Ara and Vela remained with the subjects in the Croft Laboratorium after Aroha and Zhiyi had left. The vast chamber felt emptier without the sisters, though the air still carried the faint echo of Aroha's rage. The Lykan in the corner trembled now and then, its claws scraping softly against the stone as if it still heard her footsteps. Ara watched it for a moment, then turned away. They had seen worse. The creature would recover with time. What mattered more was keeping Aroha far from this place for a while. Even without their intervention, she would likely avoid returning. Whatever storm lived inside her had not yet calmed.
The guards announced a guest, and Ara and Vela rose at once. They knew the name before it was spoken. Jerome Leroya entered with measured steps, calm as moonlight on still water. He was Croft's Supreme Sorcerer, the king's trusted adviser, and one of the few people in the kingdom who could speak to princes without lowering his gaze. His build was tall and thin, almost fragile, wrapped in robes of white and red that marked his station. They hung on him like banners on a narrow pole.
His skin looked delicate enough to bruise in a strong wind. His cheekbones cast shadows that made him appear hungry even after a full meal. Yet his hair was neat and dark, and his eyes shone like rubies against his pale face. Those red eyes were the mark of mastery. Only sorcerers who had reached a rare height of power could cast spells without spoken words, and few on Maori had climbed that far. Jerome was one of them, and he was still young. Barely in his mid-thirties, yet already a legend whispered in halls and markets.
He carried himself with a quiet curiosity. His expression always seemed interested, as though every person he met was a puzzle waiting to be solved. Even Ara, proud and stubborn as he was, felt respect rise when Jerome entered a room.
Jerome's gaze settled on the Lykan. The creature shrank from him, though he had not moved yet. Lykans were fierce and stubborn beasts. It took great force or deep terror to shake them. Jerome approached slowly, his eyes narrowing with thought. Each step made the Lykan shiver harder.
Ara lifted a hand. "It needs space," he said. "Give it time."
Jerome stopped. Surprise flickered across his face. "What happened to it?" he asked. His voice held no accusation, only wonder.
Ara hesitated. He had hoped to avoid this question, but Jerome would learn the truth sooner or later. "It crossed paths with one of Gero Renoff's daughters," he said. "She went too far. Nothing lasting."
Jerome's brows rose. "They have arrived already?"
"Last night."
"The elder sister?" Jerome asked. He saw their reaction and smiled softly. "The Grand Healer once spoke of her potential. Your faces confirm my guess."
Vela folded her arms. She did not like where this was going. Jerome's curiosity was endless, and the sisters did not need his attention. "They enrolled at the Healers Nest this morning," she said. "I will oversee their training myself."
Her smile was polite, but sharp enough to cut glass. Jerome understood. She was warning him. He could ignore her if he wished. His authority outranked hers. Yet Vela was one of the strange forces in the kingdom that even he could not read. So he nodded with grace.
"I came to speak with Prince Ara," Jerome said. "May we have a moment?"
Ara glanced at Vela. She waved him off with relief. "My work is done here. I am returning to the Nest," she said. "Enjoy your talk."
She left before Jerome could change his mind. His curiosity always unsettled her. She would do her best to keep him away from the Renoff girls, especially Aroha, whose wounds were still open.
***
Zenon hurried behind the sisters through the crowded market. Zhiyi struggled to keep pace with Aroha, who walked like a storm given feet. She muttered curses under her breath. Zhiyi could not catch every word, but the anger was clear.
Why was she so furious? It could not be only because Kiro had refused to fight back. Zhiyi had seen the same sadness that Aroha had seen, buried beneath his quiet face. Pain recognized pain. She thought Aroha would feel pity, not rage.
"I will break his smile the next time I see it," Aroha whispered to herself.
People stepped aside. Even strangers sensed danger. The Renoff name already carried heavy whispers in the capital, and Aroha was only deepening them. Zhiyi feared she was walking the same dark path she had taken back in Juza, when anger pushed away every friend until loneliness became her only companion.
Zhiyi believed Aroha's fury came from fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of being left again. It was not Druid blood that drove her. It was grief. That was why Zhiyi kept talking to people in the capital, even when they glared at her. She wanted to build bridges before Aroha burned them all.
They had not eaten. Hunger made tempers worse. Noon approached, and Zhiyi decided they should return home. Then she realised she had no idea where home was. The streets twisted around them like a maze. Aroha stopped at the same moment. They were lost.
Zenon noticed too. He cleared his throat. "Would you mind if I walked you home?" he asked.
Zhiyi straightened. "Yes. Not because we are lost," she said quickly. "We just feel safer with you."
Zenon blinked. Safer. These were the same girls who had scattered guards like leaves. He suspected Aroha dragged Zhiyi into trouble while Zhiyi tried to keep the peace. Poor Zhiyi.
"Of course," he said.
They walked on. Zhiyi guessed directions. Aroha pinched her arm. Zhiyi pinched back. Zenon thought Aroha forced her sister to pretend confidence. Poor Zhiyi. Yet Aroha kept silent only because Zhiyi had begged her to. She wanted to appear composed before Zenon. Poor Aroha.
At last, Zenon pointed left. "It is that way."
Zhiyi nodded fast. "That is what I meant."
Zenon admired her loyalty. He knew how older siblings could be. He had two brothers who blamed him for everything when they were young. Surely Zhiyi carried the same burden.
None of them realised how wrong they all were about each other.
***
Kiro watched from his doorway as they vanished into the crowd. His chest tightened. Why would they not leave him alone? He had chosen a quiet life to avoid nobles and soldiers. He did not forge weapons for that reason. Fine blades would attract royal eyes, and he would rather break his own hammer than become their tool.
Yet they had come anyway. The prince's guard. The Renoff girls. Promises to return. If they came again, he would leave the kingdom. He would not be a toy for kings.
He rested one hand on his anvil and another on his furnace. His thoughts burned hotter than the coals. He did not notice the heat at first. When pain finally struck, he pulled back with a hiss. His palm was red and blistered. It would heal. Burns were part of a smith's life.
What would not heal was the anvil beneath his other hand. He stared at it. The iron had bent under his grip. His fingers had left marks as deep as chisel cuts. He had not meant to do it.
Kiro clenched his jaw. He hated this strength. He feared it more than any enemy. Once, long ago, he had let it loose in anger. The memory still woke him at night. That was why he refused to fight. Not from weakness, but from terror of what he might become.
He cooled his hand in water and watched the ripples. The kingdom praised power. Knights boasted of victory. Sorcerers chased mastery. Yet none of them understood what power could do to a heart. They used it without care. They crushed the weak and called it duty.
The Renoff girls were no different. They struck him for refusing them entry. It was his shop. His life. Did nobles think all doors belonged to them?
Kiro looked again at the bent anvil. He imagined Aroha's blazing eyes. He imagined Zenon's silent watch. Trouble was coming whether he wished it or not.
He closed his eyes. "If they return," he whispered, "I will leave before I hurt them."
But a small voice inside him wondered if he could truly run forever.
***
That evening, Jerome and Ara walked along the quiet halls of the palace. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, painting red gold lines across the floor. Jerome spoke of politics, of reports from distant borders, of rumours that traders carried from far lands. Yet Ara sensed another question waiting.
At last, Jerome asked it. "What is the elder Renoff girl like?"
Ara thought of Aroha's fury, her shaking hands, her eyes that seemed to hold storms. "Broken," he said. "But dangerous."
Jerome smiled faintly. "The most interesting kind."
Ara stopped. "She is not a specimen," he said. "She is a girl."
Jerome met his gaze. For a moment, his curiosity softened into something like regret. "I know," he said. "But the world rarely lets broken people remain only that. Power gathers around them. And others gather after power."
Ara had no answer. He thought of the Lykan trembling. Of Zhiyi trying to hold her sister together with kindness alone. The kingdom was full of storms. Some were born in hearts. Some were born in thrones. All of them would meet sooner or later. And when they did, even sorcerers might not know how to stop them.