The road to Evandelle was deathly quiet.
Even the wind seemed to avoid it.
Kael rode alone.
The only sound was the steady rhythm of hooves striking stone, muffled by the thin veil of fog that had settled over the valley. The forest here used to be alive — wild with songbirds and laughter from passing merchants. Now, there was nothing. No song. No laughter. Only smoke.
Every mile felt heavier.
His horse slowed as they reached the ridge overlooking the Evandelle estate — or what was left of it.
Kael stopped.
Below him, the land that once bloomed gold with vineyards and lantern trees was now a grave of ash. The manor's grand towers — white marble that gleamed even in winter — had collapsed inward, like a ribcage caved in.
The gardens were blackened, the fountains cracked and dry.
There were no banners left, only smoke twisting toward a sunless sky.
He dismounted slowly, boots crunching against burnt earth. The air smelled of iron and decay.
And something else — faint, fleeting — lavender oil. The scent of Seraphine Evandelle. It clung to the ruins like memory refusing to die.
Kael walked forward.
Every step was deliberate, as if stepping too hard might shatter what little remained.
He passed bodies.
Soldiers. Servants. Some he recognized — faces from his brief visits here, people who had smiled and bowed when he arrived with Zelene weeks ago. Their eyes were still open, reflecting the gray sky.
His jaw clenched.
He stopped near what used to be the courtyard. The stones were cracked, the fountain broken — and there, at the center, faint trails of dried blood led toward the grand stairs.
He knelt, tracing the pattern with his gloved fingers. His hand trembled.
"Zelene…" he whispered.
The sound of her name felt foreign here — too alive for a place so dead.
He straightened, turning toward what remained of the grand hall. The walls were scorched, the ceiling half-collapsed. He stepped through the wreckage, scanning every corner.
Every burned banner, every fallen chair, every ghost of a memory.
And then he saw it.
A single hair ribbon — pale blue, torn, half-buried beneath ash.
He knew it.
He'd seen it once, when she tied her hair before a morning ride, laughing that he should "learn to smile before sunrise."
Kael picked it up carefully, holding it between his fingers.
It was the only color left in this place.
For a moment, he couldn't breathe.
The silence pressed against him, heavy and absolute.
Then, behind him — footsteps.
He drew his sword instantly, turning.
It was Darius, panting from the climb.
"My lord," he said, his voice hushed. "We found tracks — two sets. A man and a woman. They lead north, toward the river."
Kael's eyes sharpened. "How long ago?"
"A day, maybe less. The woman's prints are smaller, uneven. She was injured or… exhausted."
Kael didn't hesitate. "Zelene."
Darius nodded grimly. "It's possible. But there's more — scouts say the royal sigil was seen among the attackers' banners."
The words hit like iron.
Kael turned away, jaw tightening until it hurt. "The Crown Prince."
It wasn't a question.
Darius hesitated. "If he was here himself—"
"Then this wasn't war," Kael cut in, voice low and dangerous. "It was execution."
He looked north — toward the mountains, where the air was clearer, colder. Somewhere out there, she was running. Alone. Afraid.
Or worse.
A part of him wanted to believe she was still alive. The other part was terrified she wasn't.
He closed his fist around the ribbon.
"Ready the horses," he ordered, his voice steady but his knuckles white. "We follow the trail."
Darius bowed and left quickly.
Kael stood alone a moment longer, watching the horizon.
The wind shifted again, stirring the ash into a slow, spiraling dance — like the manor itself was trying to breathe one last time.
He whispered quietly — to the ruins, to the dead, to her.
"I'll find you, Zelene. No matter what's left standing when I do."
Cut to — Zelene and Ray
By midday, they'd reached the edge of the forest. The trees thinned, revealing the open fields that stretched toward the northern ridges. The sky had turned pale gold — deceptively calm.
Zelene walked quietly beside Ray. Her steps were steadier now, but her silence hadn't broken since dawn. Every so often, she'd glance toward the distant mountains — toward Dravenhart — her expression unreadable.
Ray glanced at her. "You should rest again when we find cover. Your fever's not gone."
No answer.
He sighed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know, I wasn't lying when I said we could hide. There are safe places — old posts that aren't marked on any map."
Zelene's voice was barely above a whisper. "Safe places don't exist anymore."
Ray stopped walking. "Milady—"
She turned to him then, eyes sharp with quiet resolve. "We go to Dravenhart. If they attacked Evandelle, they'll go there next."
Ray's brows furrowed. "And what will you do? Walk in half-dead and warn a fortress that may already be surrounded?"
Her expression didn't change. "If they're in danger, I won't stay silent."
He exhaled — part frustration, part admiration. "You're going to get yourself killed."
"Maybe," she said softly. "But if I do nothing, then everything they died for means nothing."
Ray looked at her for a long moment — the dirt, the blood, the exhaustion, and beneath it all, that same quiet fire that had always made her who she was.
Finally, he nodded. "Alrgith, we move at night. Less eyes."
Zelene said nothing. She just started walking again — her gaze fixed north, where Dravenhart waited beyond the haze.