Chapter 206: Something is wrong.

“Wise,” she repeated, this time with a longer sigh, as if the word carried more than irony.

They stood still for a few more seconds, the narrow street breathing around them. A shopkeeper closed the wooden doors of his shop. A group of young people passed by laughing loudly, discussing something too trivial to matter. Life went on, indifferent to that small knot forming between two people who were dangerously close to crossing an invisible line.

Morgana was the first to move.

“Let’s keep walking,” she said. “If we stand still for too long, I’ll start overthinking. And that never ends well.”

“Overthinking is practically a noble sport,” Damon commented, following her.

“Don’t be proud of it.”

He smiled slightly.

They continued down a narrower street, where lanterns were attached to twisted iron supports, casting shadows that danced on the stone walls. The windows were open, and voices escaped from inside the houses—family arguments, tired laughter, the sound of plates being stacked.

“It’s curious,” Morgana said, breaking the silence. “I know the names of all the important families in Myrath. I know who betrayed whom, who owes favors, who is on the verge of ruin. But I never knew… this.”

She made a vague gesture, encompassing the windows, the lights, the voices.

“This doesn’t appear in reports,” Damon replied. “Nor on maps.”

“Nor in strategies,” she added.

“Nor in political marriages,” he said, before thinking too much.

Morgana didn’t react immediately. She just kept walking, but her pace slowed slightly.

“You say that too easily,” she commented finally.

“It wasn’t my intention,” Damon replied sincerely. “Sometimes… the words slip out.”

“They slip out because you’re not afraid of them,” she said. “Or because you’ve already accepted the consequences.”

He glanced at her sideways.

“Perhaps because I know some consequences are worth it.”

She stopped again, this time more slowly, and turned to him with a look that mixed weariness and curiosity.

“Have you always been like this?” she asked. “Or does Myrath do this to people?”

“A little of both,” he replied. “Myrath removes the excess. What’s left… tends to be more honest.”

She let out a soft laugh.

“Honesty again.”

“I warned you I was overrated,” he replied, mimicking her earlier tone.

She shook her head, amused, and resumed walking.

They reached a small staircase that descended to an improvised lookout point above the canal. There, the water reflected the lanterns like broken gold threads, and the sound of the city seemed distant, muffled.

Morgana rested her hands on the stone parapet, looking down.

“When I was a child,” she said, without looking at him, “I believed that one day I could simply… leave.”

Damon remained silent, giving her space.

“Not run away,” she continued. “Just walk out the front door. Walk. Choose where to stop.”

She took a deep breath.

“Then I learned that people like me don’t ’leave.’ We are moved.”

“And today?” he asked carefully.

“Today I know that leaving would have too high a cost,” she replied. “For many people.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t choose where you stay,” Damon said.

She stared at him, surprised.

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I do,” he replied without hesitation. “Maybe not everything. Maybe not now. But small choices… they add up.”

She looked back at the water.

“Today was one of those choices.”

“It was,” he agreed.

Silence returned, but now it was different. Less tense. More laden with acceptance.

“Damon…,” she said again, this time without stopping. “When I go back to Arven, all this will disappear.”

“It won’t,” he replied softly. “It will change. But it won’t disappear.”

“You speak as if you’re sure.”

“I am,” he said. “Because I will remember.”

She smiled, slightly, almost imperceptibly.

“That’s dangerously comforting.”

“I know,” he replied. “And I’m sorry for that.”

She laughed softly.

“Don’t be. It’s rare for someone to offer me comfort without asking for something in return.”

She turned completely to face him now. The light from the nearest flashlight cast soft shadows on her face, softening lines that were usually too harsh for someone her age.

“You don’t want anything from me?” she asked directly.

Damon held her gaze.

“I want you to continue being… you,” he said. “Even when it’s inconvenient.”

She blinked once, surprised by the response.

“That’s a dangerous answer.”

“I warned you today would be full of them.”

She was silent for a few seconds, as if storing those words somewhere safe.

In the distance, the sound of hooves echoed down the cobblestone street.

Morgana closed her eyes for a moment.

“My carriage,” she said. “They’re looking for me.”

“Of course they are,” he replied.

They climbed the stairs together, walking side by side again. The carriage waited a few meters away, too discreet to attract attention, but present enough to remind her who she was.

Morgana stopped before it.

“Thank you,” she said, looking at him. “For today. For not treating me like something that needs to be… contained.”

“Thank you,” Damon replied. “For trusting me enough to walk without armor.”

She hesitated for a second.

Then she extended her hand.

Damon took it, this time for a moment a little longer than before. There was no hurry. There were no words.

As she turned and entered the carriage, he took a step back, watching as the door closed.

Before the carriage departed, Morgana opened the small window.

“Damon.”

He approached.

“Today,” she said, “you showed me Myrath.”

She paused briefly.

“One day… maybe I’ll show you Arven. For real.”

His heart beat a little faster.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he replied.

The carriage began to move, slowly disappearing into the city lights.

Damon stood there for a few moments, until the sound of the wheels faded completely.

Only then did he turn and continue on his way… with the strange and dangerous feeling that he was no longer alone.

Damon stopped mid-step.

The sounds of the city remained exactly the same. Laughter in the distance. The creaking of a cart turning the corner. The clinking of metal coming from some tavern that hadn’t yet decided to close. Nothing out of place.

And yet, something was wrong.

He turned slowly, first with his eyes, then with his body, scanning the street instinctively. Not obviously. Not like someone looking for an enemy. But like someone who knows exactly how death usually announces itself: not with noise, but with selective silence.

Nothing.

The street was too empty for that hour, but not enough to raise alarm. The lanterns swayed gently, casting long, irregular shadows. The windows that had been open were now beginning to close, one by one, like tired eyelids.

Damon took a deep breath, controlling the impulse to reach for where a blade should be.

“Paranoia,” he murmured to himself.

But his body disagreed.

The feeling persisted. It didn’t come from a specific point. It had no clear direction. It was diffuse, scattered, as if the very air had decided to pay too much attention to him.

He took a few steps, deliberately slower, letting the sound of his boots echo on the stone. Testing.

Nothing changed.

Damon veered onto a side street, narrower, less lit. If someone was following him, this would be the moment to make a mistake. He leaned briefly against the wall, pretending to adjust his glove, and observed the distorted reflection of the street in an old windowpane.

Nothing.

Still… that pressure wouldn’t go away.

It wasn’t open hostility. It wasn’t the hunger of an assassin about to strike. It was something colder. More calculated. The kind of attention that weighs, measures, catalogs.

Like a hunter who hasn’t yet decided if it’s worth drawing his bow.

Damon closed his eyes for half a second.

The energy beneath his skin responded, subtly, almost imperceptibly. A shiver ran down his spine, and the world seemed to take on sharper outlines. The sounds became clearer. The air, heavier.

Still, he saw no one.

“Whoever you are…” he thought, maintaining a neutral expression as he resumed walking, “…you’re good.”

Too good to be an ordinary thief. Too quiet to be a curious drunk. Too patient to be an impulsive killer.

This bothered him more than it should.

He crossed another corner, now towards a busier area, deliberately blending into a small group leaving a tavern. He laughed along, pretended to listen to a story that didn’t interest him, letting the smell of alcohol and sweat mask any trace.

The feeling lessened.

It didn’t disappear.

Damon felt his jaw clench.

“So you don’t want attention,” he thought. “You want confirmation.”

He kept walking for a few more minutes, until the pressure slowly dissipated. Not like something that went away, but like something that decided to wait.

When he finally stopped under the light of a brighter flashlight, Damon leaned against the wall and exhaled.

His reflection in the glass showed a calm man.

Inside, however, all the gears were turning.

“Great,” he murmured. “Besides political problems, corrupt dukes, and inconvenient feelings… now I have an audience.”

He straightened his posture and resumed his walk towards the mansion, each step measured, each shadow registered.

Wherever that presence was, one thing was certain:

She had seen him.

And, sooner or later, Damon would have to find out if he was being watched as a target…

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