The Road to Dravenhart
Dawn crept slowly.
The forest was pale and quiet, painted in gray and silver. Mist clung to the trees, softening everything it touched — the roots, the rocks, the two figures moving through them.
Ray walked a few steps ahead, his cloak now replaced by a worn brown tunic and a hooded coat he'd "borrowed" from a clothesline at the village's edge. The fabric didn't fit him perfectly — a bit short on the sleeves — but it blended him in. A soldier disguised as a farmer.
Zelene followed behind, wrapped in a faded linen dress that smelled faintly of sun and smoke. It was too simple, too plain, but that was the point. No one would look twice at her now — just another traveler with tired eyes and dirt-streaked hands.
They didn't speak much. Words felt fragile, and silence was easier to bear. The path beneath them was narrow, littered with fallen leaves, and the cold air carried the scent of pine and rain-soaked earth.
Every now and then, Ray would glance back — not just to check the road, but to make sure she was still there.
Still walking.
Still breathing.
Zelene's steps were slow, heavy, but steady. Her grief sat quietly inside her now — not gone, never gone, but folded, like a secret she couldn't yet open.
They passed a broken milestone on the path. Ray brushed the moss off its surface.
"Three days by carriage," he murmured, more to himself. "A week if we walk."
Zelene didn't answer.
Her eyes were distant, fixed on nothing.
At Dravenhart
The great fortress of Dravenhart loomed over the northern valley — its towers built of black stone, its banners hanging still in the morning air.
Inside, the halls were awake before dawn.
Boots against marble. Murmurs. Urgency.
Kael stood in the war room, jaw clenched, eyes on the map spread across the table. The candlelight drew sharp lines on his face — the kind that came from sleepless nights and thoughts he didn't want to name.
He had been restless since Zelene left.
Every night he caught himself glancing at the gates, half expecting her to walk through them again, annoyed, alive, smiling in that quiet way she did when she pretended she wasn't worried.
He hadn't seen that smile in days.
"Milord," Darius's voice broke the silence.
The man's expression was grim. "A report came from the southern scouts."
Kael looked up. "From where?"
"Evandelle."
The name alone sent something cold through the air.
Darius hesitated, as if searching for gentler words. "The capital's chaos spread sooner than we thought. Evandelle Manor was attacked two nights ago. Fires and casualties."
Kael's hand tightened on the edge of the table.
"Casualties," he repeated, voice low. "Define that."
Darius swallowed. "The Duke and Duchess… are confirmed dead. The estate is gone."
Silence fell like a blade.
Kael stared at him — no expression, no sound — but something behind his eyes broke.
"And the heirs?"
"No reports yet," Darius said quietly. "But… if anyone could have survived, it would be her."
Kael exhaled sharply — not quite a sigh, not quite a curse. He turned away, pacing toward the nearest window. Outside, the horizon was faintly red — the last color of sunrise, or maybe the memory of flames.
He pressed a hand to the cold stone of the sill, his voice barely audible.
"She said she'd stay there for only a few days…"
"Milord—"
"I should've gone with her," Kael muttered. "I knew the capital wasn't stable, I knew—"
Darius's tone softened. "You couldn't have known they'd move that fast."
Kael didn't respond. He just stood there, head bowed, jaw tight enough to tremble.
After a long silence, he finally spoke. "Ready the horses. We ride at sundown."
Darius blinked. "You're going to Evandelle?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
Kael's eyes lifted — sharp, cold, unyielding. "I won't drag soldiers into a graveyard. If she's alive, I'll find her. If she's not…"
His voice faltered, barely.
"…then I'll know."
Darius hesitated but bowed. "Understood."
As he left, Kael stood alone in the room. The fire beside him hissed, its light flickering against his armor.
He closed his eyes briefly — and in that darkness, he saw her again.
Zelene.
Her laugh. Her stubborn frown. The way she'd told him, half-joking, half-earnest, "You're too serious for someone who saves people."
And then he saw smoke.
Blood.
A manor on fire.
Kael opened his eyes.
Whatever softness had lingered in them was gone.
Only resolve remained.
Back on the Road
By noon, Zelene and Ray reached the river bend that marked the halfway point to the borderlands. The sun was high, the air warm.
Zelene stopped for a moment to drink from her flask, watching the ripples in the water. Her reflection wavered — pale, hollow-eyed, hair tangled and streaked with ash.
She barely recognized herself.
Ray approached from behind, carrying a bundle of herbs he'd gathered nearby. "These will help if your fever comes back," he said, dropping them beside her.
She nodded absently, her voice faint. "Thank you."
He crouched next to her, watching the water too. "We'll reach the mountain pass in two days if we keep this pace."
Zelene didn't look at him. "And then?"
"Then…" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Then we find somewhere safe. Somewhere no one knows your name."
Her lips pressed together. "You mean hide."
"Yes."
She turned to him finally — her eyes clearer now, though tired. "And what happens when Dravenhart falls too?"
Ray didn't answer.
Because they both knew it wasn't an if.
The wind shifted, carrying the distant scent of rain.
Zelene looked toward the north, toward the mountains where the fortress waited.
And far away, in that same direction — Kael mounted his horse.
Their paths were now set, unseen threads pulling tighter with every breath, every mile.
Neither of them knew it yet.
But destiny was already preparing their reunion.