Luis’ leg trembled beneath the table, a sharp pain radiating up his thigh with every slight movement. His eyes remained locked on the inn’s door, unblinking, his muscles coiled with a tension that refused to ease. His heart, a storm of hope and dread, pounded against his ribs—each beat a frantic prayer for his sister’s safe return, each silence between them a hollow whisper of the grim news that would completely shatter him.
The Orange Inn was a modest enough place, its whitewashed walls and dark wooden beams giving it a sense of quiet familiarity. The scent of aged wood, damp from the evening’s rain, mixed with the lingering traces of stale ale and smoke from the hearth. A cup of wine sat untouched to Luis’ side, the liquid dark and still, as if mocking him.
I should be out there. Every fibre of his being screamed that he should be scouring the land, turning over every stone, questioning every traveler. But Lord Serben had been firm—he had to stay where it was safe. Safe. The word felt like a curse, a prison made of well-meaning chains. What does safety matter when my sister could be out there, all alone… or…
The last image of her burned behind his eyelids: Sir Nicolas gripping her wrist, pulling her toward the mountain pass, her protests cutting through the chaos. The desperation in her voice, the fight in her stance—it haunted him. He could still see her twisting, trying to wrench free. He could still hear her shouting his name.
And then she was gone.
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through him. The Galians were still out there, still thirsty for Eastamerean blood, their hatred unquenched even after their glorious victory in taking Anthera. If they had found her—
No.
His hands clenched into fists beneath the table. He could not—would not—think like that. Not until he knew for certain. Not until there was proof.
Luis’ heart leapt into his throat as the inn’s door swung open with a slow, jarring creak. A sliver of harsh midday light cut across the wooden floor, silhouetting the figure standing in the doorway. Luis’ pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the muted murmur of the tavern.
Aurelio stepped inside, his golden armour catching the dim light, its once-glorious sheen dulled by dust and wear. His smooth, dark hair fell across his face as he moved, partially obscuring his sharp features. But nothing could hide his eyes—those piercing green eyes, usually so steady and sharp, now clouded with something Luis couldn’t quite place. Hesitation. Guilt. Defeat.
The rest of the royal guard followed in silence, their presence looming like a funeral procession. Their white cloaks, usually flowing with pride, seemed heavier somehow, weighed down by dust and something unseen—something unspoken.
Lord Gallo and Lord Serben joined them, their faces carved from stone. The weight of tension pressed into the space between them, thick and suffocating.
Luis was already on his feet before his mind could catch up with his body. Pain ripped up his injured leg like wildfire. 'What news?' His voice came out sharp, urgent, carrying the weight of his agony.
Aurelio’s mouth parted, but for a moment, he said nothing. He glanced toward his father, as if seeking permission—or courage—before lowering his gaze. His fingers twitched at his side. Finally, he spoke.
'I’m sorry, Luis.' His voice was quiet, yet it stabbed deep into Luis’ heart. 'We got as close as we dared. We found nothing.'
Luis world tilted beneath him, his heart plummeting into a bottomless pit. Nothing?
Three days. Three days of waiting, worrying, barely sleeping, clawing at every ounce of hope he had left. And now—this. A void where his answers should be.
Perhaps they hadn’t searched hard enough.
Perhaps they had given up too soon.
Perhaps she was still out there, just beyond their reach, just beyond their sight.
No, Luis thought, his heart burning with rage. No more waiting. No more worrying. I am going to find her, even if it kills me.
The royal guard exchanged uneasy glances, their confusion evident, but not one of them moved to stop their former captain. A charged silence stretched between them, thick with hesitation.
Serben’s firm grip clamped down on Luis’ arms, rooting him in place.
Luis tried to shake him off, but his father’s old friend held fast, his fingers like iron shackles. Serben’s piercing green eyes bore into his, not with anger or defiance, but something far worse. Pity. Resignation. A sorrow akin to a father telling his son that a loved one had died suddenly.
'You cannot go, Your Majesty.'
The words struck Luis like lightning, his breath catching in his throat.
Your Majesty.
The title rang in his ears, cold and hollow, a thing not meant for him. A thing that should have belonged to his father. To Sofia.
His chest tightened.
'What did you just call me?' The words came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.
Serben exhaled deeply, his grip loosening just enough for Luis to pull away. He did not meet his gaze. Instead, his voice softened, steady but grim, as though each word chipped away at something fragile.
'Your Majesty, the odds of your sister being alive are slim.' He hesitated, then pressed on, his tone measured. 'If it would put your mind at ease, Lord Gallo and I will personally lead a mission deep into enemy lines to determine if she has been taken captive. But I must be frank with you. The odds are not in her favour.'
Luis barely heard him. His heartbeat roared in his ears, his mind grasping at the title that had been spoken so casually yet changed his world completely.
Your Majesty.
If Serben was calling him that, it could mean only one thing.
Luis swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust.
'No,' he murmured, shaking his head, his voice raw. 'No, that’s not—'
Serben squared his shoulders, his expression grim. 'We are the ones who killed King Rickard’s son. The Galians will not forgive that. If your sister was taken, it will not be for mercy. I am afraid we must prepare for the worst.'
Luis gulped, his throat tight, his pulse hammering against his ribs. A flicker of anger ignited in his chest, scorching through the suffocating weight of despair. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t his fate. He wasn’t meant to be King.
His father had ensured that. Had stripped him of the burden before he was even old enough to understand it. Luis had been given a sword, an oath, a life in service to the crown—but never the crown itself. He had trained to fight, to protect, to obey. Not to rule.
Yet here I stand.
Serben’s words rang with undeniable truth.
Each passing day made Sofia’s survival seem more impossible. Clinging to hope felt like grasping at mist, an illusion slipping through his fingers. But to let go of it completely? To accept that she was gone?
No. I can’t. I won’t.
Sofia was out there. She had to be.
Eastamere needed its queen.
I need my sister.
Luis swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. 'Lord Serben, I—'
A sudden cry from outside the tavern shattered the moment, muffled through the thick wooden walls.
Luis froze.
A murmur rippled through the room, the tension coiling even tighter.
Then—another shout, louder this time. Urgent. Elated.
'The Queen!'
Luis’ breath hitched.
'The Queen lives!'
His ears burned as a rush of adrenaline shot through him, scorching away the fear, the doubt, the weight.
The words piled on top of him. They were impossible, ridiculous—and yet.
He bolted for the door, pain striking his leg, but he barely registered it. His heart pounded in his chest, driving him forward. He shoved past the threshold and into the open air, blinking against the sudden glare of sunlight.
The world outside was a brilliant explosion of colour—vivid greens stretching across the fields, the sky a brilliant blue unmarred by clouds. The wind rushed past him, carrying with it the scent of fresh earth and something else—something buzzing, something alive.
A crowd had gathered, their voices swelling in excitement. But in the distance, silhouetted against the horizon, a horse galloped down the road.
Luis’ breath caught.
Two riders.
Luis’ jaw slackened as his mind struggled to catch up with the impossible sight before him. His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat a chaotic drum of hope and dread. His leg throbbed with every hobbling step, but the pain was nothing—a distant whimper compared to the roar of disbelief surging through his veins.
The crowd of soldiers stood frozen, their murmurs hushed into an awed silence, their gazes all locked onto the same sight.
A white stallion stood at the edge of the gathering, its powerful form gleaming in the golden daylight. Its muscles twitched beneath its pristine coat, nostrils flaring as if sensing something. A magnificent creature, a beast bred for war, yet it held itself as still as divinity itself, untouchable.
On its back, clad in the obsidian-black armour of the Galian royal guard, sat Sir Finn Alisser.
Luis’ stomach twisted at the sight of him. The dark metal of Finn’s armour gleamed, its engraved insignia unmistakable—a sigil of the very enemy they had bled and died to defeat. A ghost of war, a living reminder of the ruthless adversary that had nearly shattered them.
But Luis’ gaze didn’t linger.
A figure sat behind him small, fragile, yet unmistakably alive.
'Sofia,' he whispered. The name barely escaped his lips, raw with a mixture of relief and disbelief.
She clung to Finn’s waist, her fingers curled tightly against the plate armour. The wind toyed with her dark hair, strands catching the sunlight like raven feathers. Dirt smudged her skin, her clothes torn, but her eyes—those sharp brown eyes—were the same.
For a fleeting second, recognition flashed across her face. Her lips parted, and there—there it was. That spark of familiarity, of relief, of something achingly close to joy. The sister Luis had known, the sister he had feared he would never see again.
But then, as her gaze swept past him—to Serben, to Lord Gallo, to the assembled soldiers—something shifted.
The twinkle in her eyes dimmed.
The soft edges of relief hardened into steel.
Her fingers loosened from Finn’s armour, but her posture straightened, shoulders squared like a queen standing before her court.
His stomach dropped.
She was here. Alive. Breathing. But something was wrong.
Terribly, terribly wrong.
Lord Serben hesitated before stepping forward, his movements stiff, uncertain—so unlike the man who had always been a pillar of unwavering control. He cleared his throat.
'Your Majesty,' he said, bowing low. His voice was steady, but there was a careful restraint to it, as if testing fragile ice beneath his feet. 'It gladdens my heart to see you alive in these troubled times.'
Sofia did not answer.
Her glare bore into Serben as if she were looking through him, past him, beyond him—to something darker, something only she had seen. The silence stretched taut, pressing against the gathered men, suffocating in its weight.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she swung her leg over the saddle and slid to the ground.
Luis had expected her to stumble, to show some sign of exhaustion or strain after what she must have endured. But Sofia landed with a controlled firmness, her boots meeting the dirt as though she had commanded the dirt itself to hold steady beneath her.
This was not the sister he had known.
The girl who had once snuck into the city to drink wine with her friends, breaking every rule Luis could possibly name—she was gone.
In her place stood the Queen of Eastamere.
Forged anew.
Her gaze swept over the assembled men, and one by one, they stiffened. Even seasoned warriors—men who had fought and bled on the battlefield—flinched under the scrutiny of their queen.
The Orange Inn’s sign creaked above them, swaying in the faint wind, its rusted chains groaning like old bones.
'It appears we have experienced a setback.'
Her voice, so cool, so composed, sliced through the silence like a blade. Not frantic. Not relieved. Not broken.
Simply in control.
Luis swallowed hard, watching her with a strange, unsettling mix of admiration and unease.
Sofia’s gaze flicked briefly to the swaying inn sign, her eyes narrowing slightly before returning to Serben and the rest of her council.
'Come,' she said. 'Let’s discuss our next move.'
Lord Serben, Lord Gallo, and the rest of the royal guard stepped aside, forming a solemn corridor as Sofia strode forward. The rhythmic crunch of her boots against the dirt was the only sound that dared to break the heavy silence.
Luis stood at the edge, watching her move with the effortless grace of someone who had seen hell and returned untouched. But he knew better.
No one survives unscathed.
His leg gnawed at him with relentless pain. He clenched his jaw, willing it away, but the memory resurfaced with cruel precision.
He closed his eyes, shutting out the world for a moment’s respite. But all he saw was blood.
My failure.
'Aren’t you joining us, Luis?'
His eyes snapped open.
Even now, when I should be happy, I feel like a burden, a weight dragging everyone behind when we need to be moving forward. How could I ever become King?
He forced a smile, though it formed into more akin to a grimace. 'Coming.'
Sofia gave a small nod before turning away. No warmth. No hesitation. The moment had passed.
Two golden-armoured knights stepped forward, their movements automatic—trained, disciplined. Once, they had been his brothers, men he had honed his skills with, bled alongside. Now, they were the ones propping him up, like a tree ready to fall over.
Their hands hooked beneath his arms, steady but firm.
Luis gritted his teeth, swallowing the lump in his throat as he took a step. Then another.
As they moved, one of the royal guards, Sir Raul, stiffened, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword. His gaze flicked toward the white stallion, and to the Galian still sitting on top of it.
'What about him, Your Majesty?' Raul’s voice was sharp, edged with suspicion.
A ripple of unease spread through the gathered soldiers. Eyes narrowed. Fingers curled around weapons. The weight of their mistrust settled thick in the air, tangible as a descending storm.
Luis watched as Sofia gulped, a fleeting hesitation that most wouldn’t have noticed—but he did. He had spent a lifetime reading her expressions, knowing her moods before she even spoke. And in that brief instant, he saw it.
Doubt.
Only a flicker. Gone in a breath.
Sir Finn Alisser swung himself off the saddle, his boots hitting the dirt with a solid thud. He stood tall, unshaken by the sea of hostile stares surrounding him. The black armour of the Galian royal guard clung to him like a shadow—a stark reminder of the men who had slaughtered Eastamere’s soldiers, of the enemy they had bled and died fighting.
Sofia stepped forward, meeting him in the centre of the gathering.
'This man saved my life!'
Her voice rang out, clear and unwavering.
A murmur rippled through the soldiers, some in disbelief, others in barely concealed resentment. Luis caught movement—Lord Serben shifting his stance, Lord Gallo’s fingers tightening at his side. Even the guards supporting him stiffened, their grips momentarily faltering.
'He wears the Galian colours, but he did a great service to me,' Sofia continued, sweeping her gaze across the gathered warriors. 'Therefore, I will not see him harmed. Anyone who attempts it will answer to me.'
Luis’ pulse thundered in his ears. The men won’t like this. What are you doing, Sofia?
And yet Sofia didn’t falter.
The Fish Knight stood still, unreadable, but Luis caught the subtle shift in his posture—the way his broad shoulders squared just slightly, as if bracing for the weight of her words.
'Sir Finn Alisser,' Sofia declared, her tone firm, regal. 'For your courage and bravery, any wish that is within my power, I will grant you.'
A hush fell over the congregation.
The distrust was still there, thick and suffocating. Luis could feel it pressing in, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the moment to boil over.
His own leg throbbed, pulsing agony. The Galians had put a blade in his thigh. They had shattered his body, his future. And now this man, this knight of the enemy, was being offered a reward.
A muscle in Luis’ jaw twitched, but he forced himself into silence.
Sir Finn’s sea-green gaze swept the crowd, assessing. Calculating. He could see it too—the way the soldiers’ hands tightened, the tension coiling in their muscles, ready to snap.
And then, in one smooth motion, he took a step forward, dropping to one knee before the Queen.
'I wish to be in your service, My Queen,' Sir Finn said, his voice unwavering, each word laced with conviction. 'I wish to be a knight of your royal guard, if you’ll have me. I wish to serve you, and you only. I will shield you, keep your counsel, and I will obey your every command. I swear it.'
A stunned silence stretched across the gathered soldiers, holding the moment in a taut, breathless pause—then came the murmurs. First a trickle, then a flood.
A Galian? In the Eastamerean royal guard?
Some voices rose in protest, others whispered in hushed, urgent tones. Hands twitched. A few exchanged wary glances, their gazes darting between Sofia and Finn as if expecting the Queen to laugh, to strike him down, to do anything other than entertain such madness.
The wind swept through the encampment, kicking up dust and making golden dove banners ripple. It lifted strands of Sofia’s dark hair, but she remained unmoved, her expression impassive as steel.
Then—a single step forward.
The murmurs died in an instant.
Her eyes swept across the crowd—sharp, unyielding, a silent warning. The weight of her authority crashed down on them, demanding obedience without a single spoken command. The men straightened. Lips clamped shut. A few lowered their heads.
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Then, and only then, did she turn back to Finn.
And when she did—her expression softened into that of an angel.
'Then I name you into my royal guard, starting from today.'
Her words rang out, final, undeniable.
For a moment, Finn did not move. His breath hitched ever so slightly—so quick that perhaps only Luis noticed. Then, in one smooth motion, he rose to his feet.
A knight of the Eastamerean royal guard.
His sea-green eyes gleamed, caught between disbelief and something deeper—relief, pride, something unspoken yet unmistakable. A wide smile broke across his face, but it wasn’t arrogance. It was earnest, filled with something tangible.
'Some of these kind men will provide you with a tent,' Sofia continued, returning his smile. 'Now, go and get yourself cleaned up. I shall see you soon.'
Finn hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before bowing low. 'Your Majesty.' His voice was thick with gratitude, reverence. Then, without another word, he turned and strode through the crowd, disappearing into the camp.
Luis watched him go, his jaw clenched.
The unease in the air had not lifted. The tension had not broken. The moment had not settled.
And yet—Sofia had made her decision.
The Queen spun on her heels, her dress snapping at her feet as she strode toward the inn. The sharpness of her movements left no room for argument—now, there was business to tend to.
Her councillors scrambled to keep up, their hushed voices lost beneath the rhythmic clinking of armour. The royal guard followed in tense silence, their unreadable expressions concealing whatever reservations they might have had.
Luis trailed behind them, his breath shallow, his leg burning like hot coals beneath his weight. Each step sent fresh needles of pain pricking into him, but he forced himself forward.
One step. Then another.
The air grew thicker as they neared the inn. A storm of thoughts churned in Luis’ mind, but one stood out above all others.
Sofia’s back—but something’s different.
He barely had time to dwell on it before they crossed the threshold.
The door slammed shut behind them, the sound reverberating through the dimly lit space. The impact sent a shudder through the old wooden beams, dust drifting from the rafters like ash after an eruption.
This place had once seemed so humble, so familiar. Now it felt smaller—tighter. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged wood, damp fabric, and the lingering bitterness of ale. The fire in the hearth crackled, but its warmth did nothing to thaw the chill that had settled over the room.
Sofia turned to face her council, her jaw tight, her shoulders squared in a stance that commanded absolute authority.
Her scowl remained etched deep, her piercing gaze settling first on Lord Gallo, then on Lord Serben.
Outside, the wind howled against the walls, as if sensing the brewing storm within.
Lord Serben cleared his throat. 'Your Majesty,' he began cautiously, his words carefully chosen, 'I know you’re upset, but, as you said, it’s merely a setback—'
'Lord Serben, with respect, I do not want to hear anything more from you.'
Sofia’s words cracked through the air like a whip, cutting him off before he could finish. She paced the length of the room, her boots tapping against the wooden floor in a sharp, restless rhythm.
'I asked you to command my armies—' she whirled to face him, her eyes dark with frustration '—but you refused, counselled me otherwise. I asked you about negotiating with Lord Barcen. Again, you counselled me otherwise. And now, both decisions have proven to be mistakes.'
Her voice wavered only slightly, but it wasn’t weakness, never weakness—it was exhaustion, betrayal, the weight of too many missteps.
For a moment, just a breath, her shoulders slumped. A flicker of the girl she used to be. But just as quickly, she straightened, steel returning to her spine, her face hardening with resolve.
'I blame myself for listening to you.'
The pain in The Queen’s words tore into Luis’ heart, so final and undeniable under the weight of the pressure. Lord Gallo shifted uncomfortably; Serben’s mouth opened, then closed, his face pale.
Sofia exhaled slowly, as if releasing the last remnants of doubt. Then she spoke again, her tone crisp, decisive. 'We need a new plan, and quickly, if we’re to stand any chance of beating Galia. Tomorrow, I shall ride north and negotiate with Lord Barcen for his fleet.'
The room stilled.
A gust of wind outside rattled the window panes, an eerie whisper against the silence.
Serben and Lord Gallo exchanged uneasy glances. Serben’s grip tightened on the armrest of his chair before he leaned forward, his face etched with concern. 'Your Majesty, I—'
'This isn’t up for debate.'
Sofia lifted her chin, daring Lord Serben to challenge her.
'I’m going.'
Serben hesitated, his lips pressed into a thin line, thinking better than to argue with Sofia now.
He swallowed. 'Who shall accompany you?'
A beat of silence.
Sofia turned, her gaze sweeping over the room before locking onto Luis.
He held her gaze, keeping his nerves steady as he distracted himself from the pain pulsing in his leg. 'Luis will join me... alongside my royal guard.'
'What about the Galian?' Lord Gallo asked, his voice laced with suspicion, his sharp gaze flicking toward the door.
A slow breath escaped Sofia’s lips. She didn’t sigh—it was too measured, too restrained for that. Instead, she simply exhaled, as if keeping her temper in check. Then she turned to Lord Gallo, her expression composed, her eyes gleaming with something far more dangerous than anger—certainty.
'I said I’m taking my royal guard, did I not?'
The words were soft, almost indifferent, but the flicker of fire in her eyes made both Lord Gallo and Lord Serben hesitate. Luis noticed another glance passed between them—uneasy, uncertain, unspoken.
Sofia lifted her chin. 'Now, if you please, I’d like a moment alone with my brother.'
Lord Gallo and Serben bowed their heads, their awkwardness palpable. The royal guard turned in practiced unison, boots striking against the wooden floor in rhythmic precision as they marched towards the door.
The heavy thud of it closing behind them rippled through the silence.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Sofia stood rigid, her face an unreadable mask, the weight of command still settling over the room like an iron cloak. Luis searched her eyes for something beyond the queen, beyond the figurehead.
Her fingers trembled, her breath hitching as relief surged across her face like a dam breaking.
He saw her.
She moved before Luis could react, throwing her arms around him, holding him as if she were warding away the demons from taking him away.
The pain in his leg flared at the sudden pressure, but he ignored it. His arms locked around his sister, his grip tightening as the full weight of everything that had happened—everything that could have happened—piled on top of him.
I could have lost her.
Tears slid down his cheeks.
Sofia shuddered slightly, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. 'I’m sorry I didn’t hug you earlier,' she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling like a child. 'Didn’t seem like the right time.'
Luis swallowed hard. 'I know.'
A beat of silence passed as he held her.
'I’ve missed you.'
Sofia let a shaky breath escape, her grip only tightening.
'I’ve missed you too.'
They pulled apart slowly, as if afraid the moment might shatter.
Luis took a step back, his eyes roaming over her, still disbelieving. She was here. Alive. Breathing. Real.
I could have lost her forever.
The war, the pain, the burden of his useless leg—none of it mattered now.
'I should’ve listened to you back on the ship,' Sofia admitted, her voice laced with regret. 'When we had Jacques in our custody… you were right. We should’ve tried to negotiate or—something.' She let out a breath, shaking her head. 'Serben, Gallo, all of them—useless. No one has talked sense to me since I became queen. No one but you.'
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, frustration screaming through the tightness of her jaw. Then, softer, almost vulnerable—'I’m sorry.'
Luis stared at her, the weight of her words sinking in. You should never have to apologise, Sofia, he thought, it’s my job to protect you. I will protect you now.
He stepped forward, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. 'I’m always going to be here, Sofia.' His grip tightened slightly, anchoring her. 'You aren’t in this alone.'
A twinkle sparked in Sofia’s eye—small, fleeting, but it was there. Hope. Fragile as glass. A candle flickering against the howling wind of war.
Luis swallowed, his throat dry. Reality loomed over them both. If they lost, their heads wouldn’t simply roll—they’d be mounted on spikes, displayed as trophies in King Rickard’s throne room.
The thought made his stomach twist. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to shove the fear aside. He wouldn’t dampen this moment.
Not now.
The door swung open, a gust of cool air rushing in and filling the room.
Lord Serben strode inside, his slender frame taut with urgency.
Luis stiffened.
'I thought I said I wanted a moment with my brother,' Sofia snapped, turning her head sharply towards him.
Serben did not flinch. His hands remained clasped in front of him, his face carefully composed, but something lay beneath it—something uneasy.
'Apologies, Your Majesty,' he said, bowing slightly, his tone smooth yet insistent. 'But there is an urgent matter I must discuss with you. I only ask for a few moments of your time.'
Luis caught the flicker of something in Serben’s eyes—concern… and something else. Something colder.
His stomach twisted again.
He exchanged a glance with Sofia.
Her expression mirrored his.
Unease.
'What is it?' Sofia demanded, her tone edged with impatience.
Serben’s piercing green gaze flicked toward Luis, eyes so similar to Aurelio it set his nerves on edge.
'I would appreciate it,' Serben said slowly, 'if it were just the Queen and I.'
Luis’ stomach tightened.
A request like that from Serben was nothing unusual—he was their father’s most trusted advisor, after all. But now, with so much instability, tension crackled in the air like a storm.
Something about this feels… off.
He turned to Sofia.
She was frowning in deep contemplation, her brows pinched together, her fingers tapping against her arm—a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but Luis knew it well.
She’s actually considering this.
Finally, she exhaled.
'Luis, this won’t take long.' Her voice softened, the steel melting ever so slightly. 'Maybe get some rest.'
Luis hesitated, his lips pressing into a hard line. His knee ached, his body screamed for respite, but his mind… his mind refused to settle.
I must obey, he thought, his hand itching to strike Lord Serben where he stood. Sofia needs me to be calm.
Without a word, he turned and hobbled toward the door.
The scent of damp earth and dying embers curled into his lungs as he stepped into the morning light. The camp sprawled out before him, a restless, uneasy beast. Soldiers murmured in low voices by the fires, their faces weary, their hands never straying far from their weapons.
Luis stood there for a moment, inhaling deeply, trying to quiet his restless thoughts.
But they refused to yield.
Instead, they raced back to The Fish Knight, Sir Finn Alisser.
The Galian who should have been their enemy. The man who should have cut Sofia down the moment he had the chance.
Yet he’d saved her. Protected her. Risked everything for her.
Why?
If he had been loyal to King Rickard, he would have beheaded her where she stood.
Instead, he had defied his homeland. Turned his back on his King. Branded himself a traitor.
For Sofia.
Luis exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face.
It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.
His leg burned with each step as he forced his aching body forward, his direction clear.
Sir Finn had given up everything.
I must find out why.
'Your Majesty,' Serben said. His frown deepened as Sofia met his gaze, a silent plea shadowing his usually measured expression. 'Please sit down.'
Sofia released a breathe, her patience tearing like parchment. 'Lord Serben, I have made my feelings about your advice abundantly clear. I don’t believe I need to repeat myself.'
Serben hesitated, his desperation palpable. He leaned forward, his voice quieter now—but no less insistent. 'I do not wish to speak as an adviser to a queen. I wish to speak as a friend. Please, Sofia. Sit.'
Something about the way he said her name—unadorned by title, stripped of formality—made her hesitate. A muscle twitched in her jaw as she studied him. His expression was unreadable, but the weight in his voice, the unspoken urgency, coiled around her like a snake.
She lowered herself onto the chair across from him, her every movement precise. Yet, as she settled, an unnerving sensation crept into her chest—like a child about to be scolded. A ghost of memory flickered in her mind: her father, arms crossed, that same thunderous frown carved into his face whenever she, Fernando, and Esme had plotted yet another prank on Luis. The way he would sigh before speaking, weary but expectant.
Sofia straightened her posture, forcing steel into her spine, her chin lifting just slightly as she met Serben’s gaze.
'I wish you could follow your heart, Sofia,' he said, and something in his face shifted—just slightly. Less rigid. Less guarded.
Sofia did not move. Did not breathe.
'I’m afraid I don’t see—'
'That boy, the Galian.'
Her stomach tightened.
Serben did not falter. 'I’ve seen the way you look at him.'
His name unfurled in her mind before she could stop it, as if conjured by Serben’s words alone. Finn, with his bronze hair catching the sunlight. Finn, with his broad shoulders and steady hands. Finn, with his maddening beauty—so unguarded, so effortlessly disarming, like he held no fear of her crown.
Sofia swallowed, her expression carefully composed, but her fingers curled imperceptibly against the softness of her dress.
'He saved my life and risked his own in the process. I think it only right I repay him.'
Serben shook his head. A quiet sigh left his lips, and when he met her gaze, his green eyes brimmed with a knowing sadness, as if he had seen this before—lived this before. 'I know what I saw. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it either. Your father was the same when he was your age.'
A flicker of something—unease, irritation, or perhaps something deeper, something she refused to name—sparked in Sofia’s chest.
Her fingers tightened against the armrest. 'Lord Serben, you are wildly mistaken.'
Serben did not flinch. He simply studied her, his silence stretching between them like a chasm she could not cross. And then, finally, his voice dropped lower, quieter.
'Let me tell you a story about when your father and I were in our twenties, just like you.'
Sofia's lips pressed into a thin line, but despite herself, her posture shifted, her spine loosening just enough for the tension to slip through the cracks. With a controlled breath, she eased back into her chair, arms folding across her chest.
'Very well,' she said.
'Your father and I were riding one day along a path in the mountains around Palomia. We used to do it often when your grandfather was king. We mustn’t have been a year or two younger than you are now.'
Sofia watched Serben closely, arms stubbornly folded, but the rigid line of her shoulders had loosened just enough to betray her interest.
'Your father stopped his horse so suddenly I nearly rode into him. He raised a hand, told me to listen.' Serben’s brow furrowed, as if he could still hear the sound echoing in his memory. 'And then, I heard it—a scream. A terrible, raw scream. The scream of a young woman.'
Sofia’s breath stilled in her throat.
Serben clasped his hands clasped together, his voice dropping lower as if sharing a secret with the past itself. 'The screams grew louder. And then we saw them. Three figures, barreling down the rocky path. A girl—hardly wearing anything, her clothes torn and tattered—running for her life. And behind her, two men.' He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. 'They were laughing, grunting like lions toying with their prey.'
The air in the room seemed to tighten, pressing against Sofia’s ribs. My father—my father had witnessed this? Had he done something to stop it?
'Your father didn’t hesitate. He lashed the reins and spurred his horse forward, charging down the path like a storm. And I, admittedly, with far less certainty, followed behind him.'
The flickering torchlight in the tavern cast sharp shadows across Serben’s thin face, deepening the lines etched by time.
'When he reached them, he didn’t even stop to think. He leapt from his horse, halberd in hand, and within moments, the men were on the ground—groaning, broken, defeated.' Serben’s lips pressed together for a moment, his gaze distant. 'And then he turned to the girl. He knelt beside her, his weapon forgotten, and asked if she was alright.'
Sofia could almost see it—the young prince, barely more than a boy, reaching out with that same quiet intensity she had known all her life.
'And I’ll never forget the look he gave her,' Serben murmured. 'A look that told me—before he even knew it himself—that he was already lost to her. That he had fallen before she’d even spoken a word.'
The silence between them stretched, heavy and unrelenting.
Then Serben met her gaze, his eyes sharp as flint. 'It was the same look you gave that boy. The very same look.'
Sofia shifted in her seat, an uncomfortable heat rising in her chest—a strange, tangled mix of burning anger and a sinking unease. She wanted to dismiss Serben’s words, to wave away his story as nothing more than the wistful ramblings of an old man clinging to ghosts. But she couldn't.
Something in his voice—low, unyielding, edged with something dangerously close to grief—compelled her to listen.
'Her name was Oberia. She had been living on her own in one of the mountain villages. She told us she’d lost everything in an attack by those men who had been chasing her—her family, her home, her very sense of safety.' Serben sighed, rubbing his temples as if trying to will away the memory. 'Your father…' Serben's voice softened for just a moment before hardening again. 'He made sure she was comfortable, made sure she had food, blankets, a safe place to rest. But it was more than duty. I knew it then.'
Sofia swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.
'I suspected he loved her that very night. But when he offered her a place in the royal household, that’s when I knew.'
Serben’s fists clenched against the table, his jaw clenched.
'As his closest friend, I had to tell him it could never be. That no matter what he felt, the world would never allow it.' His voice darkened, raw with something beyond frustration—something deeper, something old and unforgotten. 'But he didn’t listen. He told me I was mistaken.'
That word—mistaken—dripped from his lips like venom, sharp and bitter, laced with years of unspoken resentment.
A shiver ran down Sofia’s spine.
Serben's whole body was rigid now, his fingers curled into fists so tight they trembled. His eyes—normally filled with the cool calculation of an adviser—burned with something hotter, something reckless. Anger, yes, but not just anger.
Pain.
'Every day, I watched it happen,' Serben continued. 'Their love growing, deepening, until it consumed them. They tried to be discreet at first, sneaking glances in the corridors, brushing hands in the shadows. But love is not a thing that can be hidden forever.'
Sofia’s breath shallowed, her fingers curling against the fabric of her mother’s gown.
'Then, one night, I caught them. They were lying together in the stables, whispering to each other as if they were the only two souls in the world. They had stopped caring about secrecy, about the consequences. In that moment, it was only them. Damn everybody else.'
Serben’s face darkened, the lines on his face deepening.
'But I knew.' His voice was quiet now, almost resigned. 'I knew it would not last.'
Sofia’s heart pounded, an anxious rhythm she couldn't ignore.
'The end came when your grandfather died, and your father ascended the throne. A king could not marry a serving girl, no matter how much he loved her. No matter how much he wanted to. So your father was left with a choice. He could marry Oberia for love or marry someone else for duty. That someone being your mother.'
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Then, Serben smiled—a small, knowing smile that did not reach his eyes—before giving Sofia a slight nod.
'I think it is fairly apparent which choice he made.'
Sofia couldn’t speak.
My father never told me this. Not once. Not even a whisper.
She felt suddenly unsteady, as if the very foundation of her world had shifted beneath her feet. One choice, and his life could have been entirely different. One choice, and she would never have been born.
She thought of the way her father would always look at her, that familiar twinkle in his eye, the warmth in his voice when he told her he loved her.
Had it been love? Or had it been reassurance? Reassurance that he made the right choice?
Sofia swallowed hard, her throat tight.
'I am not my father,' she said finally, though the words barely made it past her lips. They felt foreign—fragile. A desperate shield against a truth she wasn’t ready to face.
Serben did not blink.
'That much is true,' he said, his voice colder than the floor. 'But the blood of the dove runs thick.'
Sofia stiffened.
Serben did not raise his voice, but he didn’t need to. The weight of her father’s dying words pressed into her chest, sinking into her bones like a warning—like an omen.
The blood of the dove runs thick.
The greasy scent of crackling bacon curled into Luis’ nostrils, mingling with woodsmoke drifting above flickering campfires. Beneath it all was the faint, earthy freshness of the fields beyond—untainted, unlike the air in the camp, thick with sweat, steel, and the unspoken weight of anticipation.
He moved through the maze of tents and huddled soldiers, his cane tapping against the packed dirt in a steady rhythm. Voices surrounded him, murmurs of conversations that never quite faded, floating on the morning mist like ghostly whispers. Laughter flared up in bursts—booming at one fire, barely more than a chuckle at another—yet it all felt distant, as if he were moving through a world that no longer belonged to him.
And then, as he passed a small group crouched near a spit of roasting meat, he felt it. The weight of their stares. The shift in the air. The kind of silence that only precedes a cruel remark.
'Hard to believe he was once the greatest swordsman in Eastamere, isn’t it?'
The words struck sharper than steel, biting deep into his leg like iron jaws. The disbelief. The pity.
A sharp elbow silenced the speaker before he could say more, but it was too late—the words had already reached him.
Luis didn’t stop. Didn’t glance their way. His face remained an unreadable mask, the same one he had perfected in the mirror, in front of his men, in front of the world. Even before the injury. But beneath it—beneath the careful steps, the rigid control of his breath—something curled and twisted inside him.
His fingers tightened around the head of his cane until his knuckles ached. The wound had long since scarred, but the ache remained, burrowing deep, gnawing at him with a hunger that never waned.
He kept walking.
The whispers followed him, just quiet enough that they thought he couldn’t hear.
'Luis!'
The sharp call dragged Luis from his thoughts like a hook to the ribs. He turned—too quickly—and his leg protested viciously. A grimace flickered across his face before he smothered it, shifting his weight onto his cane as he peered back up the path.
At the crest of the hill, The Orange Inn stood like a silent sentinel, its weathered beams and slanted roof overlooking the camp below. But it wasn’t the inn that held Luis’ attention. It was the figure marching toward him, his golden silhouette framed against the grey morning sky.
Aurelio.
His stride was purposeful, heavy with intent, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword—a gesture Luis knew all too well.
Luis exhaled slowly, watching as Aurelio closed the distance.
'Where are you going?' Aurelio’s voice was edged with concern, but beneath it lurked something firmer—something close to accusation.
Luis straightened. 'To see our new recruit.'
'Sir Finn?'
Aurelio’s face darkened, his mouth pulling into a tight line. He settled his hands on his hips, his stance widening ever so slightly.
Luis arched an eyebrow. 'What’s wrong?'
Aurelio’s fingers drummed once against his belt before stilling. His gaze flicked to the ground, then back to Luis, storm clouds brewing behind his eyes.
'I just… don’t trust him.' The words were careful, too careful. The restraint cracked, and his voice hardened. 'He’s a Galian. Why would he betray his king like that?'
Luis’ fingers curled around the head of his cane, gripping it like the sword he could no longer wield. 'He saved my sister’s life, Aurelio. He deserves thanks. Most of all, from me. Are you coming or not?'
Aurelio’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Instead, his eyes swept across the camp—the wounded stretched out on makeshift beds, their pained groans bleeding into the murmurs of the healthy. Bandages stained deep crimson, doctors moving swiftly between the fallen.
It was impossible to ignore the truth laid bare before them. War didn’t care for honour. Only survival.
When Aurelio looked back at Luis, something in his stance had changed. The hesitation was still there, a whisper of doubt lingering in the set of his shoulders—but his gaze had hardened.
He gave a single, sharp nod.
The two of them strode along the dirt path cutting through the heart of the camp, their footsteps muffled by the churned-up earth and scattered straw. Soldiers turned as they passed, offering respectful nods or salutes—though some came laced with something else. Pity.
Once, they would have looked at me with admiration. With awe.
Now, their gazes flickered to his cane, to the way his gait stuttered when the pain surged up his leg.
He ignored them.
The air saturated with mingling scents of sweat, blood, and smouldering embers. The wounded lay scattered in clusters—some wrapped in stiff, sweat-damp bandages, others pale and trembling, their pain barely subdued by the meagre rations of medicine available. A few groaned in restless sleep, their bodies wrestling with the fever that so often followed deep wounds.
Luis' chest tightened.
I was lucky.
His injury gnawed at him constantly, but he could still stand. Still walk. Still fight, in whatever way remained to him.
A few yards ahead, a broad-shouldered figure finished tying the last knots on his tent, securing the ropes with practised ease.
Sir Finn Alisser.
Even in the dim morning light, he seemed taller than Luis remembered, his frame leaner but no less powerful. When they had last traveled together from Galia to Eastamere—a journey Luis would rather forget—Finn had carried a trident. Now, a sword hung at his hip, the hilt well-worn, the leather darkened from use.
Luis slowed his awkward steps as he approached. 'Sir Finn.'
The knight lifted his head instantly, his keen eyes locking onto Luis.
'Your Highness,' Finn answered, rising to his full height with effortless grace.
His voice was steady, polite. But there was something unreadable beneath it—something Luis couldn't quite place.
Luis studied him for a brief moment before speaking. 'I didn’t have the opportunity before to properly thank you for saving my sister’s life.' His voice was measured, but he hoped his words carried the weight of sincerity. 'You were very brave to do so.'
For the briefest moment, something dark flickered in Finn’s expression—gone almost before Luis could catch it.
Then, Finn extended his hand. 'The pleasure is all mine.'
Luis hesitated, his fingers curling involuntarily at his sides.
Something about the Galian unsettled him. Not out of fear—no, it was something deeper, something tangled in memory.
For a fleeting moment, he was back there. Back in the prison halls. Back in the agony.
Steel flashing. Blood spilling. The moment his world shifted forever.
Luis forced the thought aside, his jaw tightening. He reached out at last, clasping Finn’s hand. His grip was firm, warm, but not without delay.
'My sister…' He exhaled, composing himself. 'She has been struggling with doubt lately. I know that winning a knight of the Galian royal guard onto her side will give her confidence. Tremendously so.'
Finn inclined his head slightly, but he remained silent.
Luis studied him for a beat before adding, with a touch of dry amusement, 'Out of curiosity… why did you decide to switch sides? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re losing.'
A shadow passed over Finn’s face, his features hardening into something unreadable. For the first time, Luis saw it—the weight Finn carried. The burden of the choice he’d made
'I understand that, my prince,' Finn said, his voice quieter now. 'But you must understand something as well. Before, when I served in King Rickard’s royal guard, I knew I was standing behind a tyrant.'
His hand curled into a fist at his side, his sea-green eyes burning.
'A man who is mad for power, who will not stop until he has taken everything for his own. I stayed by his side because I believed I had no other option.'
Luis' throat tightened, his gazes flicking to Aurelio standing beside him. That feeling—being trapped beneath duty, beneath expectation—it was one he knew all too well.
Finn exhaled slowly, shaking his head. 'Then I met your sister.' His voice was softer now, less like a warrior’s and more like a man’s. 'And I knew instantly she was… different. I don’t believe she fights for power, nor for conquest. I believe she fights for those she loves—for the right of her people to live without fear.' He let out a breath, as if the words themselves carried unbearable weight. 'I would like to live in that world.'
Silence stretched between them, heavy yet fragile.
Luis wanted to challenge him. To question his sincerity. To remind him that one man’s ideals could not win a war.
But instead, he found himself looking at Aurelio again. For far longer than he intended.
Despite everything—despite the bloodshed, despite the betrayal, despite the scars that still ached beneath his skin—he realised something.
I want to live in that world too.
Luis pulled his hand away, flexing his fingers as if the contact had left a lingering heat. He forced himself to breathe evenly, to push down the unease twisting in his gut. The words he wanted to say—should say—lodged somewhere deep, tangled with old wounds and fresh uncertainty.
'I wish you luck in your time with us,' he said at last, keeping his voice low, measured. Or at least, he tried. There was the slightest tremor in his tone, a wavering note.
Did Finn hear it? Did he notice?
Luis didn’t wait to find out. He turned away sharply, setting his sights on The Orange Inn at the top of the hill. Each step was a test of will. His leg throbbed in protest, sending sharp, jagged pain up his spine, but he kept moving. Kept walking. Kept breathing.
Behind him, the sounds of the camp continued as they always had—laughter and groans, whispers and murmurs, the ever-present crackle of fire. But something felt different.
He focused on the inn ahead. Sofia would be there. And right now, she needed him to protect her, even if she thought he couldn’t do so anymore.