Chapter 1
A lute was flying at me. Gracefully and swiftly—across the entire tavern.
And I would have ducked, if not for one small but crucial detail:
It was my lute.
And dodging it would've meant losing my only instrument.
Thrown with the full force of a mercenary's mighty arm, it would've splintered on impact. So I stood there, frozen, nurturing a tiny spark of hope that I might catch it—rescue both it and my reputation.
Though I had to admit, at that speed, the instrument could easily knock me out. Or at the very least, leave a mark.
Oh, the irony: a minstrel, injured by her own lute—on the day of a concert, no less.
So this was it—my grand, tragic finale.
Either I saved my beloved lute, or my own health.
Not much of a choice, really. But still, I could try to catch it.
Most likely, it would just knock me flat.
I could already hear the song of eternity echoing in my ears.
And yet… it had all started so well.
---
It was early morning, and the residents of Castle Aleron still slumbered soundly in their soft, no doubt warm canopy beds.
Meanwhile, we—those tireless lovers, seekers, and shapers of beauty—had already arrived in this tiny town at the very edge of the kingdom.
Snow blanketed everything, its white caps like sugared icing on the roofs of the squat two-story wooden houses. Even the crossbeams were dusted here and there. The sunlight danced on it, making the sky above seem to sparkle a brighter blue. Frost crunched pleasantly under my fur-lined boots, my breath hung in the air, and the kind morning sun touched all it saw, lifting our spirits with its warmth.
The day promised to be perfect.
How wrong I was.
An open cart pulled by a scruffy chestnut pony rolled up to the train station on the outskirts of Aleron—where the castle stood tall in the distance.
The driver, a kindly-looking dwarf with round, thick-lensed spectacles and a beard down to his belt, gave us a nod. Kev offered me a hand, and we clambered into the cart, burdened only by a few bundles of clothes and our instruments.
Seated at last, I cast a jealous glance at Kev: a tall, red-haired elf with short-cropped hair and striking features. He carried nothing but a single flute—and played it with such mastery that admirers flocked to him wherever he performed, especially of the female variety.
I settled into the straw, propping my small bundle behind my back and carefully positioning my rather hefty lute between my knees to keep it from bouncing too much.
It was an old, stringed instrument—an heirloom from my father. I loosened the protective cloth cover to check on it.
The pale wood, with its intricate carvings, showed no signs of damage despite years of use. The body and neck had once belonged to my predecessor, but I'd had to replace the strings more than once. Still, its sound—low, rich, and resonant—was unlike any other.
Perhaps because it was crafted by my father, once a famed elven minstrel.
"Rion," Kev called, pulling me from my thoughts. "How many songs are we doing today?"
"Seven at least," I replied.
I could see he was a little tense. Understandably so.
He still wasn't used to our double life.
Minstrels—sure, that's what we looked like.
Lute and flute: the perfect pair for any lavish celebration.
But first and foremost, we were the eyes and ears of Lord Coreander—chief of the king's secret service.
And Kev—or rather, Kevian Anlatté Pruevel den Rau—knew perfectly well that while he dazzled the audience with a brilliant flute solo midway through our performance, I would have to slip out of the hall unnoticed, find my way to the Lord of Aleron's study, locate a letter from his secret correspondent, hide it beneath my tunic, and return as if nothing had happened. All in the span of about five minutes.
He also knew I had to succeed. Too much was at stake.
For several years now, a terrible illness had plagued our small seaside kingdom. Elves—tall, graceful beings of sun and moon who should have lived for centuries—were dying in agony from a disease that began with a simple affliction of the skin.
They called it The Curse of the Crimson Gloves. From the first symptoms to the inevitable death that followed within weeks, the hands of the afflicted would be veined with red, forming intricate patterns like lace gloves. No magic could heal it. No herb or potion could ease it.
Victims first endured unbearable pain in their hands, then slowly lost their minds—until, unable to bear the torment, many took their own lives in desperation.
Whispers spread that the curse had been sent upon us by the inhabitants of the neighboring empire, whose vast territory surrounded our tiny kingdom on nearly all sides. The cruel and haughty dwellers of that harsh land were not known for kindness or mercy.
That land was called Akhtinor, and it was ruled by dragons.
For millennia, they had attacked our small elven kingdom of Vitania. And though my kin were skilled not only with bow and blade but also with ingenious warcraft, we were always outnumbered. Their empire was less a nation and more a colossal military machine.
We knew little about Akhtinor. The dragons lived in secrecy, shrouding their society in mystery. There were virtually no diplomatic ties between our peoples, and trade was almost nonexistent.
Our king, the Radiant Lorennius—a wise and gentle ruler—spoke of them with courtesy, though always with caution. Still, he poured a great deal of effort and gold into strengthening the Vitanian army and building a sprawling, highly developed network of spies. Somewhere on the edge of that vast web was our place—Kev and I.
---
The ride from the station to the castle took only a few minutes. I noted to myself that the dozen narrow streets of the town were neat and well-kept, and the locals looked friendly—harmless, even. There were two main squares: one of them housed a bustling winter market, with a towering evergreen tree standing proudly in the center. I could already hear the cheerful chatter and laughter drifting our way.
I made a mental note to sneak a peek at that festive chaos later.
In our country, winter was a season of endless celebration. First came the grand Solstice Festival, followed by the Turn of the Year. Then came the Festival of the Trees, then the Day of Great Affection—where everyone paired off and strolled arm in arm—and finally, the Winter Festival Season closed with the Day of the Valiant Elven Warrior, a silent reminder of the ancient war with Akhtinor centuries ago.
As I scanned the town with my usual sharp eye, our cart rolled to a halt before the gates of Castle Aleron.
An aging butler greeted us. He had long silver hair, a ramrod-straight back, and a stern expression that unmistakably marked him as a former soldier of the Elven Guard. His small, piercing eyes examined every inch of our travel-worn appearance.
Kev helped me down from the cart, and we bowed in unison, giving our names and stating the purpose of our visit.
We were led into the throne hall, where we were informed—politely, but firmly—that the Lord of Aleron would see us as soon as he'd finished his family breakfast.
My elven ears caught the faint sound of Kev swallowing—no doubt wishing he could join the breakfast himself. But traveling minstrels couldn't expect such generosity. That was fine. We'd grab something to eat later in town.
We followed the butler—who, for some reason, still hadn't introduced himself. I focused on memorizing every corridor and passage, mentally comparing them to the floor plans I had studied beforehand. The castle was vast. According to the map, the throne hall should be located at its center—directly beneath the lord's study, where I would need to slip away during Kev's flute solo.
The walls, staircases, and balustrades were all made of gleaming black stone that seemed to swallow light itself. Even the candles in their candelabras struggled to keep the darkness at bay.
There—a corridor branching off toward the library. Another turn led to the courtyard. That stairway, just ahead, would take one up to the roof.
We passed through two antechambers and three stairwells before the large, ornately carved wooden doors opened with a dignified sweep under the butler's hand, ushering us into the grand reception hall.
I couldn't help turning my head in awe, taking in the massive space built of the same black stone. It reminded me of a royal theater I had once performed in—a few rare times.
The main floor, polished to a gleam, was a grand checkerboard of black and white tiles, clearly used as a dance floor. In the center stood a towering fir tree that reached nearly to the ceiling, adorned with garlands of cinnamon sticks and dried citrus slices. The rich scent of pine filled the air, almost—but not entirely—masking the spices and sweet orange.
Scattered across the tree at different heights were glowing lanterns of all shapes and sizes, each one lit from within, casting a soft, magical light. From the ceiling, a gentle snowfall—illusionary, of course—drifted downward and vanished just before it touched the ground.
Three stone braziers, chained to the walls, held glowing orbs that filled the room with a light like winter's pale sun.
Garlands of baubles, stars, and evergreen branches hung here and there, tastefully placed without excess.
A smile crept onto my lips. I had never seen such decorations before—strict, solemn, yet grand in their own way, without a trace of palace gilding or gaudiness.
Kev was just as spellbound, staring at the massive tree, despite being no stranger to the royal Winter Festivals himself.
With a polite bow, the butler granted us permission to inspect the stage area and left, disappearing behind the great doors. We waited for them to close before turning to each other.
"Rion! Just look at this!" Kev beamed, his copper hair catching the glow of the lanterns. "Have you ever seen a stage like this? Not even in the palace! May the dragon general eat me whole!"
"Huh?" I blinked, momentarily stunned by the winter décor and not immediately realizing he was talking to me.
We both kept looking around, marveling at the elegance of the setup. And there was plenty to admire: three massive balconies, descending in cascading tiers, seemed to flow from the second floor, forming a majestic gallery.
Two pairs of doors led out of the hall—meaning if needed, one could cross the space quickly. That would certainly work in my favor when the time came. It wouldn't interfere with the mission.
Then my eyes shifted to the stage.
A third of the hall was taken up by a massive platform—clearly designed more for a full orchestra than a duo performance, it was that large. It truly was an impressive stage. Still, it didn't rise much above the dance floor—just about waist height. The wooden supports were reinforced with metal along the edges. A heavy, deep-purple velvet curtain separated it from the hall, currently drawn slightly open.
Yes, this was, without a doubt, the largest stage I had ever stood on.
Kev and I climbed up and began inspecting the strategically vital space for tonight's performance. Our eyes immediately landed on some very expensive artifacts of sound projection and illusion.
"Just look at that," my partner gasped in amazement, pointing at something that looked like a glass orb mounted on a stand. "That's an Illusinator! It's going to make all sorts of beautiful images around us during the show!"
An Illusinator—those were outrageously expensive. With the right setup, they could project stunning, light-woven illusions across the room. Not that I planned to rely on it; I doubted they'd let us use such a treasure. Still, as far as I'd heard, not even the royal palace had one. So what was a device like that doing here, in a castle that didn't even belong to one of the highest-ranking nobles? Where did this lord get his wealth?
"Kev, I noticed a tavern on the square by the winter market," I said casually. "Let's go there after the meeting?"
"Yesss," the hungry elf moaned. He was tall and thin, with a delicate build—but that never stopped him from eating like a soldier after a campaign. "I haven't had anything since last night!"
"But you and your friends drank yourselves silly at the station!" I scolded.
"That was mead, not food," he argued, his alcohol-resistant constitution unbothered. "Doesn't count."
"Got it," I sighed. We'd spent the whole night bouncing in a cramped, unheated train car. And here I'd been wondering how he managed to sleep so sweetly the whole time.
The lord of the castle came out to greet us half an hour later. His round, cheerful face radiated sincere warmth. A well-fed, healthy man, he informed us that the concert would begin at dusk, divided into two sets. Since we were the capital's star act, the dancer and singer scheduled before us would clear the stage in time. He expected our performance to be full of life and energy—to light up the room.
The event was being hosted for the wealthy families from the neighboring towns, so it was essential the guests leave thoroughly entertained.
"No tearjerking ballads," he said in a friendly tone, "just cheerful, lighthearted songs. Double meanings welcome—only adults in the audience tonight."
He punctuated that with a wink in my direction that I didn't care for in the slightest, then cast a sidelong glance at Kev. My partner coughed awkwardly and tugged at his sweater collar like it was suddenly choking him.
"Well then, make yourselves at home," the lord declared with self-importance, already turning his back. "If you need anything, I'll be in the library—or better yet, speak to the staff."
We were told we'd be fed in the servants' dining hall at noon, along with the other performers. But lunchtime was still a ways off, and our stomachs were already rumbling in betrayal.
We nodded politely and, promising to return for the meal, headed into town in search of breakfast. Not trusting the castle with our instruments, we brought them along. Kev slung his flute into a small bag across his shoulder, while I hoisted my padded case with the lute onto my back.
The snow sparkled in the sunlight—beautiful, but almost painfully bright after the dim castle interior. One of the narrow streets led us to the square we'd seen earlier, where rows of wooden stalls stretched out in a cheerful market scene.
In one stall, polished copper cauldrons steamed with rich brews—vegetable and meat soups, spiced wine, and various herb-infused spirits. Another sold gingerbread; a third offered cloaks and capes; a fourth sparkled with jewelry of every kind. Fried potato slices, skewered chicken bites... At the center, three massive kettles dispensed hot, aromatic drinks to all comers.
One of the most popular spots was the talisman stall: strings of crystal amulets, dangling right at eye level, caught the sunlight in dazzling hues. Around it, elves, humans, dwarves, and others jostled and browsed with curiosity.
Kev made a beeline for the stall with the large skillet, where a heavenly mixture of potatoes, smoked meat, and cheese sizzled invitingly. After waiting in a short line, he emerged triumphantly with a crusty bread loaf—hollowed out and stuffed with that very same delicacy. A wooden fork stuck from the center like a banner of victory.
The look in his eyes was pure bliss, the kind of joy only rivaled by winning the title of Best Flutist in Vitania. He was on the verge of tears.
Sometimes, it really doesn't take much to make a person happy.
I settled for a herbal brew and a gingerbread cookie. After all, there were still a few hours to go until lunch, and we could easily spend that time in the tavern, tucked away in some quiet corner. Besides, I needed to think through the lyrics for the next song.
We wandered a bit longer around the winter market, keeping a discreet eye on the townsfolk.
Elves, humans, fairies, the occasional mage—nothing suspicious. I still couldn't understand why Master Coreander was so convinced that Lord Aleron, the owner of this castle, was a traitor feeding information to the dragons. He seemed well-supported by the townspeople, who apparently harbored growing dissatisfaction with the king and his rule. But to me, it all looked like a perfectly ordinary, quiet provincial town governed by a jolly, good-hearted lord.
At one corner of the market square stood a tavern. The sign, once painted black, now faded and peeling, read "The Old Fox."
It was nearly empty at this hour, and we had no trouble finding a seat at one of the many unoccupied tables by the window opposite the door.
Pale sunlight streamed through the dusty glass, lighting up the spacious room with a soft haze. The pale green walls gave the impression of a place caught in gentle fog. A tall black bar counter loomed at one end of this quiet little kingdom, behind which a broad-shouldered ginger dwarf peeked out. He was perched on an absurdly tall stool, propping up his head with one hand as he studied a sheet filled with numbers.
A graceful elven waitress in a black dress and white apron moved slowly through the room, gliding like a dancer as she tended to the few other patrons: a pair of dwarves nursing their beers in a corner, three elves in deep green hoods from under which golden locks spilled down in regal waves, one grim-looking mercenary in black, bristling with knives of every shape and size—and one suspicious fellow by the window. That was the entire clientele.
"What'll it be, dear minstrels?" the waitress asked with a wink, giving her ash-gray ponytail a little toss.
"Two mugs of mint brew, and two lemon buns," I replied, glancing at Kev—and realizing at once that he was likely heartbroken over his latest girlfriend. His gaze was all but buried in the elven woman's neckline.
I gave him a discreet kick under the table and added, "And a jug of water, please."
"Right away," she said coolly, her gaze brushing over my partner with utter indifference.
I pulled out my lute. With no one to bother us, it was a good time to work out a melody. I'd had a tune swirling around in my head all morning anyway.
"Rion, seriously? Here?" Kevian sounded like I was about to do something scandalous.
"So what?" I shrugged, plucking the strings softly. The lute responded with a quiet, drawn-out hum.
"It's completely out of tune," I murmured. "Frost's wrecked it."
I bit off my knit mittens and wrapped my fingers around the cold, battered instrument.
"I'm not digging out the flute," Kev grumbled.
"No need," I agreed, already feeling out the right chords. If only Kev would keep quiet a little longer and stop brooding over bustlines, I might actually manage to focus and write something useful. Maybe he should go flirt with the waitress or something.
But it got even better—nature called, and off he went, leaving me blessedly alone for a few precious minutes.
In a flash, my battered notebook appeared on the table, along with a tiny pencil nub.
Perfect. Eight bars. This line... then that one... Yes. I loved this feeling—like diving deep into a silent lake of thought and surfacing with just the right note or phrase.
I sat there, completely absorbed, the world around me forgotten, utterly caught up in the flow of creation.
Somewhere at the edge of my awareness, a bell above the door jingled. Someone entered the tavern. Then another. Soon the tables around me were filling up.
But I was too lost in lyrics to notice. Let them come. For once, I could sit in peace, lost in my real calling, and let my cover identity rest for a while.
"Haven't they brought us anything yet?"
Kev's indignant voice ripped me from the blissful fog of songwriting.
And indeed, the elven waitress had vanished into thin air.
"Hang on, I'll ask at the bar," I said, gently setting the lute down on the chair next to him.
Wow—where did all these people come from? The tavern had filled up noticeably. The thought flashed through my mind as I made my way to the long, tall counter of black wood.
My professional ear picked up the low murmur of discontent. Hoarse, grumbling voices were deep in some heated debate.
As I reached the bar, I spotted our tray already waiting, and the dwarf behind the counter gave me a silent nod—go ahead, take it.
But then the door behind me creaked open… and in walked what could only be described as a squad of elven rangers.
Leading them was a tall, broad-shouldered man with jet-black hair cut short like a bristling hedgehog, clad in leather armor and a dark green scarf tied loosely around his neck. His biceps and triceps alone seemed to command silence in the room. People scattered from his path as if parting for a storm, trying to vanish into the shadows.
I caught several wide-eyed, terrified looks thrown toward this new arrival.
Behind him came seven more of the same cut—lean, armed, and looking like they slept with their boots on.
I already had the tray in hand but wisely pressed myself against the wall, letting them pass.
Unexpectedly, I met Kev's concerned gaze from across the tavern.
"Well, well, would you look who decided to visit 'The Old Fox'?"
A mocking voice rang out from the middle of the room—right from the crowd of gruff grumblers I'd overheard earlier.
"It's the Black Wind himself! Imagine that! What's wrong—did you freeze and come in to warm your…"
The end of the sentence drowned in the raucous laughter of the clearly bandit-looking crew surrounding the speaker.
Right. So much for this being a respectable place.
The elven leader—apparently Black Wind—stopped dead in his tracks, as if hitting an invisible wall. A slow, dangerous smile crept across his face.
His eyes scanned the room, trying to pinpoint the source of the jeer.
His sharp cheekbones seemed to tighten, making his whole face appear more angular. He was… handsome, in a dangerous kind of way. The kind some women go weak at the knees for—those roguish types who bring trouble with a smirk and leave chaos behind them. Never boring, rarely safe.
Once he identified the source of the insult, Black Wind visibly relaxed and said coolly:
"I see you just couldn't wait to see me again, Moran. Next time, don't beg me to cover your sorry hide from the patrol squad. Try running. Oh wait… you're human. You can't run. All you're good at is crawling."
"How dare you?!"
Moran's companion shot to his feet, outraged. A human too, clearly.
Though… the nose alone suggested some distant troll ancestry.
Were they serious? Picking a fight with a band of seasoned elven mercenaries?
Humans? Here?
I couldn't believe it.
"I dare, Roy, I dare," Black Wind drawled, lifting one brow.
"And tell Aron this—from now on, he's on his own. I'm done with your pack of jackals."
The room fell into an ominous silence.
I glanced at the dwarf innkeeper. He rolled his eyes heavenward and shook his head.
Then Moran and Roy's gang stood up. Slowly. Menacingly. All fifteen of them.
Humans, yes. Looking every bit the highway brigands: filthy, ragged, stinking of bad ale and worse soap.
Next to the polished mercenary elves of Black Wind's crew, they looked positively pathetic.
But what they lacked in class, they made up for in arrogance—and apparently thought their bruised egos were worth defending with fists.
And just like that, the tavern exploded into chaos.
Spoons, plates, forks, half-eaten food—all went airborne.
I set the tray back on the counter and ducked just in time as a hefty wooden stool whizzed over my head. It smashed into the wall with a crunch, losing two legs in the process.
The panic in Kev's eyes had turned into outright horror.
Between us now raged a full-blown brawl, with knives flashing here and there for good measure.
The elves fought with amused detachment, gracefully and efficiently pummeling Moran and Roy's clumsy gang like it was some sort of sport.
How in the world was I supposed to get to Kev and my lute?
We had to get out of here. Fast.
I was closer to the door—just a few long steps away. Maybe we could escape without losses?
Kevian had grabbed my lute, slung the case over his shoulder, and was trying to reach me.
I mirrored the move, heading in his direction.
But the two warring factions had swallowed up the center of the tavern, turning it into an impassable battlefield.
Then it happened. The moment that made my heart stop.
One of the thugs from the human gang snatched my lute from Kev's hands—and hurled it with all his might at Black Wind's head.
He was standing right in front of me.
The elf ducked, and the lute—my lute—came spinning straight toward me.
Wild, fast, unforgiving.
I could duck, yes. But then it would crash into the wall and splinter into pieces.
In that final second, I knew—I wouldn't even have time to raise my hands.
My own lute, the last gift from my father who vanished years ago, was about to erase me and our entire concert from existence.
I didn't want to think about how many people I'd be letting down.
And then—
A strong hand appeared from nowhere, snatching it out of the air.
Right in front of my nose.
The wind stirred my fringe, lifting the red strands.
For a moment, that elegant hand held the lute's neck—just a fraction of a second—and then offered it back to me.
This story is also published on Wattpad, Royal Road under the same pen name, Veronika Winter.