VIVIAN’s POV
The paddock smells of hay, iron, and impatience. Rows of horses shift in their stalls, tails flicking, hooves scraping the packed dirt. I walk the line slowly, letting them scent me, my cloak trailing behind like shadow. Most are fair beasts—bred for show, not travel. Too clean. Too soft. Until I see him.
A black stallion, taller than the rest, muscle and thunder bottled in sleek skin. His eyes are sharp, reflecting sky. When I reach out, he exhales once and stills.
“I’ll take this one,” I say.
The host—a thick man with a beard like steel wool—eyes the horse, then me. “That’s not a beast for gentle rides, my lady.”
“I’m not riding gently.”
He grunts, rubbing his jaw. “A royal servant, then?”
I hand him the coin pouch. It’s heavier than it should be for half a day’s trip. “The less you ask, the safer your tongue.”
That earns silence. He counts the coins quickly, then slides the reins toward me. “Where’s your road?”
“Not yours to know,” I reply, voice low, steady.
He hesitates, then bows his head. “Safe travel, my lady.”
I mount the horse—he moves beneath me like coiled lightning. A small thrill runs through me; it’s been years since I last rode for distance, years since the wind remembered my face.
The palace shrinks behind me, its towers thinning against a dull sky. I press my knees, and the stallion takes the road like he’s glad to escape it too.
***
The world beyond the royal walls feels louder. Birds gossip from bare branches, the wind snatches at my hood. The road is clean at first, then turns to ruts and dust. Half a day, the captain had said. Half a day between duty and whatever secret the King hides.
The thought needles me. What could Darius Verloren—once known for fairness, for laughter echoing down marble halls—want hidden in a village the crown barely remembers? And what papers are so precious they must travel through silence?
“Papers,” I murmur to myself, pulling the map from inside my cloak. The ink dot stares back at me, small but defiant. “What are you worth?”
A carriage rattles past, a merchant’s crest painted on its side. The driver nods, assuming I’m just another palace courier. That suits me fine.
By midday, the sun stands high and bright. I stop by a stream where reeds whisper like gossip. The horse lowers his head, drinking deeply. I crouch beside him, brushing his neck with my glove.
“You and I,” I say quietly, “we’ll pretend this is just another errand.”
He flicks an ear as if unimpressed by my reassurance.
At the stream’s bend, a group of travelers share bread and ale. Their laughter fades as I approach; servants dressed like I am are rarely alone. Still, one of them—a woman with gray in her braid—offers a nod. “From the palace?”
“Nearby,” I answer vaguely.
She leans closer, voice dropping. “You’ve heard then?”
“Heard what?”
“The King.” She glances around before speaking again. “Sick, they say. Dying even. Some healer from the east was sent for last week.”
I school my face. “Rumors travel faster than truth.”
She shrugs. “Aye. But smoke means fire somewhere.”
I leave before her eyes can ask more of me.
The road stretches on, quieter now. I ride until the world turns gold, until shadows start measuring themselves longer than my patience. Once, long ago, I’d dreamed of seeing the kingdom this way—open, untamed, honest. Now every rustle in the brush feels like a whisper I’m not meant to hear.
When the first roofs of the village appear, the sun has begun to bleed into evening. The air smells faintly of woodsmoke and damp earth. I slow my horse.
The place looks forgotten. Half the windows are boarded. Doors hang crooked, unmended. I hear no laughter, no trade, only the sigh of wind through empty wells. The King’s business, here? It makes less sense the longer I think it.
I dismount, leading my horse by the reins. The map in my hand guides me through the narrow lane until I find it—a little dwelling at the edge of the village, leaning as if tired of standing. The roof sags; ivy strangles the walls.
Inside, a single lantern burns.
A man waits within—tall, pale, his cloak travel-stained. His hands tremble once before clasping behind his back. He does not bow, though his eyes dart to the insignia at my collar.
“You’re late,” he says.
“Half a day’s ride, as told,” I reply.
He gestures toward the small table. Upon it lies a wrapped parcel, bound with red twine. “This is what you came for.”
I step closer. “And what exactly am I carrying?”
“Nothing you should name.”
“Then perhaps nothing I should risk my life for,” I counter, half-smiling.
He doesn’t smile back. “It’s the King’s will.”
I study him. His cloak is common, but his boots—fine leather, foreign make. “The King’s will passes through odd mouths these days.”
That gets me a sharp look. “Take the parcel and go.”
I reach for it. His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist. “Don’t open it.”
The warning is a hiss, and for the first time I notice the faint cut across his cheek, dried blood beneath his ear. He’s been fighting someone—or running from them.
“I wasn’t going to,” I lie.
He releases me, but the air between us tightens. “Then don’t linger. They’ll come.”
“Who?”
He doesn’t answer. Just turns his back and snuffs the lantern. The room plunges into shadow.
When I step outside, night has crept over the village, washing it silver and still. My horse nickers softly where I tied him by a post. I tuck the parcel beneath my cloak, my fingers brushing the faint warmth of sealing wax.
That’s when I feel it—
The hair on my neck rises before sound reaches me.
A breath. A shift in the dark.
My hand finds the hilt of my sword before thought does.
The arrow sings.
I pivot, blade catching the air with a flash of steel, knocking it aside. The shaft splits, wood splintering. The sound echoes sharp against the still houses.
“Come out,” I call, voice cold. “If you mean to kill me, do it properly.”
Silence answers first—then a blur of motion.
A caped figure drops from the low roof ahead, boots silent on the dirt. I see only the outline: lean, quick, trained. The next arrow never comes; instead, he draws twin daggers, their edges glinting pale.
“State your cause,” I warn.
He lunges.
Our blades meet with a hiss that rattles bone. He’s fast—too fast. His strikes are light but relentless, testing. I parry, step back, circle. The parcel presses against my ribs, reminding me what cannot fall.
“You don’t want this fight,” I manage.
He says nothing. The hood shadows his face, but when his next strike misses, the fabric slips just enough for light to catch his eyes—bright, impossible blue.
They look nothing like a killer’s. More like a storm’s.
He sweeps low, aiming for my legs; I jump back, my sword whistling close to his shoulder. He ducks, catches my wrist, twists. Pain sparks, but I twist back harder, freeing myself and slamming my knee into his chest.
He grunts, stumbles.
I seize the moment, kicking forward—hard. My boot meets his ribs with a sound that tells me he’ll remember it. He falls, rolling once into shadow.
I raise my sword again, heart hammering. “Show yourself.”
Nothing—the lane is empty. The air, still.
Only the echo of hooves—mine—shifts in the distance. The parcel presses warm against my side as if to remind me why I can’t chase ghosts. I scan the rooftops, the alley, the road ahead. No sign of him.
Only that flash remains—those eyes. Blue, unnatural, burned into my sight.
I sheath my sword slowly.
“Who in the Saints’ name are you?” I whisper into the quiet.
The wind carries no answer.
I mount the horse again, the reins trembling in my hand, and ride toward the edge of the village, the parcel safe beneath my cloak and the memory of blue eyes haunting the road behind me.