Edmund’s group returned to the inn right after the tour, worn down in that quiet way that made even the stairs feel longer than they should’ve been. They kept their voices low until their doors closed behind them, and only then did Leif finally let himself speak.

  “Those were fake stories, weren’t they?” he asked, looking between the two princes. “They can’t be true.”

  Edmund didn’t answer at first. Neither did Aristide. They changed out of their travel clothes in silence, the kind that didn’t feel empty so much as… careful. When Edmund finally spoke, he gave the answer without a hint of uncertainty.

  “They’re true,” he admitted, his eyes not quite meeting Leif’s. “Paul wasn’t exaggerating. My ancestors… our family… did all those things.”

  Leif’s expression tightened, like he was waiting for the punchline that didn’t come.

  Aristide stepped in, the way he always did when Edmund’s words threatened to fracture under their own weight. Together, they explained, piece by piece, what the cleric had laid out in public.

  How Henri destroyed Durandal.

  How he seized Trinovantes’s lands to build factories that would feed Rucaldia’s appetite.

  How Aldana’s ruling houses had been stripped away, banished or executed, when the territory was handed to Henri and those loyal to him, so they could build Aurelith.

  And how, even after Henri’s death, his successors—his descendants—continued the work. Not out of necessity, but out of fear of losing Rucaldia’s favor.

  Leif stared at them like they’d just rewritten the world while he wasn’t looking. Serena didn’t speak either, her gaze fixed somewhere between the floorboards and the wall.

  “That’s why Father is very careful with diplomacy,” Aristide said at last. His tone stayed composed, but there was something tired behind it. “It took years to mend what little good relations we have with some of our neighbors.”

  Edmund exhaled slowly, almost like he’d been holding his breath since the tour began.

  “And a lot of them still don’t forgive us,” he said. “Not really.”

  Above all, House Carnarvon, Trinovantes’s ruling family, had grown increasingly hostile in recent years.

  Much like Calyssia, Trinovantes had once been carved into many states, and the Carnarvons had been reduced to ruling only one of them: Logres. For decades after Rucaldia was driven out, they remained isolationist, content to consolidate what little they had left.

  That changed in the last few years.

  After Einon, its current ruler, was crowned Grand Duke, the Carnarvons abandoned caution and launched a campaign to reclaim the territories that had once belonged to Trinovantes. Aurelith threw its support behind the smaller states in the form of coin, supplies, and at times even soldiers, going as far as to fight some of those wars themselves.

  Logres succeeded all the same. Trinovantes was fully reestablished under Einon’s leadership, and the Grand Duke now set his sights on Ruscholt’s eastern territories, lands he insisted were rightfully Trinovantian, even though they had been legally ceded long before Rucaldia ever arrived.

  “And to quote the Grand Duke,” Aristide said, “Aurelith’s words in matters concerning true Ambrians are as weightless as a feather on a scale.”

  Edmund looked around at the knights and soldiers in the room. “One wrong move,” he said quietly, “one wrong word, and we could find ourselves dragged into war again.”

  Serena’s gaze softened. “We didn’t know,” she murmured. “You have… so much to worry about.”

  “But that isn’t fair,” Leif cut in, frustration rising. “You didn’t do any of those things. And King Renault is a good king. If they’d just give you a chance, give themselves a chance, to see who you actually are…”

  Serena looked between the brothers, then asked, voice small, “Why do they hate you… when you didn’t do those things?”

  Aristide let out a slow breath, the kind that sounded practiced. “That’s just how people are, I suppose,” he said. “When we lose everything, face suffering, claw our way back, and still can’t escape it… we can’t help but find something—someone—to blame.”

  His eyes flicked to Edmund, then back to the two Alvarynn. “And they don’t stop at the man who did it. They blame the bloodline. The house. The nation. To us, guilt becomes an inherited sin.”

  “We’re kind of the same, then,” Leif murmured. “People hate us… and we don’t even fully understand why.”

  Silence settled over the room, heavy and uninvited.

  Aristide rubbed at his eyes, exhaustion finally winning. “Let’s just sleep,” he said. “I think that’s enough for today.”

  No one argued. They let the conversation die where it stood, and one by one, they turned in for the night.

  Elsewhere, in one of Danuville’s poorer neighborhoods, the boy Edmund had fought earlier finally made his way home. He pushed open the door of a small, worn-down house and stepped inside, shoulders still tight from the day. Two familiar faces were waiting for him.

  “Noel, what took you so long?” Jules demanded. “Did you catch the guy?”

  Noel shook his head. “The bastard got away.”

  Marc slammed his fist onto the table. “Damn it! How’d he slip off?!”

  “He got help,” Noel said, shrugging off his coat and hanging it over the back of a chair. “Some red-haired guy.”

  Jules narrowed his eyes. “They’re working together?”

  “Don’t think so,” Noel replied. “They looked… too decent. Him, and the men with him.” He rolled his shoulder like it still ached. “And that guy… he’s tough. Thought he was gonna crack my ribs earlier.”

  Marc barely reacted to the complaint. His mind was already elsewhere.

  “How many days until the next exchange?” he asked, half ignoring Noel’s failure.

  “Twelve,” Jules answered without looking up.

  “Barely two weeks,” Marc muttered, biting at his thumb. Then his gaze sharpened as it swept between them. “Sleep while you can. Starting tomorrow, we don’t stop until that seal is found…”

  He hesitated, letting the silence hang a beat, grim and simple.

  “…or it’ll be our heads.”

  The next morning, Edmund woke to Damien’s voice carrying through the thin wall. Loud, sharp, and unmistakably irritated. He sat up at once, shoved his feet into his boots, and stepped into the adjoining room. Damien stood over the soldiers like an executioner in a tabard. The men looked miserable. Slumped shoulders, dull eyes, faces pale in the weak morning light.

  “What happened?” Edmund asked.

  “Your wayward lot got themselves drunk last night,” Damien said, not bothering to lower his voice. “Now they can barely sit upright, let alone wash and present themselves like travelers.”

  Only then did Edmund catch it, the sour, stale stink of ale clinging to the room like a second blanket.

  “It can’t be helped,” Damien went on. “They stay in today. If any of them can pull themselves together by afternoon, we’ll see. Until then, they’re not leaving this inn.”

  Edmund gave a quiet nod. There was no point arguing. The men had earned this. Thankfully, Gualter was the least afflicted, still bleary, still wincing at every sound, but steady enough to join them. After a quick breakfast downstairs, the group headed back out, returning to the town square by streets they hadn’t walked the day before.

  Along the way, they passed a handful of old men seated outside a shopfront, sharing a newspaper between them in between smoke and beer. Serena’s gaze lingered a heartbeat too long, caught by the birthmark on one man’s cheek. The old man noticed. He squinted at her, then tilted his head. “What’re you starin’ at, missy?”

  Serena startled slightly, heat rising to her face. “Oh—um, nothing,” she said quickly. “Just… curious. What you’re reading there. I saw the sketches and…”

  The old man, apparently satisfied with the excuse, grunted and turned back to the paper. “Just readin’ some news…”

  “What kind of news?” Aristide asked, unable to help himself.

  The second old man snorted. “Looks like Trinovantes and Aurelith are havin’ a go at it over land again.”

  “The Grand Duke’s ’nother nutcase, from the looks of it,” the third chimed in, shaking his head.

  Edmund’s group kept their faces pleasantly blank and pressed for more, careful not to sound too invested. They wanted to hear how people spoke about both nations when no one important was listening. The old men had theories, of course. Some figured Trinovantes was building toward something bigger. An eventual push straight into Aurelith. Others thought it was the opposite. Logres was fortifying out of fear that Aurelith would strike first.

  “Let ’em beat each other to pulp,” the first old man said, waving a dismissive hand. “World’d be a better place with one of ’em gone.”

  Aristide tilted his head in idle curiosity. “And if, just if, Trinovantes turned south,” he said, “toward here instead?”

  The old men looked at one another, then burst out laughing like he’d told a joke. Aristide’s brow twitched, half offended, but he didn’t bite.

  One of them wiped at his eye. “Grand Duke’s a nutcase, aye,” he said, “but he’d be runnin’ into trouble if he tried that.”

  “We ain’t wimps like Aurelith’s robe-twirlin’ men,” the second added, puffing up.

  “And even if he was foolish enough,” the third old man said, tapping the paper with a knuckle, “Cervolna’s right to our south. King Baldwin ain’t the sort to tolerate war-chasin’ neighbors.”

  He leaned back, grin sharpening. “Trinovantes comes sniffin’ near the border, they’ll be facin’ a rain of fire from a hundred thousand war mages.”

  Edmund’s group lingered a while longer, nudging the conversation toward safer topics. Calyssia’s current state, their governor, and, more importantly, what the locals thought about opening trade between Cervolna and Aurelith. As it turned out, the old men didn’t care much about letting Aurelith’s merchants in at all, so long as it didn’t disturb their lives. The governor, however, drew nothing but complaints. In their eyes, he’d done little to improve anything.

  “He’ll be sweatin’ hard soon enough,” the first man said, folding the paper with a snap. “Next election’s in two years.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “Election?” Serena repeated, the word unfamiliar on her tongue.

  “Aye,” the man said, as if it were obvious. “We choose the next governor in two years.”

  He pointed at the table beside them, empty save for the newspaper, an ashtray, and a couple of finished bottles of ale. “And if I don’t see fine wine on this table by then, we’ll kick him outta his chair ourselves.”

  After a few more questions, Edmund’s group thanked the old men for their time and moved on.

  Once they were back on the road, Aristide leaned closer to Serena and lowered his voice. “Danuville, and a few other Calyssian states, don’t have ruling families,” he explained. “They vote instead.”

  Serena’s brows lifted. “Vote?”

  “Every four years,” Aristide said. “The people choose who they want as their next leader. Whoever gets the most votes becomes governor and ‘rules’ for the next term. Longer, if they’re re-elected.”

  He gave a small, unimpressed shrug. “It’s all the same in the end, though. The same rich families taking turns. As long as their interests are met first, they don’t care much who wins.”

  “And if they don’t get what they want?” Serena asked. “If their ‘interests’ aren’t met?”

  Aristide’s mouth pulled into a thin line. “It gets bloody,” he said. “Assassinations. Street fights. Sabotage, you name it.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Leif muttered.

  “Choosing your leader sounds noble on paper,” Aristide went on. “Most of the time, it just gives ambitious people a different kind of battlefield. And unfortunately, the common people are the ones caught in between.”

  They stopped at a few shops along the way, partly to buy fruit for the road, partly to keep talking. Opinion split between those who didn’t care, and those who loathed the idea. Some spat at the very mention of opening the border, accusing Aurelith of sending tainted goods. Others didn’t bother with reasons at all. They simply didn’t want anything from the kingdom crossing into their streets. When Edmund asked whether they would accept aid if the kingdom offered it, the answers were blunt and unanimous.

  “Better to starve today,” one woman said flatly, “than owe the Aureliens anything.”

  A fruit vendor snorted as he rearranged bruised apples with rough hands. “They can send grain for a hundred years,” he said. “It won’t give back what they took from us.”

  Once they’d moved away from the crowd, they paused on a quieter stretch of street to rest their legs. Damien leaned in toward the princes. “We can stop here,” he offered, “or you can head back to the inn and we’ll continue. Hearing their opinions about the kingdom is… wearing on you, it seems.”

  Edmund and Aristide exchanged a glance, then both shook their heads.

  “We’re staying,” Edmund said. “I need to hear it.”

  “Me too,” Aristide added. “That’s why we’re here, to listen to what they have to say.”

  They rested only a moment before pressing on. The next street was worse. More beggars slumped along the walls, more hollow faces and outstretched hands. Reluctantly, they avoided giving anything to anyone. Somewhere up ahead, Leif spotted a florist’s shop. His eyes lit up like someone had just found a treasure chest.

  “Can we stop?” he asked, already halfway into motion. “Please.”

  Seeing no harm in his request, the princes relented. Leif all but sprinted across the street, eager to see if the shop carried plants he’d never find back in Aurelith. Serena followed with the same bright, helpless excitement, like she’d forgotten, just for a moment, how heavy the day had been.

  Edmund was about to step after them when a sharp banging sound echoed from his right.

  He turned, and froze for half a breath.

  The boy from yesterday was there again, barreling down the street in pursuit of the same man.

  “Those two again…?”

  Edmund didn’t hesitate. He broke into a run. Damien, Gualter, and the knights saw him bolt and immediately followed, calling under their breath for him to slow down.

  The prince was too fast. Within seconds, he’d pulled ahead, chasing the boy around corner after corner. He rounded into a narrow alleyway, and there they were.

  The man had nowhere left to go. The boy had him cornered, and this time he wasn’t alone. Another kid, about the same age, stood at the far end of the alley, watching the street like a lookout.

  “You’re not getting away this time,” the boy snarled.

  He lunged.

  Edmund’s eyes snapped to the scrap pile wedged against the alley wall, broken crates, rotting boards, a sheet of warped plywood. He grabbed the closest piece and hurled it.

  “Stop!” Edmund barked.

  The board spun through the air. The second boy, Jules, posted at the alley’s mouth, saw it coming and shouted at once.

  “Noel, behind you!”

  Noel twisted just in time. The plywood clipped the wall and skidded past him with a hollow crack. He whirled on Edmund, face flushing with anger.

  “You again!”

  Jules’s eyes darted between them. “You know him?”

  “Same guy who stopped me yesterday,” Noel spat, jabbing a finger toward Edmund. “This has nothing to do with you! Stop sticking your nose in our business!”

  Edmund stepped forward, unflinching. “Not while you’re about to crush his jaw.”

  “You have no idea who you’re dealing with!” Jules snapped, voice sharp with more fear than bravado.

  For a heartbeat, the alley held, then footsteps slapped the cobbles behind Jules.

  Marc appeared, shoulders tensed, breath coming fast as he took in the scene. “You found—” he began, then stopped short, his gaze locked on Edmund. “Wait. Who’s this?”

  Before anyone could answer, more footsteps thundered in, this time from behind Edmund. His men had caught up at last. Marc’s expression hardened instantly. His head snapped toward the lookout. “Damn it! Jules!”

  Jules cursed under his breath and yanked something from inside his coat. A small wrapped object, no bigger than his fist. He hurled it at Edmund’s feet. It struck the stone and burst. Smoke billowed up in a thick, stinging cloud, swallowing the alley whole.

  “Move!” Damien shouted somewhere close, followed by a cough as the haze clawed at his throat.

  Shapes blurred. Footsteps scattered. Edmund forced himself forward through the smoke, eyes watering. Through the shifting gray he caught a glimpse, just a glimpse, of Noel turning back to the cornered man and striking him hard. The man crumpled at once, limp. Noel hauled him up, threw the man’s arm over his shoulder, and ran, vanishing into the fog with Jules and the older boy close behind.

  By the time the smoke began to thin, the alley was empty. Noel and his group had disappeared form sight. Edmund didn’t let the lingering smoke stop him. He plunged into it, half blind, lungs burning, boots scraping over loose wood and slick stone. He nearly went down once, caught himself on the wall, and kept running anyway.

  He stopped only for a heartbeat, forcing himself to listen. One rhythm stood out. Heavier, uneven, and burdened. Edmund sprinted again, following it. Noel couldn’t match his pace while hauling a limp man. A shadow broke through the thinning haze from behind him. Edmund surged, closed the gap in two strides, and tackled Noel. They hit the ground hard.

  Noel hissed, twisted, and backhanded Edmund across the face. The blow loosened Edmund’s grip just enough for Noel to wrench himself free, then slam back into him in return, trying to pin him.

  “Marc!” Noel snapped, straining as he fought to keep Edmund down. “Get him, quick!”

  At the far end of the alley, Marc didn’t hesitate. He hooked the unconscious man under the arms and started running, legs pumping as fast as he could manage with the extra weight.

  Jules stayed behind, hovering near the corner like a guard dog, one hand already in his coat, ready to throw another smoke bomb the second Edmund’s men appeared. Noel, meanwhile, had made one fatal assumption—that Edmund was just some well-dressed traveler with a stubborn streak.

  He didn’t know Edmund had wrestled monsters, real ones, more than once, things that could swallow a horse whole. So when Edmund braced, bucked his hips, and drove his boot into Noel’s midsection, the boy went flying off him with a startled grunt, skidding across the wet stone and nearly tumbling straight into Jules. The latter didn’t even think. He just reacted. His hand flashed into his coat and threw another bomb straight at Edmund. The prince caught it, and for a heartbeat, Jules’ face went blank, his mind couldn’t process what his eyes just saw.

  Edmund didn’t give him time to make another move. He snapped his arm back and hurled the bomb right back the way it came, faster than either boy could flinch. It struck the stones at their feet and burst. Smoke bloomed outward, sharp in the throat, swallowing Jules and Noel in a stinging grey cloud. Edmund didn’t slow, sprinting straight past them, using their own cover to vanish through the next turn.

  Ahead, Marc was still running, but the weight of the unconscious man made him clumsy, his breath ragged, his steps uneven. He tried to take shortcuts, vaulting crates and squeezing between stacked barrels. Edmund ate the distance between them, boots thudding over wood and stone, hands catching ledges for balance as he cut him off. He slammed his shoulder into Marc from behind and drove him into the ground. Marc crashed down with a sharp grunt, the unconscious man sprawling… again. Edmund’s stomach tightened.

  If he wasn’t dead before…

  Marc scrambled up first, fury twisting his features. He drew a knife and came at Edmund like a cornered animal. “Stop getting in the way!” he snarled.

  Edmund shifted back, letting the first strike whistle past. The second came quicker. Marc was faster than Noel, tighter with his movements, and the blade flashed close enough to bite. It sliced through Edmund’s coat with a harsh rip, missing his skin by a hair’s breadth, and that was enough.

  Edmund’s expression hardened. He stepped in rather than away. Marc lunged again, the knife tip angling for Edmund’s face. The prince sidestepped, caught Marc’s knife arm at the wrist, and wrenched him off balance. His elbow snapped up into Marc’s chin, clean and sharp, and Marc’s legs buckled. Before he could recover, Edmund hooked him and drove him into the stones. The knife skittered from Marc’s grip and clattered away into the grime.

  Not far behind, Damien’s men finally appeared. They dragged Noel and Jules along between them, both coughing smoke and hurling curses as they stumbled toward Edmund’s position. They hauled Marc upright and shoved him alongside the other two, pinning all three boys against the alley wall. One of the knights kept a forearm braced across Noel’s chest while another held Jules by the collar, just in case either of them got brave again.

  Gualter, meanwhile, knelt beside the man they’d been chasing. The poor man looked like he’d been used as a sack of grain. Dragged, dropped, hauled again. Gualter eased him upright and tipped a waterskin to his lips. “Slow,” he murmured. “Breathe.”

  Once the man could swallow without choking, Edmund turned back to the boys.

  “Why are you chasing him?” he demanded.

  “None of your business,” Jules snapped.

  “And why do you care so much?” Noel added, struggling against the knight’s hold.

  Edmund’s jaw tightened. “This place is suffering enough,” he said. “Why are you tearing through the streets and beating each other half to death instead of helping yourselves climb back up?”

  “We are trying to get back up and—” Noel started.

  “We don’t have to explain anything to you,” Marc cut in, voice steadier now that the worst of the pain had passed.

  Gualter rose slowly. “Then,” he said, calm as ever, “I suppose you leave us no choice.”

  Jules’ glare snapped to him. “And what are you gonna do?”

  “We’ll turn you over to the authorities,” Gualter said proudly. “All three of you.”

  The boys exchanged glances. They looked far more accustomed to threats of violence than the idea of being handed over to a jail. Marc swallowed, then forced his voice into something resembling control. “Give us a moment.”

  Damien hesitated, then nodded once. “A moment.”

  Bound and boxed in, the boys leaned close anyway, whispering urgently.

  “We can bribe the jailers,” Jules muttered, eyes darting.

  “It’ll slow us down,” Noel hissed back. “Then this guy would get away again.”

  “And that’ll be it for us if we don’t catch him in time,” Marc finished, grim.

  Whatever that meant, it made the decision for them. They straightened, faces tight with reluctant surrender, and looked at Edmund again.

  “Ready to talk?” Gualter asked.

  Noel exhaled. “Fine. He stole something… from us. Something valuable.”

  “Valuable?” Edmund repeated, watching their expressions. “What did he steal?”

  Marc nodded once. “A… family heirloom,” he said, the words chosen carefully. “From our parents. A seal.”

  Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “Why would he steal a family heirloom?”

  Jules’ gaze slid away. “It’s… an antique,” he said. “An old seal. Worth a lot. He was probably going to… sell it.”

  As they spoke, the battered man finally stirred. He blinked blearily at the faces around him: the soldiers, the prince, the three boys pinned to the opposite wall.

  “Wha—what’s going on?” he rasped. His gaze caught on Edmund, then on the prince’s companions. “Are you working for the Syn—?”

  The three boys snapped their eyes onto him at once, and it wasn’t anger. It was warning.

  Don’t say that word. Not here. Not in front of them.

  “You there,” Damien said, stepping forward. His tone made it clear this wasn’t a request. “These three claim you stole something from them. Is that true?”

  Gualter crouched so his face was level with the man’s. “We got our eyes stung and lungs burnt to save your jaw,” he added, voice flat. “So you’d better speak the truth, and only the truth.”

  Cornered and still half dazed from being dragged like a sack through the streets, he wilted.

  “Ye-yes,” he stammered. “It’s true.”

  Edmund moved closer, wanting to hear it himself. “You stole a family heirloom,” he said. “Why?”

  The man swallowed hard. “I—it’s… important,” he said, words trembling. “Somethin’ worth… a lot. P-please… that’s all I know.”

  Edmund’s stare didn’t soften. “Where is it now?”

  “In—” the man licked dry lips, wincing. “In our hiding place. We—we’re waitin’ for a buyer.”

  Something in Edmund’s shoulders loosened, the fight draining out of him all at once. He looked down for a moment, then turned to the boys held against the wall.

  “I’m… sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know.”

  Noel lifted his chin. “So you’ll let us go?”

  Edmund nodded. At his signal, the knights released them. The boys immediately fixed their sleeves and rolled their shoulders, reclaiming dignity like it mattered more than bruises. Without sparing Edmund another glance, they moved on the man. Marc grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him upright.

  “Now,” he said lowly, “you’re going to tell us where this hideout is.”

  Damien’s men began to drift back toward the street, assuming it was finished, but Edmund didn’t move. He watched the boys start to drag the man away.

  “Wait,” he called, stepping after them.

  The three stopped. Their heads turned in unison. “What now?” Noel demanded.

  Edmund hesitated for a bit, then forced the words out. “I—I want to help you get it back.”

  The boys exchanged another quick glance.

  Marc’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  Edmund’s gaze flicked down, then back up. “Because I know what it means,” he said carefully, “to have something left of your family. Something you can honor them with. And… because I got in your way. I owe you for that.”

  They didn’t answer right away. Marc lifted his chin slightly. “Give us a moment.”

  The three turned their backs on Edmund and leaned in close, whispering fast.

  “Should we take it?” Marc murmured.

  “He’s tough,” Noel muttered, rubbing his ribs as if the memory still hurt. “Kicked me like I weighed nothin’.”

  Marc grimaced. “He did worse to me.”

  “And he’s fast,” Jules added. “Threw my bomb back at me in a blink.”

  Marc’s jaw clenched. “What if he’s tricking us?”

  Noel hesitated, then shrugged. “He let us go. And he apologized. Doesn’t feel like a liar.”

  After another beat, they turned back. Marc studied Edmund for a long second, then gave a single, curt nod.

  “Fine,” he said. “We accept.”

  “Help us retrieve our seal.”