The journey from Ross to Acosta was long—and heavier than either of them expected.
The prince rode ahead, cloak pulled low, the insignia of Ross stripped from his armor until he looked like nothing more than a minor noble on pilgrimage. Behind him, Laura followed on a smaller horse, her hood shadowing her face, hands clenched tight in her lap.
Neither spoke for a long time.
Ross faded behind them not as a kingdom, but as a wound.
Villages passed in silence—some rebuilt, most broken. Fields lay abandoned, soil cracked as if the land itself had given up hope of being loved again. At night, when they stopped to rest, the prince stared into the fire without seeing it, while Laura lay awake listening to the wind, remembering screams she never allowed herself to forget.
"You don't have to come," he finally said on the third night, breaking the silence like a confession.
Laura laughed softly, without humor. "And let you face her alone?"
He didn't answer.
She sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. "You still love her," Laura said quietly.
The prince stiffened.
"You always did," she continued. "You loved her before betrayal had a name. Before survival demanded silence."
"I was a coward," he said, voice low. "I watched her world burn and told myself I was powerless."
Laura turned her face toward the firelight, eyes sharp. "You were powerless then," she said. "But you are not now. The question is—what are you really going there to do?"
He closed his eyes.
"I will stop a war," he said carefully.
"And?" Laura pressed.
"And I will see her," he admitted. "Alive. Standing. Powerful."
Laura's chest tightened.
"And if she looks at you with hatred?"
"Then I deserve it."
"And if she looks at you like a stranger?"
"That," he said hoarsely, "would be worse."
Laura said nothing after that.
Because she understood.
She remembered the girl who had dressed like a servant to save another's life. The princess who had been pushed through a window by bleeding hands. The laughter they had shared before the world turned cruel.
Vanella had survived.
That alone terrified her.
By the fifth day, they crossed into Acosta's outer territories.
Everything changed.
The roads were guarded, patrolled by soldiers who did not speak unless necessary. The air itself felt… awake. Power lingered in the stones, in the wind, in the way even the horses grew restless as they neared the capital.
Laura swallowed. "This place feels dangerous."
The prince nodded. "So does its king."
He had heard the rumors.
The dragon king who was said to be powerless—until he wasn't. The massacre of the eagle clan. The sudden engagement. The princess of Ross reborn in gold and red.
That last one twisted something sharp in his chest.
"She is not a pawn," he said firmly, more to himself than to Laura. "Whatever game this king is playing, she is not his possession."
Laura glanced at him. "Careful," she warned. "That man does not share."
"I am not afraid of him."
Laura did not answer—but her silence said everything.
As the towers of Acosta finally rose in the distance, bathed in fading sunlight, the prince felt it.
A pull.
A pressure behind his eyes.
Something ancient stirring.
Far away, beyond stone and fire and fate, Vanella's presence brushed the edge of his awareness—like a memory that refused to stay buried.
He gripped the reins harder.
I am coming, he thought.
And this time, I will speak.
Unseen by him, far above the capital, clouds shifted unnaturally.
And somewhere in the west wing of the palace, a dragon stirred.