Chapter 6

  River felt it: they were close. The last day of carriage travel had begun. He wasn’t here for the city. He wasn’t even here for himself. He needed to save the people he loved. First, survive the Court and keep the Council from labeling him a “killer”.

  William, already in arrival mode, barked orders through the window as the wheels ground along the gravel.

  River couldn’t see much, so he scanned the road ahead. There it was: a knot of bodies pressed too tight together, footsteps layered—walking, running, shouting. Bustling, exactly as he remembered.

  Amalia noticed. She leaned in, concern softening her face. “Are you okay?”

  River forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just… bad memories of this place.”

  He hadn’t told them about Norvil, not really. Not the hunger, the alleys, the constant razor-edge of staying alive. That was the last secret he held. He wasn’t ready yet to reveal it.

  “I’ve never been to the capital,” Albert offered, trying for light. “I’ve heard it’s magnificent.”

  River scoffed before he could stop himself, and silence followed. Wary looks. William either missed it or chose to. He glanced back with a smirk. “Best place in the kingdom, if you ask me. Might be a little biased—being royalty and all.”

  As the carriage neared Norvil’s towering gates, River leaned to the window, drawing Calira instinctively closer. Outside, a long line of farmers and traders stretched down the dusty road—carts piled high, children asleep on shoulders, baskets balanced on heads. Guards drifted past, checking permits with bored efficiency.

  They rolled past the entire queue. No slowing. The city gates creaked open as if on cue.

  So this was royal privilege. No inspections. No waiting. No questions.

  Noise engulfed them the moment they crossed through. Market barkers shouting over each other, boots snapping against cobblestone, the far ring of a smith’s hammer. The same chaotic hum that had once been his lullaby. Faces turned as they passed deeper into the capital. Heads tilted. Fingers pointed. Whispers trailed the carriage like smoke. They recognized the wards on the door. They knew who was inside: William.

  These streets gleamed: polished stone, trimmed hedges. Uniformed guards at every corner. Buildings scrubbed to a shine. A part of Norvil River had only ever skimmed—once, when Lud had dragged him beyond the walls. He had never belonged to this part of the city.

  He never would, but as the avenue curved upward, River sat taller, straining to see over the roofs. There—a jagged rooftop above the merchant stalls. Crooked shingles, a rusted chimney. His chest tightened. He knew it. He’d used that perch to watch the main road on the opposite side. The memory cut clean and deep. The carriage didn’t slow. In seconds it was gone, swallowed by elegant fa?ades. River looked away.

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  The cobbles trembled with the rhythm hed known underfoot as a child. Only now the rhythm beat under wheels, not skin. This wasn’t the return he’d imagined. Truth be told, he’d never imagined returning at all. Five carriages. The crowd pressed in, River shuddered beneath their prying eyes.

  Then, without warning, the carriage swerved left, away from the main avenue. Instead of sinking into the market crush, they climbed. Wheels creaked over a road carved into the mountain—the path to the upper city. A place River had never pictured himself seeing. A place whispered about in the shadows below. They passed a high steel gate, ornate bars flanked by silver-plated guards. No questions; no glance inside. Recognized at once. Waved through.

  With each bend, the city changed. The air cooled, thinned. Smoke and sweat unraveled into hints of jasmine and citrus. The stone itself caught the sun and scattered it like glass. The road climbed; the air cooled as jasmine rode the wind and the stink of filth thinned. They crested the last ridge and rolled onto a wide plateau. River turned to the other window—and gasped.

  Norvil sprawled beneath them, gleaming in afternoon light. Lower roofs tiled red and slate, stitched like a mosaic. Farther out, the ocean lay bright and impossibly still. Rivers split the districts into silver threads. From here, it looked peaceful. Beautiful, even.

  He almost believed it. Then the carriage turned through a wrought-iron gate into an estate. House was the wrong word.

  The building ahead made the academy look modest—two long wings bracketing a central hall of marble columns and arched windows. The garden spread like a private park: blossoming trees, clipped hedges, a broad stone fountain shaped like a phoenix. Everywhere, people moved with quiet precision—groundskeepers pruning, maids even armored guards pacing in pairs.

  River hadn’t yet grasped the scale of it when the carriage door clicked open.

  A maid waited there. Polished shoes, dark dress, hair braided neatly.

  “My lords,” she said, bowing. Soft voice, precise. William leaned forward. “Please help them find their rooms,” he told her, then shot Amalia a familiar smirk. “I assume you remember the way. Even if it’s been a while.”

  Amalia shrugged, a crooked smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I’ll manage.”

  The maid’s eyes slid to River and paused for a heartbeat. His gaze still held a faint shimmer, the iridescence of magic not fully masked. It unsettled her. He sensed it, and with a quick thought slid his magic behind the familiar wall. She smoothed her fear and moved on. “My name is Isabel,” she said, stepping aside. “Please follow me, sir.”

  River stood, blinking against the courtyard light. “I’m River. Thank you.”

  Behind him, Albert’s voice warmed the air as he introduced himself to another attendant—of course he would be friendly, would adjust without friction. He was used to this world. River felt like a fish trying to fly. Everything here was unfamiliar, gilded, wrong. Not just that he didn’t belong—no; it was as if each tile and manicured flower had been designed to put him out of place.

  Inside, his breath hitched. Marble floors flowed beneath his boots, cool and gleaming. Carved pillars rose like stone trunks. The ceiling soared so high the patterns blurred. A spiral staircase curled upward, a ribbon of stone, and doors lined the corridor like sentinels keeping watch. Don’t gape, he told himself. Follow Isabel, you can explore later.

  They climbed and walked—forever, it seemed—past at least ten doors before Isabel finally stopped and opened one.

  “This will be your room,” she said.

  River stepped in—and froze.

  Bigger than Margirith’s entire inn. A sleeping alcove, a study with shelves and a desk, a wardrobe room, and a bath straight out of a palace. Too much. Far too much.

  Isabel spoke; he caught only the tail end. “…to your liking, sir?”

  He nodded, vague. She bowed and slipped away, leaving him alone in the cavernous quiet. River plopped into a chair, and stared at nothing. His thoughts running wild still refused to land.

  What the hell was this?

  The games had begun, and River wasn’t sure he was ready. Not remotely.