DANI’S POV
Rain whips at my face, each drop stinging like gravel. The night smells of iron, of wet soil and danger—the scent of Verdana itself. My horse grunts beneath me, hooves pounding through mud and thunder. The palace looms ahead, tall as sin and twice as cold.
Lightning cracks the sky open for a heartbeat, and the white walls of King Dorian’s fortress flare like bone. I pull my hood back, letting the rain hit me straight. I’ve ridden through worse storms and darker nights, but tonight, the air feels heavier. The kind of heavy that means I’ve failed.
The guards at the gates see my armor and bow. “Lord Dani,” one greets, raising a torch. “The King’s been waiting.”
He always is.
I swing off the horse, boots sinking into the soaked ground. “Feed him, dry him, and don’t touch the saddle bags,” I order, tossing the reins to a servant. My voice cuts through the storm; they scatter to obey.
Inside, warmth greets me—but it doesn’t feel like comfort. Verdana’s palace is all marble veins and shadows. The torches flicker low, bowing to the wind’s howl outside.
And at the far end of the great hall sits King Dorian.
He wears his crown like it was carved from him, not placed. A wolf carved of man—lean, silver-eyed, and patient. The storm’s reflection dances across his armor, but his eyes stay still.
At his feet, a little girl runs in dizzy circles, clutching a small wooden horse. Her laughter, soft and high, is the only sound human enough to cut through the thunder.
“Princess Elara,” I murmur, bowing low first to her, then deeper to her father. “Your Majesty.”
Dorian lifts a hand slightly. “Rise.”
When I straighten, his gaze sharpens on me. “You’re wounded.”
I glance down at my shoulder—my tunic still clings to it, the blood mixing with rain. “You see everything, my King.”
“Not everything,” he says, a trace of weariness in his voice. “Or perhaps I would not need to send my best knight into another man’s kingdom for stolen parchment.”
“I brought back nothing,” I admit.
The princess stops her play and peers at me curiously. Dorian gestures, and a nursemaid steps forward to guide her away, but the child protests with a small pout. He chuckles under his breath.
“Stay, then, Elara,” he says softly. “Even Kings need laughter.”
Her small voice hums in the vast hall as I begin.
“I reached the border at dawn two days ago,” I say. “The Verloren guards never saw me. I crossed through the marshes, made my way to the village you marked on the map.”
“And?”
“There was someone there before me. A woman.”
His eyebrow arches. “A woman?”
“Yes, sire. Dressed as a royal courier. Skilled. Far more skilled than any messenger I’ve seen.”
“You fought?”
“I did.” My lips twist at the memory. “She fought better.”
That earns a flicker in the King’s still face. “Better than you?”
I nod once. “Almost perfect mastery, Your Majesty. She carried herself like a soldier, but not one of ours. Her strikes were deliberate, her balance impeccable. She didn’t aim to kill me. Only to protect the parcel.”
“And the parcel contained everything we predicted?”
“Papers from the Verloren’s palace. I never saw them.”
“You let her escape.”
“She vanished, sire. One moment she was there, the next—gone. Like smoke.”
He leans back in his throne, fingers steepled. “A woman defeats my best knight and disappears with a secret meant for my crown. Tell me, Dani, is this a jest or a prophecy?”
I force a smile. “Neither, I hope.”
Silence stretches between us, long enough for thunder to fill it. Finally, he exhales, slow and thoughtful. “Describe her.”
“Tall. Moved like she’s known a sword longer than she’s known sleep. Wore a servant’s cloak, but no servant fights like that. Eyes—dark. Calm.”
“Calm,” he repeats, musing. “A calm killer.”
“Not a killer,” I correct quietly. “She spared me when she could have finished it.”
His gaze flicks to me again, unreadable. “You’re certain she was from Verloren?”
“Everything about her said so.”
The King nods slowly, his expression darkening like the clouds outside. “Then perhaps King Darius is not as sick as rumor claims. Perhaps his court still hides a few sharp blades.”
He rises from the throne, the movement graceful and dangerous all at once. Even in exhaustion, King Dorian looks carved from command. “I’ll consider what must be done,” he says.
I hesitate, then ask, “You’re not angry, Your Majesty?”
He turns back, and to my surprise, a half-smile curves his lips. “You’re my friend, Dani, not my servant. I don’t need loyalty built on fear.”
The words land heavier than I expect. I bow again, murmuring, “You honor me, sire.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Go. Rest. A wound ignored is a wound invited.”
As I turn to leave, the princess giggles, tugging at her father’s cloak. “Papa, tell him goodnight.”
Dorian chuckles again, softer now. “Goodnight, Lord Dani. Dream less of failure and more of what comes next.”
I bow to her instead, smiling. “Goodnight, Princess Elara.”
She beams, showing the faint gap between her baby teeth.
Outside the hall, the echo of her laughter fades too quickly. The palace feels emptier than before.
***
The Queen’s chambers lie on the upper floor, near the tower where the storm beats hardest. I pause outside her doors, knocking lightly.
“Enter,” comes a quiet voice.
Queen Lyra stands near the window, her long hair unbraided, the silver of her gown dulled by candlelight. She looks exhausted, though she still holds herself like royalty—a woman too proud to admit fear.
“Your Grace,” I greet softly, bowing.
Her smile is faint, tired. “Dani. You’re back.”
“Alive, mostly,” I reply, managing a small grin. “I brought little else.”
“You always bring loyalty,” she says. “And that’s rarer these days.”
She turns to face me fully, her hands clasped together. “My husband says the borders grow restless. That Verloren’s silence feels too deliberate.”
“He’s not wrong.”
“I can’t sleep,” she admits after a moment. “Every creak of thunder sounds like hooves at the gate. Every whisper feels like a plot.”
“Verdana stands strong,” I tell her. “No army marches unseen on us.”
“It’s not armies I fear,” she says, voice lower. “It’s poison and paper. Words can kill faster than swords, Dani. Especially the kind written in secret.”
I glance away, remembering the parcel. “You’re not wrong.”
“Is my daughter safe?” she asks suddenly.
“As safe as any light in a storm, Your Grace,” I answer honestly. “The King guards her fiercely.”
She exhales, pressing her fingertips to her temple. “Then perhaps that will be enough.”
“It will,” I promise. Even if I don’t quite believe it.
For a moment, silence grows between us—an old, familiar silence that once felt like understanding.
“You should rest,” I say softly.
She nods, eyes distant. “You, too. Thank you for always returning.”
I bow again, lower this time, and step out before her gaze can linger too long.
***
My chambers are dim, lit only by one stubborn candle. I peel off the soaked cloak, the metal breastplate, the ruined tunic. The gash across my shoulder glares red in the flickering light. Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to sting pride.
I clean it with water that’s already gone cold, binding it tight. The pain keeps me awake.
When I finally sit, silence presses close, heavier than armor. I stare at my reflection in the window—blurred by rain, ghostly pale.
I should be thinking of strategy, of Verloren’s secrets, of how to redeem failure. Instead, I think of her.
The woman with the dark calm eyes and the perfect blade.
Her stance. The strength in her wrist when our swords met. The way she vanished like the fight had never happened at all.
“Who are you?” I murmur to the window, but it answers only with my own voice.
I lean back, wincing as the wound pulls. My sword rests against the wall beside me, its edge still clean.
A woman bested me. A stranger from Verloren. A ghost with a sword and eyes like night. And somehow, the thought doesn’t anger me. It haunts me.