Chapter 1-2

Chapter 1. Meino Terren

I run through the forest. My lungs feel like they are tearing as I force my legs onward. More precisely, I am running while he follows on horseback, and even the horse cannot catch me. We are racing through the pinewoods beside the citadel. My hair lashes wildly against my back. It is pitch dark, the sky heavy with clouds. I am almost surprised they can follow me at all.

Tonight he will not learn who I am. I am resolved on that. He must never know, for either of our sakes. Let him follow. Let him hunt me.

I break out of the pines. I have a few minutes’ lead. Just enough.

At the edge of the cliff I can already feel the signs. It is about to happen. It never takes much. An arrow slices past my face. One of his men fires after me. I can feel it now. My back itches, my skin splitting open.

I sprint with everything I have and leap.

My clothes tear. My wings snap open into the air. The cold night wind licks along the membranes.

I am gone. They can no longer see me.

Below, the horse skids to a halt at the cliff’s edge. I hear him shout, “The mad one jumped.”

One of his captains shrugs as they turn back. Then Meino says quietly, “One less filthy hired killer.” He may even shake his head. “And all this for someone so small.”

***

The towers of the citadel reach into the sky. The citadel is the capital of the Nightward Kingdom. The palace stands as the pride of the land. It has seven towers and stands as the tallest structure in the entire kingdom, housing nearly a hundred thousand people, an architectural marvel, the crowning achievement of House Caelron. It was built over centuries before reaching its present, exalted form. King Romuald steps into the great hall. His lazy stride sends the long train of his cloak slapping against the marble floor. His breath reeks of alcohol, his eyes are clouded. They whisper that his days are numbered.

The full command of the royal guard is assembled before the vast arched windows. They stand so high above the ground that Commander Meino Terren, looking past the ranks of men, can see all the way down into the Sunward Kingdom. At least on clear days.

Romuald settles onto the throne with visible boredom. The entire council gathers around him. The Order of Priests stands in white robes with brown collars. The chamberlain of the crown playing with a couple of gold coins between his fingers. The Guild of Scholars occupies the right side of the long table, and among them sits Romuald’s daughter. The same thought weighs on all of their minds, if the king drinks himself to death, who will take the throne next?

Romuald lets his gaze drift to the opposite wall, where a fresco stretches nearly forty meters, depicting the world. His eyes linger on the Land of Night. Bad memories always return. He scratches his beard, then speaks.

“Well then, you ornamented monkeys. What is your assessment of the unrest in the Sunward Kingdom?”

Silence fills the hall.

His daughter shifts slightly, careful not to roll her eyes in her father’s presence. Hatred is written plainly across her face.

Romuald notices at once. “Would you care to say something, you beast?”

The girl keeps her gaze lowered. “No, Father.”

The king spits in front of a servant. “A complete waste of time, your whole existence.”

Romuald then turns toward Meino. Something like pride flickers immediately in his eyes.

“And you? Prince?” he asks with a mocking puff of laughter. “What do you report from the borderlands? Is it true that your father is arming against us?”

Meino lifts his chin and straightens. He is a tall man, and standing this rigidly makes him seem taller still. The black steel breastplate forged by master smiths and marked with the sigil of the Nightward Kingdom rises proudly on his chest. His shoulders draw tight. Ice settles in his gaze, but respect never leaves his voice.

“Your Majesty,” he says firmly. “I do not know what my father intends. I have not spent a single day with him since childhood.” He exhales deeply. “The borderlands do show increased activity. My brother will visit next month. I will speak with Hasso. He, too, is loyal to his own king. To our father. But, I will know then what to expect. I am the commander of the Nightward Kingdom’s royal host, a trust you did not grant without reason.”

Romuald laughs. “Do not worry, son. You may have arrived here as a simple hostage to preserve peace between our kingdoms, but I would trade that beastly creature for you in a heartbeat if I could.” He jerks his head toward his daughter.

Meino’s expression freezes. His brow tightens slightly. He glances at the girl. She looks back at him for only a second. Her face carries restrained pain and hatred. Meino hopes the look is not meant for him.

Whispering rises among the priests.

One of them, High Priest Zevin, asks for the floor. “My King.”

Romuald nods toward him with irritation.

Zevin continues. “According to the prophecy…”

The king cuts him off. “Spare me your idiotic prophecy today, old fool.”

The priests fall silent. The air in the hall turns cold. The king turns to the Guild of Scholars.

“Very well. You are my last hope to learn whether anyone in this miserable court is actually paying attention.”

The Grandmaster Neric rises. “Your Majesty, the princess and I have concluded through our measurements and research that the century-long night is approaching. The boundary of the Land of Night will descend onto the territory of the Nightward Kingdom.”

Romuald interrupts. “And what in hell did you calculate that from?”

The girl lifts her head. “From the rotation of our planet, the angle of its axis, the distance from our sun, the gravitational pull of the moons. The planetary dynamo fluctuates. Darkness is permanent in the Land of Night, but its borders move elliptically. This time it will not expand toward the ocean, but toward the Nightward Kingdom.”

The Grandmaster nods. “The girl speaks correctly.”

The king does not mock her further. He seems thoughtful. He hates his daughter, but he has never considered her half-witted. He wished for a son like Meino, once a long time ago, even if he being his cousin's son  imposes threat to Romuald's rule. But In reality Meino was robbed his crown prince title back in the Sunward Kingdom and in the Nightward lands he had no choice but to serve Romuald, first as a simple royal guard and then he quickly rose to command.

“That would explain the southern preparations,” he says.

Both the girl and the Grandmaster nod at once. “It is a possible reason. If the Land of Night descends upon the upper lands, it will bring the cold with it. The southern realms will not be spared shortages either, not as they will be met with heat and drought.”

The king looks out the window, worry settling into his features. “And the monstrosities will come with it. Bloodshed. Corpses. Screams. Fear. Unrest. The people will watch as the border creeps lower and lower. The south will wait patiently and prepared, while the things devour us.”

Meino looks at the king. “Your Majesty, we will prepare. I will not allow this to happen. We will face the beast. I will slaughter them.” For a brief moment, his gaze flicks to the girl, his eyelashes flutter, but his voice remains resolute. “You will not be harmed.”

He is resolute and confident. This is the least one expects from a commander of the Royal Host.

But the king just laughs. “You are too young, and you have no idea what you are taking on.”

I would know, Romuald thinks. He himself once entered the Land of Night when he was young and burning, just as Meino is now. He knows that against what rules there, a man has no chance.

***

The great hall slowly empties. The king wishes to speak with me. I give my men their orders, then close the doors behind them so I can hear what he wants of me. I kneel before him. I do not know what to expect, still I lower my head and listen. He will almost certainly provoke me, but what choice do I have? He is the king I swore myself to. The king for whom I risk my life. And, unfortunately, Helmi’s father.

I clench my teeth and listen.

“Well then, my son.” Romuald rises from the throne. “Do not kneel there before me. You should know that when we are alone, there is no need for such things.”

He hauls me up from the floor and gestures toward the table.

“Come. Let us drink some good southern wine.”

I hate favoritism. I hate that he dotes on me. It makes no difference. I obey.

“Tell me, Meino. What do we know about the assassins?” He fusses nervously with his cloak as he tries to sit across from me. A bottle of expensive wine is already in his hand. I see the tremor in his fingers. I think how ridiculous the old fool looks, but if he gets killed, that disgrace will be mine.

“Your Majesty, last night we drove one toward the cliffs.” I keep my eyes lowered, gathering my thoughts. I do not want to tell him that there are more of them now, and that they are growing bolder. “Nearly every week we manage to capture one or two from Valmor’s ranks. Their mark is tattooed on their bodies. A severed hand, with the index and little finger left intact.”

I swallow and glance up at the long map covering the wall, the one the king seems unable to stop staring at. “My men move through every tavern, every brothel, every gathering place, every guild. Down to the soldiers themselves. The people cannot conspire against you anywhere we do not already see.”

The king slams his hand against the table. Wine splashes from his goblet. “Then why are there two new Valmor members to catch every week?” He stares straight into my eyes. “Meino, tell me I am wrong to think you are your father’s son.”

However he means it, he should be careful. I do not care if he calls me a coward, which I am not, but even if my father was a coward when he allowed his firstborn to be taken as the price of peace, still he is a king. I only hope he does not drag Helmi into this.

Today I have no patience left to keep burying everything as usual, or to wait for Romuald to die of his own accord.

“Meino, there is a matter I want you to look into. Lord Draeth’s son has gone missing in the forest above Northreach Hall. Noem. We must show our respect to Yoric. You will arrive there with a hundred men and turn every stone for the boy. When the Night takes over, Draeth will be the first to bleed. Keep him at ease for now.”

He says it as though he were describing an ordinary evening at the local tavern. “We will keep this to ourselves for the moment. There is no need to trouble the lords further.”

“Yes, my king.” I nod, turn, and leave.

***

I leave the great hall behind. I let the old brute drink alone, as he deserves. As I reach the turn of the staircase and prepare to return to patrol with my men, I catch sight of Helmi sitting on one of the window ledges.

Sunlight flashes again and again in her curly locks. I am not a man of poetry, but if I were, I would write a verse for this. When she shifts, the line of her hips presses against the stone, unguarded, familiar enough to tighten my chest. She looks at me, and my stomach draws inward. I am defenseless.

“Meino, Commander Terren,” she says gently. A small smile rests at the corner of her mouth.

“Your Grace.”

She hesitates, avoids my eyes. Then she looks up at me after all. “Why don’t you call me Helmi anymore?” She smooths her dress as she stands. She comes up to my chin, perhaps a little less. “When they brought you here from the south and you had no one else to turn to, I was just Helmi. Not ‘Your Grace.’”

She disarms me. “Because I became commander of the crown host years ago,” I say, forcing my voice to soften. She deserves no less. “It would be disrespectful.”

“Disrespectful,” she repeats, faintly sardonic. “I think I’ve endured greater disrespect today already.” She glances toward the great hall, her face darkens. I want to promise her he will never humiliate her here again, but I cannot even do that.

“Helmi,” I just say. 

“I only wanted to know what you think lies behind the Valmor activity.” Her voice tightens, I doubt she worries for Romuald.

“Your Grace, I can’t speak of official matters. You know that. I can promise only this. As long as I live, I will hunt down and hang everyone who threatens your family.” I mean it. Even if the Valmor is a hundred-year-old assassins’ covenant working in the shadows, it makes no difference.

“Are you looking forward to Hasso’s arrival?” she asks suddenly.

“Of course. My youngest brother is the only family I was allowed to keep contact with. A guardsman. Not an heir. No threat to anyone.”

“No, of course. That’s not what I meant. I can’t wait to see him. I’m looking forward to his visit. The court always feels different when we host someone from abroad.”

I think it’s not the mood that improves, only her father’s behavior. He plays his part better. I keep this to myself. What unsettles me is that she is waiting for my brother. I wonder why. Perhaps he once courted her. A bitter taste rises in my mouth, and my gaze involuntarily traces the familiar shape of her body before I can stop myself.

“Thank you, Commander. That was all.”

She turns and walks down the corridor in the opposite direction.

I remain where I am, my feet rooted to the floor, alone. Only the fading rhythm of her steps are holding me in the present.

***

I meet my men by the barracks. They’re loud, mouths running, laughing, spitting, talking about whores. Nothing out of the ordinary. One of them, Tófi, a bannerman, was up there with me in the great hall earlier. Now he opens his mouth.

“Hey, Meino, you think the beast might actually be right?”

My pulse jumps instantly. I could strangle Tófi where he stands. My hand moves before my mind catches up. Tófi crashes into the tool chests and folds over, wheezing like a kicked dog.

“Commander, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“If you ever call the princess beast again, you’ll be swinging in the square.” I lean over him. “That’s treason. And I don’t give a shit who you are, remember that.”

Tófi is my friend. He’s also lazy, stupid, and today I have no patience for him. Calling Helmi names is treason. I catch myself wondering whether it is treason when it comes from the king’s mouth. My fist starts itching again.

Tófi drags himself up, humiliated, and slinks off. I don’t give a single damn.

One of the younger guardsmen turns toward me, eyes wide. Solvi Valemont. Fresh out of the academy across the sea. Noble-born. Soft. Not brave. A bit fat around the middle.

“Commander, what if the princess is right? What if the hundred-year's night really comes down on us, and the things from the cold lands come to bleed us dry?”

I sigh. “The princess is smarter than every man standing here put together. The scholars took her in because she was sharp, bright, working tirelessly. Her calculations are right, still you must calm down. We outnumber the beasts. They only move as far as the dark lets them. There’s never been a time when the entire Nightward Kingdom drowned in darkness.”

I don’t know how else to calm him without lying. The night’s border is far now, but if the darkness holds long enough, they’ll crawl south eventually. They start to march every single night around the Northreach Hall the Draeths keep. Farther north, we find their corpses come morning.

“But, Commander, why don’t they come every night?”

I laugh. The kid still believes the bedtime shit mothers and wet nurses whisper to scare children into sleeping. Harpies, beasts, winged men coming from the north if you don’t close your eyes.

“Solvi, the nightborder is hundreds of miles away. They’d never make it here before sunrise.”

“But Commander, why do they die when the morning comes?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I turn away, not knowing any of it either. “Grab your gear. We’re going on patrol.”

“Everything is more beautiful in the South, Solvi. One day I’ll show you,” Aethan says, my only countryman, the son of House Irvain. They sent him north as well, just like me, though the reason for his exile is wrapped in far deeper shadow. Aethan is not a king’s son. I’ve often wondered what he must have done to end up here.

“You won’t be showing anything! We’re never going back home,” I tell him. Besides, everything binds me here.

Chapter 2. Helmi Caelron

I dreamed last night.

The tower returns to me again and again. The Academy of Scholars. The place where I spent most of my childhood. Where they locked me away. Where my father tried to be rid of me.

Last night I was there once more, seated in the tower's highest chamber, the great ancient books spread open before me. Volumes from the old world. The ones whose script has never yielded its meaning. The air was thick with dust and silence. Relics crowded the room, unfamiliar shapes pressing in from every side. Objects left behind by the ancestors. Those who, according to old belief, came down from the heavens in cloud-ships. At least that is what the people say. Some of the writings say it too, though none of them agree.

Technologies we barely understand. They haunt our scholars, invite obsession. Keeping hope alive, that we too may be capable of rising above when the night comes. My father forbids them, as his father did before him. They say the previous civilization collapsed because of these relics. They say the things far to the north, in the Land of Night, are remnants of those. Echoes that never died.

I do not know if any of that is true, I only want to understand. It is terrible to be unwelcome in every world. 

I wake and push myself upright. The night has been long. I draw another mark in my hidden notes. Another tally, another name in history. No one must ever see this list. I slide it back into its hiding place behind the concealed door in my quarters.

From the window, I watch the guard assembling below. Morning briefing is already underway. Soon they will train. Fists. Blades. Greatswords. Bows. I look for signs of exhaustion in Meino and find none. He stands straight-backed, the light catching in his ebony-black hair as it falls into his eyes; he brushes it back behind his ear. With the same unshakable resolve as always, he sets his men in motion.

And yet he chased me last night until his breath nearly failed him.

***

My father sends me to the priests today, I am to listen to the prophecy once more. He doesn’t believe in it, yet he fears it, a superstitious man.

I swear this, too, is a punishment. I have no power over anything, yet I am the one made to endure the priests and their nonsense.

My father is too lazy and too vain to wrest meaning from prophecies or research himself. It has become my fate, alongside Lord Neric, to steer my half-witted father toward something resembling reason. Neric does not come with me today. The priests make his skin crawl as well. I cannot blame him. He is the grandmaster of the guild, an entirely different species.

I wonder, briefly, whether Meino would have come with me. I force the thought out of my head at once. Stupid sentiment. He does not know who I really am. He knows nothing at all and it is better this way.

My carriage turns slowly into the courtyard of the priests’ enclosure. I already see them scurrying about, busy with their holy relics. I laugh to myself. They mean to keep me in line with a pile of mismatched, worn-out objects.

Still, the prophecy matters.

We do not know who left it behind. It was sealed into a cave, walled into the rock at the northernmost point of the Nightward Kingdom, on Draeth’s land. Nobody knows why it was placed there, or who it was meant to speak to.

Scrolls written strangely, in a language unlike any other. These we have deciphered. We also know they were not written by human hands. The prophecy warns against the creatures. Against meeting them. Against listening to them.

Not without reason.

I am given a special reception. Zevin himself comes down to escort me into the chamber of sanctities. I grow suspicious at once. I wonder what they intend to do with me.

They would be wise to intend nothing at all. We are far from the city. Far from the citadel. The wind would carry their screams across the open distances. No one is close enough to help them if they are foolish enough to try.

“Your Highness,” Zevin says, bowing his head with measured precision.

I return the gesture. Past rulers held the priests of Solaris in far greater regard. Solaris is the religion of the sun god. Yet we stand in the Nightward lands, where our people despise the southerners, the people of the Sunward Kingdom, whose capital is Solaris City. An ironic symmetry, given their gods preach pleasure and abundance. Commander Terren is southern. There is no greater glory here than rising despite that. The thought flickers through my mind and fades.   

I understand why the priests hate House Caelron for what it has become. Heretics, by my father’s hand and mine.

***

“Father Zevin,” I say as I take my seat at the round table. I glance around the chamber. “Father Zevin, my time is limited. The citadel is hours away even by carriage. May I begin interpreting the prophecy myself?”

I cut him off deliberately. He has already started probing my origins, my blood, my supposed impurity, as if there is anything I could do with that information. Thanks to my father’s behaviour, the entire court looks down on me. Every order, every guild treats me differently. Not as a princess. Not as an heir. But as something that works in secret, under the cover of night. A thing meant to carry on my mother’s legacy. A mother that never was.

Fortunately, they believe my monstrosity is an exaggeration. One day, what must come will, and I will no longer be able to hide what lives beneath the human mask.

“My child…” Zevin clears his throat. His eyes crawl over me, measuring my body. Filthy old man. “Begin reading the prophecy. We will assist with the interpretation.”

“Father, I would prefer to read through it quickly on my own, perhaps note the key points, so I can continue working on it once I return to the Guild of Scholars.”

Murmurs of offense ripple around me. Me? Interpreting it alone?

I can hardly believe that a scroll none of our ancestors can be credited with would somehow be clearer to this superstitious, decaying order than it is to me. I lower my head. What choice do I have?

Still, I have ideas about what I should do with them.

“My child, you need not trouble yourself with such thoughts. Let me guide you.” Zevin says.

“So speaks the sacred text,” he begins. “If the son of man goes north, the horizon shall darken before him. When he reaches the line that divides night from day, the son of man becomes a son of death.”

That part checks out, I think.

“As he walks within the night, he shall hear sounds. Not human, not animal. In that moment, the son of man shall feel an unnatural calm, his mind stilled by it. If this comes upon him, he must know he will never again leave the realm of darkness. The son of man shall follow the song. Hungry eyes will watch him from the shadows.”

Zevin looks at me, checking whether I am following along. He is only wasting time.

“When the son of man reaches the source of the sound, he shall not find a beautiful woman, but a scaled thing. Green, marbled scales. Clawed fingers. A mouth full of sharp fangs.”

Here I can already tell the author embellished things a little. I know nothing of fangs. Still, I listen calmly.

“Against his will, the son of man shall cast himself upon the beast, and she shall spill his blood and draw the flesh from his bones.”

Zevin stares at me sternly. For a moment I almost feel like baring imaginary fangs at him, just to make him feel validated.

“But if the destined son of man crosses the boundary of the eternal night,” he continues.

Oh yes. This part. My favorite.

“Then the encounter shall end not in bloodshed, but in desecration.”

Zevin looks at me again, as if my very existence were filth.

“From this desecration, a child shall be born. A twisted offspring, half son of man, half fruit of the abomination. This child shall bring the northern lands to ruin. The lands shall fall to the Kingdom of the Sun, and their ruler shall flee into exile, never to return.”

I find it astonishing that this part is left so vague. Completely meaningless. What does the child have to do with the so-called Kingdom of the Sun? It doesn’t even exist.

It is possible this is not prophecy at all, but a historical record misread by our age. It is possible I was not the first twisted. Possible that my father was not the only man to cross the boundary and return.

None of that matters to the Order of Solaris. They wait for their Sun God alone, who casts light upon the darkened lands. In their blindness, they have decided I am the child written about. That I am destined to ruin my father’s kingdom. It does not matter to them that the text could refer to something else entirely. Besides I want nothing more than to be left alone, live and love freely. 

Zevin fixes me with a hard stare. “Do you understand, child?”

“I am not convinced, Father, that this text is predictive. We cannot know that it is not a historical account.”

The priests snort in outrage. They find my reasoning inflammatory. I find it inflammatory that I am still here. The signs are already sense, it’s time I have to get out.

I feign offense, though in truth I find them ridiculous.

I rush down the spiral staircase, throw myself into my carriage, slam the door shut, and pull the black curtains closed. The horses lunge into motion. Distance opens behind us. We are halfway gone.

Then I lose control.

I groan. The carriage is suffocatingly small. The driver asks desperately whether I am all right inside. The wings cannot fully unfold. The claws tear into the wooden walls. My clothes split apart.

This day cannot end well.

There is no way to explain what is happening to me and there is a witness.

The driver will have to die.

Every part of me resists it. It does not matter.

***

I buried the driver as best I could. The horses were terrified of me. I let them loose.

I stand in a clearing, clothes torn, blood up to my neck, mud clinging to my skin. In the distance I can see the citadel. I know there is no chance of explaining this.

The court will think I was raped.

I never truly considered that one day I might be asked to marry. Now I never will be. I am considered damaged goods, though no man has ever touched me.

Perhaps that is for the best. No one is safe around me.

My father will know what happened. He will know that no one can take me against my will. And still, he might allow them to brand me. I know him as well as my own hand. He may even be relieved that he no longer has to deal with me in public. Perhaps he will send me to a convent.

If he dares.

I don’t believe he will risk it. He never wanted it known what the name he gave me truly means. It is shame enough for him that he returned from the north with an illegitimate child.

I know he does not hate me, he hates himself. I let out a small laugh. I don’t know why, but I want to believe that.

As I walk through mud and grass, clutching my long black dress to keep it from the ground, my thoughts keep returning to Meino. I know it shouldn’t matter. I know it is the last thing that should concern me.

I know he will be furious. He will want to find whoever did this to me. But I fear he will not be able to look at me again. It already unsettled me the way he looked at me with those wide, searching eyes. And yet, when I imagine him never looking at me again, my chest tightens.

He will launch a manhunt. Never knowing that he is hunting me.

As always.

***

If I thought walking back through the villages in torn clothes, filthy and exposed, had been humiliating, then standing here beneath the citadel gate, towering above me and from this angle almost touching the sky, makes it clear that it was only the beginning.

The guards refuse to let me in. They talk over each other, nonsense spilling out of them. They don’t recognize me. No surprise. I have never entered this place on foot before, not without disguise. And even in disguise I would never come through the main gate, I am not insane.

I clench my teeth and accept that they will summon the commander of the royal guard, because I am not leaving. I am grateful they did not try to lay hands on me. If I had to transform again today, something would break in me.

Meino emerges from behind the gate on horseback. Impeccable, armor gleaming. His posture speaks volumes of his royal origins, the way he carries himself commands respect. His dark almond eyes are always cold and measured. Always, except when they are on me. He lifts his head, and his men look up at him. I stand there like a worn-out whore.

Then something happens that has never happened before. The moment he recognizes me, he throws himself from the saddle like a madman and runs toward me. I almost recoil.

He shouts, “You idiots. Why didn’t you let Her Grace through?”

The green fools posted there scatter at once.

Meino stops in front of me, towering. His eyes are wild as his hands close around my arms and he looks me over in a single, assessing sweep. He sees how I’m clutching my dress together, sees the blood, though he has no way of knowing whose it is. I came through the rain. I’m filthy. My hair is ruined. I have never felt more like the thing my father always said I was.

Shame closes in.

“Helmi. What happened to you? Gods above.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He lifts me into his arms and strides through the gate, up the steps. I can’t believe he can carry me that high. I don’t want to be a burden.

Again.

“Meino, put me down. I can walk. I’m fine. Nothing happened.”

“I don’t think you understand what’s happened to you. You’re in shock.” He keeps saying it. His forehead is slick with sweat, his breathing heavy, and still he doesn’t let go.

At the top I finally wrench myself free. My dress nearly comes apart in my hands. He rips the cloak from his shoulders, the insignia cloak of the Guard, and wraps it around me. He handles me like a child. Like something fragile but this is not who I am.

My chest tightens seeing what I have done to him. 

My father appears. The guards have already passed the word.

They lock me into the great hall. Meino sends for Neric to examine me. I refuse immediately.

“Your Grace, who did this to you? What did he look like? I will mobilize the guard at once. We won’t stop until we find him. I’ll execute him in the square with my own hands.”

My father stands behind him, rolling his eyes. A bastard, but a perceptive one. That’s why he favors Meino, he recognizes decency. Still, he hates that Meino cares about me.

“My son” he corrects himself quickly. “Commander. Leave us. I will take charge from here.”

Meino hesitates. I see how hard it is for him to agree. He doesn’t tolerate helplessness. I understand the feeling. He doesn’t want to go, but he has no choice. He bows, looks back at me. Just looks, trying to make sense of what he sees. Then he turns and storms out.

“So,” my father says. “Who died?”

“The driver.” I say calmly. 

He scoffs, offended. “I knew that man. I liked him, actually.” Then he shrugs.

“And now what am I supposed to do with you?” He looks at me as if he might strike me. Neric could enter at any moment. He doesn’t want to risk more blood. He doesn’t know Neric like I do.

My father is not afraid of me. Despite everything I have tried, I cannot harm him. He has forced my transformation countless times, and still I cannot touch him. Each time I lunge, each time I let the song rise, it does nothing. It is as though a shield surrounds him. I cannot reach him.

I do not believe in magic. And yet I am living proof that some curse or spell exists.

“Father. I know what you’re thinking”

“Shut your mouth.” He says without thinking.

My breathing quickens. I feel the signs again. My father stiffens.

“Hush, my daughter. Shh. I take it back. Calm yourself. Neric must not see this. Please, calm down.”

If only he knew how many times Neric already has.

***

That evening, after Neric tells the court that he examined me and that I was not dishonored, only beaten and nearly killed, and that by some miracle I survived, I lie in my bed and wait.

I think, almost with disbelief, about the kind of fool who would accept such a story. And yet they will. Neric is the Grandmaster. They believe he can determine what was taken from a woman and what was not. Or perhaps they will decide my father protected my honor and compelled him to lie. That is an easier story to swallow.

None of it matters.

I rise slowly from the bed. I wait until the lights go out in the royal quarters, one by one, until the corridors fall into shadow. Midnight passes. The citadel exhales.

I dress in the Valmor uniform. Leather trousers. Leather jacket. Gloves. Light armor that does not catch the light. I braid my hair tight and tuck it away, hide it inside the clothes then lower the helmet over my head.

I look into the mirror.

For a moment, I almost believe I am gone.

I step onto the ledge and begin to climb down. Stone is cold beneath my hands. The drop waits patiently below. No one sees me. No one hears me. No one knows I am already moving.

Tonight matters.

Plans must be made. Threads aligned. I need certainty that when Hasso arrives, he will not be harmed. This is where politics truly lives, behind courts and banners, in silence and darkness.

We decide which noble house keeps its heir.

And which one does not.

I have always watched over House Terren. Not only because war between us would be unforgivable, but because I believe they are more deserving of rule. And that belief alone makes me my own enemy as an heir, and an enemy of my father’s crown.

Perhaps one day.