Chapter 4) The Ballad of Rust and Silk
The sun rose pale and slow over Rivelan, the sky painted in soft strokes of lavender and peach. Caelum stood at the edge of the marketplace, watching as carts rolled over the dewy stones and shopkeepers arranged their wares. The world moved on, oblivious to the threat that had slithered into his life in the shape of a single note sealed in black wax.
The letter was folded tightly in his pocket, crinkled from how many times he had opened it during the night. Each time he read it, the words sank deeper into his skin.
> "You don't belong where you're walking.
You will be reminded of that soon."
Who had written it? A noble? A jealous courtier? One of the guards? Or worse—someone from Rivelan who knew him before the festival?
Caelum turned away from the stalls. He had no appetite for bread or apples today. The festive colors felt washed out, and the scent of sugared almonds only made his stomach twist. He wanted quiet. Stillness.
He wandered down a lesser-known path that curved around the eastern wall of the village, past the weavers' quarter, toward the old smithy.
He hadn't been there in years.
The forge had once belonged to his uncle—an iron-hearted man with a voice like thunder and knuckles like boulders. Caelum had spent summers watching him hammer blades, nails, and horseshoes. That was before sickness took him, and the forge had been left to cool and gather dust.
Now, the doors stood slightly ajar.
Inside, the air smelled of rust and ash. Tools still hung on the wall like sleeping soldiers. The anvil sat in the center like a forgotten altar. And behind it, arms folded, stood a girl with oil-streaked gloves and a look that could sharpen steel.
She looked up.
"...Caelum?"
He blinked. "Ardyn?"
Her face cracked into a smile. "I'd recognize that hair in a snowstorm."
She pulled off a glove and stepped forward, brushing a bit of soot off his shoulder. "What are you doing back here?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe I just needed something real."
Her brows lifted, but she didn't press. "Well, you found it. It's a mess, but it's real."
She handed him a rag and gestured to the bench. "You can sit, if you're not afraid of grime."
He sat. The bench creaked. Dust puffed from the wood.
Ardyn grabbed a pair of tongs and pulled something glowing from the coals. Her movements were precise, mechanical, but not unkind. She was taller than he remembered, with short-cropped dark hair and amber eyes that always looked like they were solving problems. She wore no makeup, no jewelry. Just leather, soot, and confidence.
"You heard, didn't you?" she asked, hammering the metal against the anvil.
"About…?"
"The princesses. The looks. The banquet. It's all over the market."
He sighed. "I didn't ask for it."
"I didn't say you did." She paused, meeting his eyes. "But things like that? They come with a price."
Caelum thought of the letter again. His hand moved instinctively toward his pocket.
"Someone already tried to remind me," he said.
She stopped hammering. "What?"
He handed her the note. She read it, expression flattening.
"This isn't a joke, Caelum."
"I know."
Her gaze hardened. "You shouldn't walk alone anymore. Especially near the noble roads. Not until you know who sent this."
"Should I go to the guards?"
She snorted. "They're more likely to be the ones watching you than protecting you. Keep it quiet. Let them think you're too distracted to notice."
He nodded slowly.
Then, softer: "Why are you working here again?"
She shrugged. "Old habits. No one else wanted the place. Thought I'd bring it back to life."
He smiled faintly. "Still stubborn, I see."
"And you're still prettier than you deserve."
They laughed, and for a moment, the world felt normal again.
But normal never lasted long.
---
That evening, a knock came at Caelum's door. He opened it to find a royal courier—this time bearing a silver-trimmed envelope with the seal of the Kingdom of Wrath.
Princess Elira.
The letter was written in sharp, slanted ink.
> Caelum,
Your presence is requested at the northern training yard tomorrow morning at dawn.
Be punctual. I despise waiting.
—Elira of Wrath
He read it twice.
Elira's style hadn't changed. Still commanding. Still cold. But requesting his presence?
What now?
---
The northern training yard lay just beyond the estate district—a large, open ground surrounded by marble pillars and guarded walls. When Caelum arrived, the sun had barely begun to rise, casting long, golden shadows across the sand.
Elira was already there.
She wore a fitted uniform of crimson and black, her golden hair tied back in a braided knot. Her eyes, as always, were storm-grey. Sharp. Focused.
She stood with a wooden practice sword in her hand, and a second lay at her feet.
"You're late," she said, though he wasn't.
"I'm early."
"Then I'm earlier," she replied flatly.
Caelum raised a brow. "Why am I here?"
She tossed the wooden sword at his feet. "Defend yourself."
"What?"
"You were seen. Watched. Chosen. You made no move to disappear, and now you're part of something you don't understand. That makes you vulnerable. So—defend yourself."
"I don't—"
"I will not say it again."
Caelum picked up the sword.
The first strike came fast. Elira moved like a blade herself—precise, unyielding. He barely dodged.
"I've never trained in this!" he shouted.
"Then learn."
He stumbled backward as she advanced, wooden blades clashing. She wasn't trying to hurt him, not exactly—but she wasn't holding back either. Every strike was a lesson. Every block, a demand.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked between breaths.
"You were sent a threat," she said, eyes narrowing. "You didn't tell me, but I know. I hear more than you think."
Caelum froze. "How—"
"You're not safe, Caelum. You're being watched by more than curious princesses. And some of us would prefer you didn't die before the story ends."
She struck again. He blocked. Barely.
Then again.
Then again.
His arms ached. His breath shortened. But his movements began to shift—from panicked, to aware. From sloppy, to intentional.
He wasn't a swordsman. But he was quick. Observant. Smart.
Elira saw it, too. She backed off.
"You learn fast," she said. "That may be the only reason you survive."
He dropped the sword, gasping. "This… is not how I expected my day to go."
She almost smiled. Almost.
"Go home. Rest. But be ready. They'll come at you differently next time."
He turned to leave, but paused.
"Elira," he said. "Why do you care?"
She didn't look at him.
"I don't. Not yet."
But when he walked away, she watched him go—and didn't stop.
---
That night, Caelum sat by candlelight, ink staining his fingers as he tried to write down everything he'd learned. About the kingdoms. The princesses. The strange tension pulling him deeper into a world he'd never asked to enter.
He didn't finish.
A knock came at his window.
He startled, nearly dropping the quill. Slowly, he moved to the frame and pushed it open.
A girl stood on the roof just outside, one foot balanced on the ledge. Long dark hair. Ice-pale eyes. A soft grey cloak fluttered behind her in the breeze.
Selene.
She stepped down into his room as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"How—how did you—"
"You don't lock your window," she said simply. "And I wanted to see you."
Her voice was soft. Not hesitant, but distant. Like speaking through mist.
"You could've sent a letter."
"I don't trust ink."
He crossed his arms. "Are you always this… dramatic?"
She looked at him.
"You're not what I expected."
"Neither are you."
She took a slow step forward. "They're all circling you. Elira trains you. Rhiannon flirts. Maribelle bakes. Veina watches. But I'm not here for that."
"Then why are you here?"
She leaned in just slightly, her eyes searching his.
"To see if you're a danger."
He blinked. "To whom?"
"Us. The balance. The court."
She reached into her cloak and pulled out a small white coin, etched with an unfamiliar symbol.
"Keep this. If anything happens… if someone comes for you and they don't speak, throw it to the ground and run."
He took it slowly. "Selene, I don't understand."
She moved to the window. "You're not supposed to. Not yet."
Then, like a ghost, she disappeared into the night.
Caelum stood frozen, the coin cold in his palm, his heart hammering.
What was happening?
Why him?
And how long could he pretend to be just a boy with golden hair and quiet eyes, when the world seemed to be preparing for something far more dangerous?