[19th Veyra, 495 IC, Dawnsworn]
[Emerald Castle, Prince Alden's Study]
Limon shoved the door open, thrusting a sealed letter forward. "Your Highness, a response from the Green Spire Tower! Tower Master Torvenn will be coming personally."
Alden took the letter and broke the wax seal, unfolding the parchment.
Limon leaned over the desk, his voice dropping. "But why the urgency, Your Highness? The Green Spire already emptied their archives for us. Regarding the paralysis poison, they've given us everything..."
Alden's eyes moved down the script. He didn't look up.
Limon's words trailed off.
Only then did Alden tilt his head. "The file."
Limon hesitated, then hoisted a thick, leather-bound dossier onto the desk. It hit the wood with a heavy thud. "This should be it. Symptoms, progression, cures—straight from Torvenn."
Alden flipped through the pages with a flat expression. After a sharp tug at his gloves, he squared the edges of the report against the corner of the desk.
He spoke to the empty doorway without lifting his eyes. "Come in."
Limon spun around. There had been no knock, yet the door opened.
Elara's hand trembled against the doorframe as she entered. She stopped just past the threshold, hands clasped tightly against her chest.
"Your Highness." Her voice was a soft rasp. "How did you know? I only just arrived."
Alden gave a single finger-flick, gesturing for her to continue.
Elara drew a shallow breath. "Your Highness, I am growing weak. With Her Majesty gone, I have nothing left to give. I only wish to rest." She hesitated, her voice wavering. "I am asking for permission to retire."
Silence.
Limon shifted. Alden gazed at Elara, his head tilting slightly. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.
"Elara... after my mother left me, do you wish to leave me too?"
Limon froze. Then his thumbnail found the seam of his pocket, picking at the stitching. The thread was already frayed.
Her eyes welled, tears streaming down her cheeks as she shook her head. "Your Highness, leave you? How could I?" Her voice broke. "Since Her Majesty was bedridden, raising you has been the only blessing of my life. It's just... you are still so grief-stricken, I thought, maybe my presence is making you more pained by Her Majesty's departure."
Her voice rose. "All these years, you searched for a cure. You were never allowed to be a child."
She scrubbed a trembling hand across her face. "You were always too busy becoming the perfect swordsman. The perfect heir. Now, even after her death, you refuse to stop. You are still hunting for reasons. Still chasing a ghost."
Alden watched her, unblinking.
"Elara," he said evenly. "You aren't asking to retire because of your age. You're leaving because of the investigation."
Elara nodded slowly. "I cannot bear to watch it. Her Majesty passed only yesterday, yet here you are, scouring for poison."
She glanced at Limon, then back to the Prince. "Your Highness... you have suffered enough. Please, let it go. Live your life. Take a wife. Find happiness."
Alden remained immobile, his eyes fixed on the papers before him.
"Just... rest," she whispered. "You have done enough."
Alden reached out, his fingers brushing the cover of the leather-bound report. For a moment, his hand lingered.
He lifted the dossier. Held the corner over the candle flame.
Elara's breath hitched.
Alden lowered the report to the candle flame. The corner caught, fire eating its way up the page. He held it steady as the heat crawled toward his fingers.
"Highness—" Elara lunged forward, but Limon caught her arm.
Alden didn't flinch. The leather began to smoke, curling and splitting as it shrank against his skin. His gaze stayed locked on Elara.
"Please, let it go! Your hands..." Elara screamed. "Stop! Please don't burn yourself!"
Only when the flames licked bare skin did he drop the remains into a metal tray. Ash scattered across the mahogany.
He peeled off the ruined gloves slowly, revealing blistered, reddened fingertips. Without looking down, he opened a drawer, retrieved a pristine pair, and pulled them on.
"Elara." His voice was quiet. "You didn't answer my question."
Her shoulders shook.
"I... I will do as Your Highness wishes."
"Then don't leave." His tone was flat. "I still need you."
Elara bowed her head, shoulders shaking. Limon looked away, his jaw tight.
"I... I will bring you something to eat," she choked out, then turned and hurried from the room.
Alden dismissed Limon with a flick of his hand. Once he was alone, he turned back to his desk. He began sorting the papers, smoothing the edges. His reddened fingertips burned, but they left no marks on the parchment.
The night deepened. Eventually, Alden rose and returned to his bedchamber. Shutting the heavy door behind him, he crossed to the window. A pause followed—just a single heartbeat to listen to the castle's silence—before he unlatched the pane and slipped out into the darkness.
---
[The Traveler's Rest — Gretencer Slums]
Late at night, the slums of Gretencer buzzed with life, operating in a reality distinct from the castles.
The Traveler's Rest stank less than the other inns—Gezel made sure of that. She wiped down the bar while a merchant two tables over haggled over something wrapped in oilcloth. In the corner, a man with a Vaelthorne accent was drunk enough to mention the old kingdom.
Gezel's rag moved in steady circles. Her eyes stayed on the wood.
"—girl back home in the northern province, prettiest thing you ever saw," a merchant whispered to his companion at the corner table. "Golden hair like wheat..."
"—my grandfather fought for the Kingdom of Vaelthorne before it fell to the Empire. We had our own ways then, our own..."
A grizzled veteran leaned forward at a nearby table, his voice dropping conspiratorially. Gezel's hands stilled for a brief moment.
"I swear on my mother's grave, I saw one of those Dark Elves from Ravencliff, three towns over. Dark as coal, ears like knives, and those cursed purple eyes. The moment our gazes met, I felt my life drain away—"
Another group whispered so low it sounded like plotting. Their faces showed no fear—only curiosity.
"Have you heard? The Empress died last night."
Gezel glanced up despite herself, heart thudding. A middle-aged man leaned in, voice low and dramatic. "Not last night—two nights ago. But it's true: if the harem provides the next Empress, the Crown Prince's position—"
The tavern door creaked open.
The sound cut through the chatter as a tall figure pushed the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.
A hood obscured his face. Gezel's hand paused on the bar top. She knew the rolling swagger of a sellsword and the hunched skulk of a thief—but this one moved differently. He simply planted his feet, his boots settling shoulder-width apart.
The rhythmic footsteps. The width of his shoulders. She signaled her servant with three raised fingers. 'Three copper. A looker.'
The servant countered with four, slashing a finger across his neck. 'I bet four. A killer.'
She let out a low, weary breath. Her eyes traced the figure, hunting for a patch of skin—a wrist, a throat, the curve of a jaw—but found only layers of heavy black cloth. The gloves tucked seamlessly into his sleeves; the cowl swallowed his head whole.
She turned back to her work, the curiosity dying in her throat. The city was full of strays and disgraced lordlings, and this one clearly intended to remain a ghost.
Nearby, regulars glanced up and immediately looked down. Seeing a cloaked figure here required an extra rule: 'never pry'.
Her hands clenched around the glass as she watched the bearded smuggler heave himself off the bench. The wood groaned under his bulk as he careened into the aisle, boots dragging heavy on the floorboards.
Mid-step, his toe caught a warped plank. He pitched forward, slamming his full weight into the unmoving figure.
The stranger didn't yield an inch. It was like watching a sack of grain hit a stone pillar.
The smuggler stumbled back, blinking rapidly. His face flushed, veins bulging in his thick neck. Instead of apologizing, he puffed out his chest and jabbed a calloused finger into the stranger's cloak.
"Oi! Watch where you're—"
The drunk's words died. For a heartbeat, terror flickered across his face as he looked up into the shadow beneath that hood. He stumbled backward several steps. But the alcohol quickly washed the fear away.
Before long, his bravado returned, flushed and stupid. "You'll pay for spillin' my ale, you hood—"
'Don't,' she thought desperately. 'Don't reach for that hood.'
In taverns tucked away in the slums, consent meant little and rules were rarely followed. But even here, there were lines you didn't cross.
For a long moment, the stranger stood motionless. He stepped around the fool, but the drunk's meaty hand shot out, grasping for the hood. "I'm talkin' to you!"
Gezel never saw the blade.
One moment the drunk was reaching. The next, his head hit the floor before his body did. In his final instant of awareness, those dying eyes saw only darkness before all sensation ceased.
Gezel gestured sharply to her servant, who rushed forward with cleaning supplies. 'The drunk should have known better.'
No one dared investigate as the stranger continued toward her counter. His dark leather-gloved hands were empty and unstained. She had only glimpsed a brief glint of steel vanishing back beneath his cloak. Fresh blood stained the fabric's edge, proof that a weapon had been used and sheathed in the span of a heartbeat.
Gezel's heart hammered as he approached. She swallowed and forced her voice steady. "What would you like, customer?"
The man did not answer. He simply stood stock-still before her desk.
Gezel's eyes darted across him, searching for some clue, when she noticed it—a dark, blood-red glow through a small split in the cloak. The split was positioned at precisely the right height, perhaps deliberately, for her to see.
"Oh."
Her tone shifted immediately. "You want the premium?" Her voice was perfectly polite now, almost obsequious. "But that batch just finished. Please, follow me to our warehouse, or I can fetch it for you."
The man nodded and followed without a word.
Gezel led him through the tavern's back entrance. They entered the warehouse, and she closed the door behind them, cutting off the noise. She kept walking, keenly aware of his silent presence at her back, and lowered her voice to a murmur.
"Smuggler. Dealing in Bavarium and Poppy pods. These thugs deserve to die. Third time this month he's harassed newcomers claiming a strong backer. Presumably lives in Rosewick."
The man didn't reply, nor did he stop her from speaking.
When she reached a certain section of the wall, her fingers found the first stone and pressed. She ducked beneath a nearby table, touching several hidden points in the exact sequence she had memorized so well her hands no longer needed thought.
Nothing seemed to change in the room.
Rising from under the table, she moved toward one of the many candles resting on a shelf. "We were quite worried," she said, her hand hovering over the wax. "With the changes in the capital, the sale of premium has significantly reduced."
She twisted the candle once to the left and four times to the right, then pulled it outward. She looked back toward the cloaked figure. "But seeing you here today gives me some peace of mind, customer."
Behind her, a floor tile shifted, revealing a staircase descending into darkness.
"Welcome," she said, squeezing one eye shut in a stiff parody of a wink. It resembled a twitch more than charm. Recovering with a pinned-on smile, she turned to let the candlelight wash over her jawline—her best side.
But the room remained dead silent. She was sure he could hear her heartbeat.
"Follow me," she muttered. "Closely."
They descended. The stone passage slammed shut above, sealing them in with the flickering stairwell lights. At the bottom, Gezel tapped a brick without breaking stride. The true entryway ground open.
Inside the fracture of identical corridors, she hugged the left wall to dodge the pressure plates, then pivoted sharp right. Her heel cleared a loose paver by an inch; beneath it, acid gurgled.
At the final turn, she didn't even stop. She simply flicked a loose pebble into the left-hand void.Steel daggers buried themselves in stone. Instantly, a warning light bathed the tunnel in angry red."You see?" Gezel offered a thin, satisfied smile over her shoulder. "The system is sensitive, but rest assured—I've already identified myself."
She stepped through the archway, the Great Hall sprawling out before them.