Scene 1

  The arrow flew.

  A sharp whistle, a flicker of motion—and then the crack of wood splitting echoed across the field. It struck dead center. Not a breath off. The shaft quivered once, stirred by the breeze, then stilled.

  Three other targets stood beside it, each marked by an arrow—each one buried in the center.

  Bo lowered her bow, fingers brushing her hip. A faint ache lingered in her knuckles—a low, familiar hum of strain.

  “How do you do it?” Lady Catherine stood a few paces to the left, her brows pinched together as she pulled back her own bow. Her fingers fidgeted with tension. The string snapped forward—hurried, unsteady—sending the arrow limping through the air.

  It landed near the edge of a target, barely clinging to the outer ring. A glancing blow at best.

  “Try aiming at the center next time. That helps,” Bo said, tilting her head.

  “Oh, don’t start,” Catherine groaned.

  Bo smirked, stepping back from the line. The wind stirred, pulling at the hem of her riding cloak, tugging at the loose strands of her gold-blonde hair.

  The air was still—almost reverent in its quiet. Only the soft rustle of leaves and the distant chirring of crickets stirred the hush. Birds called from tree canopies, their songs light and lazy, drifting over the open field.

  Beyond, the world might’ve carried on in noise and haste—but here, there was only calm. A pocket of peace untouched by stone streets and shouting voices.

  “Do you charm them?” Catherine asked. “Your arrows?”

  Bo turned to her, pretending to ponder.

  “Sometimes I threaten them,” she shrugged then added, “I tell them if they miss, I’ll marry them off to some wine-soaked lord with garlic breath and a face like a melted pear. Works every time.”

  That earned a laugh—sharp and unguarded. But she didn’t mind. It was Catherine’s real laugh, not the powdered giggles most court girls wore like perfume. She’d known it sine they were small, sneaking out of lessons to race ponies through the orchard or steal sweetbread from the kitchens when no one was looking.

  She glanced back at the targets. The arrows still stood proud, each one like a statement. A refusal.

  Catherine huffed and picked up another. “Well, maybe you should threaten me next. Might help.”

  Bo reached for another from her quiver, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. The feel was familiar, grounding.

  She stepped forward. The string pulled taut. The target waited.

  Bo didn’t hesitated.

  Let the world churn around her. Let the capital bubble with gossip and politics just beyond the hedge walls. Out here, everything narrowed to a single truth:

  You aim.

  You breath.

  You let go.

  Thwack.

  Another bullseye.

  The rhythmic pound of hooves cut through the morning stillness.

  She didn’t turn right away—but Catherine did, her brows lifting at the sound. The birds quieted, and even the wind seemed to pause as the white steed broke through the treeline, its coat neatly luminous in the pale light.

  It was the kind of horse bred for parades and ceremonies—not muddy archery fields. And the man atop knew it.

  Lord Sebastian Elyndor sat tall in the saddle, dark hair tousled just enough by the wind, one gloved hand resting on the hilt of his sword as though it had belonged there. His gaze swept across the practice grounds with lazy precision, settling on Bo.

  His smile curled slow—not a smirk, but something quieter. Something that suggested mischief and understanding in equal measure.

  “I thought only ghosts and madmen haunted the outskirts of Dale this early,” he called. “Which are you today, my ladies?”

  Bo put down her bow, crossing her arms, posture relaxed, unbothered.

  “Madwomen, I think,” she answered. “The ghosts weren’t much for conversation.”

  Sebastian laughed under his breath and dismounted with easy grace. A stable boy appeared from the gearhouse, the scent of leather and oiled wood lingering as he reached for the reins and bowed before leading the horse away.

  The young lord adjusted his riding cloak—olive green with copper trim—then gave Bo a shallow bow, more flair than formality.

  “Princess.”

  “My lord.” She tipped her head in return.

  Then, as he straightened, she added, “You’re terribly overdressed for a place like this. Though if you came to charm the straw dummies, I’d say you succeeded.”

  Sebastian’s smile widened, the corners of his eyes creasing just enough.

  “Well, I find if you can’t impress your enemies, you may as well impress the straw ones. They don’t talk back.”

  “Do they?” Bo raised an eyebrow, “I’ve found them quite opinionated.”

  His laugh was warmer this time—low, brief, and genuinely amused.

  He turned, spotting Catherine still clutching an arrow and half-smiling at the exchange. “Good morning, sister.”

  “You came alone?” Catherine crossed her arms, disappointment plain on her face.

  Lord Sebastian walked to them, his tone smooth as proud wine. “I’m afraid Prince Orrin couldn’t make it. He had to attend an early meeting—a lord from The Land of Flames arrived announced, bearing news too urgent to ignore.”

  Bo gave him a flat look, clearly unconvinced.

  They were the same age, but unlike her, he was a charming liar—always had been—and she’d long since learned not to mistake charm for truth.

  Sebastian met her gaze, the grin softening slightly. “Alright… he was otherwise occupied. But I wasn’t lying—there was a lord. He came without warning.”

  A flicker of tension crossed Bo’s face—brief, but unmistakable.

  Sebastian made his way toward Catherine, lowering his voice. “Actually, you’re needed in the library. Magistrate Verren is having another ink-stained crisis, and Father insists it’s your turn to talk him out of threatening early retirement.”

  Catherine sighed.

  “He gets one smudge on a parchment and acts like it’s the fall of the kingdom.” She handed her bow off to a waiting servant and turned toward the gearhouse.

  Bo watched as she awkwardly swung onto one of the horses—her dark riding cloak flaring behind as she turned the animal with a light tug of the reins.

  A moment later, she galloped off, kicking up a spray of dust behind her as she disappeared down the trail leading back toward Dale.

  Bo picked up her bow again.

  Another arrow.

  Another breath.

  She let it fly.

  It struck the center with a clean, satisfying thwack, the shaft quivering for only a moment before settling into stillness.

  “Excellent shot,” Sebastian said, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “I’m beginning to suspect you could put an arrow through a man’s cravat at a hundred paces.”

  “Only if I liked him.” Bo glanced at him, dry amusement flickering across her face.

  As she drew again, she noticed Sebastian moving toward the gearhouse. He slipped through the door like it had been built for him. The scent of fresh straw, aged timber, and taut bowstring drifted faintly in his wake..

  Bo watched from the edge of the practice line as he reemerged moments later with a bow slung over one shoulder, a small quiver in hand, and a satchel in the other.

  He attached the sack to his saddle, then gave the string a tight pull, testing the tension with a flick of his fingers.

  “Come on,” he said, glancing her way. “Let’s see what you can really do.”

  “Was that a challenge?” She raised a brow.

  “It was an invitation,” Sebastian replied, mounting his horse. He leaned forward slightly, reins loose in his hand. “Bring your bow. I want to see if the Princess of Thaloros truly lives up to her aim.”

  She didn’t need to be told twice.

  Bo turned on her heel and broke into a run, her boots kicking up dirt as she crossed the field. Her steed waited near the edge of the stables—a sleek, black Velkhari charger, its coat dark as night, muscles lean and powerful beneath its polished tack.

  A breed reserved for the royal house alone—nimble, intelligent, and fiercely loyal.

  In a heartbeat, she was on him, reins in hand. Bo clicked her tongue once and the charger responded immediately, trotting toward the trail just as Sebastian began to move.

  From behind her, a voice called out—

  “Princess?”

  One of the guards called after her, unsure whether to follow or object.

  Bo threw a glance over her shoulder. “It’s alright,” she yelled back. “We’ll be fine.”

  And with that, she spurred her horse forward, the Narrow Forest rising ahead like a curtain about to part—ready to swallow them whole.

  Leaves whispered overhead. The trail narrowed. And the world behind them folded like the closing of a book.

  Whatever lay ahead, it would be nothing if not interesting.

  Scene 2

  The forest closed in around Bo in waves of green and gold, the sunlight filtering through high treetops like scattered coins. The horses moved at a steady pace, hooves muted against the mossy ground, their breaths visible in the crisp morning air.

  There wasn’t a proper path—just the ghost of one. A suggestion left behind by deer trails, worn roots, and the memory of wheels long since vanished. Branches arched overhead in a natural canopy, leaves trembling gently as the wind whispered its secrets to the trees.

  Sebastian was the first to loose an arrow.

  It sailed cleanly through the air and struck the center of a beehive dangling low from a crooked birch. It cracked open with a soft, papery thud, sending a slow drip of honey across the bark.

  “One.” He didn’t even look back.

  Bo narrowed her eyes. “One what?”

  “Point,” he said, with too much satisfaction. “I believe that’s what they’re called.”

  She rolled her eyes and kept riding.

  The sound of water grew ahead—gentle and melodic. A narrow creek wound across their path, framed by smooth river stones and tangled reeds. The horses slowed to navigate it, splashing through the shallows.

  Once across, Sebastian twisted in his saddle and fired again—this time at a low-hanging cluster of apples. One tumbled down and landed wit a quiet plop in the creek, quickly carried away by the current.

  “Two,” he said.

  “Shooting fruit now?” Bo shook her head. “You’ll be unbearable by the time we reach the glade.”

  “You say that as if I’m not already.”

  Up ahead, a fallen tree stretched over the trail, its bark mottled with patches of pale lichen. Sebastian’s horse jumped it easily. Bo followed, the wind catching her riding cloak mid-air before her charger landed with a solid thudon the other side.

  “You could always try to match me,” Sebastian said as she drew up beside him. “Or are you too precious about your aim to shoot on the move?”

  Bo didn’t answer—she just drew an arrow and nocked it.

  As they pressed beneath a break in the canopy, the world opened briefly—a wide clearing framed by tall grass and jutting stones, one of which bore deep claw marks from something long gone.

  Sebastian glanced at her, grinning. “You do realize there’s no target?”

  She loosed the arrow.

  It sliced through the air and struck a knot in a branch a dozen yards away—so narrow it barely had room to lodge. But it struck. Dead-on.

  “Alright. One.” He huffed—something between a laugh and a grunt.

  They pressed deeper, the forest thickening with ferns and gnarled roots. A raven cawed from overhead, wings sweeping wide between the boughs.

  Up ahead, a crooked stump stuck out from the undergrowth, its top crowned with an old hunter’s skull trophy—an antlered stag’s head, bleached pale and half-swallowed by moss. A single pinecone rested in the hollow between its horns, left there by wind or whim.

  Sebastian slowed his steed, lifting his bow with a gleam in his eye. “Now that,” he muttered, “is a shot worthy of applause.”

  But before he could release the string, another shot cut the stillness in two, with a sharp hiss.

  Bo’s arrow struck the pinecone cleanly, knocking it off the skull. It bounced once on a flat rock with a hollow clack, then vanished underbrush.

  He lowered his bow, expression flat. “I saw it first.”

  “Should’ve shot faster.” She lifted her hands, palms up, then added. “That’s two.”

  “Oh, it’s a game, then.” Sebastian narrowed his eyes.

  He leaned forward, nudging his horse with his heels, and took off—his steed breaking into a full gallop, hooves pounding the earth as he disappeared between the oaks ahead, laughter trailing behind him like a challenge.

  Bo watched as he reached for the satchel he’d tied earlier. Untying it with one hand, he pulled free a smaller sack, the shape of it soft and rounded.

  “Show me how you deal with this!”

  Sebastian tossed the small bag into the air with a flick of his wrist. It spun, rising higher, the sunlight catching the faint shimmer of its cloth.

  “Hit it before id drops,” he said.

  Bo drew her bow, the motion smooth. The arrow nocked, string tout.

  The sack reached its peak—

  She released.

  The arrow hit clean, puncturing the target mid-spin. A burst of crimson dye exploded, blossoming like colored mist from a dying leaf.

  But then—Sebastian loosed his own shot.

  His arrow zipped through the cloud of color, tearing through what remained of the sack with theatrical precision.

  Bo turned her head, a slow smirk tugging at her mouth.

  “Show-of!”

  He gave an unapologetic shrug. “You started it.”

  Sebastian pulled a second dye-pack from the saddlebag, weighed it in his hand, then launched it high into the air.

  The cloth shimmered as it spun skyward, catching the sun like a tossed coin.

  Bo rose slowly in her saddle, another arrow already drawn, eyes tracking the arc.

  Then—

  A sudden whistle, crisp and birdlike, mimicking the cry of a hawk, came from her side.

  Bo’s Velkhari charger startled, ears flicking back, legs shifting as the horse instinctively twitched beneath her.

  The shot flew wide.

  The sack thudded into the earth, untouched.

  She turned sharply in her saddle, her glare tense enough to ignite flint just by looking. “Did you just whistle at my horse?”

  Sebastian shrugged, wholly unrepentant.

  “Yes,” he said lightly. “I was simulating a sudden battlefield variable—very advanced training technique, really.”

  “You mean being annoying?” She stiffened, unimpressed.

  He gave her a look, half amused, half serious. “Call it what you like. But with everything unraveling in the South, you’d best be ready for more than fruit, dye-packs and straw dummies.”

  Bo didn’t respond right away. For a heartbeat, her fingers tightened on the reins.

  Then she glanced at him, her voice lighter—but not dismissive. “Careful, Lord Elyndor. You almost sounded concerned.

  He smiled, but didn’t deny it.

  She looked forward again, quiet for a moment.

  “Let’s hope dye-packs and dummies are all we end up aiming at this season.”

  Scene 3

  By the time they rode back into the clearing, the sun had already climbed high—its light casting long shadows across the field and burning through the early chill. The calm of the morning had vanished.

  The practice grounds now swelled with movement—servants in house colors, stablehands, a pair of castle attendants she vaguely recognized, and a stewards pacing like a man who’s misplaced something valuable.

  Correction: someone.

  Bo slowed her charger, taking in the scene. Judging by the number of people and the sheer urgency buzzing in the air, the’d clearly been sent to find her.

  Sebastian gave her a sidelong look. “Either we’re in trouble, or a feast started without us.”

  “I’d honestly prefer the feast,” Bo muttered.

  As they approached, the crowd parted slightly, and from within emerged a man she recognized all too well—Gareth Morn, her father’s senior steward and the long-suffering shadow of House Stallard.

  He was dressed, as always, in meticulous layers: a deep plum doublet trimmed in gold brocade, and enough rings on his fingers to account for the treasury’s missing coin. His stomach led the way by a full pace, bobbing with each hurried step.

  “Princess!” He bellowed, a sheen of sweat glistening beneath his thinning curls. “Thank Aeon. We’ve been looking for you and Prince Orrin everywhere.”

  Bo dismounted elegantly, brushing a stray of strand of hair from her face.

  “What’s all this panic for?”

  She glanced at the cluster of anxious faces, then narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me someone knocked over the royal spice rack again. Last time the kitchens smelled like cinnamon for a week and the Thamyn nearly sneezed through an entire sermon.”

  Sebastian let out a soft huff behind her, amused but wisely staying quiet.

  “I’m afraid it’s not anything as simple as that,” the steward said, grave and breathless. “Lord Elyndor sent me.”

  He hesitated.

  “It’s your father.”

  Bo didn’t ask what had happened. Didn’t need to. Her father’s name was enough.

  She was already in saddle, reins tight in her hands, as her steed surged forward over the field.

  Sebastian fell in behind her, followed by the sound of hooves from two palace guards. Gareth, no doubt, would take the royal coach—slower, ceremonial, and far too late. She didn’t have the patience for ceremony today.

  The trees thinned quickly as they rode, the hush that had blanketed the forest now dar behind them, giving way to the city’s breath. Cobbled stones replaced soft moss. The scents changed—pine and damp leaves fading into river wind and the smoke of morning fires.

  Then the Iris appeared.

  Wide and fast-moving, its surface shimmered with sunlight, broken only by the silhouettes of gulls and sails.

  The bridge that carried them across the great river was long and wide—broad enough for four wagons abreast, its stone dark with time and wear. Towering gatehouses flanked either end, the red and yellow colors fluttering in the light draft, guards posted along the ramparts.

  Bo hardly glanced at the towers as they galloped through, the sounds of coaches and footsteps echoing off the stone.

  Beyond the bridge, Dale—the Flowing City—awaited.

  The name was not just for the rivers that curved around and through it, but for the unending stream of people moving in and out of its gates like a current. Even so, she had never seen it this crowded.

  Lines of people had gathered under the archways. Some waited with carts full of goods. Other just… waited. Families. Messengers. Travelers with skin weathered gold, brown, ochre.

  She caught glimpses of Orixians among them—dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, sea-worn men in light coats and sea-stiff tunics, running away from the rising troubles in the eastern archipelago.

  Others stood wrapped in sand-dyed clothes their faces mostly hidden beneath sun-veils, their postures ever-watchful. These were men and women from The Land of Flames, escaping the terrible wars in that ruled the southern regions.

  Most who waited at the gates, were refugees seeking solace in the capital, camped at the capital’s doorstep for several days.

  The outer line broke before her.

  The moment the guards at the city gates saw her, they parted—their armor clanking as they stepped aside and shouted for the crowd to clear the way.

  Even if they hadn’t recognized her, they wouldn’t have stood in her path. Not with the speed she came. Not with a charger like that beneath her—Velkhari-bred, from overseas where horses ran leaner, faster, born of wind and war. It was one of the few in Thaloros, and all who saw it knew what it meant.

  She didn’t slow.

  Behind her, Sebastian shouted something—his voice stranded over the din.

  “You’ll end um trampling someone—or yourself!”

  But the words barely reached her. They scattered like birds behind the thunder of her gallop.

  Her thoughts were already ahead of her—past the city, past all the bridges, inside the palace.

  The streets blurred around her—stone and shadow, banners flapping in the rising wind. Dale’s color faded into motion. Her mind wasn’t on the people she passed or the looks cast her way. It was to the east—where the royal keep rose above the city, vast and unshakable. A fortress built to be seen. To be remembered.

  Her father.

  The word came sharper than she expected, catching in her chest like a thorn.

  It had been five years since the sickness took hold of him. Five long, clawing years. They still didn’t name it openly—not in court, not in council—but everyone knew. Whispers filled the halls: Withervein. The slow unraveling.

  Bo gritted her teeth and leaned forward, urging her stallion faster. The wind bit at her cheeks. Sebastian was lost now—his horse couldn’t keep up, not when Bo’s had decided to fly.

  She reached the last river in her way— the Rin— and muttered under her breath, “So many damned bridges.”

  This one arched higher than the rest, the final crossing before the keep.

  The Emberhold rose before her now, not distant and painted in memory, but massive and near—its crimson walls catching the sun like a slow-breathing flame, its tiered golden roofs gleaming like a crown beneath the wide sky.

  The final stronghold. The heart of the kingdom. Her home.

  The gate tower loomed at the end of the bridge, flanked by guards in black-lacquered armor, each inlaid differently in red, orange and yellow.

  One of them stepped forward, his voice raised as he caught sight of her.

  “Open the way! It’s the Princess!”

  Bo didn’t slow, didn’t need to. The head of the guard—Marshal Renault—strode into view, grey-streaked beard tucked into the collar of his cuirass, his hand lifting in silent command. Two of his men moved at once, reaching for her reins as she pulled her Velkhari to a stop.

  “Your Highness,” Renault said, bowing low.

  As she slid from the saddle, she gave him a worried look, barely pausing as the stablehands took her steed. And without a word she started off.

  Through the gate. Past the lower yard.

  Toward the tables tower in the entire Emberhold.

  Toward Aeon’s Wish.

  Her father’s chambers were there—high above the world, where the light touched first and the silence lingered longest.

  Bo climbed the spiral stairs, her feet barely skimming stone as she ascended, urgency pushing her harder with every breath.

  She passed the solar rooms—once bright spaces for strategy and study, now mostly quiet. Past the easter reading hall with its curved windows and the smaller audience chamber where foreign envoys once waited.

  The stone walls narrowed as she ascended, lined with old banners and flickering oil lamps, their flames dancing in her wake. Guards posted along the stairwell straightened and bowed. Maids and scribes stepped aside.

  She gave them nothing more than a nod.

  Her breath came quicker now, but it wasn’t from the climb. Her thoughts moved faster than her feet, spinning ahead, chasing the worst.

  At last, she reached the anteroom—the chamber before the king’s quarters, where only the most trusted were allowed to wait. The doors here were tall and thick, carved with the emblem of house Stallard: the Phoenix, proud and regal, rising in fire, its feathers licked in gold and flame.

  A man stood before them—bent slightly at the shoulders, sleeves rolled high, a satchel of vials slung across his belt. Bo knew him at once.

  “Master Alric,” she said quickly, trying to still the tremor in her voice. “What happened?”

  The healer’s face was drawn. “A turn, Princess,” he said softly. “A hard one.”

  Bo’s heart gave a dull thud. “How hard?”

  His eyes flicked to the doors. “He collapsed during the midmorning draft. His breath faltered. Then the shaking came. We managed to calm him… eventually.” He exhaled. “He’s resting now. But… it took more out of him than the last.”

  Bo swallowed hard, nodding. She didn’t ask more. She didn’t want to.

  “Go on,” the master healer said gently. “He’ll know your voice.”

  Bo placed her hand on the iron knob. The wood beneath it was worn smooth by years of hands—entering with hope, with worry, with duty.

  She pushed the door open.

  And went in.

  Scene 4

  The door closed behind Bo in a soft click.

  The chamber was dim—shutters latched tight against the daylight, the air inside still and heavy. Two candles burned low near the bed, their flames thin and wavering, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the floor.

  Bo stepped in slowly.

  The familiar scent hit her first—old wood, lavender oil, and the faintest trace of honeyrose. The room smelled like her father… but not like as she remembered.

  Her boots made no sound on the thick carpet. Shapes emerged from the gloom: a broad table with a breakfast half-touched, the silver lid askew. Vials clustered near the edge—some sealed, others left open. A pitcher of water sat forgotten beside a cloth that had long since dried.

  A young maid stood nearby, clearing the leftovers, her face pale and pinched. She gave Bo a small uncertain curtsy, but Bo barely noticed.

  Her eyes had gone to the bed.

  The figure beneath the sheets was impossibly still. King Eryk lay propped against a bank of pillows, skin sallow beneath a sheen of sweat. His frame seemed smaller than the last time she saw him—less a man, more a memory. His chest rose and fell slowly. Unevenly.

  Two men stood beside him.

  The first turned at her entrance.

  “Princess,” said Lord Alden Elyndor, dipping his head low.

  He looked older than she recalled—older than last season. The grey in his beard had thickened, and the fine lines around his eyes were etched deeper than weariness alone could explain. His voice, usually measured and clipped, was soft now. Careful.

  “Lord Alden.” She returned the nod.

  They didn’t embrace. That wasn’t his way. But the warmth in his eyes gave her pause. He had known her since she could walk—fought beside her father in two wars, advised him in a dozen battles.

  “He woke for a moment earlier,” Alden’s words were gentle, “But his mind wasn’t with us. I don’t think he knew where he was.”

  Bo swallowed the lump in her throat. “And now?”

  “He’s resting again. Master Alric has done what he could.”

  She gave a tight nod, eyes still fixed on the bed. Only now did she realize her hands were clenched.

  Bo stepped closer, past the edge of the table—its platters still heavy with uneaten food. Something about it felt wrong. Eryk Stallard had never been a man to leave a meal unfinished.

  But now…

  He didn’t even stir at her presence.

  From the far side of the room, a voice stirred the silence—smooth, threaded with just enough gravity to draw attention.

  “Hard to believe that once, fifty thousand men followed that man into battle.”

  Bo turned to it.

  Lord Luca de la Claire stood in the corner, ice-blue eyes fixed not on the king, but on the weapons one of the walls bore—the finest tools her father had ever owned: war axes, curved blades from the eastern isles, spears from the south.

  At the center of them all hung a longsword of Celestial steel, mounted slightly higher than the rest. It shimmered like midnight frozen in glass—a blade meant for legend.

  His fingers trailed along the edge of an Orixian scimitar beneath it—more reverent than curious.

  He didn’t look at her as he spoke again.

  “Time is a strange enemy, Princess. It fights quietly… and always wins.”

  Only then did he turn, expression unreadable in the flickering candlelight.

  “But it’s not always the blade that draws the blood. Sometimes… it’s the silence that follows.”

  Bo’s gaze lingered on Lord Luca a moment longer. She didn’t flinch at his words. If anything, there was comfort in their sharpness. He never spoke with cruelty—only clarity. And in moments like this, when others buried the truth beneath softness, she valued that.

  “I know,” she said, her voice steady. “But he’s still here. And I’m not ready to start speaking of him like he’s not.”

  There was no defiance in her tone—only quiet resolve. Not naive hope, but something deeper. A belief that her father still lived beneath all the stillness. That he was more than what the illness had made of him.

  She walked closer to the bed.

  The air here felt warmer, somehow—thicker. The hush of it wasn’t heavy with silence, but with presence. And at the edge of that quietness, something caught the light.

  To the right of the bed, set atop a blackened pedestal and encased in a tall glass frame, stood the crystal.

  It pulsed faintly, like a sleeping heart—deep and red, not like blood, but like ember light or the last flare of a dying star. It wasn’t large, maybe the size of a game ball, but no one who saw it ever questioned its power. They didn’t need to. Its glow was proof enough—gentle, constant, alive.

  Bo paused before it, eyes reflecting its shimmer. As always, it stirred something in her—something warm, something steady. She didn’t know what it was, only that it never flickered, never dimmed, even as her father’s strength waned.

  Some said it had once belonged to gods. Others said it had been found in the ashes of a fallen star. But in Dale, it had only ever had one home: beside the king.

  She brushed the cool glass as she passed it.

  Then, she reached her father’s side—and took his hand.

  It felt thinner than before—like strength had quietly slipped from his bones.

  But as she touched him, his palm stirred beneath hers.

  It was subtle at first—a twitch, a faint shift in his fingers—and then his eyelids fluttered, and he drew a slow, ragged breath. The room around them seemed to still.

  Then his eyes opened.

  And for a for a moment—just a moment—they blazed.

  Flames shimmered behind them—not of fever or pain, but of clarity. The sharpness of a king who had once commanded armies, who had stood at the head of men and made the world move with a single word.

  He saw her.

  “Bo,” he said.

  Her name was not a question. It was a tether—a lifeline cast from some deep, sunken place inside him.

  She leaned in, her grip steady. “Yes, father,” Bo whispered. “It’s me. I’m here.

  His expression changed—something warm flashed through it. For that breath of time, there was no sickness. No weakness. Just Eryk Stallard—the father she remembered.

  “And where is Orrin?” He asked, voice rasping but full. “Where is my boy?”

  Bo hesitated.

  “He’s busy,” she said gently. “Lessons, practice… but he’ll come soon.”

  Everyone mourned differently. Grief crept in on its own feet. Orrin’s silence didn’t mean he didn’t care. But she couldn’t tell their father the truth—that her brother couldn’t bear to see him like this. Not now. Not when it mattered most.

  Eryk nodded faintly, the light behind his look dimming just slightly as memory took root.

  “I remember the day you were born,” he started, words trailing with weariness. “Your mother… Aeon bless her, she fought like a shifter. Carried you both through a storm. The labor near killed her.” He paused, gaze drifting to some distant place only he could see. “They said she was too weak, too fragile to bear twins. But she refused to let go. Said she’d give you both to the world—even if it took her with it.”

  His eyes closed briefly. “Loosing her… that was my greatest wound. Everything else—war, court, time—I could outlast. But not that.”

  Bo held in a tear. “She would’ve been proud,” she said. “Of Orrin. Of you.”

  He turned his head toward her slightly. “She loved horses,” he murmured. “Did I ever tell you that?”

  “You did.” Bo replied, smiling faintly.

  Eryk smiled too—slow and cracked, but real.

  “The king of Velkhar sent those stallions as gifts when you turned ten. Bred in fire and sand. One black as obsidian, the other white as sea-foam—and both faster than anything in Thaloros.”

  Bo nodded. “Orin named his Storm. I named my Silence.”

  Her father’s brow creased slightly. “Yours was always the faster of the two.”

  He exhaled—a soft, fond sound. “She ran like she had wind in her bones. I remember the look on your face, riding her for the first time—like you’d just stolen the sun’s light and dared it to chase you.”

  Eryk grew quiet. His gaze drifted—not vacant, but distant, as if reaching inward through the folds of time. Bo held his hand, watching the flicker behind his eyes. Slowly, he looked back at her.

  “This reminds me,” the words barely came out of his mouth.

  His fingers twitched faintly in her grip. He lifted his gaze toward the far corner of the chamber.

  “Alden,” he said, voice rough but deliberate, “call the servant in.”

  Lord Alden Elyndor, ever precise in movement, without hesitation moved toward the door. He opened it and signaled to someone waiting beyond.

  A second passed.

  Then an attendant entered—young, thin, his expression drawn with the kind of care that only came from stepping into sacred rooms. He carried something draped in long cloth, both arms wrapped around it with cautious reverence.

  Bo’s brow lifted slightly, curiosity rising on her face.

  Her father saw the look and smiled—tired, crooked, but still his.

  “I may be weak in body,” he said, “and my thoughts… not always my own. But don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

  His hand tightened gently on hers.

  “Tomorrow, my daughter turns twenty-one,” he spoke with something close to pride. “A crown year.”

  The servant approached, carefully placing the shrouded object on the low table beside his bed.

  Eryk pointed at the object.

  The cloth was lifted.

  Beneath it sat a cage of silvered iron—elegant, finely wrought, delicate as filigree. Inside, perched on a smooth wooden bar, feathers still growing, was a bird.

  Not just any bird.

  A young eagle.

  Small, for now, but already regal in posture. Its eyes—keen, golden—regarded her with quiet intensity. The beak was pale, softened by youth, but there was no mistaking the strength waiting behind it.

  A hush lingered in the room, broken only by the quiet rustle of feathers as the eagle stirred inside its cage. Its wings flicked once—small, uncertain, but full of promise.

  Lord Luca stepped forward, hands clapped behind his back. “A wonderful gift, Your Grace,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “A magnificent creature. The eagle, an eternal symbol of hope… and freedom.”

  He let the words settle, their elegance entirely intentional.

  Lord Alden added—more grounded, more certain—“It is more than a symbol of hope or freedom.” He looked from Bo to the bird. “It’s the crest of your house, Princess. The eagle is said to descend from the Phoenix—first flame born of Aeon’s blessing. The sign of the Riftbearers. Of your ancestors.”

  Bo blinked—surprised by the quiet reverence in his tone.

  Lord Luca chuckled softly, moving to the cage. “If you believe in stories older than stone,” he said. “Tales from when the world belonged to shadows, and gods still walked.” He glanced at her. “But stories that endure often do so for a reason… don’t they?”

  Bo looked down at the small creature. It met her gaze with startling clarity—as if it already knew something she didn’t.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, turning to her father. “Thank you.”

  Eryk’s smile deepened. “He’s yours to name.”

  Bo’s hand tightened just a little over his. But then, slowly, she let go—only for a moment, so she could rise and get a better look at the bird.

  And the change was immediate.

  Her father’s head lolled slightly. The fire in his eyes dimmed. The breath that had once carried his voice now rattled in his chest. He slumped back against the pillows, skin gone suddenly pale.

  As if her touch had held him together… and without it, the illness rushed to reclaim him.

  A knock sounded at the chamber doors—measured, unobtrusive, but firm.

  Bo turned as the high steward—Gareth Morn stepped inside. He moved with the practiced grace of a man who made his living in silence and ceremony. His plum robes were spotless, and the rings on his fingers clinked as he bowed—first to the king, then to the two lords and her.

  “Lord Alden,” he said in a hushed voice. “Might I request a word of your counsel? In private.”

  Lord Elyndor touched Bo lightly on the shoulder, then followed the steward without a word. As the doors closed behind them, Lord Luca stepped away from the shadows near the wall.

  “Princess,” he started, gesturing toward the other side of the room, “a moment?”

  Bo hesitated, eyes still on her father—his breath shallow, lips parted like he was caught between dreams and memory. But she nodded and followed.

  Her father’s desk sat beneath an arched window, the shutters drawn tightly today. It was a masterwork of dark wood, burnished to a gleam, with clawed legs and brass corners. But the surface was littered: correspondence tied in tough twine, wax seals half-melted, an untouched quill beside a parchment held down by two small busts—one of Aeon, the other a phoenix mid-flight.

  From it, Lord Luca produced a scroll with delicate care.

  “Transcribed just last night,” he said, unrolling it partially. “An invitation from Seraphir. High Lord Alexander is marrying his daughter to High Lord Theodor’s second son. A political match, of course. Your father was expected to attend, but…” his voice trailed off—cool, measured, laced with unspoken consequence.

  Bo’s eyes scanned the seal at the bottom. Seraphir—far to the east. Too far for the king, certainly.

  “And so you’ll go in his place,” she replied.

  He gave a modest nod. “The Voice of the king must still be heard, even if it echoes from another mouth.”

  She looked at him—really looked. He always carried himself like a man who knew more than he said. But today, there was something different in his gaze: something calculated, yes… but touched by the faintest trace of regret.

  “I will not be here for your name day,” he continued quietly. “A shame, truly. There are few occasions worth celebrating these days.”

  From beneath the table, he drew a parcel wrapped in cream cloth, tied with a single length of crimson ribbon. He offered it with the hushed respect of a priest presenting a relic.

  “In uncertain times—” he glanced at her father, then back at her, “—those who look back with clarity often move forward with purpose.” He paused. “And the past, Princess… the past remembers everything.”

  Bo accepted the gift without a word, her fingers skimming it briefly.

  It carried weight—not just in the box, but in the moment between them.

  “What is it?” She asked.

  Luca smiled faintly. “A piece of what was. And if I’ve chosen well… what may be.”

  He stepped back then, eyes staying on her for a breath longer before looking once more toward the bed.

  “Your father would have wanted you to have it.”

  And with that, he exited the chamber—leaving her with the gift and the crystal’s glow faintly radiating in the stillness.