Lantern light pooled softly across the ceiling beams, painting the little inn room in shades of gold. Outside, the street murmured — a cartwheel squeaked, muffled laughter drifted up from below, and somewhere a cat knocked over a bucket, earning a sharp hiss in return.

  Roland lay on his back, arms folded loosely behind his head, watching the way the light swayed with every faint draft. The room was warm, carrying the lingering sweetness of cinnamon and sugar from the festival streets.

  It had been weeks since they first arrived, and life had… slowed. For the first time since waking in this world, nothing was urgent. No expectations, no ceremonies, no lessons carved into strict schedules. Days slipped by easily: mornings spent wandering crowded markets, afternoons trying unfamiliar food, evenings listening to street performers while Anastasia dragged him from one ridiculous stall to the next.

  He’d learned shortcuts through the alleys, memorized which bakers had the softest bread, and figured out when the riverboats arrived by the rhythm of the hawkers’ shouts. Nights came without worry, sleep taking him quickly, leaving him to wake rested and light.

  Across the hall, a muffled thud broke the quiet — Anastasia, insisting for a sleepover and falling asleep first, is probably the one kicking her blankets again. Flora’s laughter from dinner still lingered faintly in his ears, soft and warm. Soliana had managed four words tonight, which was… progress, if you counted them carefully. Leon had eaten silently, like always, but Roland knew better than to mistake silence for calm.

  He closed his eyes, letting the quiet hum of the inn settle over him.

  This version of life — where knowing less meant worrying less — was nice. Safer. Easier. He let his thoughts drift, unspooling slowly, until they landed on the memory of the golden field. The dream butterfly, just out of reach. Anastasia’s laugh ringing in the air. The way her eyes caught the sun and turned it into a color he didn’t have a name for.

  There was something inside him when he thought about that moment — warm, strange, unfamiliar. It didn’t feel like duty, or pride, or the weight of a crown he’d never wanted. It was softer. Lighter.

  Maybe he’d find the right word for it someday.

  For now, Roland turned his face into the pillow, a quiet smile pulling at his lips without his permission. Sleep came easily, like it had been waiting for him.

  ***

  Flora quietly pushed the door open, finding Leon already seated at a small wooden table, arms folded. He didn’t look up immediately, just nodded slightly toward the chair across from him.

  “Thanks for coming,” Leon said. His tone was calm, but Flora heard the edge under it.

  “You sounded serious,” she replied, closing the door behind her.

  “It is,” Leon said simply.

  “Not that serious,” came another voice from the corner.

  Flora turned — and blinked when she saw Geralt leaning casually against the wall, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty mug of ale in his hand.

  “You again,” Flora said, raising a brow. “Anastasia’s father.”

  “That’s one way to put it.” Geralt smiled lazily. “Geralt. Nice to meet you — properly, this time.”

  Leon let out a quiet sigh. “Flora, he’s not just her father. He’s…” He hesitated, then finished, “Geralt is the king of Reina.”

  Flora froze, staring at Geralt. “…Excuse me?”

  Geralt grinned. “Surprise.”

  She blinked at him, processing. “So, the King of Reina… sneaks out of his own kingdom… just to play ring toss?.....And steal our breakfast?”

  “I borrowed your breakfast,” he said, perfectly straight-faced. “And yes, also that.”

  Leon rubbed his temple. “This isn’t a joke, Geralt.”

  “I know,” Geralt said, his tone softening. He set the mug down and leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. “I’m here because Dante sent for help.”

  That made Flora’s breath catch. “…Roland’s father?”

  Leon nodded. “He sent a coded message. The kind he only uses when it can’t go through official channels.”

  Flora frowned, her voice low. “…What happened?”

  Geralt’s expression shifted — less king, less father, more old adventurer who’d seen too many hunts. “Something slipped out of the Forbidden Lands. Just one thing… but dangerous enough that Dante called me in.”

  Flora frowned. “An undead?”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Geralt nodded once. “Probably. You know how it is near the border — unlike the weak ones that appear in Inferna, this one is a threat.”

  Leon’s jaw tightened. “Strong enough that Dante couldn’t deal with on his own?”

  “Strong enough that it breached the formation that kept everything else at bay.” Geralt said. “Its definitely injured, but its still powerful nonetheless.”

  Flora’s hands tightened around the edge of the chair. “And you… volunteered?”

  Geralt smirked faintly. “More like I made sure I was the only one who knew about it.”

  Leon crossed his arms, eyes narrowing slightly. “So you came here knowing it was dangerous.”

  “Yeah,” Geralt admitted. “But listen — the plan hasn’t changed. I escort all of you back to Inferna first, make sure you’re inside the walls. Then I leave and track the thing down.”

  Flora shook her head sharply. “Then we leave tonight. Soliana, Roland, everyone — we go now.”

  Leon raised a hand calmly. “That’s exactly what we don’t do.”

  Flora turned to him, startled. “What? Leon—”

  “If we bolt in the middle of the night,” Leon said evenly, “It’ll draw attention. The wrong kind of attention. We’ll make ourselves a target if we act like one. Best case scenario is we get delayed even more.”

  Geralt nodded in agreement. “He’s right. Walk out in daylight. Look calm. Pretend you’re just heading home early from a festival. Safer that way.”

  Flora hesitated, glancing toward the stairs where Soliana slept. “And if it comes for us before then?”

  “It won’t,” Leon said firmly.

  “You sound awfully sure of that.”

  “Because if this thing was after Roland,” Leon replied, voice level, “Dante wouldn’t have called him.” He tilted his chin toward Geralt. “He’d have traveled back home himself.”

  Geralt gave a quiet chuckle, sipping the last of his ale. “Instead, he called me. Means this isn’t about the boy.”

  Flora’s jaw clenched. “…It could be if we don’t leave now.” she whispered softly.

  Leon leaned forward slightly. “That’s why we don’t panic. We take Roland, Soliana, and Anastasia straight to Inferna. Keep their identities hidden, keep them close. After that…” He glanced at Geralt. “He does what he does best.”

  “Finally, something we agree on,” Geralt said, resting back in his chair. “And don’t worry, Flora. I’ll keep an eye on my kid too.”

  “Only Anastasia?” Flora asked.

  Geralt smirked. “And Soliana.”

  Flora shot him a flat look. “Not funny.”

  He raised both hands in mock surrender. “Point taken.”

  Leon exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders softening just slightly. “We leave at dawn. No secrecy. No sudden moves. We blend into the crowd and disappear.”

  Flora’s gaze lingered on the door again. “And if something happens on the road?”

  Geralt leaned forward, his voice steady and quiet now. “I’ll handle it. That’s why Dante called me. Don’t worry — I dont fail.”

  Flora was silent for a long moment, then finally nodded. “…Fine. Tomorrow.”

  Geralt smiled faintly, leaning back again. “Good. Now, somebody get me a better drink. This ale’s awful.”

  Flora managed a tired laugh despite herself. “In the morning,” she said, standing. “For now, I want to check on Soliana.”

  Leon gave her a small nod. “We’ll keep watch.”

  Geralt stretched, cracking his shoulders as he stood. “Try to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

  ***

  The sun hadn’t fully risen when the group gathered outside the inn. The festival streets were quiet now, yesterday’s laughter replaced with the soft shuffle of vendors clearing stalls and the caw of distant birds.

  Roland rubbed his eyes, still waking, while Anastasia yawned loudly enough to scare a passing cat. Soliana clung to Flora’s sleeve, blinking sleepily.

  Geralt leaned against the carriage, arms crossed, looking far too awake for someone who’d been drinking last night. Leon stood a few feet away, scanning the street with sharp, deliberate movements.

  Flora broke the silence first. “I still don’t like this,” she murmured, adjusting Soliana’s cloak.

  Leon glanced at her briefly. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to trust me.”

  “That’s not comforting,” Flora replied flatly.

  Geralt smirked, tilting his head toward her. “He means: act normal, don’t draw attention, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

  “Is that your professional advice?” Flora asked, giving him a pointed look.

  Geralt chuckled under his breath. “Nope. That’s the old adventurer in me talking.”

  Anastasia, still half-asleep, raised a hand lazily. “Can we… not walk? Please tell me we’re taking a carriage.”

  “We are,” Leon confirmed, gesturing toward the covered wagon behind him. “Three days to Inferna, assuming nothing slows us down.”

  Roland frowned slightly. “Three days?”

  Geralt stretched, cracking his neck. “Fastest route’s through the eastern path. Safer, fewer checkpoints.”

  Flora shot him a wary glance. “Safer how?”

  Geralt shrugged. “Less patrols, less attention. And fewer people noticing we’re traveling with a prince.”

  Roland stiffened, lowering his gaze. How did Geralt know that? He pushed the thought aside before it showed on his face

  Leon immediately stepped in, his voice firm. “Keep that quiet, Geralt.”

  Geralt raised both hands lazily. “Relax. Nobody here knew who he is. It’s festival season — everyone’s too busy nursing hangovers to spy on anyone.”

  Anastasia perked up slightly, leaning against the wagon. “Hey, what’s with all the whispering? Was it the spill yesterday? I swear it was Roland!”

  Leon ignored her entirely. “Roland, you’ll stay close to me at all times. Same for you, Anastasia. No wandering.”

  Anastasia blinked innocently. “…Define wandering.”

  “Anything more than five paces away,” Leon deadpanned.

  “What?! Why?!.”

  “That’s the rule.”

  She pouted, muttering something under her breath about tyrants. Roland hid a small smile behind his hand.

  Flora finally spoke up again, her voice quieter this time. “Once we reach Inferna… what then?”

  Geralt glanced at Leon, then answered for him. “You and the kids stay inside the capital walls. Keep your heads down. I’ll… deal with the other thing.”

  Flora frowned. “The undead.”

  Leon glanced around quickly, lowering his voice. “Keep that word down. We don’t know who’s listening.”

  Geralt rested a hand on the hilt of his blade — casual, but deliberate. “Relax. It’s my problem, not theirs. By the time anything reaches Inferna, I’ll have handled it.”

  Roland looked up at him, brow furrowed. “…Handled what now?”

  Geralt smiled faintly, as if that question didn’t deserve an answer. “Don’t worry about it, kid.”

  Leon finally stepped forward, his voice firm enough to cut through any lingering unease. “Alright. We leave now. No delays, no detours. The sooner we reach Inferna, the safer everyone is.”

  Geralt gave him a two-finger salute. “After you, captain.”

  Leon didn’t bother dignifying it with a reply, instead climbing into the front seat of the wagon. Flora helped Soliana up, Anastasia bounded in after her, and Roland followed quietly, settling between them.

  Geralt climbed up last, taking the rear guard position with easy confidence.

  As the wheels began to roll and the festival slowly disappeared behind them, the cheerful chaos of yesterday faded into quiet tension. No one said it aloud, but they all felt it.