They didn’t rest.

  Not the kind of rest that let your lungs unclench and your mind stop searching shadows. Not the kind that healed. Not the kind that made you ready.

  Hannah drove them forward anyway.

  No fire. No shelter. No “we’ll stop when it’s safe.”

  Because “safe” was a word that only existed when someone else was bleeding for it.

  They moved through the night like a single stubborn mistake that refused to die.

  Greyson’s limp grew worse with every mile. He hid it until his leg stopped listening, then he just… adjusted his gait and kept going like pain was weather. Finn’s steps shortened, his face too pale, his jaw locked tight like he could bite the sickness out of his bones. Julien never left the rear—eyes always scanning, bow always ready, shoulders never relaxing.

  Zamora stayed close to Garn.

  Not touching him. Not hovering.

  Just close enough that if he swayed, she could catch him without thinking.

  And Garn… Garn kept moving because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant hearing Akash laugh in his blood.

  You’re running, she purred in the back of his skull.

  We’re surviving, he answered without words.

  Same thing, she replied, pleased.

  Hannah didn’t speak much.

  When she did, it was short and sharp.

  “Step where I step.”

  “Don’t break branches.”

  “Quiet.”

  “Move.”

  And when Finn stumbled once—just once—Hannah didn’t slow.

  Julien caught him before he hit the ground. Finn’s breath came out ragged, teeth chattering, arm clutched close where the torn skin still burned beneath its wrap.

  Hannah glanced back.

  Not sympathy.

  Assessment.

  “You fall behind, you die behind,” she said.

  Finn forced his legs to work again.

  “I know,” he rasped.

  Garn watched him. Something in his chest twisted, annoyed at itself for caring.

  Zamora noticed.

  Her staff shifted in her grip like it wanted to become a weapon again.

  “You’re watching him like you’re going to carry him,” she muttered.

  Garn didn’t look at her. “If he drops, he drops.”

  Zamora’s eyes narrowed. “Liar.”

  He didn’t answer.

  They marched until the forest thinned.

  Until the trees stopped being a wall and became scattered sentries. Until the ground stopped being soft with leaf rot and started turning hard with packed soil and old stone. Until the air changed—less pine and damp, more smoke and distance.

  And then, just before dawn, the capital finally showed itself.

  Not bright and welcoming.

  Just the silhouette: tall walls cutting the horizon, watchtowers like teeth, banners barely visible in the low light.

  Kleimos.

  Civilization.

  A place with rules.

  A place no mist could swallow whole.

  Finn’s breath hitched like he couldn’t believe it was real.

  Greyson let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh if his ribs weren’t on fire.

  Julien didn’t react at all—only scanned the walls, the gate, the shadows beside the road like he still expected something pale to step out and ruin the morning.

  Hannah didn’t slow.

  She pushed them harder.

  Because reaching the wall wasn’t safety.

  Reaching the gate wasn’t safety.

  Only getting through it was.

  The road widened near the gates, and with it came the first real danger of being seen.

  Guards on the parapets.

  A pair of early merchants with carts.

  A patrol—kingdom colors, not hunting, just existing.

  Hannah kept her hood up and her stride steady like she belonged here.

  But she was pale.

  Every breath pulled tight across her body like she was holding her ribs together with willpower alone.

  The gate loomed—iron-banded wood, stone arch, halberds set in neat lines.

  A guard stepped out with his palm raised.

  “Hold. State your business—”

  Hannah didn’t stop.

  Not to argue.

  Not to explain.

  She just kept walking like the road had taken everything from her except direction.

  The guard’s eyes flicked over them—mud, blood, frost-dust clinging to armor edges like a memory. His gaze sharpened, scanning for something that made sense.

  Then he saw it.

  A mark on Hannah’s arm—half-hidden under torn cloth, smeared with dirt, but still unmistakable.

  Crimson.

  His posture changed instantly.

  Not fear.

  Recognition.

  “Crimson Order—?” he blurted, stepping closer. “Hey—are you lot alright?”

  Hannah’s jaw tightened. She tried to answer.

  Her breath hitched instead.

  Her hand went to her ribs like she could hold herself together by force.

  The guard didn’t wait for permission.

  “OPEN THE GATE!” he barked, snapping his head toward the wall. “Get medics! Now!”

  Chains rattled. Metal groaned. The gate began to part.

  Hannah took one more step—

  And her knees buckled.

  For a heartbeat, it looked like she might catch herself.

  Then she didn’t.

  She dropped hard to one knee, palm slapping stone, breath tearing out of her like something inside her had finally given up.

  Julien moved to grab her—

  Hannah tried to snarl, “Don’t—”

  But her body betrayed her mid-word.

  She pitched forward.

  Zamora caught her before her face hit the ground, arms locking around her like a brace.

  Greyson tried to take another step—and his leg finally quit. He collapsed sideways with a grunt, shield clattering, breath scraping like broken glass.

  Finn swayed like he’d been cut free from whatever thread had been holding him upright.

  Garn reached for him on instinct—

  And the second his hand touched Finn’s shoulder, the night caught Garn too.

  Exhaustion didn’t creep in.

  It hit.

  His limbs went heavy and useless, vision tunneling.

  Akash stirred somewhere deep, half annoyed, half amused.

  So dramatic, she whispered.

  Garn tried to curse her.

  His mouth didn’t cooperate.

  His knees hit the stone.

  Then his hands.

  Then the world went dark—right there in front of the capital gate, with help finally in reach.

  He woke to clean air.

  Not clean like fresh.

  Clean like controlled.

  Herbs. Alcohol. Linen. The sharp bite of medicine that meant someone had decided he was worth saving.

  His eyes cracked open.

  White ceiling. Gold trim. Curtains drawn back, letting morning light spill in soft and steady.

  He blinked once.

  Twice.

  Then turned his head—

  Finn lay in a bed beside him, sheets pulled to his chest, face pale but breathing steady. Bandages wrapped his arm where the skin had torn away. His brow was furrowed like he was fighting dreams.

  On the other side of the room, Greyson occupied another sick bed, half-sitting, coughing into a cloth like his lungs were still angry about being used.

  Garn tried to sit up.

  Pain answered.

  Not sharp—deep. The kind that lived in muscle and bone after you’d forced your body to keep going long after it begged to stop.

  He hissed and sank back.

  Finn’s eyes fluttered open at the sound.

  For a second, Finn looked confused—like he couldn’t place where he was.

  Then memory hit him, and his gaze sharpened.

  “You’re awake,” Finn whispered.

  Greyson croaked without looking over, “If he’s awake, tell him to stop making me run like I’m a damn horse.”

  Garn’s throat was dry. “Where are we.”

  Finn swallowed. “Palace medical wing.”

  Greyson added, “Royal infirmary,” like the fancier name made the pain worth it.

  Garn stared at the ceiling again, letting it settle.

  “We… made it?”

  Finn nodded once. “Barely.”

  Garn turned his head slightly. “How’d we get through the gate?”

  Finn’s voice stayed low, still raw.

  “A guard stopped us,” he said. “He saw the Crimson Order mark on Hannah’s arm and called for medics before we could even explain. They opened the gate fast.”

  Greyson let out a wheezing laugh. “So the only reason I’m alive is because Hannah decided to bleed in the right place.”

  Finn’s mouth tightened, half a smile, half exhaustion. “Pretty much.”

  Garn exhaled slowly.

  Palace walls. Clean sheets. Breathing.

  They weren’t safe—but they weren’t running anymore.

  Not for the moment.

  Finn shifted carefully, wincing.

  “We should talk,” he said. “About magic. About what happened… and what you did.”

  Garn’s eyes slid to him.

  Greyson muttered, “Here we go,” like he’d resigned himself to suffering in multiple forms.

  Finn ignored him.

  “Basic magic is impractical in close range,” Finn began. “That’s why mages cast from distance. A real spell takes time—focus, shaping, output. If someone’s in your face, you’re dead before you finish.”

  Greyson gave a tiny shrug that cost him pain. “Swords.”

  Finn nodded. “Exactly.”

  Garn’s gaze narrowed. “Then how’d you make that giant ice spike.”

  Finn hesitated, then lifted his bandaged arm slightly—just enough to show the mess underneath the wraps.

  Not a mark.

  Not a clean sigil.

  Just ruined skin and careful binding.

  “I didn’t cast it the clean way,” Finn said quietly. “Not like a tower mage would.”

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  Garn waited.

  Finn swallowed, then forced himself into explanation like it was a weapon he needed to keep sharp.

  “There are three ways to make a spell hold its shape,” Finn said.

  He ticked them off with his good hand.

  “One: you cast it in the air—but that’s unstable. Mana wants to disperse. So most mages use a tool—a staff, a wand, a focus frame—something that helps the spell stay drawn long enough to fire.”

  Greyson blinked slowly. “Magic tools.”

  Finn nodded. “Two: you carve it onto a surface. Stone, wood, metal. That’s stable. Wards. Traps. Seals. The spell holds because the surface holds it.”

  Garn’s eyes tightened. “And three.”

  Finn’s voice dropped.

  “Three… you carve it onto yourself.”

  A silence settled heavy in the infirmary.

  Greyson’s expression twisted like he wanted to complain, but even he didn’t joke.

  Finn continued anyway.

  “It’s desperate,” Finn said. “It’s dangerous. Skin isn’t a proper medium. It tears. It burns. The nerves fight you. But it’s fast—because your body is already a conduit.”

  Garn’s gaze flicked to the bandages again.

  Finn didn’t look away this time.

  “Back at Log Town,” Finn said, “I used my own skin as the surface. I wrote two spells.”

  Garn’s brow tightened. “Two.”

  Finn nodded.

  “Amplification on my forearm,” he said. “And Ice Lance on my palm.”

  Greyson stared. “You wrote spells on your arm.”

  Finn snapped his gaze to Greyson. “Yes.”

  Then he looked back to Garn, calmer.

  “The Amplification wasn’t the attack,” Finn said. “It was the push. It let me shove more mana through a path without it scattering.”

  He exhaled.

  “And the Ice Lance on the palm was the shape. The command. The part that tells the mana what it’s supposed to become.”

  Garn’s eyes sharpened. “So you fed mana through Amplification… into Ice Lance.”

  Finn nodded. “Exactly. Forearm spell steadies and boosts the flow. Palm spell forces conversion and output.”

  Finn exhaled, jaw tight.

  “And that’s the part people don’t tell you when they talk about ‘clever casting,’” Finn said. “Your body isn’t stone. It isn’t metal. It doesn’t hold a spell the way a surface does.”

  He glanced down at the bandages like he could still feel it.

  “I fed mana through Amplification into Ice Lance,” Finn said. “And it worked. Fast. Hard.”

  His voice roughened.

  “But the moment it initiated… the spell didn’t just leave my hand.”

  He swallowed.

  “It rejected the medium. The backlash hit the skin first—like the spell burned its own writing off the page.”

  Finn’s fingers curled in the blanket.

  “My forearm—my palm—everything I’d carved the structure on… it tore. Burned. Peeled away.”

  He looked at Garn, eyes steady and grim.

  “So the marks are gone now,” Finn said. “Not because anyone ripped them off—because the spell did. It stripped my skin when it fired.”

  Greyson winced just listening. “That’s… horrific.”

  Finn nodded once. “That’s why it’s not standard. That’s why mages use tools and surfaces. Skin is a last resort—and it charges interest.”

  Finn’s tone shifted, making sure Garn understood the bigger picture.

  “And that’s still basic magic,” Finn said. “Spells. Structures. Circles. Techniques anyone can learn if they survive training.”

  Garn watched him.

  Finn added, quieter, “Sometimes… there are rare cases. Some mages awaken unique magic—something that doesn’t come from standard spellwork. Something that’s just… theirs.”

  Greyson squinted. “Like what.”

  Finn hesitated, then answered anyway.

  “Unique magic isn’t spellwork,” Finn said. “It’s not circles or structure or a technique you copy. It’s a gift some mages awaken—something that belongs to them the way a heartbeat does.”

  He shook his head once, firm.

  “I’m not one of those mages,” Finn said. “I don’t have unique magic.”

  Garn watched him. “Then who does.”

  Finn’s eyes shifted like he was choosing his words carefully.

  “The Tower of Knowledge has its Archmage,” Finn said. “Greta Kristen.”

  Garn blinked. “Who.”

  Finn looked at him like that answered the real question—you’re not from the tower world.

  “She runs the Tower of Knowledge,” Finn said. “The kind of mage people in court speak about carefully, like saying her name too loud invites attention.”

  Finn’s voice dropped a fraction.

  “She’s sixth-circle,” he said. “In this kingdom, that’s not just rare—it’s almost unreal. And on top of that… she has unique magic.”

  Greyson let out a low sound. “So she’s basically a walking problem.”

  Finn nodded once. “Exactly.”

  He exhaled, then added—broad and true.

  “There are plenty of well-known mages,” Finn said. “Tower heads. Court mages. War casters. People with reputations big enough to scare villages into behaving.”

  His eyes hardened.

  “But very few reach that circle,” Finn said. “And fewer still have something truly unique stacked on top of it.”

  He looked down at his bandages again.

  “I’m not that,” Finn said. “I’m basic. I just pushed basic magic until it punished me for it.”

  Inside Garn, Akash’s attention curled tighter, amused.

  Smart. Honest. And still dangerous, she murmured.

  Finn’s eyes flicked for half a heartbeat like the air got heavier—then he pushed through it and kept his focus on Garn.

  “But you,” Finn said softly, “you weren’t doing what I did.”

  Garn’s gaze hardened. “No.”

  Finn leaned forward slightly, careful like proximity could spook the truth out of Garn.

  “When yours happened, it wasn’t tool-casting. It wasn’t surface-carving. It wasn’t skin spells,” Finn said. “It was like a switch flipped.”

  Garn didn’t like how accurate that felt.

  “It’s the contract,” Garn admitted.

  Finn’s eyes brightened with understanding, not fear.

  “The mana you pull,” Finn said slowly, “it gets converted.”

  Akash’s amusement pressed against Garn’s thoughts like a thumb.

  Tell him.

  Garn’s voice stayed low. “Akash turns it into fire.”

  Finn went still.

  Not outwardly—he kept his face calm, kept his breathing measured—but inside his thoughts snagged hard.

  …Converted.

  If the mana Garn pulled in was being converted as it entered him…

  Finn’s mind ran ahead in spite of him.

  If Garn ever made a circle—if he ever formed a ring around his heart the way mages did—would the ring be made of fire instead of raw mana?

  And if a ring was a structure… a root…

  Then even without the contract—

  Even if the connection was cut—

  Would mana still take that path? Would it still become flame just because his body had been taught to do it?

  Finn’s eyes slid to Garn’s face.

  A quiet chill crawled up his spine.

  No way.

  No way…

  Right?

  Finn forced the thought down like it was dangerous to hold.

  He exhaled—slow, controlled—like that would make it stop being true.

  “That’s why you don’t cast,” he murmured, voice steady on the outside. “You don’t need to carve spells like me. You’re not shaping mana into flame. You’re channeling it through her.”

  Greyson lifted a hand weakly. “I don’t understand a word you said to Finn.”

  Finn glanced over. “Garn is basically cheating.”

  Greyson squinted. “Okay, that part I understood.”

  Finn’s gaze returned to Garn—too sharp, too quick, like he was checking to see if Garn looked different now.

  “Can you feel mana?” Finn asked.

  Garn frowned. “Through the contract.”

  “And you can pull it in.”

  Garn nodded.

  Finn’s words came a little too fast, like he was trying to get them out before his brain could stop him.

  “Then why haven’t you made a circle.”

  Garn blinked. “A circle?”

  Greyson lifted his head a fraction, eyes half-lidded with pain and confusion.

  “You two are talking about hearts now?” he rasped. “Man, I pass out for one night and wake up in a romance novel.”

  Finn shot him a look. “Not that kind of circle.”

  Greyson coughed once, grimacing. “Could’ve fooled me.”

  Finn turned back to Garn, forcing his focus to stay on the point.

  “A ring,” Finn said, steadier now. “A structure. Even a simple one would let you hold mana, shape it, store it. If you can take it in, why not build something to keep it?”

  Garn’s head throbbed—not from pain, from possibility.

  He glanced inward without meaning to.

  Akash went still.

  So still it felt like cold.

  No, she said immediately.

  Garn’s jaw tightened. “Why.”

  No.

  Finn watched Garn’s expression change and read the silence like a page.

  “She doesn’t want you to,” Finn said quietly.

  Garn didn’t deny it.

  Finn’s gaze softened, careful. “If you make circles… you won’t need her as much.”

  Akash’s voice snapped inside Garn like iron striking stone.

  He’s dangerous.

  He’s not, Garn thought.

  He is to me.

  Garn stared at Finn. “Let’s try it.”

  Finn’s eyes widened. “You will?”

  Garn nodded once.

  He closed his eyes.

  Reached for the pull—reached for that familiar flow where mana came in and Akash made it fire.

  He tried to catch it before conversion.

  Tried to hold it in his own shape.

  Tried to form even the beginning of a ring—

  And the connection vanished.

  Like a door slammed.

  Garn’s breath hitched.

  His chest went hollow.

  No warmth. No pull. No conversion.

  Nothing.

  He opened his eyes sharply.

  Finn stared at him. “What happened?”

  Garn’s voice was low. “She cut me off.”

  Finn swallowed. “That means she can.”

  Greyson muttered into his cloth, “I hate magic.”

  Finn didn’t push. He pivoted, like he knew pressing would summon that warning pressure again.

  “Okay,” Finn said carefully. “Then… you’re trying to learn Vyse, right?”

  Garn’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”

  Finn nodded slowly. “It might be better to learn Vyse first.”

  Garn frowned. “Why.”

  Finn’s voice sobered.

  “Once mana fully takes root in your body—once you become a true mage—the sense of mana becomes constant,” Finn said. “It’s like a second heartbeat. You can’t turn it off.”

  Garn watched him.

  Finn continued. “That constant sense conflicts with Vyse training. Vyse isn’t mana. It’s will. Life energy. It moves differently. If your body is already flooded with mana awareness, learning Vyse becomes nearly impossible unless you can shut the mana sense down.”

  Greyson stared between them like they were speaking a different language.

  “So Garn not gonna cast spells,” Greyson concluded, painfully proud of himself.

  Finn sighed. “Probably not.”

  Garn didn’t answer.

  He just stared at his hands.

  At what they could become.

  At what they could lose.

  And in the back of his blood, Akash stayed quiet—too quiet to trust.

  Across the palace, in a room that smelled like polished wood and old paper, Hannah sat upright with bandages under her shirt and fire behind her eyes.

  Julien stood beside her like a shadow that carried a bow.

  Across from them, Marcus listened without interrupting.

  Not a court noble. Not ceremonial.

  A real one—the kind that looked at injuries like a blacksmith looked at cracked steel, already thinking about what force caused it and how to stop it next time.

  Hannah spoke flatly.

  “Log Town,” she said. “They were already there.”

  Marcus’s fingers tapped once on the desk. “How many.”

  Julien answered. “Enough.”

  Hannah continued. “Mist. Symbol-work. Ice structures. It wasn’t a normal scout party. It was organized.”

  Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “A named leader?”

  Hannah’s jaw tightened.

  “Yes,” she said. “A pale knight.”

  Marcus’s tapping stopped.

  Julien’s voice went colder. “House Lunaris.”

  For the first time, Marcus’s expression shifted—small, controlled, but real.

  “That confirms it,” he murmured.

  Hannah leaned forward slightly. “Confirms what.”

  Marcus looked up. “Natalia isn’t probing the border anymore.”

  His voice sharpened. “She’s escalating.”

  Hannah’s lips pressed thin.

  Julien’s hand tightened on his bow grip like he wanted to shoot the idea out of the air.

  Marcus stood.

  “You did the right thing bringing them here,” he said.

  Hannah’s gaze didn’t soften. “They saw us.”

  Marcus nodded once. “Then we assume they’ll come looking.”

  Hannah’s eyes narrowed. “They already are.”

  Marcus’s voice lowered. “Then we prepare the gate to be a mouth instead of a welcome.”

  He pointed toward the door.

  “Both of you—rest,” Marcus ordered. “That’s not a suggestion. Medics cleared you to live, not to fight.”

  Hannah’s jaw clenched like she wanted to argue.

  Julien touched her elbow—just once.

  Hannah stood with a wince she didn’t admit to, then turned and left.

  Julien followed, quiet as always.

  The door shut.

  The room exhaled.

  Marcus stayed still for a moment, palms braced on the desk, eyes on the map like staring hard enough could force the border to behave.

  Then a voice behind him spoke, calm and dry.

  “Bad morning?”

  Marcus didn’t turn right away.

  Jerome Frostbarrow stood near the shelves, tablet tucked under one arm like it belonged there.

  Royal advisor.

  Too clean. Too sharp-eyed. Too used to cutting wars into paragraphs.

  Marcus finally looked over.

  “It’s getting worse,” Marcus said.

  Jerome’s gaze flicked to the inked notes on Marcus’s desk.

  “Contractor,” Jerome read aloud, soft. “Fire. Mist. Lunaris.”

  His mouth tightened slightly.

  “So it’s that kind of worse.”

  Marcus dragged a breath through his nose and straightened.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Jerome fell into step beside him without needing to be told.

  They left Marcus’s office together, boots quiet on polished stone.

  The palace halls were calm in the way storms were calm right before they hit.

  Servants moved like ghosts.

  Guards stood a little straighter as Marcus passed.

  Jerome didn’t look at them—he looked through them, already assembling the shape of the problem for the King.

  By the time they reached the inner doors, Marcus had already decided what he was going to say.

  He just didn’t like saying it.

  The throne room wasn’t full court.

  No banners. No ceremony. No crowd.

  Just King Xavier, a few standing guards, and the weight of the crown sitting on a man who didn’t get to be surprised anymore.

  Marcus stopped at the base of the steps and bowed.

  “Your Majesty.”

  Jerome bowed with him, smaller, smoother.

  The King’s gaze was steady. “Report.”

  Marcus kept it tight.

  “Log Town was compromised,” Marcus said. “Organized engagement. Mist deployment. Structured symbol-casting. Ice formations. Not a random band.”

  The King’s expression didn’t move. “Casualties.”

  “Too many,” Marcus said. “But we recovered three. One wounded mage. One soldier. One… contractor.”

  That last word landed different.

  The King’s eyes narrowed the slightest fraction. “A contractor.”

  Marcus nodded once. “Confirmed by the mage. The fire wasn’t shaped by spellwork.”

  Silence stretched.

  Jerome’s eyes didn’t leave the King’s face.

  Then the King spoke again. “And Hannah?”

  “Alive,” Marcus said. “She got them to the gate and collapsed. She’ll recover.”

  Jerome’s voice cut in—measured, surgical.

  “Orion escalation is no longer theoretical,” Jerome Frostbarrow said. “This is intent.”

  The King’s gaze didn’t waver. “What do you recommend.”

  Jerome didn’t flinch. “Preparation. Messaging. And contingency.”

  Marcus exhaled, and the truth slipped out with it—more tired than he meant.

  “We need to call her back soon.”

  Jerome didn’t react, but his eyes sharpened like that sentence carried weight all on its own.

  The King studied Marcus. “Soon.”

  Marcus nodded.

  “She’s the only one who can move fast enough to stop this from becoming a border war,” Marcus said. “And I don’t like the idea of dealing with Natalia’s reach without her.”

  The King’s voice stayed calm.

  “Send word.”

  Marcus bowed again. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Jerome bowed with him.

  And as they turned to leave, Marcus felt the kingdom shift—subtle, like a blade sliding an inch free of its sheath.

  Delcora smelled like salt and iron.

  Not the clean iron of a forge—old iron. The kind that lived in nails, chains, and city gates that had seen too many hands forced against them.

  Belicos towns were like that.

  Busy. Watchful. Hungry.

  A tall woman walked the street with her hood down anyway.

  Not arrogant.

  Just certain—like she’d decided long ago that hiding was for people who didn’t know how to make a crowd look away.

  Six followed her in a loose ring.

  Not marching in formation. Not wearing matching plate.

  Different cuts of armor. Different layers—leather, mail, cloaks, one with a scarf wrapped twice around the throat, another with a shoulder guard that looked like it had been repaired more than once.

  But every one of them carried the same quiet signature: blue somewhere on the body.

  A sash. A lining. A threadwork crest. A scarf edge. A dyed strap.

  Enough to link them without shouting it.

  The locals watched.

  They always watched.

  Some with curiosity. Some with resentment. Some with fear sharpened into quiet.

  At the tall woman’s side walked a small lady in pale church colors—simple cloth, clean lines, no jewelry except a modest symbol at her throat that caught light like a prayer made solid.

  The small lady didn’t scan rooftops the way soldiers did.

  She scanned people—faces, shoulders, the way tension moved through a street before a blade ever showed.

  The tall woman’s pace slowed by half a step.

  Not because she was tired.

  Because something inside her shifted.

  A tug.

  A pressure behind the ribs, subtle as tide-pull—like the ocean drawing back before the wave returned.

  The small lady noticed immediately.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

  The tall woman didn’t answer right away.

  She stared down the street as if the line of buildings could turn into palace walls if she looked hard enough.

  Then her mouth tightened into the shape of annoyance.

  “It feels like I’m about to be called back,” she said.

  The small lady’s brows lifted slightly. “Called back?”

  The tall woman’s eyes narrowed, gaze distant for a heartbeat.

  “Yeah,” she murmured. “Soon.”

  The small lady studied her a moment, gentle but unyielding.

  “You don’t look surprised,” she said.

  The tall woman exhaled through her nose, a humorless breath.

  “I’m never surprised when the kingdom decides it needs me,” she said.

  Her eyes flicked to the side—toward the six behind her, toward the street, toward the sky that felt too open.

  Then, quieter—almost to herself—

  “It’s just… the feeling.”

  The small lady’s voice softened.

  “Like a warning?”

  The tall woman didn’t correct her.

  She just kept walking, and the six shifted with her like the tide obeying the moon.

  And somewhere far away, beyond borders and walls, the kingdom started pulling on its strongest weapon.