DANI’S POV
I’ve never liked packing. It always feels like betrayal—choosing which pieces of your life to carry and which to leave behind.
My chambers are half-dark, the morning light still crawling through the curtains. I stand by the bed, staring at the open chest. My sword lies across it, polished and quiet. Beside it: a few shirts, a cloak, my journal, and two books I’ve carried for years. Nothing else. No comfort, no memory, nothing I can’t afford to lose.
My armor gleams faintly in the candlelight as I fasten each buckle. Silver and steel—Verdana’s mark. It feels heavier than usual today. Maybe because I know I’ll be wearing it in enemy land.
When I finally close the chest, the sound echoes louder than it should. Final.
The palace outside my door hums with muted life—footsteps, whispers, distant bells. I walk through the corridors slowly, memorizing them in case I never return.
In the main hall, King Dorian waits.
He sits on his throne, though he looks nothing like a king right now. His crown rests crooked on the table beside him, forgotten. On his lap sits Princess Elara, her tiny fingers tangled in his cloak as she babbles happily, oblivious to the storm around her.
For a moment, the sight almost breaks me.
The King looks up as I approach. There’s no command in his eyes this time—only the quiet desperation of a father.
“Your Majesty,” I say, bowing.
“Dani,” he answers, his voice gentler than I expect. “You’re ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
He nods slowly, then glances at the child in his arms. “She wanted to see you before you left.”
Elara giggles when she spots me. “Uncle Dani!”
I can’t help but smile. I kneel beside the throne, taking her tiny hand and kissing it lightly. “My princess.”
She beams. “Papa says you’re going on a mission.”
“That’s right,” I say. “A very long one.”
Her brows knit together. “Will you bring me a story when you come back?”
“If the world allows it,” I whisper.
Dorian’s hand stills on her shoulder. I can feel the tension radiating off him—the dread of the farewell he hasn’t spoken yet.
I rise, meeting his eyes. “How long do you think I’ll have?”
“Long enough to prepare,” he says quietly. “Not long enough to rest.”
I nod. “And when the time comes?”
“You’ll return for her.”
The words weigh heavy. The King reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small parchment, sealed with his signet. “This will open doors for you in the north. My contacts there will vouch for your identity. You’ll be known as Lord Dani of the Northern Legion.”
“A soldier, then.”
“A warrior,” he corrects. “One Verloren will respect.”
I take the parchment, sliding it into the pocket of my armor. “And what name should I keep for her?”
“Elara stays Elara,” he says firmly. “But if anyone asks, she’ll be your daughter. You’ll understand the rest when the time comes.”
His voice falters for the first time. “Dani... you can’t return until it’s done. Until I know she’s safe.”
I bow my head. “I’ll make sure she is.”
He watches me for a long moment, then whispers, “You’ve always been my sword, Dani. Be my shield now.”
I give a small, steady smile. “Always, my King.”
Elara tugs on my gauntlet. “Don’t forget my story!”
I grin. “I won’t.”
When I walk away, I don’t look back. If I do, I might not leave.
***
My horse waits in the courtyard, already saddled, steam rising from its nostrils in the cold morning air. I mount, glancing once at the towers of Verdana. The flags still fly high, red and gold, proud even through the grief that stains their walls.
The gates open. The road stretches endless ahead.
I ride and hours blur into miles. The land shifts from green to gray, from known to foreign. The sun dips and rises again before I see the border—unmarked, yet felt. Soldiers patrol the crossings, but I know where to go. Dorian’s map burns in my memory; the route he gave me leads through the river pass, a forgotten trade road used only by smugglers and ghosts.
Crossing into Verloren feels like stepping through a veil. The air grows colder, sharper. The trees are taller here, their branches clawing the sky.
By dawn, I stop near a stream to rest the horse, letting him drink while I eat a strip of dried meat. The world is quiet except for water and wind.
For a moment, I let my guard slip. I think of Elara’s laugh, of Dorian’s hollow eyes, of Lyra’s grave. And then I remember why I’m here.
By noon, I see it.
The capital of Verloren rises from the horizon like a dream carved in marble and ambition. Towers spire upward, roofs glinting with copper and glass. The palace stands at its heart—vast, gilded, confident. Even from a distance, it demands reverence.
As I approach the gates, two guards cross their spears in front of me.
“Halt. State your business.”
I keep my posture steady, the northern accent Dorian’s tutor drilled into me slipping naturally off my tongue. “Lord Dani of the Northern Legion. Sent by Commander Trevane to serve under Queen Arinelle.”
They exchange a glance. One disappears into the gatehouse, returning moments later with a nod. “You’re expected, my lord. Welcome to Verloren.”
The spears lift.
I ride through.
Inside the courtyard, servants bustle like bees—stable hands, messengers, guards. I dismount, handing the reins to a boy who bows so low his cap nearly hits the ground.
The doors to the palace open before I can knock.
Queen Arinelle stands in the grand hall, a vision in gold and crimson, her crown glinting like a threat. Servants and handmaidens fill the space around her, but none dare speak unless spoken to.
Her gaze lands on me the way a hawk lands on prey—measured, curious, assessing.
“So,” she says, her voice smooth as silk. “The famous warrior from the north finally arrives.”
I bow deeply. “Your Majesty honors me.”
“Does she?” she muses. “We’ll see.”
She steps closer, her perfume a blend of roses and smoke. “I trust your journey was... manageable?”
“Long, but worth the destination.”
She smiles faintly. “Flattery suits you, Lord Dani. I hope your sword does too.”
“I serve better with that than with words, Your Majesty.”
Her laughter is soft but sharp. “Good. I have no use for poets.”
She gestures to her right. “You’ll find this palace... different from the ones you’ve served before. But you’ll learn its rhythms soon enough. And to help with that—” she pauses, her hand extending toward the woman standing beside her, “—Lady Vivian will be your guide.”
My gaze follows her gesture.
The woman steps forward, tall and poised. Dark hair frames a face too composed to be entirely calm. Her skin is pale as porcelain, her eyes deep and dark, studying me in return.
Something in her presence stirs memory.
I’ve seen eyes like hers before—somewhere, somehow. A moment flashes behind my mind’s veil: the swing of a sword, the weight of rain, the shock of meeting resistance that felt... familiar.
No. It can’t be.
She curtsies slightly. “My lord.”
“Lady Vivian,” I manage, keeping my voice steady.
Her gaze holds mine for a heartbeat too long. Something flickers there—recognition, perhaps. Or suspicion.
Queen Arinelle watches us both, her smile widening as if she senses a story about to unfold. “You’ll take good care of our guest, Vivian.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” she replies smoothly.
The Queen nods, turning away. “Welcome to Verloren, Lord Dani. May you serve me as loyally as you did the North.”
As she leaves, the hall empties around us, leaving only the faint echo of her heels.
I turn back to Vivian, still unsure whether my pulse quickens from nerves or memory.
She tilts her head slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, my lord.”
I force a polite smile. “Perhaps I have.”
For the first time since leaving Verdana, I realize my mission might be far more complicated than I calculated.