Even after midnight, Hermil buzzed with excitement and chatter.

The city glowed like it was day. Candles blazed behind windows, lanterns hanging from doorways, and the cobblestone streets were packed. Crowds were moving in groups, from one to another—no space to breathe between them; all the while cups and jugs of ale sloshed in their hands.

Laughter rang out.

Not just laughter, but voices overlapped until they became a tide of sound rolling through every alley and square. In every way, no one seemed ready for sleep.

In fact, it was not often that Hermil had reason to be so alive at night. The last time the city had stirred with this much noise, it had been out of misery—plague and famine had dreaded the city making families starve. Those nights, the talk had been heavy. But now, for once, the city had a different kind of tale to chew on.

A battle. A real, bloody, shocking battle.

A noble Mage who had fought against the Archine Tower’s Master herself.

And she had lost.

That defeat alone would have been enough to keep tongues wagging for weeks, but the fire had been stoked higher. The Assembly of Judgment had just ended, called to weigh the same noble’s fate. No one outside the chamber knew for certain what had been decided, yet the streets already buzzed as if the verdict were carved in stone. Rumors carried faster than runners, changing shape with every retelling, and no one cared what was true. Truth was boring. Stories were sweeter.

Everywhere, voices rose with certainty.

“Arzan Kellius is no mere Count anymore,” a man declared, slamming his cup on a tavern counter. He circled his belly with so much pride as if Arzan was his own son. “He’s been made a Duke—mark my words. You’ll see the banners soon enough.”

Two women huddled nearby, their shawls pulled tight against the night air, nodding eagerly. “Not only a Duke,” one whispered, “they say he’s broken the wild tribes to his will. Whole packs of them serve him now, trained like hunting dogs.”

A passing boy with a tray of roasted nuts chimed in without breaking stride, “Better than that! He’s to marry Princess Amara herself.”

Not a soul asked where he had heard it. No one demanded proof. The city was too busy choosing which version they liked best. Some clung to one rumor, others to another, but all spoke with the confidence of scholars and kings. Every time someone added to the story, they grew sharper, brighter and more outrageous, until even those who had once doubted began to nod as if they had seen it with their own eyes.

Hermil had become a stage that night, every street corner its own theatre. Gossip was the play, and everyone wanted a part.

Among the swaying crowds of men chattering in packs and dragging their feet through the lamplit streets, a lone figure moved with care. She hugged the edges of the street with slow and uneven steps, pausing every so often to press a hand against a wall and catch her breath before forcing herself forward again.

A wide robe draped over her from head to toe, the hood pulled low to hide her face. Only the wind betrayed her, lifting stray strands of hair from the shadows of her hood, enough to hint that beneath the fabric was a woman.

Even the smallest task cost her dearly. Crossing from one side of the street to the other felt like a battle, and every step felt… so damn heavy. She raised a waterskin to her lips often, wetting her throat, stealing what little strength she could. Around her, laughter and shouts filled the air—wild rumors of dukes, barbarians, and princesses twisting together like smoke.

She let them pass through her ears without pause, never correcting, never answering, only walking on. She had no time to waste.

But fortune did not walk with her.

As she slipped across a narrow lane, a drunk staggered from the crowd and crashed into her shoulder, nearly sending her back into the wall. His face twisted, eyes bloodshot, and his breath stank of ale. “Who the fuck are you?” he spat, squaring himself in front of her. “Don’t know how to walk, eh?”

She lowered her head and spoke just above a whisper “I’m only passing through.”

Her calmness only stirred him more. He swayed closer, lips curled, hand shooting out to grip her shoulder. But before his fingers found purchase, her hood shifted, and her eyes—just for a breath of a moment—flared with a strange glow.

The man froze. His hand faltered midair. His drunken bravado drained from his face, even all the blood. He paled. He stumbled back one step, mouth open as though to speak, but no words came.

The woman said nothing. She pulled the robe tighter around herself, quickened her pace, and slipped around the corner. The man remained rooted where she left him, his companions too lost in their own shouting and laughter to notice his silence.

Yet as she pressed forward, the streets gave her no kindness. Around every bend, more drunken men clogged the way. Their excitement filled the night like a storm, and she—feeling even smaller—was forced to wade through it, every step a prayer that she would not be stopped again.

But fortunately, her destination was close. That thought alone gave her strength enough to drag her feet forward, one small step at a time, until the streets thinned and the drunken noise dulled into the distance. The crowds bled away behind her, leaving her with the night air and the ache in her chest.

At last, she turned a corner and found him.

In a narrow alley stood a carriage, its dark frame blocking most of the space. The horse pawed at the stones restlessly, its breath steaming in the cold, while a man sat on the driver’s seat, arms crossed, keeping watch.

She stopped, glaring at him from beneath her hood. The man’s eyes flicked up, caught sight of her, and his lip curled.

“Get out, bugger,” he barked, flicking his hand as though shooing a stray. “This alley’s off-limits.”

The words snapped something inside her. Her hand moved sharply, pushing back her hood. A fall of tangled hair spilled free.

“You’ve grown an extra pair of eyes not to recognize your master, Loras?”

The robe slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

The man’s eyes widened. He scrambled down from the carriage, boots thudding against the stones. “Master Veridia,” he breathed, as though naming a ghost. “You look—”

“Pale,” she interrupted. “Dead. A corpse. I know.”

A cough clawed its way up her throat, and her hand shot to her chest as if to cage her own heart. Pain surged under her ribs, but she held herself upright, refusing to let him see her falter.

“Master…” Loras took a cautious step toward her. His voice softened. “Are you—are you truly all right? So it’s true, then? I heard you lost, but are you really—”

“Crippled,” Veridia cut him off again. “Nearly. I can still cast if I pour everything into it. But if I push too far, it will take me with it. One wrong step, and I die.”

Loras’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists. “Then I should hunt him down—Kellius. That bastard deserves—”

“Don’t.” Veridia’s eyes burned as she forced herself forward, step by step, until her hand brushed the side of the carriage. “I understand your anger. I share it. But if you go after him, you’ll be dead before you draw your blade. He’s more ferocious up close than in your mind. I barely survived him, and you are not me.”

She pulled herself up, gripping the carriage for balance. “Don’t let anger rule you, Loras. We have bigger enemies to face than Arzan Kellius.” Her voice dropped low, almost a growl. “Much bigger.”

Loras nodded at last, his anger pressed down beneath obedience. He stepped quickly to the carriage, swung the door open, and offered his hand to steady her. As she climbed up, her body stiff with pain, he muttered low, almost to himself.

“Like Regina.”

Veridia froze, her foot hovering on the carriage step. A shadow cut across her face, and her frown deepened.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s hope she dies with what I’ve planned. Otherwise…” her eyes narrowed, “…we’ll be drowning in assassins for months to come.”

Loras’s jaw tightened. “Let them come. I’ll deal with them, as I’ve dealt with the rest of the Bonewolves.” His voice carried the name of the assassin order like a challenge.

Veridia turned toward him fully, her pale hand gripping the doorframe as though her weight would tear her down otherwise. Her voice dropped lower, each word dragged out by pain that twisted her chest.

“You have courage, Loras… but you are no dragon slayer. You’re more or less a toad at the bottom of a well. I…” She forced air into her lungs, her eyes flashing with defiance. “…I am a bigger toad. And out there, the skies are crawling with dragons. Be careful, or they’ll swallow you before you even look up.”

She pulled herself inside, sinking into the carriage with a harsh breath. “Now go. We need to leave this city.”

Loras nodded once, grabbed her robe from the ground, climbed back onto the driver’s seat, and cracked the reins. The carriage jolted forward, wheels rattling over the cobbles as it slipped from the alley to the main road. He didn’t bother steering aside for the groups of drunkards who clogged the streets. Men cursed and shouted, stumbling out of the way as the horse pushed through, their voices chasing after the carriage like stones thrown into the dark.

Inside, Veridia leaned against the side of the carriage, her gaze fixed on the streets flashing past. The noise, the lamplight, the laughter—all of it pressed against her chest. She might never see Hermil again. Perhaps that was for the best.

This—this flight, this leaving—was still a victory of sorts. A victory pulled from ruin. For it had been a mistake, her mistake, that had cost her everything.

She had thought she could use Arzan Kellius. Even if he won, she had expected him to leash her, to keep her close, and in his shadow she could bide her time, grow stronger, and break free when the moment came. She had always known how to play the waiting game.

But Arzan had no patience for games. He had not trusted her, not for a heartbeat. He had shattered her instead—body, pride, and power alike.

The pain in her chest flared, sharp enough to blur her vision, but she smiled bitterly to herself. Broken or not, crippled or not, she was still Veridia. She had not been idle as the Archine Tower’s master. And even now, with death tugging at her heels, she had pieces yet to play.

But rather than Arzan, her thoughts circled back to Regina.

The woman had always been a viper, smiling with her teeth hidden, striking when least expected. If not for the small vial of poison Veridia kept on her person at all times, she would already be dead. She had slipped it into the cups of the healers sent to “treat” her wounds,, and while they convulsed and died in silence, she had stolen her way out into the night. Had she not, she would have “succumbed to her injuries” by dawn, and Regina would already be weaving her death into a political snare meant to tighten around Arzan Kellius.

The games of courts and daggers, of whispers and feigned grief, Veridia had been forced out of them tonight. But that did not mean she was finished. No, Regina would pay. She would make sure of it.

Her thoughts broke off as the carriage jolted beneath her. It lurched, then came to a full stop. Veridia pressed her hand against the seat to steady herself, the sudden stillness loud after the rattle of the wheels.

The city gates.

Through the narrow slit of the window, she saw lanterns bobbing against the night, steel glinting on helms and spear tips. Several noble carriages were already lined up, inching forward one by one. Of course—they too had chosen to leave Hermil after the Assembly. The delay stretched on, every passing moment twisting tighter in her chest. But they moved. Little by little, the carriage moved forward.

At last, their turn came. A guard stepped forward, raising his hand. His eyes flicked from the horse, to the carriage, to the man seated above it.

“Merchant?” he asked flatly, as if he’d done this a million times before but the suspicion still layered heavily on that one word.

Loras leaned on the reins, giving an easy shrug. “Transportation. I had a full load of wanderers brought in for the Assembly. Everyone wanted to be here, to see it with their own eyes.” He chuckled lightly, masking the tension in his voice. “Now they’ve scattered back to their own inns. I’m just returning home to the east.”

The guard narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. “Transportation, is it? That so?” He stepped closer, circling the carriage, the iron tip of his spear dragging faintly on the stones. “Strange night to be carrying an empty wagon. Who’s inside?”

Veridia’s heart thudded once, loud in her ears. Her hand twitched toward the edge of the curtain, though she knew exposing her face would mean ruin. Moreover, they didn’t have a lot of time. She needed to be out of here soon or things would turn out bad.

“My older sister,” Loras answered smoothly, inclining his head. “Travels with me. We don’t have any other family.”

The guard’s gaze slid toward the window. Veridia sat still, her breath locked in her lungs. For a heartbeat she thought he might tug the door open, drag her out, and everything would end here, on this muddy road beneath the torches.

But instead, the man extended a hand, palm open. No words needed.

Loras’s face did not shift. He reached into his cloak, pulled free a coin, and pressed it into the guard’s hand. Gold flashed in the torchlight.

The guard’s grin was sharp and greedy. He closed his hand over the gold, then jerked his head toward the open road. “On the way you go,” he said, stepping aside.

Loras snapped the reins, and the carriage rolled forward. Veridia slumped back into her seat, a breath of relief slipping past her lips. Her chest still ached, but for the first time tonight, the air felt lighter.

Once they cleared the gates and the cobbles gave way to the smoother stretch of the king’s road, Loras exhaled. “The guards,” he muttered, shaking his head, “always so corrupt.”

Veridia’s eyes narrowed. “Not just the guards. Everyone in this kingdom is corrupt. If the royal family cares for nothing but their own power and gain, then the same sickness trickles down into the marrow of everyone beneath them.” She paused, her gaze turning distant. “And don’t forget, we’re no different. Everyone looks out for themselves, Loras. We’re all the same.”

The driver went silent, the clop of hooves filling the space between them. For a time, there was nothing but the rhythm of wheels and horse-breath in the night. Then, his voice came again, hesitant but curious.

“…So what did you do before meeting me, Master? I know you wouldn’t leave the city without doing something big.”

Veridia’s lips curved into the ghost of a smile. “You’ve gotten smarter.”

Loras chuckled softly. “I’ve just learned to know you. After all the training with you, Master, how could I not?” His voice trailed, then steadied again, sharper this time. “So… what did you do?”

But before Veridia could open her mouth, the night split apart.

A deafening shout rolled over the walls behind them, followed by a blast that shook the earth. The horses shrieked, their hooves striking sparks on the stone, and the carriage jolted wildly as Loras fought to keep them steady. All along the road, other carriages bucked and rattled, noble passengers screaming. One overturned entirely with a crunch of wood, crashing into another and spilling its panicked riders into the dirt.

Veridia’s focus snapped elsewhere. She seized the latch, shoved the carriage window open, and thrust her head into the night air.

Beyond the gates, smoke coiled into the sky like black fingers. Flames licked higher and higher, painting the night with orange light. Screams carried with the wind, loud, piercing, rising over the confusion on the road. The laughter from before—had all turned to screams, cries and grief—loud grief.

Veridia’s heart pounded with pain and satisfaction alike. She smiled faintly, the glow of the fires reflecting in her weary eyes.

“Good,” she whispered to herself. “The explosions have done their job.”

Loras’s voice cut through the din as the carriage ground to a halt. He jumped down from the driver’s seat, boots splashing in the dust and ash as he turned toward the city. His face was pale in the firelight, eyes wide at the pillars of smoke rising behind the walls.

“What… what did you do, Master?” he asked, his voice caught between awe and fear.

Veridia leaned on the window frame, her breath ragged but steady enough to shape words. Her eyes glimmered in the reflection of the flames.

“Just took out some Mages and nobles who pledged themselves to Regina. I don’t know if I got her, but just the others would be enough,” she said coldly. “They were the spine of her schemes. Break the spine, and the beast crawls instead of walks.” She drew in a shallow breath, wincing as her chest tightened. “There wasn’t time for more. The royal palace is still untouched. I would have needed more time to light it up too.”

Her lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. “But time is the one thing I no longer have.”

Loras stared at her, stunned, his mouth working soundlessly as if he wanted to ask more but couldn’t. His gaze darted back to the city once, flames reflected in his eyes, before he turned away with a sharp motion, shoulders stiff.

“I’ll get us out of here,” he said hurriedly, climbing back onto the seat. His hands tightened on the reins. “Where are we headed, Master?”

Veridia sank into her seat, the weight of her exhaustion pressing down heavier than ever. “I’ll tell you… on the way.”

The carriage jerked forward once more, the sounds of fire and screaming fading behind them as the road swallowed them whole.

***

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