To Darius’s relief, the fort finally rose out of the afternoon haze. Stone walls. A watchtower. Banner poles. Smoke from cookfires that meant food instead of burning. Wagons and riders funneling toward the gate in the slow, obedient rhythm of people who believed in safety because they could see it.

  Kurt let out a sound that was half laugh, half sigh.

  Zen squinted up at the parapets as if expecting an archer to wave him in personally. “I look forward to beds. Real beds.”

  Kairi’s posture eased at the sight of walls. Not fully. Not enough to call it relaxed. But the tight, coiled line of her shoulders softened, and it was so immediate Darius felt it like someone loosening a strap around his own ribs.

  They’d decided she should ride with Darius into town, not Kylar, in case they had to use his credentials at the gate. And the closer they got, the clearer it became that they would.

  The entry line was long. Too long. They joined the end of it.

  Travelers ahead glanced back, eyes catching on uniforms caked with dust and dried blood. A few turned fully in their saddles when they spotted the hooded girl riding among them. Whispers started the way flies started around fruit: quick, quiet, inevitable.

  Zen leaned toward Kylar, voice low. “All right,” he said, carefully casual, like he was discussing weather and not about to poke a bear. “Please use your title for once. For her. At least.”

  Kylar’s jaw tightened. Darius watched the muscles in his throat work. That familiar battle: soldier first, prince second, and some stubborn third thing that hated attention like a knife against the ribs.

  Kylar gave the barest nod.

  Zen blinked, startled by success. “Oh. Well. That was… easier than I planned.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” Kylar murmured.

  The line crept forward.

  Then Kylar did something Darius had expected him to do eventually and hoped he wouldn’t: he guided Onyx out of line and led their group along the shoulder toward the gate.

  The guards on duty straightened, already wearing the bored irritation of men who’d spent all day being asked how much longer by merchants with heavy carts. One stepped down from the stone lip, hand raised.

  “You better have a good reason you’re cutting in front of these fine travelers,” the guard called. His gaze swept Kylar’s group, then snagged on Kairi’s hood. “We’re not letting trouble in just because you look tired.”

  Kylar eased Onyx forward with a shift of his knees. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t posture. He simply spoke like a man who expected to be listened to.

  “We’re part of a royal escort that was attacked,” he said. “We’re rejoining the rest as they arrive.”

  The guard’s expression flickered, annoyance replaced by focus. His gaze snapped from Kylar’s face to the dirty crest on his uniform, then to Zen’s, Kurt’s, Darius’s.

  Up above, the second guard leaned forward over the iron-bound gate.

  “We had part of that escort come in earlier,” he called down. “Prince Damon and a handful of Shadowguard. Special envoy recorded.”

  Relief rippled through their group so hard it almost felt physical. Earlier. They’d made it. They’d survived.

  Kurt’s shoulders sagged like his bones finally remembered they were allowed to be tired.

  The guard above lifted his voice. “State your name for the record.”

  Kylar didn’t hesitate.

  “Dato Lyon,” he said. “We’re staying until the escort is reunited and plans are set.”

  It took a heartbeat for the words to land.

  Then the gate guards went pale. Not startled. Not surprised.

  Pale.

  One of the nearest travelers made a choking noise. Another sucked in a breath like he’d swallowed a bee. Somewhere in line, a woman whispered, “Prince,” and the word jumped from mouth to mouth in a soft chain reaction.

  The exact thing Darius knew Kylar hated.

  The guard blocking the road snapped to full attention so hard it looked painful. He backed up two steps like Kylar’s presence had heat.

  “Your Highness,” he stammered. “In. Come in.”

  The second guard turned and started waving frantically toward the inner yard. “Escort Prince Dato to the fort!”

  A bell began to ring. Not the alarm bell. Not the war bell.

  The someone-important-has-arrived-and-we-are-about-to-scramble bell.

  Zen exhaled through his nose, a sound that could’ve been amusement or resignation. “Well,” he muttered. “Now everyone knows.”

  Darius rode up beside Kylar and grinned, because if he didn’t laugh he might start chewing his own tongue off. “Thanks, Dato,” he said under his breath. “For being important.”

  Kylar didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed forward like the road itself was the only thing he trusted.

  “Shut up,” he whispered back, and Darius heard the reluctant humor tucked under it.

  The gate swung wide.

  Kairi kept her head down, watching the scramble with sharp, quiet attention. She leaned back into Darius as the horse shifted, and they rode through the arch into town like they’d kicked an anthill.

  People turned. Heads snapped up. Conversations cut off mid-word.

  A guard jogged ahead, clearing space with brisk, apologetic gestures. “Make way. Make way. Prince coming through.”

  Prince.

  Darius watched Kairi take it in: the quick stares, the widening eyes, the way people pressed back to make room for power even when they didn’t understand it.

  He couldn’t tell if it made her uncomfortable.

  Or thoughtful.

  They reached the fort proper within minutes, town shrinking behind them. A captain met them inside the yard, flanked by two soldiers and a harried-looking clerk with an ink-stained ledger.

  The captain’s gaze did what every competent man’s gaze did: counted heads, assessed injuries, checked for missing.

  His eyes landed on Kairi’s hood and didn’t linger the way a curious man’s would. He didn’t stare. He didn’t ask her to remove it.

  Good.

  “Your Highness,” the captain said to Kylar, bowing. “Rooms are prepared. A bathhouse is available. Healers are on standby. If you prefer, we can provide private water in-room.”

  Kylar nodded once. “Private,” he said immediately.

  Not a preference. A command.

  The captain didn’t argue. “This way.”

  They dismounted in the yard.

  Onyx stamped as Kylar slid down, ears swiveling, every muscle still keyed for danger. The other horses snorted beside him. Onyx pushed his head into Kairi’s shoulder the moment she came within reach, shamelessly claiming her attention like a right.

  Kairi’s hand rose automatically, scratching behind his ear in the place that made the big horse’s lower lip go slack. “You are shameless,” she murmured.

  Zen watched with a small, tired smile. “I’m telling you,” he said. “She’s got sugar in her pockets. It’s the only explanation.”

  Kurt hovered near Kairi like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be that close without formal permission from a priest, a king, and possibly the sky itself.

  Darius kept his attention on the yard, on the corners, on unfamiliar soldiers and fort rhythms. But he tracked Kairi’s movements anyway, and realized it was becoming a habit.

  A stablehand approached for the reins. Darius hesitated.

  Kylar’s hand flattened against Onyx’s neck once, steady and familiar. “He bites,” Kylar said bluntly.

  The stablehand nodded solemnly like he’d been told a holy truth. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Onyx huffed as if offended by the accusation, then tried to follow Kairi anyway.

  Darius didn’t breathe easy until the stable doors shut.

  Then the captain led them inside.

  The hallway smelled like old stone, boiled herbs, and ink. Order. Structure. Boots on flagstones. Lanterns set at steady intervals, light that didn’t flicker like fear.

  “The rest of the convoy is down this way,” the captain said. “Most are resting. Some are in the map room. Captain Vale was last seen with a man named Rush and Captain Valraven.”

  Kylar nodded. “My brother’s room?”

  “Prince Damon’s rooms are this way,” the captain answered quickly, pointing. “That one. Guard posted.”

  Fenway stood like he’d been installed there by a god who believed in patience.

  Kylar thanked the captain. The man bowed and left them.

  Rooms had been prepared in a tight cluster. Three doors close together. Guards stationed at the end of the hall like punctuation marks.

  Darius’s shoulders loosened another notch.

  “I’ll go talk to Fen,” Darius said. “See what our situation looks like.”

  Kylar nodded. Then he gestured Kairi toward her door.

  Kairi opened it and stepped inside, eyes sweeping the room. A small safe place. Her posture softened again. She walked in like someone entering shelter and trying not to show how much it mattered.

  Kylar did not follow.

  He stopped at her doorway like a sentinel, posture careful, gaze cutting across the room in a quick sweep: bed, window, washroom door, lock, the space beneath the bed where a dramatic assassin might hide just to feel important.

  Kairi unclasped her cloak, letting it fall back from her shoulders. Under it she looked… washed out. Not weak. Just used up.

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  She turned and smiled at him. “You can come in.”

  Kylar stayed in the doorway, hand braced on the frame.

  “Not yet,” he said. Not cold. Discipline. “Too many eyes. And they know who I am.”

  His gaze flicked to the attached washroom. “Good,” he murmured, more to himself. “You’ve got your own water.”

  Kairi’s eyes softened. “I won’t die of inconvenience, Dato.”

  The way she used his true name told him she understood.

  “I know,” Kylar said. “But I’d like you to stop collecting new ways to suffer.”

  Kairi’s mouth quirked. “No promises.”

  Kylar straightened in the doorway. “Clean up,” he said, gentler. “Rest. And… hope you don’t mind the clothing.”

  She glanced at the folded trousers and shirt on the bed. Fort-issued. Plain. Clean.

  “They’re fine,” she said honestly. “They’re clean. And I’m sure comfortable. Besides…” Her fingers touched the strap of her travel bag. “They said the wagon is here. I can rummage for something familiar later.”

  Kylar’s shoulders eased. Then, to Zen and Kurt’s visible surprise, he added, quieter, like it cost him something.

  “We can go shopping in town,” he said. “If you want.”

  Kairi stepped closer, but kept the careful distance, because the hall wasn’t empty and the guards were not blind. Her smile sharpened into something playful.

  “That sounds like a date, my Prince.”

  Kylar’s eyes widened just a fraction.

  A tiny crack in composure.

  Zen almost laughed.

  Kylar recovered immediately, stepping back into the hall as he caught the door edge and pulled it toward himself with controlled gentleness. “See you later,” he said, voice steady again.

  The latch clicked.

  And Kairi’s bright smile lingered like sunlight even after the door shut.

  Zen watched Kylar stare at the closed door for half a second too long.

  Then Kylar blinked once, like closing something away inside himself, and turned down the hall.

  “All right,” he said, voice shifting back into command. “Rooms. Water. Then food. We do not scatter.”

  Zen lifted a hand in salute. “Yes, my prince who hates being a prince.”

  Kylar’s stare could’ve cut bread.

  Zen grinned anyway and wandered into the nearest room like he hadn’t just asked to die.

  Inside her room, Kairi leaned against the door for one heartbeat, letting the quiet swallow her.

  She dragged her cloak off and let it drop in a heap. Her bag thudded softly to the floor. She stared at the washroom door like it might be a mirage.

  A shower.

  It had been so long since she’d stood under hot water without thinking who might be listening, or how quickly she’d have to rinse, or whether someone would need her before she was done.

  She fumbled with unfamiliar knobs until the pipes rattled. Water hissed. Steam fogged the small mirror.

  Warmth. Real warmth.

  She peeled her clothes off without ceremony and left them in a pile. Hung a towel where she could snatch it without stepping into cold air. Drew the curtain. Stepped into the stall.

  The first hit of hot water made her inhale sharply. Her whole body reacted like a starving thing being offered food.

  She stood very still while water ran over her head, shoulders, down her spine. Knots loosened that she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying. Muscles trembled with relief.

  She dug soap from her bag, the familiar scent of mint and herbs, and worked it through her hair until her fingers snagged less. She scrubbed road-dust off her skin. Sweat. Dried fear.

  The steam made her thoughts slow. Made the world feel smaller. Safer.

  When she shut the water off, she stood another second listening to the pipes drip, breathing in mint and heat, letting herself pretend she was back in a place where tomorrow wasn’t a threat.

  Then she dried quickly, rubbing her hair until the towel went heavy.

  The fort-issued clothing felt strange. Clean fabric against clean skin. Trousers that fit well enough. A shirt that didn’t smell like the road.

  She looked almost… normal. The thought made her laugh once under her breath. A quiet, bitter little sound.

  Normal girls didn’t have kingdoms burned out from under them. Normal girls didn’t have gods choosing them and then demanding they carry it like a crown.

  She shoved that thought down and went to the bed like it was calling her name. It was soft. Truly soft. She sat and the mattress gave beneath her weight in a way the ground never had. Her body nearly melted from the simple luxury of not being punished for existing.

  She lay back for one heartbeat. Then remembered her hair. She groaned, sat up, and dug her brush out of her bag.

  Brushing her hair was always a process. The curls had opinions. The road knots had more. Stroke after stroke. And she found herself thinking about Kylar in the doorway. The way he’d checked the room like it was a battlefield. The way he’d offered to take her shopping like it was normal.

  A date. My Prince.

  She could still see the way his eyes had widened. It warmed something in her chest that had been cold too long. She would hold him to it. Letting him take her shopping. Would he go out as Prince Dato? Since the whole town knows now. She smiled at that. Him taking a girl shopping would start rumors. Maybe it would be secretive. She let those thoughts drop for now and went to the next.

  Somewhere in this fort, her brother was with Jayce. She’d have to find them when she could, but knowing Rush… the moment he heard she was here, he’d come like a storm with a name.

  Once her hair was brushed smooth, she glanced at the door and wondered which man in her life would reach it first.

  Rush, breaking rules and hinges.

  Kylar, hurrying through his own duty so he could return.

  Jayce, checking in with that careful steadiness.

  Darius, practical as a wall.

  Damon… if he was awake.

  Whoever came, they’d have to forgive how tired she was.

  She let herself lay down. Closed her eyes. It wouldn’t take long with how she had to fight to keep her eyes open most of the day.

  The fort’s bathhouse had been carved into stone like someone, once, had decided even soldiers deserved a place to breathe.

  Hot water ran in steady sheets from metal spouts set into the wall. Steam fogged the lantern glass until everything glowed soft and hazy. The air smelled like wet stone and soap and the faint mineral bite of heat drawn up from deep places.

  And for the first time since the bridge, none of them had to listen for boots behind them.

  They still did, out of habit.

  But the habit was quieter here.

  Kylar stood under the nearest stream, head tipped forward, water running through his hair. His shoulders hung slack in a way that almost looked wrong on him. He tested his shoulder with careful pressure, jaw set.

  It still needed time. Healing. He could let it be.

  He would have to be careful around her so she didn’t try to fix it again.

  Zen wandered in with a towel slung over one shoulder like he owned the world. He took one look at the steam and sighed dramatically.

  “This,” he declared, stepping into the heat like a man entering a holy temple, “is what redemption feels like.”

  Kurt followed more cautiously, eyes flicking around as if making sure the room wouldn’t bite him for being grateful.

  Darius came in last, shut the door, and checked the latch on instinct.

  He still checked it even after remembering he didn’t have to.

  Zen noticed.

  “Darius,” Zen said, dripping sarcasm into the name like honey, “do you want me to stand outside and yell ‘NO ATTACKERS ALLOWED’ every thirty seconds so you can enjoy your shower?”

  Darius peeled his shirt off with a wince that said his ribs still had opinions. “I’d settle for you yelling less in general.”

  Zen pressed a hand to his heart. “Cruel.”

  Kurt coughed, the sound stuck between a laugh and a wince. “Please don’t yell. If the fort collapses, I’m blaming you.”

  Kylar, without turning, said dry as stone, “If the fort collapses, I’m blaming your bad luck.”

  Kurt’s mouth opened. Closed. “That’s fair.”

  Darius stepped under a spout and hissed as hot water hit bruises. He tried to pretend he hadn’t made that sound.

  He failed.

  Zen grinned like he’d been given a gift. “Oh good. He’s mortal.”

  Darius shot him a look. “You’re lucky I’m tired.”

  “You going to have her heal those bruises, Dare?” Zen asked, then nodded toward Kylar. “That shoulder is almost like nothing happened.”

  Kylar lifted his head, water running down his face. He blinked slow, expression unreadable.

  Zen tilted his face into the stream. “I’m just saying. Nasty wound. Your girl has magical fingers.”

  Kylar exhaled and turned just enough to hide the flush he hated that he had.

  They fell into the rhythm of washing and letting their muscles unknot by force. Steam thickened. Water drowned out the world.

  Then Kurt’s gaze drifted to the small canvas bag Kylar had set on the bench, and his eyes narrowed. He squinted like he’d spotted a rare bird.

  He looked at Kylar’s bar of soap.

  Not gray.

  Not fort-issued.

  “Is that… handmade soap?” Kurt asked, voice cautious like the soap might bite him.

  Kylar didn’t answer quickly enough.

  Zen snapped toward the bench like a hawk seeing prey. “Soap,” he repeated, scandalized. “Not fort soap. Not the gray brick that smells like regret.”

  Kurt took one step closer, peering. “It’s… wrapped.”

  Darius glanced over, curiosity waking. “Why is it wrapped?”

  Zen leaned in, eyes glittering. “Kylar,” he said softly, dangerously sweet, “why do you have wrapped soap.”

  Kylar backed away and bumped the wall. He stared at it like it had betrayed him. “It was in my bag.”

  “That’s not an answer,” Zen said, delighted. “That’s a confession.”

  Kurt looked away, suddenly realizing they’d cornered a prince in the bathhouse. “So… a gift?” he asked.

  Kylar’s jaw tightened. “In a way.”

  Zen clicked his tongue. “So. A gift.”

  Darius watched Kylar’s ears go faintly pink at the edges. “It’s hers,” he said.

  Kylar’s eyes cut to him.

  Darius nodded at the soap. “The princess.”

  Kurt made a small sound of realization. “She put it in your bag.”

  Zen’s grin turned feral. “She put gifts in your bag,” he sang under his breath. “He’s being moisturized by royalty.”

  Kylar scrubbed a hand down his face, water splashing. “We made soap in Brindlecross,” he said. “She sold them.”

  Zen nodded with grave sincerity. “Yes. You made artisan soap together. She blessed you with it. Made by her own hands.”

  Kurt leaned closer, genuinely curious now. “What does it smell like?”

  Kylar hesitated.

  That hesitation was fatal.

  Zen reached for the bag like a pickpocket with a death wish.

  Kylar caught his wrist without looking. Effortless. A clamp that said: I could drop you on the floor if I wanted.

  Zen froze, then looked down at Kylar’s grip. “There he is,” he whispered, impressed. “The true Kylar.”

  Darius laughed quietly. “You know he doesn’t like people going through his stuff.”

  Zen didn’t pull away. He flashed a grin. “I’m not afraid of him.”

  Kurt muttered, “You should be.”

  They all looked at him.

  Kurt lifted both hands, awkward. “Because it was her gift. And she might hurt you.” He wiggled his fingers. “Zap.”

  Zen finally eased his hand back. “Fine. Fine. I’ll ask like a civilized person.” He turned his most innocent eyes on Kylar. “May the common soldiers share the princess’s holy soap?”

  Kylar stared at him for a long moment, expression flat.

  Then he reached into the bag and pulled out a bar wrapped in thin cloth and twine and handed it over.

  Zen opened it like it was scripture. Pale soap, flecked with something green and gold. Even through steam it smelled faintly of mint and honey.

  Kurt’s eyes went wide. “That’s real mint.”

  Zen inhaled like he’d found religion. “That’s not regret,” he whispered. “That’s… comfort.”

  Darius held out his hand. “If I die smelling like fort soap, I’m haunting all of you.”

  Kylar made a sound that might have been a laugh if he allowed himself such weakness and tossed another bar to Darius.

  Darius caught it like it was a weapon, sniffed once, then his eyes closed briefly. His shoulders dropped a fraction.

  “Oh,” he said, quietly betrayed by joy. “That’s pine.”

  Zen lunged for it.

  Darius slapped his hand away. “No.”

  Zen gaped. “You can’t hoard.”

  Darius tilted his head. “Watch me. You have the mint one.”

  Kurt hovered, still shy, still fascinated. “Are there more,” he asked, then cleared his throat. “Do I… do I get one?”

  Kylar looked at him. Really looked at him.

  Kurt stood there dripping, hair plastered to his forehead, trying to act like he hadn’t just asked for something weirdly intimate.

  Kylar sighed, long-suffering, and reached into the bag again.

  He didn’t toss the third bar.

  He handed it to Kurt.

  Kurt took it with both hands like it was fragile. “Thank you,” he said earnestly.

  Kylar nodded once, then muttered, “I hate all of you.”

  Darius turned the pine bar over in his hand. “So she picked mint and honey and pine for you.”

  Kylar pretended not to hear and kept washing.

  Zen lathered the soap between his palms and sighed like a poet. “She picked this because she’s kind.”

  Darius looked at Kylar, voice calm and pointed. “She picked this because she knows you.”

  Kylar’s throat worked once. “She picked it because we smelled like blood.”

  Zen leaned closer, relentless. “And because she likes you.”

  Kylar’s gaze flicked to Zen, warning sharp enough to cut.

  Zen held up both hands, foam dripping. “What. I’m being factual.”

  Kurt mumbled, scrubbing carefully at the bruise staining his ribs, “It does smell nice.”

  Darius huffed. “It smells like someone cares.”

  Silence dropped for half a second, heavy in the steam.

  Kylar broke it. “Don’t,” he said flatly.

  Zen grinned. “Don’t what.”

  Kylar’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make this a thing.”

  Zen stepped closer, dripping audacity. “Too late. It’s a thing. You’re getting dates. You’re getting artisan soap. Next you’ll be wearing matching colors.”

  Kylar shut the water off and reached for a towel like it was an escape rope. “I’m not getting dates.”

  Darius raised an eyebrow. “You just offered to take her shopping.”

  Kylar stared at him.

  Darius’s face stayed innocent. “Sounds like a date.”

  Kurt, quietly helpful and therefore dangerous, added, “She said it sounded like a date.”

  Kylar looked like he wanted to sink into the drain.

  Zen, smelling weakness, pounced. “Prince Dato,” he announced, scrubbing his hair with dramatic enthusiasm, “do you require manly tips for your upcoming date?”

  Kylar’s eyes went deadly. “No.”

  Zen nodded sagely. “Good. Step one: do not look like you want to kill anyone who looks at her.”

  Kylar’s mouth tightened. “Unreasonable.”

  Zen barreled on. “Step two: compliment her in a way that isn’t ‘you didn’t die today.’”

  Darius snorted. Kurt laughed, a quiet puff of sound.

  Zen cleared his throat like he’d nearly gotten sincere and hated it. “Fine. Here’s my advice, free of charge.”

  Kylar didn’t respond.

  Zen held up one finger. “Be kind to her.”

  Kylar blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity.

  Zen held up a second finger. “Be honest. Not stupid honest. You’re a prince. But honest.”

  Kylar’s expression softened, just a fraction.

  Zen held up a third finger. “And stop acting like you have to earn the right to breathe near her.”

  Kylar’s jaw shifted like the words hit something tender.

  Darius watched him, quieter now. Kurt watched too.

  Zen snapped back to humor like a man grabbing a shield. “Also, if you bring her flowers, do not steal them from a graveyard. Very important.”

  Kylar’s mouth twitched. “Noted.”

  Kurt, still holding his soap like it was sacred, ventured, “What if she brings him flowers.”

  Zen’s eyes widened. “Then he’s doomed.”

  Darius chuckled. “He’s already doomed.”

  Kylar stared at the steam and said, quietly, “She’s done that already.”

  For a moment, the only sound was water and breathing and the distant hum of the fort beyond the walls.

  Darius chuckled. “Sounds like you need to take her on a good date, Ky. She’s given you a shoulder, soap, and flowers. You’re behind.”

  Kurt shrugged, rinsing off. “He said he’d do her traditions. The hundreds-of-suitors thing.”

  There was a soft thud.

  They looked over to see Kylar’s forehead resting against the wall.

  Zen smirked fondly toward him. “We should probably talk about the possibility of that happening. You need a game plan if it comes to be.”

  Kylar glanced over his shoulder at them. “We can plan later.”

  He toweled off with quick efficiency, already shifting back into duty. “I need to talk to Damon and Jayce.” He paused, then added dryly, “And probably get punched by Rush.”

  With that, he left them in the steam, the scent of mint and honey lingering like proof that someone had cared enough to bring comfort into a war-road world.