The wind, ever-present in Cyrennia, carried not the scent of wildflowers or the promise of rain, but a more chilling perfume: the echo of a mother's scream, raw and ragged, swallowed by the inky maw of the Black Keep. It was a sound the townsfolk knew all too well, a mournful serenade for the men who vanished in the night, leaving behind only the gnawing fear that the kingdom was a graveyard for the living, and the keep, its silent, obsidian heart.

  The spring sun, a traitor in a sky the color of forget-me-nots, spilled onto the cobblestones, glinting off polished steel breastplates. It should have been a beautiful sight, a day that promised blooming meadows and warm breezes. Instead, my stomach twisted into a knot.

  Shadows spilled across cobblestone streets like ink stains, chasing me as I navigated the maze of shops and alleyways with my satchel of books. My boots struck the stones in a steady rhythm, a thin veil of normalcy in a town that had grown too quiet.

  The town square bustled faintly, but it was hushed, as though the people were afraid their voices might carry too far. Across the road, the blacksmith's forge belched smoke into the sky, the clang of hammer on anvil ringing out like a chorus of bells as craftsmen plied their trade with practiced skill.

  I stopped at the carpenter’s workshop, its wooden sign creaking faintly in the breeze. The scent of sawdust and varnish clung to the air as I pushed open the door. Inside, a young apprentice with calloused hands and a face streaked with sweat looked up from his work.

  "Kira," he said, brushing sawdust from his tunic and coming forward. "Is that it?"

  I nodded, pulling a small fabric-bound book from my satchel. Its edges were worn, the title embossed in fading gold. Techniques of Fine Joinery. "Here you go, Cedric. Just as you asked."

  He took the book carefully, cradling it as though it might shatter. "I’ve been wanting to read this for months," he murmured, almost to himself. Then his face darkened. "I only have these for now." He fumbled in his pocket and produced a few dull coins, barely enough to cover half the cost.

  "That’s fine," I said quickly, holding up a hand before he could explain. "Don’t worry about the rest. Pay me when you can—or when you return it."

  "But..." He hesitated, his hand clutching the coins. "That could take a while. Master Joran hasn’t paid me yet, and with taxes..." His voice trailed off, his eyes flickering nervously toward the open door.

  I forced a smile and pushed the book gently toward him. "It’s fine, Cedric. Really. Just take care of it and bring it back when you’re done."

  Relief flooded his face, but it was fleeting. "You’re too kind," he said softly, his words heavy with guilt. "I don’t deserve this."

  "Of course, you do," I replied, adjusting my satchel. "And who knows? Maybe your master will see your skills and finally give you that raise you’ve been waiting for."

  He laughed hollowly, but his gratitude shone through. "Thank you, Kira. Truly."

  I paused briefly, glancing at the intricate carvings displayed on the shelves before stepping back into the square. As I adjusted the strap of my satchel, the faint murmurs of a conversation reached me from the shadowed corner of a nearby stall. Two men, cloaked in the dull garb of travelers, leaned in close, their voices low.

  “...a thief, that’s what he is. A thief of kingdoms, and wives too.” The taller one spat on the ground, his contempt as sharp as a dagger’s point. “Mark my words, his greed’ll bring ruin to us all.”

  “Aye,” the other agreed. He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze darting through the crowd before he continued. “First the northern lands, then the eastern isles… No one is safe from his reach. Or his appetites.”

  The man twisted his face in disdain. “A king? Hah. He’s a marauder in a crown.”

  I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs. I ducked my head and continued down the street, the satchel feeling heavier than before.

  Further down the road, a row of market stalls stretched out before me, their tables laden with a colorful array of fruits, vegetables, and exotic spices from far-off lands. A vegetable vendor waved at me as I passed, her smile tight and her brow creased.

  "Morning, Kira," she called, her voice low enough to disappear into the market’s murmurs.

  "Morning, Eliza," I replied, forcing lightness into my tone. I paused, adjusting the strap of my satchel. "How’s your family?"

  She hesitated. Her eyes darted to a man in black armor who loitered at the edge of the square, helmet glinting in the sunlight. She answered without looking back at me. "Keeping our heads down. Same as everyone."

  The words were a whisper meant to carry a warning. I nodded once and turned on my heel, wishing I had more to offer her than books she could no longer afford.

  Everywhere I looked, the once-vibrant heart of Eldoria lay dormant. Shop windows boarded shut like vacant eyes stared back at me.

  A ragged figure huddled in a shadowed doorway startled me from my grim reverie. Mrs. Hawthorne, the seamstress with a lifetime etched into her wrinkled face and a kindness that used to mend more than just clothes. Now, her hand trembled as she reached out, eyes welling with a lifetime of unshed tears.

  Shame burned in my throat. All I had was a stale roll of bread, barely enough for one, yet somehow it felt like a betrayal to offer less. Swallowing the lump that threatened to choke me, I pressed the entire roll into her hand.

  "Bless you, child," she rasped, her voice a mere whisper on the wind. "They took my William, you know. Said he was needed for the king's… service." Tears welled in her rheumy eyes. "But everyone knows the truth. They're not coming back."

  William. The young man with a perpetually flour-dusted face who always had a joke and a helping hand at the bakery. Another life snuffed out to fuel the king's army. A wave of nausea washed over me. I knew of the rumors, whispers exchanged in hushed tones by womenfolk. But hearing it confirmed, the cold reality of it tore at me.

  There was a reason women only had daughters now. Sons… sons just disappeared. Mothers clung to their girls, a bittersweet joy laced with the constant fear of the day their sons would come of age.

  There were whispers of mothers hiding their children, even smothering newborns if they heard a boy's cry. It was a terrible choice, a mother against her own child.

  The atmosphere shifted as I ventured deeper into the heart of the town. The lively chatter faded into uneasy whispers, and the once vibrant streets grew somber and foreboding.

  I couldn't help but shudder at the sight of the public hanging sites, where the bodies of traitors and rebels swung ominously from gallows, serving as a grim warning to any who would dare oppose the crown. The air was thick with the stench of death, and the distant cries of mourning echoed off the cobblestone walls, a haunting refrain that seemed to permeate the very fabric of the town. Were they soldiers who disobeyed orders, defiant citizens, or perhaps those foolish enough to dabble in the forbidden art?

  My mind wandered to the past, to the rebel groups that had once fought in the north. I had heard whispers of them, of brave souls who had risen against Alaric’s tyranny, trying to reclaim some semblance of freedom for their people. But now, those groups were all but wiped out. The king’s retribution had been swift and brutal—he burned down half of the northern region, leaving nothing but smoldering ruins in his wake. What little was left were just a handful of villages, their very existence now serving as a reminder to anyone who might harbor rebellious thoughts.

  And now, the survivors of those villages lived in fear, constantly watching over their shoulders. The king had set up a network of informants, rewarding anyone who could bring him information about rebel activity. People were afraid to even whisper in the dark, knowing that someone might be listening, ready to sell them out for a handful of silver.

  In the distance, Dun Cyren, the capital city, sprawled at the foot of the Black Keep, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of Eldoria. Thick stone walls, devoid of the vibrant murals that once adorned Eldoria's buildings, encircled the city. Opulent mansions, their windows glowing like mocking eyes, pressed shoulder to shoulder within. This was where the elite resided, the wealthy merchants and nobles who lined their pockets with the coin squeezed from the sweat and tears of the commoners.

  I'd never set foot within those walls. Entry was strictly controlled, a privilege reserved for the elite or those bearing official documents. Even when I delivered messages or books for my father, I wasn't allowed past the first checkpoint. The guards, faces etched with suspicion, would take the message with a sneer, their eyes lingering on the worn leather satchel that marked me as an outsider.

  Eldoria, a bustling beehive of artisans, inventors, and storytellers, had been deemed unworthy. Its warmth, its spirit, its very existence deemed a threat by the cold, sterile heart of Dun Cyren.

  I made my way toward the eastern quarter, where the bakery’s shutters had been drawn so long they bore permanent streaks of grime. A boy I knew—Timothy, the baker’s son—caught my gaze from across the street and darted behind a barrel. His thin frame vanished like a ghost. His mother had told me last week about the heightened taxes. "We’re doing what we can," she’d said, but I saw the shame in her eyes when I left without my usual loaf.

  The cobbler’s shop sat on the corner near the old clock tower, its bell now silent. The old man Archibald was at the threshold, gesturing wildly, his face flushed as two Dusk Cloaks dragged him into the street.

  He was staring right at me.

  "Kira!" he called, his voice cracking. "Kira, tell them! Tell them I—"

  I kept walking. My heart pounded like a hammer, every instinct screaming to turn back, to argue, to fight. But my father’s words overrode it all: You cannot help them. Don't get noticed. Don't speak out. Be invisible.

  Archibald was a friend of my father’s, a kind man who had repaired my shoes countless times without ever asking for payment. Seeing him now, his wiry frame struggling against their grip, made my steps falter.

  But I kept my head down, pretended not to hear him. A part of me broke at his hoarse cries as they hauled him toward the keep.

  No one in the marketplace stopped. No one even glanced. We had all learned better.

  The bell above the bookstore door chimed as I stepped inside. The air, thick with the smell of ink and aged parchment, wrapped around me like a protective cloak. Here, at least, the world was still mine.

  My father looked up from a pile of papers spread across the counter, his spectacles perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. "How was the delivery?"

  I swallowed hard, setting the satchel on the counter. "Fine."

  He raised an eyebrow at the sharpness in my tone, but he said nothing. He never did—not until I was ready to speak.

  "They took Archibald." The words escaped like steam from a kettle. My voice was flat, betraying none of the panic that had burned in my chest minutes earlier. "Right in the square."

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  My father’s hands paused over a book, his shoulders stiffening for just a moment. He nodded, as though I had told him the weather had turned. "I wondered how long it would take."

  "That’s all you have to say?" I demanded, my voice louder than I’d intended. "You knew they’d come for him?"

  "It was only a matter of time." He closed the book, sighing deeply. "Archibald spoke too freely. He knew the risks."

  "And we’re just supposed to... to what? Let it happen?" My throat tightened. "He called for me, Father. For me."

  His eyes met mine, steady but tired. "And what would you have done, Kira? What could you have done?" He reached out, his hand warm on my arm. "The only reason we’ve survived is because we don’t get involved. The bookstore is too important to the royal library. You are too important to me."

  The words stung, though I knew they were meant to soothe. I looked away, the image of Archibald burned into my mind. "How many more, Father? How many before it’s us?"

  "Enough." His tone brooked no argument. "You need to finish shelving those deliveries. And stop thinking about things you can’t change."

  The streets outside hummed faintly with life, but the walls of the bookstore muted the noise, wrapping me in a false sense of security. I moved mechanically, sorting books into their places, the weight of them a distraction from the heavier burdens on my mind. But no matter how high I stacked the shelves, I couldn’t shake the hollow ache that had settled in my chest.

  Everywhere, the world seemed to tilt further into darkness. Yet here, in these four walls, I was supposed to pretend that words on a page could make any of it better.

  The faint creak of the floorboards behind me told me my father was watching. He often did, as though he could sense the rebellion simmering in my silence. Not yet, his gaze always seemed to say. Not yet.

  But the day was coming. I felt it, like the spark of a storm on the horizon. And when it did, I wouldn’t just stand there. Not this time.

  The bell above the door jingled softly, pulling my attention away from the ledger I’d been pretending to focus on. When I glanced up, I wasn’t surprised to see Sylra standing there, her thin hands clutching a bouquet of wildflowers. She came every year, always right on time.

  "Morning, Sylra," I said, my voice warmer than I felt.

  "Morning, Kira," she replied softly, stepping further into the shop. Her dark eyes darted toward the shelves like she didn’t quite know where to look. Finally, she placed the bouquet on the counter. "I, um... I brought these. For Kilian." Sylra pressed her lips together. "I just... I didn’t want the day to pass without doing something. He meant so much to me—to all of us."

  My chest ached. She was standing there, pouring her heart into this yearly ritual, and all I could do was nod and smile like a liar. "That’s so kind of you," I said. "He would’ve loved these."

  Sylra managed a faint smile, though her eyes glistened. "Sometimes I feel like he’s still here," she murmured, looking down at the counter. "Like if I turned a corner, I’d see him again. Does that sound crazy?"

  I froze. My fingers curled around the stems of the flowers to stop my hands from shaking. "No," I said softly. "It doesn’t sound crazy at all."

  Sylra let out a shaky breath, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I hope he knew how much he was loved. I hope he knows now." Her voice cracked slightly, and before I could think of something reassuring to say, she stepped back. "I should go. Thank you, Kira."

  The door chimed again as she left. I stood there for a long moment, staring down at the bouquet she’d left behind. My brother’s favorite flowers.

  I took a deep breath, tucked the flowers under my arm, and turned the lock on the front door. Then I headed to the basement.

  The stairs creaked under my boots as I descended into the familiar cool air below the shop. The basement was already dim, but even if someone had stumbled down here by mistake, they wouldn’t have found him.

  I reached the far end of the basement, where an old bookshelf groaned under the weight of dusty, unsorted books. Bracing my shoulder against the wood, I pushed it aside just enough to reveal the heavy iron hatch underneath. Pulling out a key from my pocket, I unlocked the hatch and pushed it open, revealing another short set of stairs leading even deeper into the ground.

  "Rise and shine," I called as I descended, my voice echoing slightly in the cramped, secret space.

  Kilian was sprawled across his armchair, an old book balanced on his chest and his blond hair sticking out in every direction. He looked up at me, his eyes sharp despite his lazy posture.

  When we were younger and still the same height, people often mistook us for twins. Same messy blonde hair, same amber eyes. It wasn’t hard to see why, back then, we were practically inseparable. But now, Kilian was a whole head taller than me, his long legs stretched out in front of him like he owned the whole room. Time had done its work, shifting us from two peas in a pod to something else entirely.

  "If you’re here to mourn my tragic death, you’re late," he said dryly.

  I tossed the bouquet onto the small table beside him. "Sylra brought these. For your death day."

  Kilian groaned, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. "She’s still doing that?"

  "Every year," I said, leaning against the wall. "She said she misses you. Thinks about you all the time. Nearly cried again."

  He sat up with exaggerated effort, inspecting the flowers with a mix of confusion and resignation. "She’s persistent, I’ll give her that." He plucked a petal and twirled it between his fingers. "You’d think by now she’d have forgotten me. Moved on. Found someone taller."

  "She thinks you drowned, Kilian," I said pointedly. "People don’t just get over that."

  "Well, they should," he muttered. "Especially when it’s all a giant lie."

  I folded my arms, narrowing my eyes. "Would you prefer we had sent you off to Alaric’s army, then? Maybe they’d let you send Sylra a letter. Assuming you still had fingers to hold a pen after all their pointless training."

  Kilian glared at me. "You sound just like Father."

  "Good," I snapped. "Because he’s the only reason you’re not rotting on some battlefield or marching in lockstep for a king who doesn’t care if you live or die."

  Kilian didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the flowers, twisting one of the stems absentmindedly.

  After a moment, I sighed, softening my tone. "She misses you," I said. "And honestly, so do I. The real you. Not this sulking basement version."

  Kilian shoved himself up from the chair, pacing in tight, agitated circles. "You know what’s funny? I could’ve just gone to the army. Done my time, learned to fight, shout at recruits, eat terrible stew—like a normal person. Maybe even come back with a stupid medal or two to hang over the mantle we don’t have." He threw up his hands, his voice rising. "But no! Instead, I’m stuck down here. Rotting. Reading books about people who actually get to leave their basements!"

  I raised an eyebrow. "You wouldn’t have lasted a week in the army. Too much bowing and scraping. You’d have called the captain a pompous twit and ended up shoveling latrines."

  "At least I’d be outside while shoveling!" Kilian shot back, pointing at the ceiling as though freedom itself were mocking him. "You don’t get it, Kira. Out there, I’d have a purpose. A uniform. Orders to follow. Something to aim for that isn’t ‘stay quiet and hope no one finds out your family’s smuggling magical contraband!’"

  "Purpose?" I scoffed. "You think being cannon fodder for a king who doesn’t know your name counts as purpose?"

  He whirled on me, his eyes sharp. "It’s better than being this! Better than sitting in this damp, cursed dungeon where the highlight of my year is—what? Sylra’s pity bouquet? Another moldy book that might kill us if someone reads the wrong word aloud?" He ran a hand through his hair, making it even wilder. "At least in the army, I’d be doing something real. Something that matters. But no. Instead, I’ve been stuck down here like some prisoner for four years. Do you have any idea what that feels like, Kira?"

  I looked at him, pacing the small room like a caged animal. "I do," I said quietly. "Because I’ve spent the last four years lying for you. Covering for you. To keep you safe. Visiting this stupid hole in the ground so you don’t go crazy."

  "The king’s been threatening war for decades, but nothing ever happens. He just claims it, closes the borders, keeps our people small—keeps us small—and we all just sit here, rotting in this miserable place."

  I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off, his voice rising.

  "It’s the same damn story every year. War. Threats. Fear. But nothing changes. We’re all stuck in this cycle of watching the world pass us by, just waiting for something to happen. But it never does." His chest heaved with every word, frustration and helplessness echoing in his tone.

  I took a steadying breath, trying to decide if I really wanted to say it. But he needed to come back to reality. Kilian wasn’t special. He wasn’t immune to the suffering or loss the rest of us endured. Service wouldn’t save him; it would chew him up and spit him out, just like it had with everyone else.

  My throat tightened, but I pushed through. He needed to understand.

  "William was taken," I said, the words slicing through the air like a knife.

  Kilian froze. His shoulders tensed, his fists clenching at his sides as though my words had physically struck him. He didn’t look at me at first, just stared at the floor, his breathing uneven. Slowly, he lifted his head, but his eyes… they weren’t angry or even sad. They were empty, cold, calculating. He was processing it, trying to decide if he had heard me right.

  "William," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper, like saying the name out loud would make it real.

  "Yes." My voice wavered, but I kept going, refusing to let him retreat into denial. "They took him, Kilian. He’s not coming back. None of them are. Not him, not anyone. Not your friends, not mine." I stepped closer, forcing him to meet my eyes. "You think the army would’ve let you live? That they would’ve given you a life? All they do is take, Kilian. They take everything. And they don’t give it back."

  Kilian took a deep breath, and in the next instant, the room erupted in a crash. A ceramic bowl flew off the table and shattered against the stone wall, pieces scattering across the floor. His breath came out in short, sharp bursts.

  "Fuck," he said under his breath, the word carrying a weight of all the frustration, pain, and helplessness that had been building up inside him for years.

  I flinched at the sound, but I didn’t step back. I knew how much this hurt him. I knew how close he and William had been. They had been friends all through school, brothers in every sense but blood.

  "William wasn’t supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to… not him. It should’ve been me. I could’ve…" He trailed off, unable to finish, his fingers tightening around the bouquet stems.

  For a long moment, Kilian stood there, staring at the shattered pieces of the bowl on the floor. His chest rose and fell with his heavy breaths, but there was nothing else—no words, no sound.

  Finally, he turned, running a hand through his messy hair. "Fuck," he muttered again, his voice tight, raw with emotion. "We can’t just let this happen, Kira."

  I shrugged. "What do you expect me to do? March up to the castle and demand they let him go? Tell the king to fuck off?"

  He looked at me—really looked at me for the first time since I’d spoken. His gaze softened, just for a moment, and I could see the storm of conflicting emotions churning in his eyes. Pain, anger, confusion, and something quieter—grief. He didn’t answer. He just fiddled with the bouquet, his fingers brushing absently over the petals as if grounding himself in their fragility.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. The air between us felt too heavy, too raw, and I knew Kilian needed space to mourn William in his own way. This wasn’t the time to push him further, not now. He deserved to sit with his pain alone, without me hovering. Deciding to change the subject, I reached into the pocket of my tunic and pulled out a book. It landed on the table next to him with a soft thud, the tattered spine barely keeping the pages together.

  "You brought me trash?" he said, picking it up like it might fall apart in his hands.

  I smirked, crossing my arms. "Hardly trash. Look closer."

  His eyes flicked down to the cover, then widened slightly as he ran his fingers over the faint glyphs etched into the worn leather. "The Codex of Lost Spells. A book on magic," he muttered. "Kira, this is forbidden."

  "Very forbidden. For Father’s collection," I said, leaning casually against the wall. "Think you can fix it? It’s the rarest one I’ve found so far. The others were valuable, but not like this."

  "Why do you always bring me the good crimes?" Kilian mused, his grin sly as he thumbed through the pages. "This one’s bound to get us executed."

  "Will you restore it?" I asked, my voice quieter now.

  Kilian hesitated. I saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes, the same doubt that always crossed his mind when we found something so rare, so dangerous. But I also knew him too well. He could never refuse me, not when it came to something like this.

  Finally, he sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "You know I’ll do it," he muttered. "You never let me say no." He set the book back down on the table, his fingers lingering on the edge, tracing its cover again as if it might give him answers. "But if I’m going to do this... I need to know you won’t get us caught."

  I smiled, though it didn’t quite reach my eyes. "I won’t. I’ve been careful."

  He paused, looking down at the book again, as if it were a puzzle he needed to solve. After a moment, his smirk returned, and he looked at me with that familiar mischievous glint in his eye. "Alright, alright. I’ll restore it. But before I do, you have to pick a title for it. Something inconspicuous, you know?"

  I raised an eyebrow, curious. "Like what?"

  Kilian grinned, his voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. "How about How to Win Friends and Influence Royalty?"

  I snorted. "Not quite what I had in mind."

  "Or," he continued, unbothered by my lack of enthusiasm, "The Art of Taming Dragons in Your Spare Time."

  "Absolutely not."

  "Hey, I’m just trying to make it look inconspicuous," he said, leaning forward with a grin that was half humor, half frustration. "If it’s going to sit on the shelf next to Father’s other books, it might as well have a title that won’t get it burned on sight."

  "I’ll let you know when I come up with something," I said, grinning despite myself.

  Kilian sighed dramatically, but there was a hint of fondness in his expression. "Fine. But it better be good."

  I smirked.

  Kilian picked up the book again, flipping through the fragile pages, his fingers moving with care. "Alright, well... I’ll get to work on it. But this isn’t going to be quick. If I’m going to make this look like it’s not worth anything, it’s going to take some time."

  "That’s fine," I said, watching him as he examined the delicate pages. "Just... make sure it’s perfect. This one’s too important to mess up."

  "Don’t rush me," Kilian warned, holding up the delicate book. "It’s not every day you get to salvage something older than Father’s cooking habits."

  I rolled my eyes. "Just make it convincing, Kilian."

  "Convincing?" He grinned. "I’ll make it magnificent. You’ll want to start a religion around this thing by the time I’m done."

  I gave him a tight smile, my heart settling a little. We were in this together—always had been. And no matter how dangerous this book was, no matter how risky it all seemed, I knew we’d find a way to make it work.