The sun sagged toward the western hills, staining the high windows with amber light, and still Lysa had found nothing. She had spoken to every soul who might know something, guards and servants, merchants and messengers, and each word she gathered crumbled to dust in her hands. Empty. All of it empty.

  She turned from the corridors and made for the training room, drawn there as much by habit as by the restless pull beneath her skin.

  The door shut behind her with a muted thud. The air inside was thick with the scent of old sweat, oiled wood, and iron rubbed smooth by years of use. Yet to Lysa it was more than smell. She felt the room before she truly saw it. The faint vibration of the beams settling. The slow breathing of the guards outside the far wall. The scrape of a mouse somewhere beneath the floorboards. All of it brushed against her awareness like a distant current.

  She stepped to the posts.

  When her fist struck the first one, the sound cracked sharp and loud. The wood groaned. Fibers splintered where her knuckles landed, though her skin did not break. She struck again, faster this time, and the flow answered her call. Warmth surged through her muscles, not born of strain but of alignment, as if her body had remembered a deeper rhythm. Each movement drew strength from the space around her, from the breath of the room, from the unseen lattice that bound stone and air alike.

  She moved.

  Her blows came in a measured storm. Hands, elbows, knees. Each strike landed with exact knowledge of distance and resistance. She could feel the grain of the wood before contact, the moment it would give, the point where force would travel inward and break rather than rebound. When she kicked, the post lurched in its bindings, ropes snapping tight as the floor shuddered beneath her feet.

  Her breathing remained steady. Too steady for exertion alone.

  Sound sharpened until she could hear the flutter of cloth against her own skin, the subtle rasp of her muscles sliding beneath flesh. Touch deepened, not just at her hands and feet but along her bones, as though her skeleton itself drank in the motion. Sight narrowed and clarified, every edge precise, every shadow measured. The world slowed, not because it faltered, but because she had stepped ahead of it.

  She struck harder.

  The second post split with a dry, protesting crack, a fissure running down its length. Lysa planted her foot, twisted, and drove her shoulder forward. The wood burst apart, shards clattering across the floor. She stood amid them, chest rising now, the flow still coursing through her, obedient, vast, waiting.

  Only then did the tight coil in her thoughts loosen, just enough for breath to reach places it had been denied.

  She reached for her water skin, lifted it, and drank deeply. The coolness grounded her, drew the power back into stillness, though it did not fade. It never truly faded. It settled, patient as roots beneath the soil.

  Lysa lowered the skin and looked at the ruin of the post.

  Strong, her father’s blood seemed to whisper. Strong enough to break wood. Strong enough to endure.

  Footsteps sounded behind her.

  Dorian stepped inside, closing the door with care, as though the room itself might be listening.

  “I know your thoughts are bound to your brother,” he said, his voice low and measured, “but I have news that may interest you.”

  Lysa wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and turned, one brow lifting. “What sort of news?”

  “Our network exists for one purpose,” Dorian said. “To peel back the rot within the ruling class. In pursuit of that, my people have uncovered something… peculiar.”

  “Go on.”

  “Rumors have been spreading across the kingdom. The sort the Crown would normally crush with coin and threats. Until now we did not know who fed them into the streets.”

  Lysa held his gaze, silent, waiting.

  “It is the king’s own coin-master Orlyn Draemyr,” Dorian continued. “He is paying handsomely to keep these whispers alive.”

  For a heartbeat she said nothing. Then her voice came, quiet and edged. “Why would a man that close to the king, a man who lacks for nothing, risk such a thing? Why would he even consider it?”

  Dorian’s eyes narrowed, the look of a man peering down a long and dangerous road. “Because those who have everything often want one thing more. Not gold, not comfort. Leverage perhaps or a rout of escape…sometimes both.”

  He paused, letting the weight of it settle.

  “And sometimes,” he added softly, “they know a storm is coming, and they are choosing which side of the wall they will stand behind when it breaks.”

  Lysa’s hands curled into fists. “What kind of rumors are they putting out there?”

  Dorian did not answer at once. He crossed the room, resting a hand on the edge of a weapons rack, his gaze distant. “The sort people remember,” he said at last. “Whispers that the army kidnaps citizens and uses them for experiments. Tales that the king himself strangles expansion on purpose, not for safety or lack of means, but for control.”

  Lysa’s breath hissed through her teeth. “Those are grave accusations. Even if there is truth buried in them, there will never be proof.”

  Dorian inclined his head. “Proof is a luxury of peaceful times. The people do not require it now. In times of tribulation, all they need is a spark, something to set their fear alight.”

  She considered that, eyes narrowing. “But that works in our favor, does it not? A restless populace forces the nobles to err. When they do, we will be there to take our due.”

  “Things are never that simple,” Dorian said quietly. “If the coin-master is willing to poison the streets with such venom, then something far larger is moving beneath it all. What troubles me most is that the king sees these rumors and does nothing. It is as though the trap has already snapped shut, and there is no path left to escape.”

  He turned to face her fully. “Considering what happened in Avenwall, and how swiftly the army buried it, I would wager that was the first test.”

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  “A test,” Lysa said, the word flat and cold. “You are telling me my father gave his life, and all of it was nothing more than a test.”

  Pain flickered across Dorian’s face. “I am truly sorry,” he said. “But logic leads there. We were caught inside it, victims of a turning we could not see.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” Lysa replied. Her voice trembled, but it did not break. “I will get to the bottom of this, one way or another. And when I do, whoever was behind it will pay double for what they have done.”

  Dorian studied her for a long moment, as if weighing her against his memories of her. “I could say that an eye for an eye leaves the world blind,” he said. “But I know you. You are not as hotheaded as Brann. You measure your steps, even when your heart burns.”

  Lysa did not answer. She only looked past him, toward a future that felt suddenly narrow, and sharp as a drawn blade.

  They left the training room together, their voices low as they spoke of routes, timings, and contingencies. The matter was decided before the corridor ended. Lysa would travel east to Caldrithorne, and there she would slip into the shadows of wealth and stone to infiltrate the mansion of Orlyn Draemyr. It was work suited to her, as if the pattern itself had bent a thread toward her hands.

  Her gift of insight had been honed for such tasks. Lysa had chosen her path long ago and shaped it with care, a path of exploration born from a spirit that had never learned to sit still. What she sought now was not distant horizons, but hidden doors and unspoken truths. Secrets were simply another kind of wilderness.

  To that end she and Brann had crafted, with patience and no small cost, a pair of enchanted lenses that complemented her powers. When worn, they revealed what the eye alone could not, and spoke in quiet impressions to the mind behind them. Focus them upon a mountain peak and they would whisper of its slope and balance, the bite of the air, the strain on the lungs, the likelihood of stone and snow giving way. Turn them upon a beast in the wild and they would tell of hunger gnawing at the belly, fear sharp as frost, pain dull and lingering, the creature’s age and the speed it could muster if it chose to run or to kill.

  Such knowledge could decide a battle before steel ever met, or mean the difference between life and death in an unforgiving land. Yet the price was steep. The lenses drank deeply of her strength, and the more she fed them, the more they revealed.

  There was another truth as well, one she had learned through bitter trial. Humans were harder to read. Their souls were layered, tangled with will and memory. When she turned those lenses upon Brann, what she saw was of little use. His power stood above hers, at least for now, and where strength eclipsed her own, the flow of insight thinned to a trickle.

  Lysa accepted that without resentment. Every tool had its limits. What mattered was knowing where those limits lay, and choosing her steps with care as she walked toward the heart of another man’s secrets.

  “It will be you who infiltrates Orlyn’s inner circle,” Dorian said. “We will have people stationed throughout Caldrithorne, but once you cross into his domain you will stand alone. Be careful.”

  Lysa gave a small, confident nod. “Do not worry. He may be wealthy, may be powerful, but to me he is still just a man. And I am a druid. There is little he could do to catch me unawares.”

  Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Aerin rounded the corner in time to hear the last of it, her expression already set.

  “I am going with her, father.”

  Dorian turned sharply. “This is not a mission for you, Aerin. You will only be hurt.”

  Her jaw tightened. “You did not tell me about Brann leaving. And now you would bar me from this as well. You keep me hidden away, afraid of what might happen. It was not always like this. Before Avenwall, I went on missions. You trusted my judgment.”

  Something flickered in Dorian’s eyes, a shadow passing over old certainty. “What happened there changed something in me,” he said quietly. “It made everything real. We lost people before, when the army took them, but most did not die. They were imprisoned, and we told ourselves that was a risk we could manage. After Avenwall, I saw how easily it can all end. I am a father. It is only natural that I would want to keep you safe.”

  “No one is safe,” Aerin replied, her voice steady despite the heat beneath it. “You said it yourself. Something vast is moving. If we are caught unprepared, there will be more casualties. That includes me. I want to stop that, just as much as you do.”

  Dorian looked at her for a long moment, weighing words he did not speak.

  Lysa broke the silence. “She should come. We have trained together often enough. She knows her craft.”

  At last Dorian exhaled, the fight leaving him. “Very well,” he said. “But keep my daughter safe.”

  His gaze fixed on Lysa, sharp and unyielding, a father’s command spoken without raising his voice.

  After Dorian left, the corridor fell quiet, the echo of his steps fading like a door closing on a warmer room. The two women stood there for a moment, alone with their thoughts.

  Aerin broke the silence. “What do you think Brann is doing now?”

  Lysa considered it, a faint smile touching her lips. “If I had to guess, I would say he is traveling toward Westmere. But knowing him, he is likely knee deep in another fight. Trouble seems to find him, or perhaps he finds it.”

  She noticed at once how Aerin’s expression darkened, worry settling over her features like a gathering cloud.

  “But I am sure he is fine,” Lysa went on more gently. “We trained together, you know that. And though it pains me to admit it, he is far stronger than I am. That cursed power of his, that cold, it is something fierce. He has shaped it, mastered it, made it his own.”

  Aerin lowered her gaze. “I just hope that this time he chooses not to fight.”

  Lysa watched her then, really watched her. The worry was not only fear for Brann’s life, but fear of losing the chance to mend what had been broken, to set things right before the cracks became chasms. It was plain as day. Aerin loved Brann. Everyone could see it, everyone except the fool himself.

  “Listen,” Lysa said, her voice firm but kind. “We leave for Caldrithorne in the morning. Once we arrive, we will send a raven to Westmere. If he is there, he will answer. I want to know what is happening in that town as well, and whether my brother has shown his stubborn face.”

  Aerin drew in a slow breath and nodded. “You are right. There is nothing to be done by worrying. We should focus on the mission.”

  “That is the spirit,” Lysa said, turning toward the adjoining room. “Come. Let us take inventory and mark what we will need.”

  As they moved to their preparations, the unease did not vanish, but it settled into something sharper and more useful. Tomorrow would be the beginning of a new trial and both women were already bracing themselves for what that might demand.

  The next morning dawned pale and cool, the sort of morning that promised long roads and longer thoughts. Dorian met them at the gate as the keep stirred awake, his manner calm but his eyes sharp, taking in every strap and buckle as if committing them to memory.

  “These are my final instructions,” he said. “Your contact in Caldrithorne is a man named Halver Tain. He will provide shelter and food, and no questions beyond what is necessary. From there, he will see to it that Lysa is placed inside the household, working in the kitchens as an assistant to the cook.”

  Lysa nodded. The plan was sound. She had spent enough time beside Torvil’s hearth to know the rhythm of knives and fire, the quiet order beneath the chaos of a busy kitchen. Passing whatever small test Orlyn’s staff set before her would be simple enough. Once inside the kitchens of Orlyn Draemyr’s mansion, the rest would unfold as it must. Servants heard everything. Secrets had a habit of drifting toward the hearth.

  Dorian’s gaze lingered on Aerin for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then shifted away. “From that point on, you will trust your judgment. Both of you. There will be no messages unless they are essential.”

  They said their farewells without ceremony. There were no embraces, no last minute pleas. Such things only made the leaving harder. Dorian watched until they turned onto the road, then stood a while longer, as if committing their silhouettes to memory before the distance claimed them.

  The road stretched east, winding through fields and low hills, growing busier with each mile as carts and riders joined the flow toward the heart of the realm. With every step, the weight of the kingdom seemed to press closer, drawing them onward toward its glittering core.

  Ahead lay Caldrithorne, jewel of stone and spire, seat of coin and crown. The City of Caldrithorne rose in Lysa’s mind not as a promise, but as a challenge. And she set her feet to the road with quiet resolve, knowing that once they passed beneath its walls, there would be no turning back.