The news spread through Nyxeria like wildfire.
By midday, every marketplace stall, every street corner, every gathering of gossiping women carried the same breathless words:
"The bride selection is cancelled."
The announcement had come directly from the palace that morning. No explanation, no elaborate decree, just a single proclamation carried by royal messengers to every corner of the kingdom.
For the first time in weeks, Aurelia felt her chest loosen.
She had been carrying water from the well when she heard it. At first, she thought it was a cruel rumor, another of the townsfolk's inventions to stir false hope. But when she returned home, her father confirmed it at the door, his voice low but certain.
"The palace has canceled the selection."
For a moment, she could do nothing but stand in the threshold, the water jug heavy in her arms. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her lips.
Her mother, busy kneading bread, noticed it immediately. "Wipe that grin off your face," she said sharply, her hands covered in flour. "What are you so happy about? This is the king's business. Do you think you are above it?"
Beside her, Aurelia's older sister, watched with cool disapproval. "You should at least pretend to look disappointed. People will talk if you seem too glad."
But Aurelia only shrugged, unable to smother the bubbling relief inside her. Let them glare. Let them judge. For once, she did not care.
If the king no longer required a bride, then she was safe. At least for now.
The day passed in a haze of chores. She swept, scrubbed, and carried like always, but each task felt lighter, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Even her mother's scolding voice seemed distant.
By the time dusk colored the sky, Aurelia had made up her mind. She needed air. Freedom. A taste of it, even if only for a little while.
And there was something else.
It had been three days since Petros' death was discovered, and still, no one in town had mentioned finding a bead at the scene. She had listened carefully each time the gossip flared in the marketplace, each time men gathered in taverns, but the detail never came.
Perhaps it was lost in the grass. Perhaps it was lying still, unnoticed. Or perhaps—her heart tightened—perhaps someone had found it and was keeping silent.
Either way, she needed to check.
She pulled a shawl over her shoulders, told her mother she was going to fetch fresh herbs from the market, and slipped out into the street. Her heart thrummed with the familiar thrill of sneaking away.
The forest loomed at the edge of the town, a place villagers avoided once twilight began to gather. Old tales said it was haunted, filled with spirits that lured wanderers astray. But Aurelia knew better. The forest had always felt like a secret sanctuary to her, a place of shadows and whispers where no one could watch or command her.
She followed the narrow path, deeper and deeper until the sound of the town faded behind her. The trees thickened, their branches arching overhead to weave a dark canopy. The air was cooler here, heavy with the scent of moss and earth.
She was nearly at the stream when she heard it—the sharp twang of a bowstring being drawn.
Her head snapped up. Just ahead, in a small clearing, stood a young man. He was poised in an archer's stance, bowstring pulled tight, eyes narrowed at a small, trembling creature on the forest floor.
A rabbit.
Its fur was matted, one hind leg bent awkwardly, clearly wounded.
The sight of it, small and helpless, sent a rush of anger through Aurelia.
"Stop!" she cried, her voice ringing louder than she intended.
The arrow slipped. It flew wide, missing the animal by inches and embedding itself in a tree trunk with a dull thunk.
The rabbit flinched but did not run.
The young man turned, his expression sharp with surprise. His eyes met hers—deep, dark, and unsettlingly calm.
For a moment, the clearing felt frozen. Then Aurelia stormed forward, fury giving her courage.
"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. "A wounded creature, and you're trying to kill it?"
The man lowered his bow slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. "Animals are meant to be hunted," he said, his tone even, almost detached. "That is their place in the world."
Aurelia narrowed her eyes, then mocked his tone with exaggerated disdain. "'That is their place in the world,'" she mimicked, her voice sharp with scorn. "And what of mercy? Or are you too blind to see it's hurt already?"
He raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his features. "Mercy doesn't feed hungry mouths."
Ignoring him, Aurelia crouched beside the rabbit. Its sides heaved with shallow breaths, but it did not shy away from her touch. Carefully, she lifted it into her arms, feeling the fragile bones beneath its fur.
"How could you aim at something so delicate?" she whispered.
The young man tilted his head. "Delicate?" He repeated the word like it was foreign on his tongue, then let out a short laugh. "Not quite the word I'd use."
Something in his tone prickled at her. He hadn't meant the rabbit. He had meant something else—someone else. But before she could unravel his meaning, she shook her head.
"You should be ashamed," she snapped, standing with the rabbit cradled against her chest.
To her surprise, his expression softened. "Then I apologize," he said, though the words didn't sound like an apology at all.
Aurelia gave him a skeptical look, then focused on tending to the rabbit. She tore a strip from her shawl and bound its injured leg, murmuring gentle words until its trembling eased.
The young man stood silently, watching her with an intensity that made her skin warm.
When she released the rabbit, it hopped a few paces, faltered, then managed to limp into the underbrush.
The man spoke again. "Won't it be hunted by someone else?"
She glanced back at him, lips pressing into a thin line. "You're the only one I've seen trying to kill here."
This time, his smile was genuine, curling at the edges like fire catching dry wood. It startled her—how beautiful it looked on him, how dangerous.
Aurelia's breath caught. Quickly, she cleared her throat, brushing invisible dust from her skirts. "I've never seen you in town before," she said briskly. "You don't look like you're from here."
He slung the bow over his shoulder, eyes glittering. "Perhaps I'm not."
Suspicion and curiosity warred within her. "Then who are you?" she asked at last.
The forest grew still, as though holding its breath.
The young man stepped closer, his voice low and deliberate.
"Malion."