Moments later, Fedran stood silently behind him—
No footsteps. No sound.
The bound soldier's muffled scream split the air:
"BEHIND YOU! HE'S BEHIND YOU! THE FUCKING BASTARD—"
Ralme spun, instincts flaring.
His eyes locked onto the figure in the mist—a man standing still, unarmed, unreadable.
Stranger.
Not Mayfrost. Not enemy. Not friend.
Just… there.
And then, behind him—her.
His breath caught.
Arya.
Or so it seemed.
His gaze snapped past Fedran, locking on the woman crouched in the gloom. Her wrists still bore the raw marks of bindings. Her hair was dark, tangled. Her eyes—wide, glassy, trembling.
He pushed past Fedran without thinking, shoulders brushing the stranger aside, never breaking focus.
"...Arya?"
He stepped closer.
But something was wrong.
The scent hit him first—faint, but off. Not blood. Not rot. Something floral. Sweet. Foreign.
Wrong.
His ranger instincts flared like fire in his gut. The tension in his spine—the breath that caught in his throat—told him what his heart refused to say.
This wasn't her.
And yet… something about the scent…
Familiar.
His eyes widened.
No.
No.
He staggered back a step, heart pounding like thunder in his ears. The torch slipped from his fingers, hissing as it sank into the mud.
One motion.
Fluid. Certain.
His bow came free. The string drew tight.
And the arrow—shaking only slightly—pointed directly at her throat.
"Tell me one good fucking reason," he growled, voice raw with pain and fury, "why I shouldn't pierce a hole in your throat right now."
His jaw trembled.
His eyes burned.
"What have you done with my sister, Asepha?"
Asepha.
King Halik's most trusted sorceress—
And the architect of secrets best left buried.
Long before Arya's abduction—
Before Fedran's dagger glistened beneath the forest canopy,
Before Ralme's furious shout shattered the silence—
Asepha had already begun weaving the first thread of treachery.
Within the cold stone halls of Mayfrost Castle, beneath torches that burned low with blue flame, she stood alone before the throne. Her eyes did not waver. Her voice was velvet wrapped around a dagger.
"Your Majesty," she began, each word measured like poison poured with care, "my daughter, Tiev, is gifted. But so long as Arya Verdar draws breath, she will remain eclipsed. Arya's talent… overshadows everything."
King Halik did not speak at once. He sat back in his carved seat of blackened oak, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His gaze held the weight of a crown and the weariness of rot beneath gold.
"And your solution, Asepha?" he asked at last.
A faint smile touched her lips. Controlled. Cold.
"Arya must be removed. Quietly. If she is killed openly, Ralme Verdar will rebel. And despite our best efforts, the people still whisper his name with admiration."
Her tone darkened, though her face remained serene.
"No... she must vanish. A disappearance, not a death. A ghosting of power."
Halik's eyes gleamed with interest.
"Explain."
Asepha took a half-step forward, her shadow flickering against the stone floor like something untethered.
"I will have her captured—alive. Hidden. Her magic bound, her voice silenced. And while she rots beneath the earth, I will assume her shape through sorcery. Her face. Her voice. Her power."
She tilted her head slightly.
"None will know."
A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of enchanted torches.
Then Halik spoke, voice low.
"And her brother??"
Asepha's smile deepened—barely.
"He will follow rumors. Tiev will feed him just enough truth to keep his hope alive. His path will lead him to the southeastern forest. To me."
She let that hang in the air.
"He will believe he's found her. That rescue is within reach. And when he draws near—when he lets his guard fall—I will strike."
She turned slightly, robes whispering against the stone.
"He will die thinking he failed. And then, with no more use for Arya... I will end her."
A beat passed. Then another.
"No witnesses. No rebellion. No war."
King Halik's expression was unreadable.
But something flickered in his eyes—
Recognition.
Approval.
Fear.
He leaned forward.
"Proceed."
Asepha bowed low, her voice barely more than breath.
"It shall be done, Your Majesty."
And in the silence that followed, a shadow passed over the throne room—one that neither torches nor time would banish.