The sun rises over Liveria, washing the cobblestone streets in a false, cheerful gold. The capital hums to life, merchants shouting their wares and carts rattling over the stones, the citizens moving with the blissful ignorance of a world that believes its monsters have been slain.
Inside the palace walls, Grace operates like a phantom of efficiency. She sits at the parlor table, her expression unreadable as she cross-references smuggler routes, drafts coded missives to Patrin's underground, and calculates supply lines with quiet, terrifying precision.
Outside, Leonard navigates the bustling market like a ghost. His eyes are shadowed, sunken deep into his skull from a completely sleepless night, but he moves with determination. He stops at the blacksmith, purchasing throwing knives and a fresh whetstone. He stops at the apothecary, trading silver for bitter stamina drafts and coagulants.
On his way back, a muted color catches his eye. Hanging outside a small weaver's shop is a simple traveling dress made of grey samite silk. It is not royal attire—it is modest, practical, and mournful. The shopkeeper demands five gold pieces, a steep price for unadorned fabric. Leonard doesn't even blink. He slams the heavy gold coins onto the wooden counter, takes the dress, and walks away. Lady Elsbeth needs it. Her clothes are still torn and stiff with dried blood.
When he returns to the house, the smell of hearth-baked bread fills the air. Erwin is already in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Layla sits at the heavy oak table, swinging her little legs back and forth.
Sir Rowan meets Leonard by the door. Without a word, the knight draws Leonard's longsword from its scabbard, running a critical thumb along the freshly sharpened edge, before inspecting the daggers strapped to his son's chest. Rowan sheathes the blade and nods once.
"You're ready," he says simply.
Leonard's gaze drifts upward to the ceiling. "Is Lady Elsbeth awake?"
Layla immediately perks up, hopping down from her tall wooden chair. "She didn't sleep at all," the little girl says, her voice thick with worry. "I went to her room last night... she looked really, really sad. So I hugged her and told her the fairy brother will come back soon!"
Without waiting for any response, Layla turns and bounds up the stairs.
A few moments later, Layla knocks softly on the door before pushing it open.
"Brave princess? I'm coming in," she announces quietly.
Inside, the room is cold. Elsbeth sits cross-legged in the center of the bed, her pale fingers frantically flipping through the blank pages of the black book. She turns them over and over again, as if desperately searching for a hidden message in the barren parchment.
Layla climbs onto the mattress, reaching out a tiny hand to gently pat the princess's hair. "The fairy brother wouldn't like seeing you like this," she murmurs. "Everyone is waiting for you downstairs. You should eat something."
Elsbeth stops. She slowly closes the book, reaching out to cradle Layla's small hand between both of hers. "I'm not hungry, little one. You should go eat instead."
Layla puffs her cheeks out stubbornly. "I won't eat unless you do!" She jumps down from the bed, marching toward the door. "I'll bring your breakfast up here, then! Just wait for me!"
Elsbeth watches the girl leave. For a fleeting second, a fragile warmth touches her hollow eyes. She lowers her gaze to the black cover of the book, whispering into the silence. "Luan... please be safe."
Layla returns shortly after, but her hands are empty of food. Instead, she's holding the
grey silk dress Leonard had purchased.
"This is yours," Layla says proudly, lifting the fabric. "Brother Leonard got it for you. It's pretty! You should wear it. You can't stay in those dirty clothes."
Before Elsbeth can protest, Layla is already pushing her by the waist toward the adjoining bathhouse. "Go clean up! We're going to find the fairy brother, right? You need your strength to find him!"
Elsbeth looks at the child's fierce, hopeful face. A small, unspeakably tired smile touches her lips, and she finally takes the dress.
Downstairs, the faint sounds of water splashing reach the parlor. Rowan exhales a heavy breath, leaning against the wall. "We are relying on a child to keep her tethered to reality," he mutters bitterly.
Erwin offers a faint, melancholic smile as he brings the iron skillet from the fire. "Sometimes, Sir, children are the only ones who can reach someone lost in the dark."
Erwin moves to the dining table, carefully setting down the ceramic plates. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
He stops. His hand hovers over the sixth plate.
For a long, agonizing moment, he stares at it. Then, slowly, quietly, he pulls the sixth plate back, tucking it under his arm.
Nobody comments on it.
Leonard sits at the table, adjusting the leather straps of his harness while the food cools. Knives, daggers, throwing spikes—every piece of steel is placed with meticulous, paranoid care. He looks like a man preparing for a war that will not forgive a single mistake.
Erwin calls Layla down.
Everyone gathers. Except Elsbeth.
"She is still getting ready," Layla explains, climbing into her chair.
Rowan nods once. "We will bring a tray up to her later."
Just as the words leave his mouth, the sound of soft footsteps echoes from the stairs.
Elsbeth descends. She wears the grey silk dress loosely over her frame. Her hair is still damp from the bath. She looks clean, but she does not look better. Her skin is the color of ash, her eyes heavy with dark circles, and her hands grip the black grimoire so tightly her knuckles are white. It is her anchor.
No one speaks. The clinking of silverware halts entirely.
She walks straight past the table, stopping directly in front of Leonard.
"Did... did you find anything about Luan?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. "Did you look for him?"
Leonard's jaw tightens. He lowers his gaze to the wooden table. "My Lady, we are searching. We have come up with a plan, and we will be leaving for Patrin at sunset. You need to eat something before the journey."
Elsbeth is silent for a long moment.
Then, she shakes her head.
"I am not leaving for Patrin." Her voice is quiet, firm, yet fundamentally broken beneath the surface. "What if Luan comes back here? And I am not here? I won't go anywhere. And I am not hungry."
She turns her back to them, taking a step toward the stairs.
Leonard stands up, his chair scraping loudly against the wood. "We have to go, my Lady." His voice is hard, but laced with profound grief. "If Luan was still inside the central, Sir Azik's network would have found him by now. He is not here. Staying in this house will not bring him back."
He pauses, forcing his tone to soften. "Patrin is the only place left where we can build the power to properly search for him. Please. Trust me."
Rowan opens his mouth to intervene, but snaps his jaw shut. Erwin looks down at his boots. Layla glances nervously between the adults.
Elsbeth stops on the bottom step. Slowly, painfully, she looks back over her shoulder.
"Patrin... will really help us find him?" she asks, her voice trembling. "Is that the truth, Leonard?"
Leonard hesitates for a fraction of a second. He looks into her desperate eyes and nods. "I cannot promise you when... but I swear to you upon my life, I will search the entire world if I have to. I will tear this continent apart. I will not stop until I find him."
A suffocating pause fills the room.
Then, Leonard adds, "We cannot look for luan and be hunted by the King at the same time. We have to move."
Elsbeth looks down at the floorboards. The fight drains from her shoulders.
She nods once. "...Alright."
Without another word, she ascends the stairs, vanishing into the shadows of the second floor.
The food on the table remains untouched.
Rowan pushes his chair back slowly, the wood groaning. "I am going to the palace," he declares, securing his sword belt. "I will get whatever she needs for the road from her chamber." He leaves the house without waiting for a reply, the heavy front door shutting behind him.
Leonard sits back down, rubbing his exhausted face with both hands. He looks at Layla, forcing a gentle tone. "Eat, little one. If you don't eat, you won't grow."
Layla offers a weak smile and picks up her fork. Leonard forces himself to take a bite of the bread, but it tastes like ash on his tongue.
The house remains draped in a tense, funereal silence throughout the morning. Outside the windows, the oblivious city continues to spin.
But by mid-afternoon, the sky turns the color of bruised iron.
The rain begins. It does not start as a drizzle; it falls hard and heavy, a violent, deafening downpour that lashes against the roof like the sky itself is shattering. Thunder rolls in the distance.The front door flies open. Sir Rowan steps inside, absolutely soaked to the bone. Freezing water drips from his heavy wool cloak onto the floorboards. In his large hands, he carries a heavy rosewood trunk, securely sealed with a brass lock.
His expression is dark enough to freeze blood.
Leonard stands instantly, his hand dropping to the hilt of his dagger. "What happened?"
Rowan sets the heavy box down onto the table with a loud *thud*.
"The King has made his move just as we expected."
The room goes dead silent, save for the roaring rain outside.
"Explain," Leonard demands, his eyes narrowing.
Rowan's jaw clenches so tight a muscle ticks in his cheek. "The Princess's chambers have been chained shut. All of her personal servants have been reassigned or imprisoned. Theoron has officially announced to the court that Princess Elsbeth has contracted a severe illness and requires strict, indefinite isolation."
Erwin pales. "Isolation..."
Leonard lets out a single, sharp laugh—a sound entirely devoid of humor. He looks down at his scarred hands. "Isolation. That is a prison sentence."
Rowan does not argue. "He is erasing her from the kingdom," the old knight says quietly. "The Royal Guards will come to this house to 'escort' her soon. I managed to bypass the sentries and take what I could from her vanity before they locked the wing entirely."
Leonard stares at the brass-bound box, his chest rising and falling with a slow, simmering rage. "He is locking his own flesh and blood away. Just to protect his throne."
Rowan places a heavy, soaking wet hand on his son's shoulder. "Get her ready to leave. Right now. If the King's dogs arrive before sunset, I will hold the gates."
Leonard meets his father's eyes. He nods once. "Alright."
He picks up the heavy rosewood box and heads upstairs.
When Leonard enters the bedroom, Elsbeth is standing perfectly still by the window.
The torrential rain hammers against the glass, blurring the outside world into a smear of grey. Thunder rumbles through the floorboards, but she does not flinch. She does not even turn around when the door clicks shut.
"My Lady," Leonard says softly.
No response.
He clears his dry throat. "We need to leave now. The palace has announced you are under isolation. The guards are coming to take you."
"I see," she replies. Her voice is entirely hollow.
Leonard walks forward, placing the rosewood trunk gently onto the center of the bed.
"Father managed to smuggle this out from your chambers."
Only then does she turn. She walks slowly toward the bed, staring at the brass lock. With trembling fingers, she flips the latch and pushes the heavy wooden lid open.
Inside lies the remnants of a royal life. Neatly folded silk garments, a few small, precious trinkets, and resting at the very top, wrapped carefully in crimson velvet—a silver tiara, laced with sapphires. The late Queen's crown.
Her breath hitches.
She doesn't speak. She reaches out, lifting the silver crown from its velvet bed. She holds it in both hands, her thumbs tracing the cold, unfeeling jewels. For a long, agonizing minute, she stares at the symbol of the family that is trying to destroy her.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she places the crown back into the box.
Her eyes drift away from the jewels, landing on a smaller, lacquered vanity case tucked into the corner of the trunk.
She opens it.
Inside rest the traditional cosmetics of a highborn lady. A jar of fine, crushed alabaster powder. A small tin of deep carmine lip-rouge. A stick of blackened kohl.
She stares at the colors. White. Red. Black.
The silence in the room stretches, thick and electric.
"My Lady..." Leonard begins, taking a hesitant step forward.
"I understand," Elsbeth interrupts. Her voice is no longer trembling. It is terrifyingly calm.
Leonard stops in his tracks.
Elsbeth closes the heavy rosewood trunk, leaving her royal clothes and her silver crown buried in the dark.
She reaches into the lacquered vanity. Her fingers bypass the elegant brushes. She presses her bare fingertips directly into the crushed alabaster powder.
*Not to beautify. To paint.*
She brings her trembling fingers to her cheek.
Leonard watches, breathless, as the broken Princess of Liveria smears the stark white powder across her skin, followed by the dark kohl around her eyes, and a jagged, crimson smile of carmine across her lips.
A tribute to the jester who saw the unseen princess.
A memory she refuses to let the world erase.