Kira

That evening, we briefed everyone about the plan one last time. Kass stood apart, arms crossed, her disapproval a tangible weight in the room. Kilian and I took turns explaining the details: disguises, blending into the crowd of travelers leaving Dun Cyren, and reaching the town of Valmora to secure a horse cart for the journey to Elmwood. The tension was thick, but the stakes left no room for second-guessing. Dawn would bring our test.

The sunlight barely touched the horizon when we slipped out of the house. The air was crisp, biting against the exposed skin of our faces. Our ill-fitting servant clothes hung loose, the rough fabric scratching at our arms and legs, but they were convincing enough to mask who we truly were.

Before leaving, we smeared dirt across our faces, letting it settle into the creases to dull our features. Kilian had insisted on smudging coal along his jawline and forehead, claiming it made him look "properly scruffy." Elyse posed the greatest challenge. Her pale skin and silver hair would be unmistakable even among the most distracted travelers. We tucked her hair under a wide-brimmed hat and tied a makeshift blindfold around her eyes. Isaac crafted a sling for her arm, a plausible explanation for her tentative steps. She looked like a sickly traveler, pitiable enough to discourage questions.

Erin kept her face buried in her cloak. Finn walked with a studied limp, his calloused hand resting on the hilt of a weapon hidden beneath his cloak.

Kilian had taken his role a step further. He faked travel papers for us with practiced ease. Watching him, I was struck by how meticulous he was, his usually flippant demeanor replaced with a quiet focus. The papers bore an official-looking seal he’d created from wax and a carved piece of wood, and they looked convincing enough to fool even the most diligent guard—at least, we hoped.

The house loomed behind us, dark and silent, as we moved swiftly through the garden and out the back gate. Every sound—the rustle of leaves, the crunch of gravel underfoot—felt impossibly loud in the stillness of the early morning. Kilian led the way, his steps confident, while Kass brought up the rear, her brooding silence an unspoken commentary on the plan she still disapproved of.

We kept to the narrow paths that twisted through the outskirts of the city, avoiding main roads and sticking to shadows. The journey to the gates of Dun Cyren took nearly an hour. Every step was a test of nerves, each turn a gamble. The closer we got to the gates, the louder the world became—the faint murmur of voices, the creak of wagons, the occasional bark of a dog.

When we finally reached the outer streets leading to the gates, the sky was a wash of pale gray, heralding the arrival of dawn. The sight before us was both a relief and a new source of tension. Merchants and travelers crowded the wide road, their carts and goods forming a slow-moving line toward the city’s exit. The sheer number of people worked in our favor, giving us the cover we desperately needed, but it also meant the guards would be on high alert, scanning the crowd for anything suspicious.

As we walked, a curious merchant sidled up beside us. He was a burly man with a ruddy face and a knowing smile. "Say, I think I’ve seen you before," he said, his sharp eyes narrowing as he pointed at Kilian.

My blood ran cold. My hand slipped under my cloak, gripping the hilt of the dagger hidden there. If this went south, we’d have to fight our way out, and we weren’t ready for that.

Kilian, however, didn’t flinch. He tilted his head, studying the merchant as if trying to place him. "You might have," he said lightly. "I’ve got one of those faces."

The merchant’s gaze flicked toward a wanted poster plastered on a nearby wall. "Looks a lot like that fellow over there."

Kilian stepped closer to the poster, squinting dramatically. "That? No, no, couldn’t be me. Look at the beard on him. I mean, I know I’ve been lazy with shaving, but I’ve got a ways to go before I match that masterpiece."

The merchant chuckled, his suspicion waning. "You’re right! Your beard’s still patchy as a frostbitten sheep. Never mind, then. Say, where are you from?" he asked, his sharp eyes narrowing as they landed on Kilian.

Kilian didn’t falter. "Westwood," he said casually. "Lovely little place."

The merchant stopped in his tracks, and so did I.

"Westwood?" the man said, his tone laced with suspicion. "No way! I’m from Westwood too. Funny, I’ve never seen you before."

Kilian smiled, unbothered by the accusation. "Small world, isn’t it? But not surprising you haven’t seen me. I keep to myself mostly, out on the edge of town near the old orchard."

The merchant’s brow furrowed. "Edge of town, huh? Then you’d know about the mill. What’s the name of the tavern by it?"

"The Broken Cask," Kilian answered without hesitation. "Best cider you’ll ever have. Though I hear they’ve started serving a spicy rabbit stew on the weekends. Quite the draw."

The merchant narrowed his eyes further. "And what about the spring festival? What do they call it?"

"The Thawing Festival," Kilian said smoothly. "Everyone lights lanterns and sets them down the river. It’s beautiful—makes the whole village glow. And they crown a Spring Keeper every year. Last time it was Liza Breen. Quite the organizer, that one."

The merchant stared at him for a long moment before breaking into a grin. "You’re the real deal. Small world indeed."

"Small and getting smaller," Kilian replied cheerfully. "But hey, if you’re ever back in Westwood, the cider’s on me."

The merchant laughed, clapping Kilian on the shoulder before moving on. As soon as he was out of earshots, I turned to Kilian, my heart still racing.

"You were ready for that," I said.

He smirked. "Books, Kira. They’re useful for more than pressing flowers."

The west gate loomed ahead, its iron bars stark against the pale dawn light. A line of travelers stretched before us, each step forward a slow grind. Guards stood rigid, their cloaks lined with fur to combat the bitter cold. Their sharp eyes swept over the crowd. A few places ahead, a man was turned away after a brief, heated exchange. The guard’s words carried back to us. "Your papers don’t match. Move along!" The man’s protests were drowned out by the shuffling of those waiting behind him.

Kass shot me a glance and I could see the tension in her jaw. Kilian stepped forward confidently as our turn approached, the forged papers in his hand. He handed them over, flashing the guard a smile. "Morning, officer. Cold one, isn’t it? I don’t envy you standing out here all day."

The guard grunted, his eyes scanning the documents. His gaze flicked up to Kilian, then over the rest of us. For a moment, my breath caught, but Kilian kept talking. "You must go through a lot of boots in this weather. Frost this bad, even the cobblers must be struggling to keep up. Beautiful morning, isn’t it? Bit chilly, though. I hear the weather’s supposed to improve by the time we reach Valmora. Are you stationed here all day? Must be exhausting. Oh, and you see the smudge on the paper? That’s from my wife’s ink-stained fingers—she’s a writer, you know. Loves poetry. Perhaps you’ve read…"

The guard’s expression shifted from suspicion to sheer exasperation as Kilian rattled on, his words a relentless stream of trivialities.

"Enough," the guard snapped, shoving the papers back at him. "Move along before I regret letting you through."

Kilian gave him a jaunty salute. "Thank you, kind sir! You’re a true gem among guards."

As we passed through the gates, Kass muttered under her breath, "Well, he’s good for something after all."

Kilian flashed her a grin. "I live to be useful."

This was the first time I had seen Dun Cyren in daylight, and it was both breathtaking and suffocating.

Golden statues adorned the central squares and garden pathways, catching the pale winter light and gleaming with opulence. As we walked, one statue in particular caught my attention. It depicted a young man in armor, kneeling on one knee, his head bowed. The plaque at its base read: Renan Birchwood.

I paused for a moment, curiosity tugging at me. The name was unfamiliar, yet something about the statue’s solemn pose intrigued me. Was he a hero? A martyr?

"Kira," Kilian’s voice broke through my thoughts. "Let’s not linger."

I nodded, casting one last glance at the statue before hurrying to catch up with the others.

The walk through the city felt endless. Erin shook her head as she took in the grandeur. "It’s disgusting how much gold they waste on statues while people starve outside these walls."

Finn glanced at a particularly elaborate fountain, its frozen spray catching the faint winter light. "I don’t know, Erin. I wouldn’t mind one of those in the middle of our yard back in the base. Think it’d go well with the mud pits."

Isaac, walking a step behind us, gestured toward a vendor selling delicate pastries. "And that—look at that. Enough sugar in one of those to feed a family for a week. Who eats like this?"

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Finn smirked. "Rich people, obviously. If I had the coin, I’d eat one of everything here."

Erin shot him a glare. "You’d choke on it before you got halfway through."

Isaac gave a soft chuckle, though his gaze lingered on the gardens and statues with a mix of awe and anger. "It’s a different world in here. Makes you wonder how they sleep at night."

"Probably on silk pillows," Kilian quipped, joining in as we passed yet another gleaming statue.

Finally, the north gate came into view. The line here was shorter, but the guards seemed no less thorough. We joined the queue, keeping our heads down.

The journey from the north gate to Valmora stretched long and uneventful, though the chatter among the merchants occasionally broke through the monotony. At one point, two men walking ahead of us lowered their voices, though not enough to avoid being overheard.

"Have you heard?" one of them asked, "They’ve captured him."

The other merchant let out a low whistle. "No kidding? That’s bad news. Those rebels were doing some good work. Fixing what the king’s lot keeps breaking."

"Won’t matter now," the first replied. "Bet you anything we’ll see him hanging from the city walls in a few days. The king will make an example of him, just you wait."

The second merchant grunted. "Bloody tyrant. That man’s not fit to rule a chicken coop, let alone a kingdom."

"I’ll drink to that," the first said. "But if he’s got him, you can bet things are going to get worse before they get better."

My stomach churned as their words sank in. They were talking about Caleb—I knew it with a certainty that left my heart pounding. I strained to hear more, willing them to keep talking, but their voices dropped further as they moved ahead of us, their words lost to the crunch of frost underfoot and the murmurs of other travelers.

Kass must have noticed the tension in my posture. "What is it?" she asked, her voice low.

"Nothing," I murmured, unwilling to share what I’d overheard just yet. The thought of Caleb hanging from the city walls made bile rise in my throat, but I pushed it down. We had to keep moving.

By late afternoon, the spires of Valmora came into view, rising above the patchwork rooftops of the bustling town. Relief swept through me, though it was tempered by the knowledge of what lay ahead. The crowded marketplace would offer some anonymity, but the risk of exposure loomed large.

Finn pointed toward the edge of the square, where a rickety carriage sat half-hidden behind a stack of crates. Its driver, a wiry man with a weathered face and a calculating gaze, leaned lazily against the wheel. He looked like the type who valued coin over loyalty.

"He’ll do," Finn said.

Elyse’s gaze met mine, her worry clear even without words. I squeezed her hand, offering what reassurance I could. "We’ll be careful," I promised.

Taking a deep breath, I approached the driver, the pouch of coins heavy in my hand. "Excuse me, sir," I began, my voice steady despite the nervous flutter in my chest. "We’re looking for passage to Elmwood."

The man’s eyes narrowed. "Elmwood? That’s a fair ways off. And not exactly a friendly place these days."

"We can pay," I said, pulling a handful of coins from the pouch and letting them glint in the fading sunlight.

His gaze lingered on the coins, but his expression didn’t soften. "That’s a lot of trouble for a place like Elmwood. Not sure it’s worth it," he said cautiously, his eyes flicking between me and the rest of our group.

Before I could respond, Erin stepped forward. The glint of steel appeared at her side as she casually revealed the knife in her hand, her voice low and menacing. "You’re right," she said. "It’s a lot of trouble. For both of us if you don’t take this job."

The driver stiffened, his wary eyes locking on Erin. He glanced back at the coins and then at the blade in her hand. After a tense moment, he sighed heavily. "Alright, alright. No need for that. Coin’s coin. Just… keep your knives to yourselves, yeah?"

Erin stepped back, her expression cool as she slipped the knife out of sight. "Good choice."

A wave of elation washed over me. We had found our ride. Elmwood was a step closer. With a silent thanks to Edgar, and a silent oath to Erin's father for unwittingly funding our escape, I led my companions towards the rickety carriage.

The carriage rattled along the dusty road, each bump and creak echoing the nervous tremors in my stomach. The air, crisp and sharp with the approaching winter's bite, seeped through the thin fabric of my woolen coat, sending shivers down my spine. Sleep was a distant dream, the cramped quarters and constant vigilance leaving no room for even a moment's respite.

Finn leaned his head back against the side of the carriage, his eyes half-closed. "This better be worth it. I’d kill for some proper food right now."

"And ale," Erin added, her voice muffled by her hood. For a moment, the tension eased, a flicker of normalcy breaking through the fear.

Elyse, her silver hair like a luminous halo in the dim light of the carriage's two flickering oil lamps, leaned on Isaac for support. He, in turn, sat hunched over, his brow furrowed in a silent vigil.

Silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the rhythmic clopping of the horses' hooves and the groan of the overburdened carriage. We all knew the danger – a single word spoken too loudly, a wrong turn at a junction, could bring the entire mission crashing down. The driver sat slumped beside Finn on the driver's seat. Finn kept up a charade of helping with navigation, pointing out landmarks on the barely discernible map Kilian had sketched earlier.

Erin sat across from me, her gaze fixed on the endless black canvas of the night. The single braid of onyx hair that escaped her hood seemed to absorb the faint light, leaving her face shrouded in an eerie glow. I knew she was wrestling with her own anxieties, the weight of responsibility etched on her youthful face.

I found myself sitting beside Kass, the weight of her silence louder than the clatter of the cart. I decided to try and bridge the chasm that had grown between us.

"Kass," I began, keeping my tone light, "do you think the driver actually knows the way, or are we going to end up in some ditch?"

She didn’t look at me, her gaze fixed firmly on the passing trees. "Why don’t you ask him? You seem to like making risky decisions."

I flinched at the sharpness of her words but pushed forward. "We’ve been through worse, Kass. I know you don’t agree with me about Caleb, but—"

She cut me off, her voice low but cold. "You’re right. I don’t agree. Saving him isn’t just risky, it’s reckless. And you’re dragging all of us into it."

I opened my mouth to respond, but the set of her jaw and the rigid line of her shoulders told me there was no use. Kass was as stubborn as ever. With a sigh, I turned away, staring out at the frost-covered landscape as the tension between us thickened the air.

Across from us, Kilian noticed the exchange and muttered under his breath, "Well, this is cozy."

The horses, straining under the excessive load, plodded on. Every labored breath, every snort of exertion, seemed to echo the desperation in our hearts. We were fugitives hurtling towards an uncertain future, the rhythmic pounding of hooves our only metronome in the symphony of fear and hope that played out within us.

As the night wore on, the cold gnawed at my bones. My muscles ached from the awkward position, and fatigue threatened to pull me under. Every rustle in the bushes, every screech of an owl, sent my heart into a frenzy. Here, in the isolated darkness, our flimsy disguises and stolen coin felt woefully inadequate against the power of the king's reach.

A bone-jarring jolt ripped me from the fragile grasp of sleep. My head snapped up, the world a blurry mess before my tired eyes slowly focused. Confusion clawed at me as I realized the carriage was no longer moving. We were stopped, the rhythmic clopping of hooves replaced by an unsettling silence. Panic clawed at my throat as I saw figures looming outside, silhouetted against the faint moonlight filtering through the clouds. I instinctively pulled my hood lower, burying my face deeper into the scratchy wool of my cloak.

Kass, beside me, stirred awake, a gasp escaping her lips. Her usually bright eyes were wide with terror, mirroring the churning dread in my stomach.

The soldier’s voice rang out from the darkness, cold and sharp. "Hold there! What business brings you out on this forsaken road at such an ungodly hour?"

My heart pounded in my chest. Not now. Not when we were so close. If these soldiers asked for papers, or worse, decided to search the wagon, it would be over. We didn’t have any excuses, any legitimate reason for traveling this road at this hour.

"Just some weary travelers, sir," the driver called out. "Heading home, nothing more."

The soldier didn’t seem convinced. "Papers?"

Kilian, who had been unusually quiet for the last stretch of the journey, seemed ready to comment, his mouth already half-open. But before he could unleash whatever quip was on his mind, I shot him a sharp look. "Not now, Kilian. Just shut up."

His mouth snapped shut, and he raised his hands in mock surrender, leaning back in the cart with an exaggerated pout.

I looked at the soldiers, trying to buy myself a moment to think. Their black armor gleamed dully in the moonlight, marked with the faint crest of the Dusk Cloaks. These weren’t ordinary soldiers. But then I noticed the coat of arms pinned to one of their gambesons—a simple, worn emblem of two crossed sickles beneath a dying tree.

Westwind Vale.

My stomach twisted, and I shot a glance at Finn beside the driver. Westwind Vale—his home. I’d heard the rumors of how bad things had gotten. Not just the famine, but the crushing taxes the king had imposed.

Whatever crops survived the blight were seized by the crown, leaving the people of the Vale with next to nothing. They were starving, and still the king demanded more.

I could see it in their faces now—gaunt, tired, shadows of the proud soldiers they were supposed to be.

I had an idea.

Before the driver could say anything more, I leaned forward, catching the soldier’s eye. "You’re from Westwind Vale, aren’t you?"

The captain's brow furrowed. "What of it?"

"I’ve heard of the famine there. Your families must be struggling."

He stiffened, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The other soldiers shifted uneasily behind him. I pressed on.

"We’re farmhands," I said, keeping my voice calm but loud enough for all of them to hear. "We’ve been delivering food rations to the villages that need it most, and we can help your families too. If you let us pass, I’ll make sure your families are rewarded with food. Enough to last through the winter."

The captain eyed me warily, his gaze shifting to the wagon and back. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I don’t expect you to believe anything," I said, meeting his gaze evenly. "But I’m offering you something your king hasn’t. If you let us go, we’ll make sure your families get the food they need. You’ve seen how bad things are—don’t you want to make sure your loved ones are taken care of?"

The soldiers exchanged glances. I could see the conflict in their faces—their duty to the crown weighed against their desperate need to provide for their own. They knew as well as I did that their families couldn’t survive much longer without help.

The captain's hand tightened on his sword, then slowly relaxed. He wasn’t a fool. He knew this was their best chance. After a long moment, he nodded. "If what you say is true, I’ll let you pass. But if you’re lying…"

"I’m not," I said quickly, seizing the opportunity. "I just need your names. That way, I can make sure the rations get to the right people."

He hesitated, then glanced at his men. They nodded, one by one, their faces a mix of resignation and hope.

"Captain Harrow," he said finally. "And these are my men—Merrin, Joss, and Fenwick."

I memorized the names quickly. "We’ll see that your families are well rewarded," I promised.

Harrow’s gaze lingered on me for a moment longer before he stepped back, waving us through. "Be quick about it," he muttered. "Road’s no place for stragglers this late."

As the wagon creaked back into motion, the tension in the air slowly ebbed. Erin let out a shaky laugh, her hand gripping the edge of the cart. "I thought that was it," she admitted. "Thought we were done for."

Isaac exhaled loudly, his arm still bracing Elyse. "You and me both," he said, his voice thick with relief. "Kira, I don’t know how you stayed so calm."

Elyse signed something quickly, her movements sharp. You saved us.

Kass turned to me, her expression unreadable. After a long pause, she muttered, "Thanks."

I smiled faintly. I knew she would come to her senses eventually.

I glanced at Finn. His face was unreadable, but I could see the tension in his jaw. He was thinking about his family—about his siblings, barely surviving back in Westwind Vale. I knew the thought of them haunted him every day. I wondered if he blamed himself.