The hallway was quieter than usual.
What's happening here?
Wha—
Nolan realized something was suddenly off as he looked at the newly appeared figure. He sensed the shift in the surrounding atmosphere. Birds chirping—gone. Noise from the nearby training hall—gone.
What's all this? Why can't I move? Why can't I speak?
The unknown figure moved, stepping toward Nolan neither rapidly nor leisurely. A dramatic drift. With each step, fear tightened slowly in Nolan's chest.
What is this feeling?
What happened to the guards standing near me?
Do they also not able to—
At each step of that figure, the environment grew quieter. Nolan's mind began to race.
I need to move!
I need to move!
His thoughts screamed, but his body refused. His legs were pillars. His arms hung at his sides like dead weights. He could not even swallow the saliva in his mouth.
The figure stopped. Close enough now that Nolan could see the dust on his traveling cloak. He looked down at Nolan. Nolan's eyes were not toward the figure's face, locked on his chest due to immobility.
"You are trying to speak, don't you?"
"But that doesn't matter. For now, I shall be the speaker and you the listener. And that's how my meeting goes."
"First of all, you might be happy because your father is still alive. But here is the catch: he is alive because we wanted him to be. The Emperor of the South isn't just a king; he is a strategic demon. He knows about the healer. He knows about the timing. He knows when to attack and where to attack."
"The actual point I came here is very simple. To let your humble, naive king know that the merchant who is the reason for your disappearance was the same one who injected the poison into the king."
The figure inserted his hands into his cloak, pulled out a sheet of paper, and threw it near Nolan. Then he turned back and walked away from him.
"It's just a matter of time before your kingdom falls. Give that to your father."
Nolan's blood pressure spiked. After entering here, threats about the fall of the kingdom were made directly to the prince.
I want to kill that lousy guy.
I want to!
Nolan could feel his fingers twitch. Yet he could not tilt his head or move his limbs. The figure simply jumped from the window. Nolan's hands remained tied.
After a few minutes, Nolan and the guards could move freely again. Nolan ran toward the window to look where the figure had gone. But what he saw shocked him. The figure had vanished, but—
What in the world is this?
The entire garden had become a tableau, a frozen stage where every player, bird, and beast had been arrested mid-motion. A sparrow hung in the air, wings half-folded. A gardener's shovel hovered an inch from the soil. A squirrel stood petrified on a branch.
Then, as if a puppeteer had snapped his fingers, the garden lurched back into life. The sparrow flew. The shovel struck the earth. The squirrel landed.
But Nolan stood frozen in a different way now.
He turned toward the place the figure had thrown the paper, bent down, and picked it up. His hands were steady, too steady. The trembling had been burned out of him by something worse than fear.
"Prince," one of the guards approached, his voice shaky. "What was— who was—"
"I will deliver this to the king myself. You just go back to your post. I, too, can't really say anything."
Nolan slipped the paper into his coat. He did not go to his father.
He walked the opposite direction, down a narrow corridor, past a tapestry that hid a servants' passage, and emerged in a small alcove near the eastern tower. No one followed. He had made sure of that.
He leaned against the wall and finally unfolded the paper.
The merchant's name is not important. What he sold was.
Below it, two lines in smaller, sharper script:
Location: The Rusted Lantern, Thornwood docks. Midnight. Three days hence.
Time does not wait. Neither should you.
Nolan read it once. Then again. He memorized the words, then tore the paper along its creases, folded the pieces, and tucked them into separate pockets.
He stood still for a moment, eyes closed. Thought about the figure's words and the script on the paper.
The same merchant who was supposed to help me escape. The same merchant who betrayed me. The same merchant who injected the poison.
Thornwood docks. Midnight. Three days.
So, this is how it is.
He found Commander Adric in the western training yard, alone, running a whetstone along the edge of a sword. The sound was rhythmic, hypnotic.
Adric did not look up as Nolan approached.
"Commander."
The whetstone paused. "Prince."
"I have a question."
Adric resumed sharpening. "Questions are cheap. Answers cost."
Nolan stood at the edge of the training mat, arms loose at his sides. "Is it wrong to kill at fifteen?"
The whetstone stopped again. This time, Adric looked up.
His eyes were the color of old iron. He studied Nolan for a long moment, not the way a man looks at a boy, but the way a soldier assesses a possible threat.
"You're asking the wrong question."
"Then what should I be asking?"
Adric set the sword down across his knees. "You should be asking whether you're ready to live with the memory of it. The killing is easy. It's the staying awake at night that gets harder."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have." Adric's gaze drifted to the horizon. "I killed my first man when I was sixteen. Just after capturing a bandit base, I was helping to collect the weapons when I saw a person crawling in vain. I tried to help a bandit by giving him water first, but then he tried to kill me. I had to cut his throat."
"It was painful for me, at night—"
"I know the location. The one responsible for the king's condition."
Adric's focus locked onto Nolan. "Where?"
"First promise: I, too, will be coming." Nolan's eyes held a cold fire. "But not to help as you have done. To kill that one."
"You might be traumatized."
"I am ready."
"You might regret it later."
"I am okay to bear it."
Adric exhaled. Then he rose from the bench and gestured toward the armoury door.
"Very well then. Come inside the camp. Let's speak about it."
Adric led him through the armoury, past racks of spears and barrels of arrows, into a small office at the back.
"Thornwood. Rusted Lantern."
Adric stared at him, hearing those words for some time.
"The town's not in good condition. Been bleeding ever since the border skirmishes started. Half the buildings are abandoned. The ones still standing are full of people who couldn't afford to leave." Adric spread a map across the desk and weighted the corners with daggers. "The Rusted Lantern is here. Dockside. Isolated."
Nolan studied the map. His finger traced the river. "Guards?"
"None worth mentioning. Thornwood's garrison was pulled to the front weeks ago. There's a local watch, but they don't patrol the docks after dark. Too dangerous. Too poor. No one pays them enough to care."
"Surveillance?"
"None. And that's the problem. Who gave the information? It could be a trap. Could be genuine. Could be both."
Nolan said nothing. His eyes stayed on the map.
"You're hiding something."
"I need to hide many things."
"Why do you really want to come?"
Nolan looked up with flat eyes. "Does it matter?"
"It matters if it gets you killed."
"It won't."
Adric held his gaze for a long moment. Then he sighed. "We leave at dusk. Small party. You, me, and four soldiers I trust with my life. We move fast, we hit fast, we leave fast."
"I go in first."
"Absolutely not."
"I go in first," Nolan repeated, "or I go alone."
Adric's hand curled into a fist on the desk. Then, slowly, it relaxed. "You're your father's son."
"That's not a compliment right now."
"It wasn't meant as one."
Third day. Midnight.
They rode in silence, six figures wrapped in dark cloaks, their horses' hooves muffled by the dirt track that ran parallel to the main road. Thornwood appeared at the edge of the treeline, a sprawl of low buildings, collapsed roofs, and chimneys that no longer smoked.
The Rusted Lantern sat at the far end of the dock, a crooked building of weathered wood and cracked glass. A single lamp hung above its door, its flame weak.
Azhura was half-climbed. A half-Azhura night. The blue light fell at an angle, painting half the dock in silver and leaving the rest in shadow.
Adric raised his fist. The column stopped.
"Scout ahead," he whispered to one of the soldiers. The man slipped from his horse and vanished into the dark.
Minutes passed. Then he returned.
"One man inside. Alone. Armed. He's waiting."
Nolan dismounted.
"Nolan—"
"I go first."
He walked toward the door.
The Rusted Lantern stank of stale beer. The floorboards groaned under Nolan's weight. At a table in the center of the room, a man sat alone. Thin, wiry, with a face that had been handsome once.
He looked up as Nolan entered. His eyes widened.
"You're—"
"Nolan, prince of Alanoria. The one you had linked with. The one you betrayed. The one whose father you poisoned."
The merchant's chair scraped backward. His face drained of color. He bolted.
The back door crashed open. He was fast, too fast for an old man. But Nolan didn't chase him. He didn't need to.
Soldiers emerged from the shadows on both sides. The merchant ran straight into Adric's chest.
The commander grabbed him by the collar, spun him around, and slammed him against the wall. Wood splintered.
"Please—please—I didn't—"
"Shut up."
They dragged him back inside. The merchant's legs gave out halfway. He knelt on the floor, trembling, his breath coming in wet, panicked gasps.
Adric crouched in front of him. "Start talking."
"I—I don't—"
Adric's hand shot out and grabbed the merchant's fingers. He bent one backward. Not enough to break. Enough to hurt.
The merchant gasped.
"I asked you to start talking. Not to think about whether you should." Adric's voice was calm. "I have four soldiers. Two of them are very skilled at getting people to talk. The other two are very good at cleaning up afterwards. You will talk to me now, or you will talk to them in pieces. Your choice."
The merchant's eyes darted to Nolan, to the door, to the floor. His chest heaved.
"Please—I was called here. The Southerners—they sent word. A meeting. Tonight."
Adric's expression flickered. "The Southerners called you here? To Thornwood? Now?"
"Yes. Yes. I swear. I was supposed to meet a contact. Someone from the Emperor's inner circle. They said they had a new assignment for me."
"The contact. Where are they?"
"I don't know. They didn't say. They just told me to wait. To be ready. That someone would come for me."
Nolan stepped forward. "No one is coming for you."
The merchant's eyes darted around the room, searching for an exit. His hand, hidden beneath the table, closed around something.
Adric didn't see it.
Nolan did.
"Echo Sense," he whispered.
Then he saw the merchant's intent as pressure. A sharp spike of violence.
The merchant lunged. Not at Nolan—at Adric. A metal pipe, crudely sharpened at one end, aimed at the commander's throat.
Nolan moved between them.
The pipe struck his shoulder, glancing off bone. He didn't feel it. His knife was already in his hand, already rising, already falling.
The merchant's eyes went wide. Then blank.
He crumpled. The pipe clattered to the floor.
It burst.
A small charge inside ignited. Sparks flew. A cask of beer behind the bar shattered. Liquid sprayed across the floor, and the sparks found it.
Flame erupted.