Kaelthorn hated the countryside.
Not because of its fields, or its people, or even the endless, tedious chatter of merchants. He hated it because it made him feel vulnerable. There were no walls here, no towers, no clear lines of sight for ambushes. Just open land and open land meant exposure.
The black stallion beneath him shifted impatiently, sensing his mood. Kaelthorn adjusted the reins, cold eyes fixed on the road ahead where his small detachment of riders cut through the mist. His armor, trimmed with muted steel, bore no sigil. Not yet. It was better that way.
"Your Highness," one of the guards murmured, drawing closer. "We're nearing the village of Eloria. Reports say Shadow Sect scouts have already passed through."
Kaelthorn's jaw tightened. Of course they have. Those carrion never let an omen slip past them. And the Phoenix's signs had been blazing louder than ever: fire scars in the sky, whispers that shook the rivers, dreams that gnawed at him even in waking hours.
"Double the perimeter," he ordered curtly. His voice was low, clipped, controlled the tone of someone who never wasted words.
The guard bowed his head and pulled back. Kaelthorn urged his stallion forward, the faintest trace of irritation in his chest. Not at his men, not even at the danger, but at the absurdity of it all.
The Phoenix Vessel. A myth. A story told to frighten children and inspire fools. And yet, the more he tried to dismiss it, the more the world insisted on shoving it in front of him.
He had no patience for myths.
But destiny had a cruel habit of forcing itself where it wasn't wanted.
Eloria was louder than he expected. Not in joy, but in tension. The market square buzzed, but the cheer was gone, replaced by whispers and lowered heads. Even the children who normally darted between carts clutched their mothers' skirts, wide-eyed at the sight of armed strangers.
Kaelthorn dismounted with effortless grace. His gaze swept the crowd, sharp as a blade. He wasn't searching for threats, his men would handle that. He was searching for her.
The girl the omens whispered about.
The one the Shadow Sect was hunting.
He didn't know what she looked like. The sketches he'd intercepted were vague, amateur. But he knew what he was looking for: mischief wrapped in danger, power disguised as fragility. The Phoenix Vessel would not look ordinary.
His boots struck stone as he moved through the square, the crowd parting instinctively. A few dared to meet his eyes, only to flinch when they found nothing warm there.
"Any sign?" one of his men asked, falling in step beside him.
Kaelthorn shook his head once. His attention snagged on a group of soldiers ahead, black and silver armor, serpent sigil gleaming in the sun. Shadow Sect.
The enemy had arrived first.
The crowd stiffened as one of the sect soldiers lifted a parchment, pressing it into the face of a trembling merchant. Kaelthorn caught the sketch from a distance: a young woman, sharp eyes, stubborn chin. The strokes were clumsy, but it was enough to tighten the coil of inevitability in his chest.
"She's here," he murmured.
The words were quiet, almost careless. But his men straightened, hands drifting to their blades.
Kaelthorn didn't move to stop them. His eyes were locked on something else, someone slipping through the crowd, hood low, steps quick but not panicked. Her movements weren't of a fugitive. They were of a fox pretending to be a sheep.
A dangerous kind of pretending.
His lips curved, not in a smile, but in a recognition only he seemed to understand.
Serenyx felt it before she saw him.
That oppressive weight in the air, like frost creeping over her skin. It wasn't the Shadow Sect, it was worse. It was the sensation of being watched, not by a predator, but by someone who dissected and calculated with every glance.
She tugged her hood lower and squeezed Lytheris's hand, whispering: "Don't look. Don't turn. Just keep walking."
But Lytheris's grip was iron. His head tilted ever so slightly. "There," he muttered under his breath.
Serenyx risked a glance over her shoulder.
And froze.
He was tall, armored, with hair the color of raven wings tied back in a warrior's knot. His face was carved in angles, severe and untouchable. His eyes; cold, sharp, piercing, met hers across the square as though the crowd didn't exist.
The world seemed to hush.
Serenyx's heart stumbled against her ribs. Who...
The hood slipped a little from her head in her distraction.
His gaze flicked to the glimpse of her braid, the ash still smudged faintly against her tunic. And in that instant, Serenyx knew.
He knew too.
"Run," Lytheris hissed.
But Serenyx couldn't. Not because she was frozen in fear, but because, absurdly, ridiculously, she felt laughter bubbling at the edge of her throat.
"Oh, perfect," she muttered under her breath. "Tall, dark, and terrifying has arrived."
Kaelthorn's eyes narrowed. He took a step forward.
And Serenyx, grinning despite the chaos burning around her, took a step back.
The storm had found its spark.