The skies above Lanton were a dull gray, bleached of color, with the promise of rain held somewhere just out of reach. I stood by the window of our rented room in Falcon’s Flight, watching low clouds drift above the rooftops like smoke from some distant battle. The city below moved on as always—carts clattering over stone, shopkeepers setting out stalls, apprentices chasing dogs through alleys.

  Behind me, Bront snored softly, for once. Selene sat at the table in our room, turning a knife over in her hands. Not sharpening, just... turning. The room felt unusually quiet without Kaela’s usual morning chatter.

  “She’s outside,” Selene said without looking up. “Trying to juggle apples or something. Badly.”

  I gave a soft grunt in reply, stepping away from the window.

  “She say anything?” I asked.

  Selene shook her head. “No. But she’s trying to keep things light. I think she knows we’re all... having a difficult time with this.”

  Her tone darkened slightly at the end, and I didn’t have to ask what she meant. We were all still waiting for Lyria to make her decision. Day four had begun, and the prince’s presence was beginning to feel like a noose tightening around each of our throats.

  Selene finally set the knife down. “I just want her to be alright. No matter what she decides.”

  I didn’t answer. Because I wasn’t sure what I wanted anymore. Or maybe I was—and didn’t want to admit it.

  Eventually, Bront stirred. He sat up and yawned, a deep pillow mark on his massive cheek. His eyes darted between us.

  “...Did I miss something?” he mumbled.

  “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

  He rubbed his face and muttered something about ale. Then: “She’s with him, isn’t she?”

  Selene nodded, her jaw clenched.

  “Though, she did say something about collecting herbs today. I hope she does, she could use some time to herself right now,” Selene added.

  None of us said what we were thinking. That she’d spent more time with him than she had with any of us since his arrival.

  After breakfast—Kaela began making a game of teasing Bront and Selene for their brooding faces, curiously, sparing me.

  I slipped out alone and made my way toward the Temple of the Sunwarden.

  The curiosity was eating at me. I needed to know if Ron was okay.

  The streets were still quiet near the temple district. When I pushed through the tall gates of the Sunwarden’s temple and made my way inside, the scent of incense and oil met me instantly. A few acolytes were sweeping the stone floor. A priest glanced up from a lectern, but said nothing.

  I found him near the back, halfway down the side hall, kneeling over a mosaic floor tile with a brush in one hand and a bucket in the other.

  “Ron.”

  He looked up, surprised, then grinned sheepishly.

  “I’m not dead,” Ron said, gesturing to the bucket like it proved something. “Just doing penance. They found out I took someone into the crypt… but don't worry! They don’t know who!” he said with a wink.

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, allowing a small smile to spread.

  “Margo found you, then?”

  He nodded, then stood, wiping his hands on his robes. “She gave me a talking-to. But yes. She found me yesterday. Also… she came by early this morning, asking if I’d be willing to take part in the Fellwood quest.”

  “And you said…?”

  Ron’s expression grew serious.

  “I said yes, of course... I don’t think I could forgive myself if something like what we saw down there—” he motioned vaguely toward the crypts below “—showed up somewhere else and I hadn’t tried to stop it.”

  “Ron… like I said, I don’t think that thing was connected to the Fell,” I reiterated.

  “But still! You get the point, if monsters are appearing, it’s my duty to protect those who can’t protect themselves,” he insisted, his unflinching honor genuinely touching.

  In fact, his words reminded me of a certain promise I’d made to myself, and to my late mother. My eyes grew distant at the memory.

  He glanced at me.

  “Do you think you and your party will join us?”

  I didn’t answer right away. Just looked past him toward a stained-glass window of the Sunwarden holding a torch aloft in a storm.

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. “But we’re running out of time.”

  I turned to head back down from the Temple, offering Ron my parting words. “Take care of yourself Ron. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, should we accept the quest.”

  He waved at my back as I descended the cobbled hill back toward lower Lanton, I headed to the markets to clear my mind.

  The streets of Lanton were busy, but not crowded. That in-between lull—after the morning rush, before the noon bells. The kind of day that made it easy to think too much. I cut through the marketplace without a word to the usual vendors, ignoring the hawkers and the fruit-stand girl who always tried to guess my name. There wasn’t room in my head for banter—not today. Not when the choice was almost on us.

  As I passed behind a small terraced garden, a familiar figure caught my eye. I stopped, torn between instinct and emotion.

  It was Lyria.

  I was still angry—hurt. Her choice last night had felt like a blade, twisting deep. I guess, somewhere along the way, I’d come to care for her more than I dared to admit. And watching her choose Elledor—at least in that moment—left me reeling. Even now, I couldn’t bring myself to face her.

  I started to turn away, ready to give her the space she said she needed. But then I saw it—just a slight shake in her shoulders.

  I hesitated, then inched to the side, still on the slanted road that ran beside the gardens. Peering through clusters of yellow and white flowers, their colors washed out by the overcast sky, I caught her in profile—and my heart broke.

  Lyria sat beneath a worn wooden pergola, vines drooping around her like they felt her sadness. Her usual composure shattered, face buried in her hands, her body trembling with quiet sobs. Beside her sat a wicker basket, half-filled with herbs. Lavender. The same color as her eyes.

  “Oh, Lyria,” I murmured to myself, backing away slowly. “You big idiot... just ask for help.”

  I knew I couldn’t approach her. Not now.

  But the image of her crying under that pergola wouldn’t leave me. Worse still, I didn’t know how to help her if she insisted on keeping me out.

  I turned toward Falcon’s Flight, jaw tight, fists clenched at my sides. Whether she wanted me to or not… I was done playing nice. That prince and I were going to have a little chat.

  Inside the tavern, Selene, Bront, and Kaela were seated at our usual table, deep in discussion about the upcoming quest—whether we’d take it, and what we’d do if Lyria truly decided to leave.

  When I pushed through the door, my expression must’ve said everything. Selene looked up instantly, concern already shadowing her face. The others followed suit.

  “Yukon—” she started, but I cut her off.

  “Save it. Where’s Elledor?”

  Selene stood, her voice firm. “Yukon, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but calm down. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

  I glanced at Bront. He didn’t speak, just gave a slow shake of his head. But I could tell—he was holding back too.

  Kaela met my eyes. She studied me for a moment, then sighed and pointed upward.

  His room.

  I turned toward the stairs.

  “Yukon!” Selene stepped into my path, her tone sharpening. “Get a hold of yourself.”

  I met her eyes, calm but resolved. “I have a hold of myself. I just want to talk.”

  “Then talk to us,” she countered. “We still need to decide whether we’re taking the quest. And what to do if Lyria—”

  “We take it,” I interrupted. “I know you want to tear them down too, and we can’t let the Bronze-ranks run to their deaths alone, can we? As for Lyria… she’s not going anywhere.”

  She frowned, but after a moment’s hesitation, she let me pass.

  I climbed the stairs with steady steps, stopping in front of Elledor’s door. I knocked, firm and purposeful.

  He opened it a moment later, a smirk already forming.

  “Ah, Yukon. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, all arrogance and amusement.

  “We’re going to have a chat,” I said flatly.

  His brow arched, lips curling into something darker. “You’ve gotten bold. That almost sounded like a command. I’ll excuse it just this once—chalk it up to peasant ignorance. But if your tone offends me again, I’ll take your tongue.”

  A flicker of unease stirred in me, though I kept it buried. He wasn’t wrong—he was royalty. One wrong move, and this could get real ugly.

  I drew a slow breath. “Apologies. I’d like to request an audience… please.”

  His grin widened, smug. “Very well. Come in.”

  He turned with deliberate grace, gliding to a seat and linking his fingers together, waiting.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  I stepped inside, but didn’t sit.

  “What do you really want with Lyria?” I asked. “Why her, out of everyone? Surely you could have your pick of any elf in the kingdom.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose I could,” he said, his smile never touching his eyes. “But none of them are Lyria. She’s… rare. A half-breed. Exotic.”

  The word left a bitter taste in my mouth.

  “She has a strong bloodline too,” he continued, casual as ever. “Her family has served the royal line for generations. It’s a politically sound match.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “But isn’t your lineage supposed to remain pure? Wouldn’t marrying a half-elf be… unacceptable?”

  He laughed—a rich, mocking sound.

  “Oh, she wouldn’t be a wife,” he said, his tone silky with disdain. “You’re right. That would be out of the question.”

  I blinked, hope almost forming—until he kept going.

  “No… she would be something closer to a concubine, as you humans call them.”

  The word slammed into me like a hammer.

  Concubine…?

  My vision swam. My jaw clenched so hard I heard a pop in my ear. I took a step forward—

  “Careful,” Elledor warned smoothly, not even flinching. “Unless you’d truly prefer to cut your suffering short.”

  My fists curled. The red haze crept into my eyes.

  I’m going to wipe that smirk off his face—

  “YUKON!”

  Selene’s voice. Sharp. Commanding.

  I froze.

  She stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling, eyes flashing. Behind her, Bront’s massive form loomed. Kaela leaned against the wall, arms crossed, deadly quiet.

  “He’s not worth it,” Bront said calmly. “You hit him, we all hang for it.”

  I stared at Elledor for a long moment, the fury trembling in my arms. But I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

  Finally, I exhaled, closing my eyes and releasing my fists. Without a word, I pushed through the others and stormed down the stairs, out of the inn, back under the gray clouds hanging low over Lanton. Gray, the color my soul felt at that exact moment.

  * * *

  The clouds never broke.

  They just hung there, thick and low, as if the sky couldn’t quite decide whether to weep or smother the town in silence. Lanton had been wrapped in that gray stillness all day. And now, with dusk approaching, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath.

  I couldn’t go back to Falcon’s Flight. Not yet.

  Instead, I wandered the cobbled streets without aim, the memory of Elledor’s voice still buzzing in my ears. Every time I blinked, I saw Lyria’s face buried in her hands beneath that pergola.

  It made my chest feel too tight.

  I should’ve said something. Or maybe I shouldn’t have seen her at all. I didn’t know.

  And I hated not knowing.

  At some point, my feet carried me back to the edge of town. Past the bakery’s fading scent, past the rows of narrow, moss-flecked buildings, until the Common Post came into view again. The raven tower stood tall and unassuming beside it, its pale stone catching what little light the day allowed.

  I hesitated at the base of the steps, glancing up toward the ledges where several ravens sat. None were red.

  Stupid. It had only been a day. Barely even that. But I still climbed the steps.

  Inside, the same clerk from before sat at his desk, hunched over a steaming mug of tea. His bushy brows twitched as I entered.

  “Checking the skies already?” he said, voice dry but not unkind. “You must be anxious.”

  “You could say that,” I replied, rubbing the back of my neck.

  He opened a small ledger, flipping a few pages. “Let’s see... Yukon, right?”

  I nodded.

  “No replies. No landings under your name. Not yet.”

  “Right.” I swallowed the sigh that almost followed. “Thanks anyway.”

  He nodded and returned to his tea.

  I lingered by the tower window a moment longer, letting the dull light press against my face. High above, a raven stirred—stretching its wings and letting out a low croak before resettling. Not the one I needed. Still, something about the tower’s height made me feel… less buried. Like maybe the air here had a little more room in it. Or maybe it was just that, for once, no one expected me to say the right thing.

  No party members watching.

  No prince circling.

  No eyes, except those of the birds—and they, at least, had no judgment to offer.

  I turned to leave.

  But just as my hand touched the door, a soft flutter broke the quiet. Not loud, not urgent—just the faint rustle of wings catching the stale tower air.

  The clerk’s head lifted, eyes narrowing toward the ledge above. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, already rising from his stool.

  I followed his gaze—and there it was.

  A red-feathered raven, soaked slightly from drizzle but unmistakable in hue, perched just above the window slit. It gave a single, croaking caw before hopping down to the incoming rail.

  The clerk whistled low, impressed. “Didn’t expect a return this quick. Duskwood must’ve had one prepped before your letter even landed.”

  But I knew better. My father had read it, and he had written back—immediately.

  The clerk retrieved the capsule and handed it over without ceremony. “For you,” he said. “Hope it’s good news.”

  I didn’t answer. My fingers worked the latch in silence, heart climbing higher in my throat with every passing second.

  Inside was a folded parchment. Slightly creased at the corners, damp along one edge. My father’s handwriting marked the front—my name in strong, practiced script.

  I almost opened it right then, but something stopped me… I hesitated a moment longer, and then stuffed the letter in my pocket. I gave a quick nod to the clerk and left the raven tower, walking with anxious purpose.

  I felt conflicted, like I hadn’t accomplished what I said I would after I’d written the letter to him. It felt like I didn’t deserve to open it…

  But I’d had enough of roaming the streets of Lanton for one day. I reluctantly picked my way back toward Falcon’s Flight. The letter burning in my pocket.

  * * *

  When I stepped through the door, everyone was there—and not just my party. The whole tavern was alive with noise and movement. I wasn’t sure what the occasion was, but maybe days like this—gloomy and clouded—made people crave a reason to smile. Tankards clinked. Adventurers crowded around tables, poring over maps and slamming knives into their chosen destinations. The enchanted flute was back, its melody chipper and whimsical. Barmaids wove through the crowd with fists full of mugs. I watched one in particular stop at our usual table, dropping off frothy drinks for all of my—friends.

  I stepped up to the table, eyeing Elledor warily, though everyone seemed to be attempting to ignore the looming tension.

  “Yukon—!” Kaela called, springing up and pulling me down beside her, a bit too close.

  “Glad you came back! You’ve all been so high strung lately, so I convinced everyone to let loose and have some ale. Fancy a pint?” she asked, her smile disarming me momentarily.

  I glanced around the table. Selene sipped her ale quietly, though she seemed to be trying to enjoy herself. Bront slammed back the entire tankard that had just been dropped off, even Lyria smiled a bit at his display. Elledor sat next to her, a glass of wine in hand as he observed everyone. His expression was unreadable, but the smile he gave me when my eyes landed on him felt like poison.

  “I’d love one.”

  Kaela leaned close the moment my ale arrived, her breath warm against my ear.

  “New idea,” she whispered mischievously. “Operation: Make. Her. Jealous.”

  Before I could respond, her arm slid around mine, and she tilted her head just enough to meet my eyes, lashes fluttering. Her smile was coy, all performative charm and pointed mischief. She even let out a soft, bubbly laugh and pressed against my side like we were halfway through a lover’s secret.

  Across the table, Lyria glanced over.

  For the briefest moment, I saw it—that familiar flicker in her eyes. The same spark I’d caught when Kaela first joined our group, the face she made when she didn’t realize anyone was looking. Jealousy. Subtle, but real. But just as quickly, she blinked it away. Her smile returned, calm and composed, and she turned back to whatever Elledor had just said.

  Still, Elledor noticed.

  His wine glass paused mid-sip. He didn’t say anything—but his eyes lingered on Lyria a fraction too long before shifting to me.

  Kaela, still mid-performance, batted her lashes. “Convincing, right?” she teased, voice low. “She’s totally watching.”

  I leaned in, letting my nose nearly brush hers. Her teasing faltered for just a beat.

  “Thanks, Kaela,” I murmured. “But let’s not.”

  Something quiet passed between us. Her playful smirk faded—just a little—and she let go of my arm with a soft exhale, more thoughtful than annoyed.

  “Okay, broody boy,” she said, tapping my chest lightly. “Your loss.”

  The clinking of tankards and the tavern’s enchanted flute filled the silence that followed. But under the noise, the table had shifted—just slightly. Lyria didn’t look over again. And Elledor kept watching everyone with the kind of gaze that saw more than he let on.

  “Selene—did you let Mary know of our decision?” I asked, glancing over to her.

  “...I didn’t. I decided it best to wait for tomorrow morning, see how things pan out. The caravan won’t be leaving until mid-day anyway.” Selene said back with a sigh, glancing once in Lyria’s direction.

  I nodded. Nothing we could do but wait.

  The night dragged on until we all pulled ourselves away. Even Bront retired to our room, falling asleep almost immediately. I stayed up. My mind and heart—restless. And finally, I pulled out the letter.

  My hands shook, and my heart rate picked up. I couldn’t say why I was so nervous, just that I was. I opened it slowly, as if it might detonate…

  [Son, I appreciate your letter. I’m happy to hear that you’re doing well, and please, don’t worry about me.

  As for your question…

  Tell me, why can’t you challenge a prince? If he is wrong, then as my son, I expect you to tell him so, regardless of rank or relation. Sometimes in life the path we walk is not straight forward, sometimes it twists, it may even appear to betray us. But the path you find yourself on is not important, what matters is where you choose to plant your feet, and who you choose to stand beside. My son… Fight.

  …P.S. You like her don’t you… Send a portrait! I want grandkids!]

  I smiled softly to myself, retracing the words with my eyes under the lantern's warm glow. My cheeks reddened a bit at the last line. Perhaps he was right. Maybe I did need to swallow my fear and fight.

  As I considered his advice my ears twitched, a hushed murmuring trickled in from the hallway. My breath caught as I realized who it was.

  Elledor and Lyria…

  But, at this hour…?

  I strained my ears, creeping to the edge of my bed, finally letting one foot pad the wood panelled floorboards, creeping closer, trying to make out their muffled words—

  “No… I’m sorry, my prince, but—I can’t…” came Lyria’s voice, soft, almost trembling.

  “Oh come now, Lyria… do you really think it right to make a prince beg? I won’t ask again… Come to my room, so that I may sample what our future holds,” Elledor said, his voice sticky with lust, but absolute. He wasn’t asking.

  My stomach twisted, my face contorted, my ears felt the thunder of my heartbeat echoing within. Everything that had been quietly building within me these past few days was ready to burst. I pressed right up against the door to hear her response, silently, holding my breath.

  “P-please…” Lyria whispered, begging through fear and resignation.

  Elledor sighed. “Fine then… As your prince, I command you—”

  He didn’t get a chance to finish that sentence. My door flew open, slamming into the wall—its hinges squealing from the force.

  My head hung low as I stepped forward, face shadowed, sword held sheathed in one hand. It took every ounce of control I had not to give myself over to Tenebrae right then. His flame burned beneath my skin, igniting my chest like a hollow furnace.

  Elledor flinched slightly, though his usual smirk had already crept back onto his face by the time I looked up.

  “You’re making a mistake, boy—” He hissed, his grin darkening.

  “Enough,” I said, my voice cold and final, my eyes taking the faintest red glow. “She said no—”