Half a day ago.

  Winter had begun to settle over the barony.

  Lucon sat at a corner table, half-lit by lanternlight and shadowed by the low-slung rafters. The scent of roasted meat and the lingering steam of stews filled the room. Around him, patrons in cloaks and wool tunics laughed over their mugs, enjoying the shift from the brisk night air. Everything looked normal.

  It wasn’t.

  Across from him, Hilda was devouring a plate of pastries with alarming efficiency.

  Crumbs dusted her fingers. Jam stained the corner of her mouth. She looked blissfully unconcerned with the world.

  Lucon’s eyes, however, kept flicking toward the darker corners of the tavern.

  Every time someone stood up.

  Every time a chair scraped.

  Every time the door opened.

  Are you watching me even now, Aunt Genevieve…? he wondered grimly.

  Hilda popped the last pastry into her mouth. “Mmm. You’re not eating.”

  “I am,” Lucon said automatically, pushing a piece of bread into his mouth.

  He swallowed too fast.

  Didn’t taste it.

  He pushed the plate away. “We should go.”

  Hilda blinked. “But I was going to order more pastries—”

  “You can bring them,” he said.

  She brightened instantly. “Oh! Excellent.”

  They stepped out into the cool night air, the noise of the tavern fading behind them. Their carriage waited down the street, lanterns glowing faintly.

  Hilda glanced at him sideways as she munched. “You’ve been twitchy.”

  Lucon forced a thin smile. “Just tired. From the change in weather.”

  It was a weak lie, and he knew it. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not here. Not when he knew some Hidden God follower might be listening.

  As they passed the small public square with its fountain, Lucon’s gaze caught on a familiar, slumped figure. Peytr sat alone on a stone bench, his spectacles sliding down his nose, a stack of ledgers beside him. He wasn’t reading. He was just staring at the cobblestones, his face pale.

  “Peytr?” Lucon called.

  Peytr flinched.

  Then he looked up, eyes darting around the street—left, right, behind them—before forcing a smile.

  “Oh. Young Lord. Hilda.”

  “You look awful,” Hilda said bluntly.

  “Thank you,” Peytr muttered.

  Lucon approached. “Are you—”

  “Yes. Quite.” Peytr’s smile was a brittle, twitching thing. He stood but his eyes that were meeting Lucon’s signaled down at the bench. “If you’ll excuse me. Urgent matters. At the treasury.”

  Then, without another word, he hugged his stack of ledgers and hurried away.

  Hilda frowned. “Peytr has been acting strange lately…”

  Lucon saw a folded parchment that had been underneath the ledgers—what Peytr had signaled to. He unfolded it.

  A short message read, “I’ve been caught. I’m being audited.”

  His blood turned to ice.

  Warren must’ve caught Peytr switching things around in the ledgers.

  “Lucon?” Hilda said. “What does it say?”

  He shoved it quickly into his pocket.

  His heart was hammering.

  How much did they know? How serious was this? Was he about to be disowned?

  His thoughts spun uselessly before latching onto one name. Georgi. Not for the numbers, but for sanctuary. For a place to think, for the presence of someone who, despite his vows, was still a friend.

  “We’re going to the house temple,” he said.

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  They leapt into their carriage and the driver was given the instruction to ride like the wind.

  The temple lights were low, incense drifting through the air, candles flickering along the walls.

  Georgi stood near the altar.

  Lucon rushed to him.

  “I need your help,” he said.

  Georgi looked at him.

  And said nothing.

  “I’m serious,” Lucon pressed. “Things is moving fast. Peytr is…in trouble. I need some advice—”

  “I will not be part of this,” Georgi said quietly.

  Lucon stared. “What?”

  “I took a vow,” Georgi said. “And you keep trying to make me break it.” He grimaced. “Not to mention all the secrecy. I can’t be party to it.”

  “I need you,” Lucon retorted.

  Georgi’s jaw tightened.

  Silence.

  Lucon glanced around, frustrated—and saw a book resting on one of the pews.

  “Gareth True-Heart: The Hero with the Truest Heart.”

  His hand moved before his mind caught up.

  He snatched it.

  Lucon then scoffed, “I’m taking this. You’re too old for fairy tales anyways.”

  Georgi moved.

  Lucon flinched.

  For a moment, Lucon thought the monk was going to lunge.

  Then Georgi closed his eyes.

  And stayed where he was, remaining the monk who followed his vow.

  Lucon huffed at him but Georgi remained composed.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  He finally threw up his hands, turned and left.

  Hilda followed.

  As they passed through the corridors, she glanced at the book tucked under his arm.

  “I don’t like that story,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

  Lucon barely heard her, feeling embarrassed by his childish outburst in the temple, promising he’d give Georgi back his book later.

  They passed the window looking over the training yard but had to stop.

  Kaeson stood in the center, arms stiff at his sides.

  Captain Mavor loomed over him, voice furious.

  “...unacceptable, Lieutenant!” Mavor’s voice rang out. “A guard’s duty is reliability. Consistency. Your absences are noted. Your excuses are thin. This is not the conduct of an officer of the Edelyn elite guard. The only course is discipline. I will grind you down until you’re dust. Dust!”

  Kaeson’s face was a stoic mask, but Lucon, even without the Flow, could see the trapped tension in his jaw.

  Under Captain Mavor’s unblinking gaze, Lieutenant Kaeson was made to run. His boots thudded across the packed dirt, his breath blooming white in the sharp air. Then came the stones—heavy, rough-hewn blocks. He lifted and carried until his body trembled. There were no complaints or stopping, but it was clear he would drop soon.

  Mercifully, Mavor ended it.

  “It’ll be worse,” Mavor snarled. “If you don’t shape up soon, Lieutenant.”

  Kaeson didn’t respond.

  He simply bowed stiffly and staggered toward the manor.

  Lucon and Hilda were waiting just inside.

  Kaeson didn’t greet them.

  Didn’t bow.

  Didn’t even slow.

  He walked up to Lucon, leaned close, and rasped:

  “Banner Fall.”

  Lucon went rigid.

  Banner Fall meant one thing: I want to quit.

  “What?” he whispered. “Why?”

  Kaeson’s eyes were hollow. “I didn’t sign up to be a slave driver.”

  Lucon frowned, confused, until Kaeson leaned closer, voice barely audible.

  “The barbarian bought slaves to mine the crystals. I’m not overseeing that. I won’t.”

  Lucon’s face drained of color. Skhav bought slaves?

  He slapped a hand over Kaeson’s mouth instantly, heartbeat loud in his ears. His eyes darted to the corners of the hall, to the pillars, to the high rafters.

  To the shadows.

  “Don’t,” he whispered harshly. “Don’t say anything else.”

  Kaeson stared at him, incredulous.

  Lucon lowered his voice even further. “I’ll handle it.”

  Kaeson searched his face. “How?”

  Lucon had no answer.

  He couldn’t go to the Wilderwood.

  Not with eyes on him.

  Not like this.

  “Tell the man I said to stop everything,” he said weakly.

  Kaeson shook his head. “We’ve been over this. He won’t listen to anyone but you. Not through a message. In person.”

  Lucon knew they had spoken too long.

  “I will go meet him then,” he said. “Just…give me time.”

  Kaeson exhaled slowly, jaw tight.

  “…Fine.”

  A guard hurried down the hall, stopping before them. He bowed—to Lucon first, as protocol demanded, then saluted Kaeson.

  He said, “Lieutenant, a wagon of Mana Crystals has just been brought in. The individual hauling it was…suspicious.”

  Lucon and Kaeson exchanged a look.

  “Show us,” Lucon said.

  They followed the guard outside.

  A covered wagon stood near the outer gates.

  And beside it—

  One of the Fanatical Chimera mercenaries.

  The man’s face was grim, a jagged scar cleaving one side from brow to jaw. The moment he saw Lucon, his expression shifted.

  The message in his gaze was unmistakable: Get me out of here.

  Kaeson looked to Lucon, his expression asking the silent question: What now?

  Lucon swallowed.

  “I’ll handle this too,” he said.

  He had no idea how.

  He didn’t know why, but he turned and ran.

  Hilda ran after him without question.

  They skidded to a halt in the plush-carpeted hallway just as a familiar, portly figure was raising a hand to open the heavy oak door of Auric’s study.

  Niles Visciro paused, turning. When he saw them, his face lit up with a smile that didn’t touch his calculating eyes.

  “Ah,” Niles said pleasantly. “Young Lord.”

  Lucon’s breath came out shallow. “What are you doing here?”

  Niles tilted his head. “I’m just here to see your father. It’s been hard to keep up with his intelligent son and his schemes. Truly, you are a worthy opponent.”

  Schemes?

  Then it hit Lucon.

  This—this was what Niles had been telling his father.

  That Lucon was still a mastermind.

  Still pulling strings.

  Still dangerous.

  But he wasn’t.

  Ambrosia Lucon was gone.

  Simple Lucon was…floundering.

  “When this ledger forgery business with your friend Peytr concludes,” Nile taunted. “I’m sure it’ll reveal more of your brilliance—possibly a crime, sure—but the cunning part will no doubt impress everyone.”

  Niles opened the door and entered, closing it behind him, still smiling at them.

  Lucon made it a point to look into his father’s study when the door opened.

  Still no Genevieve.

  The absence gnawed at him.

  Before he could dwell on it, soft footsteps approached. A servant bowed deeply.

  “Young Lord,” she said, “Lady Klara of House Serbal has arrived. She wishes to meet with you.”

  Lucon paused. Klara? Here? Now?

  “…What?”

  The words barely processed.

  Hilda immediately frowned, crossing her arms with a huff. “What could she possibly want with Master? Her letter said she was done with him!”

  Lucon shared the sentiment, but confusion overrode it. “I…should see her.”

  The main hall shimmered with afternoon light pouring through the tall arched windows. Servants lingered near the edges, pretending not to stare.

  Klara stood in the center.

  She was as extravagant as ever.

  Her silver-gray hair had returned to its usual color, cascading down her back. Her pale eyes were clear and luminous, beautiful in a way that made people stop. She wore her warfaring acolyte garb—tight, form-fitting, designed for movement.

  His favorite.

  But she looked… hollow.

  She turned and saw him, and before he could offer a greeting, she was crossing the marble floor, her steps too quick, almost desperate.

  “Lucon,” she said, her voice tight. “What you said in the garden that night…were you serious?”

  The question caught him completely off guard.

  “Serious about what?”

  “About helping me,” she said. “You said you would help me grow stronger. You promised.”

  He had.

  But he had no idea why.

  Ambrosia Lucon’s plans—those meticulous, cold, brilliant strategies—had left no explanation for this promise.

  Lucon’s silence stretched a second too long.

  He saw the hope—fragile, foolish hope—die in her eyes. Her shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. For all the years he’d known her, the proud, unyielding Red Storm, he had never seen her look so fragile. It was like watching a statue of the Merciful Goddess crack.

  The moment was broken by the sound of the main doors opening. A haggard-looking Peytr stepped through, his spectacles askew, his face the color of old parchment.

  He saw Lucon.

  And walked straight to him.

  “I’ve been summoned,” Peytr said quietly. “Lord Auric has called for me.”

  The meaning was clear.

  Trial.

  Judgment.

  Peytr glanced toward the shadows along the walls, then back to Lucon.

  “I need help, Prince,” he said, forcing the words out. “I’m in serious trouble.”

  Lucon stared at him.

  Then at Klara.

  Then at the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  They both stiffened.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  He then turned and walked away, leaving them standing in the grand hall. Hilda fell into step behind him, a silent, worried shadow.

  He stopped by a tall window overlooking the gardens.

  “I wish it were raining,” he murmured, the old, childish impulse surfacing through the numbness.

  Hilda’s voice was small behind him. “But I don’t like when you stand in the rain.”

  Lucon turned to look at her. Right. She’s been with me for so long. She even knows how I handle problems.

  He nodded faintly. “Fetch me some alcohol.”

  She stiffened.

  Then bowed.

  “…Yes, master.”

  Back in his room, Lucon tossed Georgi’s book onto the table.

  “Gareth True-Heart: The Hero with the Truest Heart”

  He flipped through it aimlessly.

  Then snorted.

  “Gareth was not this perfect,” he muttered.

  He remembered a laughing, cocky youth teaching him about the pleasures of women, the warmth of good brandy, the hazy escape of Tanper Leaf. The book’s saintly portrayal was a joke.

  It was actually Gareth who introduced him to the wastrel’s lifestyle, and Lucon was still a boy at the time.

  As he turned another page, the same illustration from before that had caught his eye.

  Gareth’s entire party.

  He scanned the smiling faces, many of them he met before, those who visited to thank the Merchant Hero for his generous funds and gifts of expensive weapons and armor.

  An unfamiliar face stopped him—the same one that gave him pause before. A girl seemingly far too young to be in the Hero’s party, wielding a mage’s staff, her smile the brightest among them.

  Ambrosia Lucon’s voice echoed in his mind.

  “These eyes… I’ve seen them before.”

  Lucon shot to his feet, his chair clattering backward onto the floor. He snatched up the book, a frantic pulse racing through his veins.

  His finger traced the caption beneath the illustration.

  Brunhilde, the Star-Eater.

  The name was legend. A prodigy who had joined Gareth’s party. Rumors started to circulate at the time of Brunhilde, still sixteen, being a mage of extraordinary promise, destined to become an Archmage before forty. Some whispered she was more worthy of the title of Named Hero than Gareth himself.

  Lucon’s mind reeled. When Hilda first came to him, her face…it had been different. His memory was hazy but he remembered it slowly, subtly changed over the years, as if shaped by a careful, unseen hand.

  The change wasn’t by magic. The Flow would have unveiled it the moment Lucon became aware of it.

  But the eyes…the eyes had always been the same.

  The door opened.

  Lucon reacted too strongly, tossing the book off to the side.

  Hilda entered with the bottle.

  She blinked. “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Lucon said too quickly.

  She saw the fallen chair. “Is everything alright?”

  He nodded, a stiff, jerky motion.

  Lucon was seeing her now—truly seeing her. Not Hilda the maid, but Brunhilde the Star-Eater, one of the most terrifyingly gifted mages in living memory.

  Why? Why was she here?

  She set the alcohol down.

  And as she did—

  He knew.

  Hilda’s eyes.

  They were the same.

  Exactly the same.

  Hilda sighed, a soft, worried sound. She glanced at the bottle, then back at his tense face. “I know it bothers you to drink now,” she said, her voice gentle, encouraging. “So please excuse me for being so forward, but…you don’t have to drink, Master. You can do this without it!”

  Her faith in him was surprising. She was cheering for him, for Simple Lucon.

  He wasn’t listening.

  “I want to be alone,” he said.

  On Hilda’s cute face, her lips pursed in a faint pout. “But we’re always together.”

  Lucon gestured to the door.

  Her expression fell, but she nodded slowly.

  “As you wish, Master.” She turned and left, closing the door softly behind her.

  Lucon stared at the closed door.

  Why is one of the most talented mages in history my maid?

  Everything was too much.

  All of it.

  He picked up his chair.

  Sat.

  He gripped the bottle and spoke.

  “Please fix everything.”