The sky above Vartis shimmered pale and clear, already warm despite the hour. Morning sun soaked the palace walls in a golden haze, gilding every stone and slanting through the high arches of the eastern court. There was no breeze — only the sharp cry of a gull, distant and disinterested, and the shuffle of boots across the paving stones as the last trunk was loaded into the carriage.

  Fran stood with arms folded, eyes on the horizon, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Not in Virevale — not yet — but still tangled in parchment, ink, and the echo of courtroom oaths.

  Two days ago, the council had received word: the trials were suspended until the end of the season. Months. She should have felt relieved — grateful even — for the pause. But she wasn’t. Justice delayed always came with a bitter taste. Lawyers, witnesses, appeals, judges, scribes, protocol — how could anything so urgent move so slowly?

  And even with the trials adjourned, the duchy didn’t pause. There were letters to answer. Councillors to appoint. A thousand small crises to monitor, and all of them could ripen into disaster. Could Rhyve and Thalyra manage things alone? Of course they could. Hadn’t they done it before, in Alric’s time? But still… she didn’t like leaving. Not like this. Not without knowing exactly what would bloom in her absence.

  The moment of doubt was interrupted by a loud clatter and the unmistakable sound of a cage tipping over.

  “Rudy,” Fran muttered.

  The furry criminal in question had nosed open the latch and was now making a triumphant escape toward the garden. Or so he believed. Two steps out of the cage, he paused, sniffed the air — and then wheeled back with unnatural speed when Silja waved a strip of dried chicken like a holy relic.

  The cat was back in the cage and happily chewing before guilt even had the chance to flick his tail.

  “His loyalty lies with poultry,” Fran murmured.

  Nymph, ever composed, received her share without fuss and took up her usual sulking post in the far corner of the carrier.

  Silja dusted her hands. “And Master Dekarios?”

  Fran didn’t answer. Not aloud.

  He had been awake. With her. In her bedroom. Doing exactly what he always seemed so eager to do when sleep was no longer an option and morning light filtered through the curtains like a challenge.

  She had slipped out after. Left him tangled in linen and smugness, murmuring something about packing his bags. She had rolled her eyes. He had grinned — one of those slow, infuriating grins that meant he was not going to hurry. She should have known better.

  Fran muttered something that would have made a Thirel dockhand cross himself and knock back another drink.

  Then, as if summoned by profanity, he arrived.

  Fresh. Cheerful. Whistling.

  And loaded down like a merchant crossing the Ilvarra.

  Fran turned, slowly, arms still folded. “What in the seven hells is in all of that?”

  “Essentials,” Gale said brightly, as he dropped the first overstuffed satchel near the carriage step. “Food. Tools. A few provisions. Oh — books. And herbs. And spices. And a backup kettle. And perhaps… a few comforts.”

  “You’ve packed enough to provision a siege.”

  “Well, I am traveling to a forgotten estate in the middle of nowhere, with a duchess of unpredictable temperament and two feline demigods. I plan to survive.”

  She narrowed her eyes at the bundle of boots, the satchel clinking suspiciously, and what appeared to be a small metal cooking grate.

  “Is that… a comb?”

  He straightened, innocent as spring. “A man must maintain a standard.”

  “You’ve never used a comb.”

  “Perhaps I’m evolving.”

  “Unsufferable.”

  With a flick of his fingers and a muttered word, Gale cast a quick spell. The luggage rose obediently into the air and arranged itself — neatly and impossibly — inside the carriage trunk. Nymph gave a displeased meow. Rudy had already fallen asleep.

  Silja handed Fran her cloak and gave a respectful nod. Then, with a touch of hesitation, she cast one last glance at the palace.

  Fran remained still for a moment.

  She didn’t look back.

  Not because she lacked doubts — but because she already knew what waited behind her: the stack of unread letters, the pile of unsigned decrees, the endless line of decisions she hadn’t yet made. She could feel it pressing at her back like a stack of grimy papers on a desk far too clean.

  She sighed.

  “Well. If the palace catches fire, tell Rhyve to save the archive. And the cat bowls.”

  Then she climbed into the carriage, not bothering to wait for a response.

  The carriage lurched forward, wheels clicking over the cobblestones as they passed through the eastern gate beneath a sky already rising fast and hot.

  They were off.

  Toward Virevale.

  Toward Veltryn House.

  Toward whatever the dead had left for the living to find.

  Hopefully, not just bad poetry and erotic correspondence.

  The road northward unfolded like a lazy ribbon through the hills, flanked by fields gone tall and golden in the early height of summer. Dust curled beneath the wheels of the carriage, and above, the sun lazed in a near-cloudless sky — too proud to move quickly, too stubborn to soften. The hours passed slow and heavy, made longer by the lull of wind in the trees and the occasional, dry chirp of birds retreating to shade.

  Fran had stopped checking her papers around noon. There were none, of course — she had brought no ledgers, no letters, no scrolls to revise on the road, which in itself was a small miracle. Now, her fingers toyed with the hem of her sleeve as she leaned against the window, chin in hand, watching trees blur past. Her boots were off, her braid had come loose, and Nymph had claimed her lap with the entitlement of a deity.

  Rudy, meanwhile, glared balefully from his cage with a look that promised rebellion. Again.

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  “You’re taking another wrong turn,” Fran called.

  “I am not,” came Gale’s voice from the front, annoyingly cheerful.

  “We passed that same leaning tree ten minutes ago.”

  “You mean the one shaped like a disgraced bishop?”

  “I mean the one shaped like a—” she paused, squinted at the landscape, and smirked. “Never mind. But don’t pretend you’re not lost.”

  “I am not lost,” he said firmly. “I consulted a map.”

  “Hopefully not one that leads into the desert.”

  A beat.

  Then, from beyond the window, that familiar voice, low and gleeful: “Your thighs’ map.”

  Fran’s head thunked lightly against the carriage wall.

  She didn’t even elbow him this time. Just closed her eyes and muttered, “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “No, no. I’m the terrible mistake. You just have questionable taste.”

  She was still smiling when the carriage lurched forward. Trees thinned to meadows, and the sky began to turn. The long afternoon was finally softening into something golden and generous, and in the distance, framed by the curve of a slope and the slow roll of dusk, stood a squat building with crooked shutters and a sign swaying lazily in the breeze.

  Fran leaned out, narrowed her eyes. The inn sat just across the bend, a mere mile or less — warm light in the windows, a flicker of fire smoke rising from the chimney.

  “The Dragon’s Gate Inn?” she asked, squinting harder. “We’re not stopping there?”

  “Absolutely not,” Gale replied.

  She arched a brow. “You’d rather sleep in a clearing?”

  “That place is a hive of lunatics,” he declared. “One of them once offered me a crystal that ‘whispers to vegetables’. Another insisted my soul was too loud. And don’t get me started on the bard.”

  “There’s always a bard,” she said.

  “There’s always a bard who thinks the ghosts are in love with him. Also, the stew gave me hallucinations. Or maybe that was the bard. Either way, we’re not staying.”

  “So, instead, you’re kidnapping me into the wilderness.”

  “I thought you might enjoy some fresh air. Trees. Birds. Me.”

  “You mean I get to sleep on damp grass and be eaten alive by bugs?”

  “Romantic, isn’t it?”

  She gave a long, theatrical sigh. “If this is some ploy to get me horizontal under a canopy of leaves, you’re going to need a better strategy.”

  “Oh, I have one.”

  He turned the carriage off the road, and the forest swallowed them.

  Their campsite wasn’t majestic — no glade of wonders or enchanted waterfall, just a gentle slope nestled between birch and oak, soft underfoot, shaded by low branches. But it was clean, dry, and quiet, and the trees filtered the dying light into something close to peace.

  Fran sat on the edge of a conjured blanket, arms crossed, watching him work.

  “You really insisted on camping just to avoid a haunted stew?”

  “That, and the allure of open skies,” Gale replied, utterly absorbed in arranging stones around a glowing heatless orb. “Also, it reminds me of my adventuring days. Simpler times. I traveled with a bard and another mage once.”

  “Let me guess — the bard fell in love with you?”

  “No, but the mage did.”

  “And the bard?”

  “Fell in love with himself.”

  Fran let out a breath, not quite a laugh, and shifted her weight. “I still think we should’ve stopped. I could be in a real bed right now. With pillows.”

  “There are pillows,” he said, gesturing grandly toward a neat stack of them, wrapped in linen and charmed against damp.

  “Feathers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Clean?”

  “...Mostly.”

  She gave him a look.

  He grinned and turned away, sleeves already rolled up, hands busy at a small wooden crate. “You’ll change your mind once you see what I’ve brought.”

  “What, wine and apologies?”

  “No. Dinner.”

  It began with the scent.

  Not the usual smell of travel food — dry bread, cured meats, stale cheese — but something warmer, richer. Garlic and sage, rosemary and lemon, slow heat and something faintly spiced. Fran blinked and sat straighter as the aroma drifted toward her. Rudy, once sulking under the blanket, emerged and stood tall with twitching whiskers. Even Nymph, ever dignified, raised her head.

  Gale, sleeves halfway up his forearms, hair pinned messily back with a spare bit of twine, stood over a polished skillet as though it were a sacred relic. He moved with care, adding herbs by hand, stirring with rhythm, occasionally tasting and muttering about texture and balance.

  “What are you doing?” Fran asked, half appalled, half hypnotized.

  “Cooking.”

  “You’re a mage.”

  “I’m also a man of culture.”

  “You’ve never cooked in front of me.”

  “I didn’t want to outshine your… stew.”

  She threw a pine cone at him. He caught it.

  “You brought plates?” she asked, as he revealed two wide ceramic dishes, surprisingly intact after the journey.

  “Of course I brought plates.”

  “And a pan.”

  “And seasoning. And spices. And a grater. I may have overpacked.”

  “You brought more luggage than me.”

  “Because I planned to seduce you properly.”

  She stared as he plated two servings — one of roasted poultry soaked in white wine and herbs, paired with a light rice dish dotted with sun-dried tomatoes; the other, a simple but elegant fish filet dressed in citrus and rosemary.

  Fran accepted the dish like a starving woman handed a crown.

  She took one bite, paused, and let out a helpless sound.

  “I told you,” Gale said smugly.

  “This is unfair.”

  “I’m very good at many things.”

  “You’re insufferable.”

  He gave her a wink, raised his fork, and took a bite of his own — then fed Rudy a morsel without looking.

  They ate under the trees, while the sun slipped away and the stars crept out one by one. The forest hummed gently around them. Distant owls, rustling leaves, the occasional spark of fireflies between branches. Nymph curled by Fran’s side, purring. Rudy settled beside Gale, full and resigned.

  Fran leaned back, her body warm and satisfied in a way that had nothing to do with politics or strategy.

  “Well?” Gale asked.

  “I might forgive you for the wrong turns.”

  He leaned over, pressed his shoulder lightly to hers. “Then tonight’s already a victory.”

  She didn’t kiss him — not yet — but she looked at him with a certain softness in her eyes, and that was almost more dangerous.

  Tomorrow, they would arrive.

  But tonight was theirs.

  And she was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, love under the stars wasn’t such a foolish thing after all.

  The morning was crisp, the air clean, the forest birds entirely too cheerful. Somewhere in the trees, a warbler trilled a bright little tune. It was immediately echoed—off-key—by Master Dekarios, who whistled as he rode.

  Fran, seated in the carriage with a cushion strategically placed beneath her, watched him from the window with a mix of awe, irritation, and the deep, slow ache of consequence.

  He was glowing. Truly. His hair was a mess, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his posture that of a man who had thoroughly conquered the night and had breakfasted on the spoils. Which, to be fair, he had prepared himself—deliciously.

  She, on the other hand, was limping. Not that he would see it. Her gait from the makeshift campsite to the carriage had been a performance worthy of the stage: upright, composed, just a touch leisurely. No hint of bruises in places no duchess should bruise. No winces when sitting. Certainly no admission that sleeping on the grass had left her spine feeling like a snapped quill.

  “Did I mention,” came Gale’s voice from the driver’s seat, “that your hair looks particularly radiant this morning, Dove?”

  Fran closed her eyes. There it is again.

  “And I do mean radiant. Like starlight. Or firelight. Or—”

  “If you call me ‘Dove’ one more time,” she interrupted coldly, “I will use your full honorary title.”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “Which is?” he asked, far too delighted.

  She leaned slightly toward the window, voice like a knife dipped in silk.

  “Archmage Portashaft the Unclothed.”

  The carriage swerved.

  The horses neighed.

  Nymph shrieked.

  Rudy hissed.

  Fran clutched the window frame, hoping they wouldn’t crash into the oak right in front of them—when a violet shimmer danced around the wheels and gently slowed the vehicle. Gale’s magic caught them all just before the whole thing tipped into the roadside ditch.

  He was howling. Bent over, fists to the seat, shoulders shaking. Completely undone.

  “Oh gods,” he gasped. “Portashaft. That’s—that’s appalling. That’s—how has no one—”

  “You should ask your desert palace,” Fran muttered, straightening her skirts. “I believe it still remembers your shaft quite vividly.”

  “I was naked,” he wheezed. “It was one time!”

  Fran arched a brow. “One time too many. You’re lucky the palace didn’t press charges.”

  It took him nearly ten minutes to stop laughing. By the end of it, even the cats were offended. But Fran didn’t mind. She liked when he laughed like that—recklessly, unguarded, with that boyish, disbelieving joy as if the world had briefly allowed him to be young again.

  More importantly, she’d won. The smug little smile on her lips lasted until the trees began to thin and the overgrown stone road curled west—north, she corrected herself—toward the estate.

  Just before midday, they arrived.

  Veltryn House stood like a slumbering memory at the edge of the forest: vast and laced with ivy, with three wings curving gently around a long-abandoned courtyard. Time had pressed its weight upon the walls—windows grimed, roof tiles darkened, the front steps cracked by creeping weeds. Yet the bones of it were still proud. Still Elarion.

  Fran stepped down from the carriage, her boot crunching on gravel. The wind stirred faintly through the overgrowth, carrying the scent of stone, moss, and sun-warmed dust. For a long moment, she said nothing.

  Then, softly, “This is where it started.”

  Gale joined her, quiet now, eyes scanning the facade. “And where it ended.”

  She didn’t answer. Her gaze wandered up to the central arch—the one her mother once walked through. The one her father crossed, cradling her. The one Alric sealed behind a lie.

  Veltryn House loomed, heavy with memory. And still waiting.

  They crossed the threshold together.