. Like a breath held just beneath the surface.
Behind the front desk, Corva was alone.
Her sleeves were rolled past her elbows, a heavy ledger open before her, pen clamped between her teeth as she scanned the page with a furrowed brow. She looked up the moment the door creaked.
She didn't look surprised.
"About time," she muttered, pulling the pen free and setting it aside.
Moore raised an eyebrow. "Didn't know we were expected."
Corva snorted softly and shut the ledger with a quiet thud. "Word moves faster than frostbite in this town. And you two leave a trail."
She stepped aside, pulling a sealed parchment from beneath the counter and sliding it forward.
"Special commission. Not listed. Class priority: Royal."
Ronell took a breath and stepped forward.
"We heard something happened."
Corva nodded once, jaw tight. "Three royal couriers dispatched last night. Silent orders. One managed to trigger a distress flare before the line went cold."
"And the other two?" Moore asked.
Corva met his eyes.
"Presumed dead. Or worse."
At that, her expression darkened.
"Velgrathi hunters intercepted the area after the first attack. Probably hired to clean up whatever mess the first attacker left behind."
Moore leaned on the desk. "The first attacker?"
Corva hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder — more out of habit than fear. The guildhall was empty, but her voice lowered anyway.
"Not officially stated. But off the record? Our contact says a lone figure in a cloak was seen moving through the woods just before the ambush. Masked. Fast."
Ronell's breath caught.
Moore didn't speak — but his fists clenched, knuckles white against the map edge.
Corva's sharp eyes caught the tension. "You know who it was."
Neither of them answered.
She tapped the rolled parchment again. "Doesn't matter. What matters is this — one courier survived. Injured, but moving. He's trying to reach the riverside outpost — probably thinks he can finish the delivery."
"What was he carrying?" Moore asked.
"Classified," Corva replied. "Which means dangerous. Could be information. Could be something worse."
She studied them both for a long moment. "I wouldn't normally send first-years into something like this. But your names? Already in the mouth of the castle. The princess vouched for you."
Ronell blinked. "She did?"
Corva nodded. "She also told me you'd take the job."
Ronell exhaled slowly. "She wasn't wrong."
From beneath the counter, Corva pulled two things.
First — a hand-drawn map marked in red, following the courier's last known path from the city gates to a stretch of woods hugging the old riverbend. She rolled it tight and passed it to Moore.
Second — a small brass token. About the size of a thumbprint, shaped like a curled wolf's fang embedded with a single fleck of opal. She placed it firmly in Ronell's palm.
"Emergency sigil," she explained. "If anyone from the castle challenges you, this proves you're on official guild commission. And—"
She reached again and pulled out a small stone, black as iron with a cracked silver seam.
"Flare-stone," she said. "Break it if it turns bad. Can't promise how fast backup will come, but it'll burn through the cloud cover."
Moore examined it with a raised brow. "Only one?"
Corva gave him a dry look. "Don't die."
He tucked the map into his coat and nodded.
Ronell secured the token around her neck on a chain. The weight of it sat strangely heavy against her collarbone.
Corva leaned her elbows on the desk now, voice quiet but serious. "Get to the courier before they do. Bring him back alive — if he's still breathing."
Ronell nodded. "We'll leave before sunrise."
As they moved to go, Corva called out again:
"Watch yourselves. If Velgrathi mercs are involved — this isn't just a cleanup job. Someone doesn't want that courier talking."
Moore paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder.
"We've never handled something like this."
Corva's voice was flat. "Then stay alive long enough to learn."
---
The sun hung low in the sky as Ronell and Moore slipped through the city's eastern gate, shadows stretching long across the slush-covered stones. The cold was sharp, but the frost had begun to soften — afternoon light breaking gently through a thin haze of clouds.
The map Corva had given them led toward the old river path — a winding trail carved through thinning woods and forgotten hunting roads. Ronell walked with purpose, her eyes scanning the muddied snow for tracks, while Moore moved beside her in silence, one hand resting near the hilt of his blade.
The trees whispered as they passed — winter-bare branches creaking in the wind.
Hours passed.
Eventually, they found the first sign: blood. Fresh. Spattered across a cluster of brush where a branch had been broken. Nearby, a shred of deep blue cloth clung to a bramble, half-frozen.
Ronell knelt, brushing her fingers lightly over the trail. "He's close."
They moved more carefully now, footsteps muted against wet snow, ears straining for any sound. The light was starting to fade — the world shifting toward pale gold and silver blue.
Then they heard it.
Not a voice — a breath. Ragged. Strained.
The courier lay crumpled near a fallen tree, one leg bent at an unnatural angle, his cloak soaked with snow and blood. A broken sword was clutched in one hand, though it looked more like a crutch than a weapon.
His eyes widened when he saw them.
"No—stay back," he rasped. "They're still—"
Too late.
The forest snapped open with a scream — high, inhuman.
Shapes surged from the underbrush — Velgrathi hunters, two of them, lean and sharp, cloaked in layered leather and bone. Masks of bleached wood obscured half their faces. They didn't look surprised.
And then came the beasts.
Once-natural creatures, now twisted: deer-like bodies with hollow eyes, bloated limbs, and slick, blackened antlers. A corrupted aura clung to them, thick as smoke. Their teeth were wrong. Their eyes were worse.
Moore stepped forward automatically, slotting himself between Ronell and the threat.
"I hate being right," he muttered.
The lead hunter raised his weapon — a jagged, curved spear — and pointed at Ronell.
"Kill the girl. Take the boy. He might still be useful."
Ronell moved first.
She dashed toward the nearest creature, her shield flaring out to take the brunt of its charge. Her sword sang, slicing clean through its exposed neck. It shrieked and twisted away, shadow spilling from the wound.
Moore met one of the hunters head-on, their blades ringing through the clearing. The other hunter moved to flank him — but a corrupted beast lunged in from the side, nearly knocking him off balance.
The fight splintered into chaos.
Snow churned with blood and movement. Moore ducked under a spear thrust, retaliating with a hard kick to the gut. The courier tried to crawl away — but another beast rounded on him, sniffing the air with twitching jaws.
Ronell pivoted, slamming her shield into the creature's side and swinging her sword in a wide arc. "Stay down!" she snapped — more to the courier than the monster.
Moore took a slash across the arm and hissed, blood running hot down his sleeve. He gritted his teeth and jabbed his elbow into a masked hunter's face. The mask cracked.
A low growl answered him. The corrupted beast reared up.
Ronell darted forward — slamming her blade into its chest before it could reach Moore. He gave her a quick nod, breath labored.
"I owe you."
"You owe me so much," she muttered, already turning.
Eventually, one of the hunters fell — knocked unconscious by the hilt of Moore's dagger. The other snarled, bleeding from the ribs, and called the remaining beast to heel. With a guttural whistle, they vanished into the trees.
Not defeated — only delayed.
Moore wiped blood from his brow. "They'll be back."
Ronell, panting, checked the courier's pulse. He was alive — barely. Shivering. Conscious, but wild-eyed.
"I didn't tell them," he gasped. "I didn't say anything…"
Ronell met his gaze. "We know."
Moore pulled the flare-stone from inside his coat. It was small, hexagonal, and etched with runes. He cracked it between his palms, and it sparked a bright, spiraling blue light — shooting upward into the sky like a comet.
A signal.
Help might come.
But they weren't going to wait around to find out.
"Come on," Moore grunted, crouching down beside the courier. "We're not dying here."
Ronell sheathed her sword and took the other side. Together, they half-carried, half-dragged the courier out of the clearing — toward the path home.
The trees were still. The blood was drying.
The shadows were not gone.
---
The sun was starting to set behind the city walls as Ronell and Moore reached the outer gate — the courier slung between them, still weak but breathing. Frost clung to their cloaks, blood crusted beneath their sleeves, and the air around them crackled with the weight of what they'd survived.
Before they even reached the guild, a voice called out from the far side of the square.
"Stop."
They turned.
The princess stood alone beneath a stone archway, half-shadowed by the falling dusk. No guards. No attendants. Just her — hands clenched at her sides, jaw tight, a storm barely held in check.
Ronell froze. Moore shifted, instinctively placing himself between the princess and the courier.
But she didn't look angry.
She looked… tired.
Her gaze locked onto the courier — and softened with something close to regret. "He was the only one, wasn't he?"
Ronell nodded. "The others didn't make it."
The princess stepped forward slowly, her cloak brushing the frost-covered ground. She didn't even glance at the blood or dirt or bruises. Her eyes were only on the courier — who flinched when he met them.
"You're safe now," she said quietly. "That's all that matters."
The courier gave a trembling nod, barely able to stand without Ronell's support.
The princess's expression darkened.
"I know what happened," she said at last. "Or enough of it. There are whispers. About a cloaked figure. A mask. A fire that didn't leave ash."
Moore narrowed his eyes. "It wasn't her intent—"
"She endangered the mission," the princess cut in, voice sharp. "And almost got you killed. Both of you."
Ronell stepped forward. "May didn't know about the hunters. She was trying to stop the message from reaching the castle. Not… this."
The princess didn't move. "She's not just acting on her own. She's manipulating outcomes. Holding back information. Interfering with orders she doesn't understand. That courier could have died."
There was no venom in her voice. Only steel.
"I'm not bringing this to the King and Queen," she said. "But May is no longer welcome in the capital."
Ronell's lips parted. "You're… banishing her?"
Moore's voice was lower. "You can't be serious."
The princess turned her gaze on them, colder now.
"If she returns," she said, "there will be consequences. The next time she endangers lives… it won't be a private conversation. It'll be a royal sentence."
Silence fell. Even the wind quieted around them.
"She was trying to protect something," Ronell said softly. "Maybe not the right way, but—"
"I know," the princess said.
It was barely a whisper.
"I liked her too."
She stepped back. Her eyes dropped to the courier again, then to the red-tinged frost around his feet.
"I'll make sure he's treated and disappears before anyone else knows he was even gone," she added. "You two… rest. You've done enough."
She turned and walked away — her silhouette vanishing into the evening mist like a fading lantern glow.
Ronell stood still, her hand curled tightly around the courier's arm.
Moore stared after her for a long time.
"…She didn't ask if we agreed."
"No," Ronell murmured. "She didn't."
They exchanged a look.
And for the first time… it didn't feel like May was on their side.
---
The tavern was warm, but the food on their plates had gone cold.
Ronell and Moore sat across from each other at a quiet corner table, the firelight flickering weakly against the wood-paneled walls. Neither spoke. The day had emptied them. Bruises ached, and their clothes still smelled faintly of blood and frost.
Ronell stirred her soup but didn't eat it. Moore pushed his bread around the plate like it had wronged him personally.
Then they noticed it — a faint pressure. A shift in the air.
They looked down.
A black cat had padded into the tavern unnoticed, weaving between legs and tables with practiced grace. She stopped beside them, lifted her chin, and locked eyes with Ronell.
There was no meow. No sound at all. But the message was unmistakable.
Come. Now.
Moore let out a sharp breath through his nose. "She's got nerve, I'll give her that."
Ronell didn't speak — she just rose, carefully, and gave Moore a look. He grumbled, but followed.
They walked side by side out of the tavern, the cat leading the way, tail flicking silently. The streets were nearly empty by now — snow swirling gently in the lamplight. The city slept, but something deeper churned beneath its stillness.
---
When they reached the inn, the cat pushed ahead of them into their shared room. Ronell closed the door quietly behind them.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then — a shimmer. A ripple of air, like heat over stone.
The cat stood straighter, taller, limbs lengthening in unnatural motion. Her shape unfolded like smoke reshaping into something human — cloaked, masked, and hooded.
May stood before them.
The fire in the room crackled softly. She didn't remove her mask.
But she did check the window, and then the corners. Her hand swept once across the wooden dresser — a subtle motion. A spell. The room sealed.
Then she turned.
"We're leaving," she said, voice even. "Tonight."
Ronell blinked, caught between exhaustion and confusion. But before she could answer, Moore took a sharp step forward.
"Explain yourself."
The words came out harder than intended. His tone wasn't furious — but wounded. Raw.
May didn't flinch.
She looked at him for a moment — her expression unreadable behind the mask — then turned slightly, just enough to include Ronell in the weight of what she was about to say.
"This city will fall out of balance if we stay."
Ronell's breath caught.
May's voice was steady, but low — like she was afraid the walls might be listening.
"The shift has already begun. The guild reopening early. The corruption outside the walls. Whispers spreading. The Queen moving in secret. The illusion is unraveling faster than I predicted."
Moore's jaw clenched. "And that explains ambushing the courier?"
May didn't answer right away.
When she did, her voice was quieter.
"That message… would've accelerated the collapse. The Queen wasn't meant to know everything yet. Not like this. If that letter reached her, she might've acted too soon. Like before."
Ronell's voice was soft. "What do you mean, 'like before'?"
May turned to her. "You saw the princess today. The way she cracked. The way doubt took root."
She reached into her cloak and pulled out a small, scorched bundle — what was left of the letter. She held it without pride, without defense.
"I didn't stop the future. I just delayed it. That's all I could do."
Moore looked away, his fists curling.
Ronell stared at the blackened parchment. "And now?"
May hesitated. The answer sat heavy in her chest.
"Now… we leave."
Both Ronell and Moore looked up sharply.
"Wait—what?"
May's voice remained calm. But something in it cracked, just a little.
"I was going to leave alone. But today proved something — you're both in danger here. The illusion may still protect you… but it won't hold much longer. The guild is no longer safe. The castle is watching. Even the princess can't protect you from what's coming next."
She moved across the room — fast, quiet — drawing the curtains closed and laying out a small map across the table.
"There's a path out. Quiet. South through the watch forest. It'll take us to the old border trail — the one Velgrath stopped patrolling after the trade routes collapsed. No one will follow us there."
Ronell stepped closer, still trying to absorb it. "You want us to come with you?"
May finally pulled down her mask — just for a moment.
Her face was tired. Pale. Determined.
"You're the only reason this world is still holding together. But it's coming undone faster than I thought. And if the past is truly repeating — if the real prince is waking — then I need you with me."
She paused, voice softening.
"I can't protect you from a distance anymore."
Moore swallowed hard, looking between them.
"…So what's waiting in Velgrath?"
May's expression hardened.
"Answers. Danger. And if I'm right… the real version of someone we thought we already knew."
The silence that followed was long — heavy with choice.
Finally, Ronell spoke.
"Then we should leave before dawn."
May gave the smallest nod — a flicker of relief passing through her eyes.
"I'll prepare supplies. We don't take the main roads. We vanish. Tonight."
She reached into her cloak one last time and handed them each a small silver token — etched with the sigil of the Tarnished Crest, but faintly altered. Emergency clearance seals, rewritten by May's own magic.
"They'll let you pass any patrol. Just in case."
As she turned to go, her voice dropped.
"Finish your food. Rest. Don't speak of this to anyone — not even the princess. When the sun touches the bell tower, meet me at the southern gate."
Then she vanished.
The fire popped quietly in the hearth, but the warmth felt thinner now.
Moore let out a long breath, rubbing a hand down his face.
"…We're really doing this?"
Ronell looked down at the silver seal in her hand — and nodded.
"We already are."
---
The eastern sky was still a bruised gray when they slipped down the quiet alley — cloaks drawn, packs strapped, breath misting faintly in the crisp air. The city still slept, save for the faint sounds of carts and far-off bells echoing from the distant market square.
They hadn't meant to pass by Papa's Roost — but the old street drew them in like muscle memory.
The sign creaked faintly in the breeze, the lettering still worn and familiar.
The windows glowed warm behind frost-swept glass.
Ronell slowed.
Moore glanced back. "You alright?"
She gave a small nod. "Just… feels strange leaving without saying anything."
Moore hesitated. Then gestured toward the nearby side street. "We've got ten minutes."
She smiled softly — grateful — and the two of them stepped toward the inn door.
They didn't make it far.
The side gate opened with a groan, and a familiar figure emerged — Papa, carrying a basket of dried herbs in one arm and a steaming mug in the other. He nearly bumped into them.
He blinked — then chuckled.
"Well now. Look who the wind dragged in before the city even woke up."
Ronell startled slightly, then laughed under her breath. "You're up early."
Papa snorted, balancing the mug against his hip. "No such thing as early when your joints ache with the seasons." He looked them over, and his eyes softened. "You're leaving."
Moore gave a slow nod. "Didn't expect to pass this way again."
Papa tilted his head. "Didn't expect you to pass through all four, to be honest." He glanced toward the door of his inn. "When you arrived in spring, you looked like kids running from something. Now…"
He didn't finish.
Just gave a small, wistful smile.
"I'm sorry I couldn't take you in come autumn. That room had been reserved months ahead — some eccentric writer with too many trunks and no sense of boundaries. Still... I didn't expect your stay to stretch from blossom to snow."
His eyes crinkled with fondness.
"Winter's end seems to have ended your stay with us."
Ronell smiled faintly. "It was a good place to rest. We'll remember it."
Papa's gaze shifted past them — to the narrow alley behind, where a shadow flicked.
A small black cat perched silently atop a stacked barrel — eyes bright in the half-dark.
He held back a smirk.
"…Even the quiet ones among you, I see."
May didn't move — only her tail flicked once.
She hadn't expected him. But he had always noticed things others missed.
He turned back to Moore and Ronell, voice lowering slightly.
"You take care of each other, alright? World's starting to feel a bit thin around the edges."
He stepped forward and placed a hand on each of their shoulders — warm and steady.
"No matter where you're heading… keep your feet dry, your blade sharp, and your stories true. You hear me?"
Ronell nodded, throat tight. "We will."
Moore added, "Thanks for everything."
Papa gave one final nod. "Safe travels."
Then, quietly, just before he turned to go—
"And if you see her again…" his voice was barely above a murmur, "tell her the firewood's still free, and the back room's still hers."
The cat was gone when they turned back to look.
---
The sun had only just breached the horizon — a pale gold disk peeking through the thinning winter mist — when they reached the eastern gate.
The guards barely looked at them. Three cloaked figures, traveling light. No questions. No ceremony.
The city behind them still shimmered with frost. Snow clung to rooftops like fading memories. Smoke curled from chimneys. Somewhere far off, a bell rang, soft and slow — the sound of a place waking, unaware it was being left behind.
Ronell turned once.
Just once.
The spires of the castle were distant and gray, and the banners atop the towers barely stirred in the breeze.
She didn't say anything — but she lingered a moment longer, eyes scanning rooftops, corners, balconies… as if some part of her was still hoping someone might appear. Someone to stop them. Someone to say goodbye.
No one did.
Moore stood beside her, hands in his pockets. He didn't look back.
"Does it feel real yet?" he asked, voice low.
Ronell shook her head. "No. It feels like a story ending before the last page."
He nodded. "Good. That means we're still in it."
A soft sound caught their attention — a pawstep, a low thump.
May had rejoined them. No longer in her cat form — but cloaked, hood drawn, her masked face unreadable as ever. She didn't speak right away. Only looked back with them — once — before stepping forward.
No farewell speeches.
No promises.
Just purpose.
They crossed the gate in silence.
The road stretched ahead, winding down the hills beyond the wall — toward old borders, toward warmer skies, toward Velgrath.
Behind them, the last gust of wind carried a swirl of snow back through the open gates — and then the guards shut them.
The city of Thessalyn disappeared behind stone and silence.
Ahead, the road pulsed with quiet tension — the faint scent of smoke and spice already riding the breeze.
Their next chapter had begun.
---
Velgrath.
Even in winter, the city does not sleep.
The air is warm — not from comfort, but from friction. Lanterns bob above the streets like tethered fireflies. Wind whistles between weather-worn buildings, thick with the scent of spice and candle smoke, while barefoot dancers spin to the pulse of hand-drums and distant lutes.
This is a city of blurred lines. Of festival and crime, of sacred shrines tucked behind gambling halls. Laughter echoes alongside arguments. Gold exchanges hands beside stolen bread.
And above it all — rooftops stretched like a second street — a boy crouches in silence.
He is lean, wiry. His hair is wind-blown and warm in hue, a dull wheat-gold faded by sun. His skin bears the soft bronze of someone who's lived in open air, slept on stone, stolen fruit from shadowed markets. A satchel rests at his side, half-full with paper scraps, loose buttons, a broken compass.
He watches the crowd below with practiced stillness — too sharp, too alert for someone his age. Not like a pickpocket. Not like a child.
Like a shadow, weighing the world from above.
And around his neck, tucked beneath his shirt, a simple pendant swings gently.
Worn, smoothed by years of touch.
A faded sun cradled in wings.
His thumb brushes it once. A ritual. A memory.
Below, a voice calls out — breathless, familiar.
"Seryn!"
The boy's eyes narrow. No fear — but readiness.
He grabs the edge of the tile, hauls himself into motion. No hesitation.
In an instant, he's moving — bounding across rooftops, limbs quick and sure, cloak fluttering like ink in water.
Gone before the wind can catch him.
A girl in the street below blinks up at the space he left behind.
"Seryn, come on—!"
But he doesn't stop.
He never stops.
He has places to be. Shadows to follow. Names to avoid.
Because someone, somewhere, just burned a letter that should've reached a king.
And in Thessalyn, a truth has been unearthed.
But here — in Velgrath —the storm has already begun.