Kilian spent the better part of a week hunched over his workbench, his eyes fixed on the book like a man obsessed. The basement was filled with the quiet hum of his movements, the soft scrape of a knife against the worn leather cover, and the delicate turning of fragile, timeworn pages. Every day, I would go down to check on him, making sure he was eating and that the restoration was going well. But mostly, I stayed out of his way, letting him lose himself in the work. He needed it—he needed something to occupy his mind, something to keep him from spiraling.

  I spent my days aboveground, moving through the town like a shadow, trying to keep things normal. It wasn’t easy, not with the constant threat of the king’s soldiers looming over us. But it was necessary. I made deliveries, posed as the innocent shopkeeper, and smiled when the townsfolk asked after the latest shipment of books. I had learned to play the game well, to keep my face serene and my answers vague. If people thought we were harmless, just a simple family with a quiet shop, then no one would think to report us. At least, that’s what I told myself every time I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting someone to follow me down the street.

  The bookstore was far too important to the kingdom to risk losing. We’d built a reputation for providing rare texts, for being a quiet, respectable shop that catered to even the royal library. It was a delicate balance we maintained, one I had learned to walk carefully over the years. If the king’s soldiers found out about the true nature of our stock—the dangerous, forbidden books we kept hidden between the ordinary ones—there would be no stopping them. Our lives would be over.

  The town seemed to be buzzing with its own rumors, whispers of strange happenings, of disappearances. I couldn’t help but overhear bits and pieces whenever I made my deliveries. The people were starting to get restless, looking for something to blame, someone to point the finger at. That made me more cautious, more careful than ever before.

  Each day I would slip through the crowds, maintaining my innocent facade, and each night I would return to the basement, where Kilian would be working by candlelight, his face drawn and tired from hours of restoring the book. He barely spoke during these days, lost in his work, but his silence was more comfortable than the arguments that had marked our past. It felt like we were both just waiting for something to happen, waiting for a spark to set off the powder keg we had been building.

  The streets of Eldoria were always a little quieter in the late afternoon, the sun dipping below the horizon and casting long shadows across the cobblestones. I was used to the silence now, to the feeling of being watched. I made my way down the main street with the usual pile of deliveries wrapped in plain brown paper, my hands steady despite the fluttering in my chest. I’d walked this path a thousand times, but today, something felt different.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. I glanced over my shoulder, but there was nothing unusual—just a few old women haggling with the merchants in the market. Still, my instincts told me to be cautious. I quickened my pace, my boots clicking sharply against the stones, but that only made it worse. I couldn’t stop the sense of dread creeping up my spine, gnawing at the back of my mind.

  The sound of armored footsteps reached me first, slow and deliberate, echoing against the cobblestones like the toll of a death knell. I froze in my tracks, clutching the bundle of deliveries tighter to my chest. When I turned, they were already there, blocking the street.

  The Dusk Cloaks.

  The first thing I saw was the sword. Forged from shadowsteel, black as night, its blade seemed to drink the light from the narrow street, leaving the air around it cold and dim. I recognized that sword.

  Nyxbrand.

  A weapon of legend, written about in the histories of the Dusk Cloaks. It was said to be enchanted, infused with magic—one of the few forms of sorcery the king still allowed. And of course, he did; it strengthened his guard. What kind of magic it wielded, no one knew. Nobody had ever lived to tell.

  That was how I knew it was him. Captain Kael Voryn.

  He stood at the center of the group, his dark armor etched with crimson runes that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. He was younger than I had expected—barely thirty—but his name carried a weight that made him seem far older.

  Despite his youth, he had risen to the top ranks of the king’s elite guard, not for his loyalty or honor, but for his unrelenting cruelty. Stories of his exploits were whispered in every tavern and marketplace, each more horrifying than the last. In the north, entire villages had been razed under his command, the lives of innocents extinguished without hesitation. He had carved his way to power with blood and terror.

  He was, frustratingly, handsome. Beneath the shadow-forged helm, glimpses of a sharply defined jawline and high cheekbones betrayed a strikingly symmetrical face that could have belonged to a prince rather than a monster. His golden eyes, visible through the narrow slit of his helm, burned with an unnatural intensity, like twin flames flickering in the darkness. His short, raven-black hair framed his face whenever the light caught him just right.

  I had prepared for this. I had rehearsed the words a hundred times in my mind, crafting the perfect answers to deflect suspicion. For years, I had learned how to play this game, to keep my face serene and my voice calm. The Dusk Cloaks might intimidate others, but I had trained myself to remain unflinching, innocent. Harmless.

  But none of that mattered under Kael Voryn’s gaze. He didn’t just look at me—he seemed to look through me, peeling back the layers of my carefully constructed facade with every passing moment. My rehearsed lines felt like flimsy paper shields against a raging inferno.

  "Stop," he said, his voice a low, resonant growl that rumbled through the air like thunder. It wasn’t a request.

  I obeyed, though my instincts screamed at me to run. Voryn’s gaze pinned me in place, his golden eyes gleaming with a predator’s patience.

  "Bookseller’s daughter," he said, his tone devoid of any warmth or curiosity. "A fine day for a walk, isn’t it?"

  I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Just making my deliveries, sir. For the library."

  His lips curved into a humorless smile beneath the shadow of his helm. "Ah, the library. Always thirsty for knowledge, aren’t they?" He took a slow step closer, the weight of his armor making the cobblestones groan underfoot. His hand brushed the hilt of Nyxbrand as he moved, a casual gesture that sent a shiver down my spine. "Let’s see what wisdom you’re spreading today."

  One of the guards beside him reached for my bundle, tearing the paper open without ceremony. The books spilled out onto the ground—perfectly harmless texts on trade routes and histories of long-dead kings. The guard grunted, his interest quickly fading, but Kael Voryn crouched down, his armored fingers brushing the edges of the books as though testing their authenticity.

  "You must be very good at your trade," he murmured, his voice deceptively soft. "Carrying such… innocuous titles. Not a single one out of place." He straightened, his towering frame casting a long shadow over me. "Almost too perfect, don’t you think?"

  "I—" I began, ready to deliver the next part of my practiced response, but Voryn’s smile widened as though he already knew what I would say. It was the smile of someone who didn’t believe in innocence, who had seen the worst of humanity and assumed the worst of everyone he met.

  "What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or perhaps…" He stepped closer, until he was barely a breath away, his golden eyes boring into mine. "Perhaps you’ve learned that silence is safer. Smart girl."

  He reached out, his gauntleted hand catching a loose strand of my hair that had escaped its braid. The touch was almost gentle, but the deliberate slowness of the gesture sent a shiver down my spine. He twirled the strand between his fingers before letting it fall.

  "Take her," he said abruptly, his tone as cold as ice.

  One of the guards grabbed my arm, twisting it painfully behind my back. I gasped, but Voryn’s expression remained unmoved, his eyes watching me like a hunter studying a trapped animal.

  "Search her," he commanded.

  The guard’s hands were rough as they rifled through my coat, patting me down with a carelessness that bordered on cruelty. When they found nothing, Voryn tilted his head, his golden eyes narrowing.

  "Nothing," the guard reported, his voice almost apologetic.

  Voryn stepped closer. His hand rested briefly on the hilt of Nyxbrand, his fingers drumming against the blade as though considering whether to draw it. The gesture wasn’t lost on me—it was a silent reminder of his authority, of his willingness to end lives without hesitation.

  "Curious," he said softly. "A girl so careful, so cautious, carrying nothing but harmless books. It almost makes me wonder what you’re hiding."

  "I’m not hiding anything," I managed to say, though my voice trembled.

  He studied me for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before releasing me abruptly. I stumbled back, clutching my arm where the guard had gripped me.

  "Let her go," Voryn said, his tone dismissive. "For now."

  The guards released me, but I didn’t dare move. Voryn leaned down, picking up one of the books from the ground and thumbing through its pages with a deliberate slowness.

  "Run along, bookseller’s daughter," he said without looking up. "But remember this: shadows have long memories. If there’s something you’re not telling us…" He snapped the book shut with a sharp clap. "We will find it."

  I nodded stiffly, words clinging to my tongue, but I held them back. Instead, I turned and continued down the street, doing my best not to run. As I walked, I couldn’t help but notice how none of them had looked familiar. None of them had the same faces I’d grown up seeing. I had never recognized any of them in the taverns or markets, and that made me question things I had never dared to question before.

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  The men who were taken for the king’s army—where did they all go? We had always assumed they were being trained to serve in the military, but now... I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something darker, something more sinister happening.

  And the more I thought about it, the more it disturbed me. Were those young men really being trained to fight? Or were they being groomed for something else entirely?

  I didn’t know, but I was starting to wonder if the king’s army wasn’t the only place they were sending people. And that thought, that dark seed of doubt, twisted in my gut.

  As I made my way further through the streets of the town, I noticed a growing crowd congregating in front of the blacksmith's shop. Curiosity piqued, I pushed my way through the throng of onlookers.

  The crowd was a diverse mix of townsfolk, their faces a collage of emotions ranging from curiosity to concern. Some whispered amongst themselves, casting furtive glances at the scene unfolding before them, while others stood with arms crossed, their expressions grim with disapproval.

  Undeterred by the press of bodies, I fought my way to the front of the crowd, my gaze fixed on the blacksmith's shop and a figure cowering within.

  As she looked up, I noticed the girl's distinctive features amidst the chaos of the scene. Her fiery red hair spilled like molten copper over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the pallor of her freckled skin. Slowly, she rose with her shoulders squared, a testament to the strength that belied her bulky frame.

  Kassandra Lefèvre, the blacksmith's apprentice.

  I had known her all my life, our paths crossing countless times as we grew up in the close-knit community, but we had never exchanged more than a passing glance. Burn scars marred her arms and hands, showing off the dangers of the forge and the harsh realities of her trade. Yet, despite the pain etched into her skin, there was a resilience in her gaze that spoke of a spirit unbroken by adversity.

  I watched in horror as the blacksmith brandished a flaming coal, threatening Kassandra with its searing heat.

  His voice boomed through the shop, thick with anger and frustration as he rounded on her. "You useless girl!" he roared, his face flushed with rage. "You had one job, one simple task, and you couldn't even manage that!"

  Kassandra didn't flinch. Instead, she straightened further, her gaze locking with his in a fierce challenge. "Simple task?" she shot back, her voice surprisingly steady considering the fiery menace inches from her face. "Simple task would be using decent steel, not the scrap you call metal! It wouldn't hold an edge on a butter knife, let alone make a proper horseshoe!"

  A gasp rippled through the crowd. I could see the looks of shock, some faces tight with disapproval, others laced with fear. No one dared speak up, but all eyes were fixed on Kassandra as she challenged her master in front of everyone. She wasn't cowering; she wasn’t begging for mercy. She was defiant, standing tall, and it was in that moment that something inside me clicked.

  I had been a silent observer too long, my anger festering at the treatment of the people around me, my own helplessness in the face of so many wrongs. I couldn’t help Archibald or William, two men who had been swallowed by the system and lost themselves to its demands. But Kassandra—she was different. She wanted to fight, just like me.

  I couldn’t stand by any longer.

  The blacksmith's face contorted further, his lips a thin white line. He sputtered, the coal trembling in his grip. "You've cost us a fortune with your incompetence, and now we'll be lucky if we can keep the doors open for another week!"

  Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to be calm. Shouting wouldn't help. I needed to be smart, find a way to use his own words against him. The contract, the materials – there had to be a loophole, a clause that could shift the blame.

  Focus, Kira. Think like your father.

  A spark ignited in my mind. Unforeseen circumstances. Every single contract my father signed with the royal library included a clause about unforeseen circumstances. It was standard, a way to protect both parties from forces beyond their control. In this war, substandard materials were a constant struggle – brittle steel for weapons, crops that yielded a meager harvest. We all learned to adapt, to make do with what little we had. The shoddy materials, the impossible deadline – that had to qualify. This wasn't Kassandra's fault, it was the king's for pushing them to the brink.

  "Stop!" I cried, my words a defiant challenge. "You have no right to treat her this way!"

  For a moment, the crowd fell silent, their eyes widening with surprise at my audacity. But I paid them no mind, my attention focused solely on the smith.

  The man’s face darkened with anger, his grip tightening on the flaming coal he held in his hand. "Not that it's any of your business, girl, but we had a contract with the king himself to deliver those swords, and Kassandra here failed to uphold her end of the bargain. We're going to lose everything because of her incompetence!" he spat.

  "With all due respect, sir," I began, addressing the blacksmith directly, "wouldn't the root of the problem happen to be an external factor? The quality of the materials, the impossible deadline…"

  The blacksmith's face twisted into a scowl, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and resentment. "I don't care about excuses," he snarled, his voice rising with each word. "The king doesn't care about excuses. All he cares about is results, and thanks to her, we've come up short."

  I held his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. "Contracts are only as strong as the circumstances that allow them to be fulfilled. Wasn't there a clause about unforeseen complications?" My question hung in the air, a challenge to his outburst.

  The blacksmith's lips curled into a sneer as he glared down at me, his eyes blazing with contempt. He sputtered, momentarily thrown off balance by my unexpected intervention. The crowd, too, seemed to shift, a murmur of agreement rising. "That's not the point!" he blustered, but the fire in his voice had begun to dwindle.

  "The point," I pressed, "is that punishing your apprentice won't fix anything. It will only weaken your position and demoralize a valuable asset." I used the language of a pragmatist, appealing to his self-interest more than his sense of fairness.

  "And who are you to tell me how to run my own shop?" he retorted, his voice dripping with disdain. "You're just a girl with a head full of dreams and no understanding of how the real world works."

  A sardonic smile played on my lips as the blacksmith bellowed his question. "Who am I?" I echoed, tilting my head slightly. "Perhaps a concerned citizen who recognizes an injustice when she sees one. Or, more importantly," I continued, my voice dropping to a lower, more dangerous register, "someone who understands the fragility of contracts in the face of demonstrably extenuating circumstances."

  The blacksmith's bluster faltered for a moment, replaced by a flicker of unease. He knew, as well as I did, that the king's tightening grip on resources had made acquiring high-quality materials a precarious endeavor at best. "Extenuating circumstances?" he scoffed, but the fire had dimmed considerably in his voice.

  "Indeed," I pressed, stepping closer, my voice firm and unwavering. "Have you reviewed the contract clause regarding unforeseen material limitations? Or the one outlining consequences for the crown's failure to provide the necessary resources for completion?"

  The blacksmith's face reddened further, his earlier bravado replaced by a mixture of anger and something that looked suspiciously like fear. He hadn't considered those specifics, blinded by his immediate frustration and the pressure of a royal deadline. "This isn't about legalities, girl," he growled, the bluster returning in a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation.

  "But it should be," I countered, my gaze unwavering. "Punishing your apprentice for circumstances beyond her control serves no one. In fact, it undermines your own position and weakens the very skills you rely on her for."

  But the man only sneered in response, his eyes flashing with malice as he turned his attention back to Kassandra. As the murmurs of the crowd swelled into a cacophony of disapproval, the blacksmith's resolve began to waver, his steely facade crumbling under the weight of their collective gaze. "You heard her, girl," he growled, advancing on Kassandra with menacing intent. "You're lucky I don't throw you into the fire where you belong."

  He retrieved a large canvas satchel from the back of the room. With one final act of defiance, he cast Kassandra out into the street, her belongings scattered at her feet like pieces of a shattered dream.

  Kassandra bent down to gather her things, her movements slow and deliberate as she retrieved each item from the ground. Her hands trembled slightly as she brushed off the dirt and dust.

  As she straightened up, her eyes met mine across the crowded street. There was a flicker of recognition in her gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had always existed between us, unspoken but undeniable.

  As the crowd began to disperse, I stepped forward, my voice soft but filled with concern. "Kassandra, wait," I said, reaching out to touch her arm gently. "Are you okay?"

  She hesitated for a moment, her gaze fixed on the ground as she struggled to find her words. "I'm fine," she muttered finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's nothing I can't handle."

  But I could see through the facade of bravado, could see the pain and uncertainty that lurked behind her steely exterior. "You don't have to pretend with me," I said gently, my voice tinged with empathy.

  Kassandra stared at me, her fiery hair momentarily catching the dying light from the forge and casting an almost otherworldly glow on her face. Recognition dawned slowly, displacing the embers of anger in her eyes.

  "Aren't you…" she began, her voice trailing off as she struggled to place me.

  "I’m Kira," I answered, offering her a small, encouraging smile. "Kira Chronarch. My father’s the one with all the books."

  For a moment, there was nothing but silence, and then Kassandra's lips curled into a faint, reluctant smile. "Ah, the bookworm. Didn’t expect to see you here."

  I gestured towards the abandoned sword hilts on the workbench. "Surely, with your experience in the forge, you recognized the subpar quality of the materials the moment you began working with them."

  Kassandra's jaw clenched, but she couldn't deny the truth. "They were barely workable," she conceded through gritted teeth. "Enough to make it ten times harder than it should've been."

  "But possible, nonetheless?" I pressed, watching her closely.

  She hesitated, her fiery gaze flickering away for a moment. "Maybe," she muttered, a hint of defiance clinging to the word. "With perfect materials and a clear head, I could've delivered those swords on time."

  A heavy silence descended between us. The implication hung thick in the air.

  Finally, I leaned closer, making sure no one lingered nearby. My voice dropped to a mere murmur. "So why didn't you?"

  Kassandra's eyes darted around nervously, then met mine. "Because," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "I wouldn't be a part of it. Not anymore. Those swords were for the king's elite guard. I couldn't… wouldn't help him."

  A wave of surprise washed over me, tinged with a grudging respect. Here, in this young woman hardened by the heat of the forge, burned a quiet rebellion.

  "You sabotaged the order," I stated, not as an accusation, but a fact.

  A ghost of a smile played on Kassandra's lips. "Let's just say," she said, her voice regaining its earlier bravado, "I ensured those blades wouldn't be winning any wars anytime soon."

  I looked at her for a long time. Finally, unable to keep the admiration to myself, I blurted out, "That’s… that’s really brave."

  She didn’t meet my gaze at first, her steps steady and sure, but there was a flicker of something—embarrassment, maybe, or just discomfort at the attention. Finally, she shrugged, her usual confident demeanor returning.

  "It’s no big deal," she muttered, though her tone was softer than before. "I’ve been living in this hellhole of a kingdom long enough to know the only way you survive is by staying on your feet. Either you die on your knees, begging for mercy, or you fight back, even when you know it’s a losing battle."

  Her words hung in the air between us, as blunt as a hammer to the chest, and for a moment, I could only stare at her in stunned silence. The weight of what she said settled over me. Kassandra had been living with that kind of defiance, that willingness to sacrifice everything, every day of her life. And yet, there was no self-pity in her eyes. Just a quiet, unyielding strength.

  And as she met my gaze, a flicker of hope ignited in her eyes.

  "Do you have a family? Somewhere you could find refuge?" I asked.

  Her face hardened, a shadow crossing her features. "No," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "They'd cast me out. Failure. Disgrace. Those are the only words they'd have for me now."

  A sudden determination surged through me. "Then you'll stay with us," I declared, surprising even myself with the boldness of my words. "For a while, at least. Until we figure out what to do next."

  Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with surprise. "But… your family…" she stammered, uncertainty flickering across her face.

  "My father is the kindest soul you'll ever meet," I reassured her, placing a hand on her arm. "And besides, we could use a little extra help around the shop."

  A sly grin tugged at the corner of her lips. "It's Kass, by the way."