Whitecliff Castle, as its name suggested, was built on top of the white cliffs west of Gillesport. The port had been the first settlement on the continent, founded by renowned adventurer, bard, and personal hero to Garrin, Andren Gille. From there, the first settlers of the continent branched north, east, and west, eventually founding the three kingdoms—but Gillesport remained the capital of Fyrest from the beginning. The oldest part of the city sprawled along the coast in a series of ports, courtyards, and merchant shops. It was Garrin’s favorite place to visit, though he didn’t get there often. Sailors from all over the world gathered in the harbor, searching for work and open taverns, buying wares and telling tales of their adventures to anyone who would listen.

Garrin always listened, so he rarely had to search out men who wanted to talk. Whenever he was in town, he was guaranteed a free mug of questionable ale and several hours’ worth of stories.

But Garrin had no intention of taking Arya into the kinds of places his favorite storytellers frequented. He knew enough about the ports; today they would explore the rest of the city.

They made their way down the twisting road connecting Gillesport to Whitecliff Castle, hoods up to conceal their identities from infrequent travelers. It was a pleasant day, despite the cold; there was no wind, and the sun gleamed off the gathered snow and warmed their faces as they walked. With his warm cloak and the brisk pace Arya set, Garrin even found himself lowering his hood when the road was empty.

He could still hardly believe they’d gotten out of the castle without being seen. Arya had taken him through the servants’ halls to an exit south of the main gate, one he hadn’t known existed. By the looks of the dust coating the door handle, few others knew of its existence either. When he asked about it, she just sighed, “And you call yourself a prince.”

It was the first time Garrin had ever been outside the castle without an escort—and the first time he’d walked to town rather than riding. There was more to see by foot, he decided; usually he was so focused on getting to the ports that he paid little attention to the scenery.

He would have to do this more often.

“What are you grinning about?” Arya asked. She had her hands folded into the sleeves of her dress, which Garrin noticed guiltily was much thinner than his own clothes.

“Just... It’s a pleasant day, don’t you think?” he answered. “And it’s nice to be away from the castle.”

Arya tilted her head back to bare her face to the sun. “How often do you dream of leaving the castle?”

“Now and then,” he hedged.

“Why? Is it the confinement? The responsibilities? Renton?”

He laughed, though when he looked at her, her expression was serious. “It isn’t anything wrong with the castle,” he said, sobering. “It’s just that there’s so much more to the world. I don’t suppose the Architects gave you any desire to travel.”

“No,” she said in a flat voice.

“It isn’t a desirous trait for a prince either,” he admitted. “But I have it. I want to see new places, experience new things. Even if it’s just here in Fyrest.”

“And write and sing about them like the bards in your stories?” Arya said.

“Why not?” he asked. “Someone has to write songs. Why not me?”

“Because you have a kingdom to run.”

“Not for another four years.”

She adjusted her hood so she could see him better. “You know that isn’t true. You have other responsibilities to perform before then.”

“It wouldn’t have to be me doing them,” Garrin argued.

“Who then?”

He looked at her, but if she caught the meaning in his gaze she gave no indication of it. He wanted to tell her then, but they had almost reached the edge of the city and he didn’t want to get into his plans when they couldn’t discuss them at length. It would have to wait.

“Look,” he said instead, pointing down the road. The rooftops of Gillesport rose into view, complete with clouds of smoke and circling seagulls overhead. “Where should we go first?”

Arya’s expression brightened. “The old town.”

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That wouldn’t have been his first choice, but if she wanted to look at a bunch of crumbling walls and outdated architecture, that was her business. He led her down the road that would take them into the oldest part of the city, entering the district through a stone arch built into a short wall. The streets here were simple dirt paths, made uneven by snow and ice, and Garrin offered Arya his arm as they passed into the shade of the ancient buildings. “They say Andren Gille oversaw the construction of some of these buildings himself,” Garrin said. “I think most of that is rumor, though. Just a way to bring in tourists from the ports.”

“I suppose there’s no way to know for sure,” Arya said.

Garrin turned them between two buildings, following the half wall that would lead to the ruins of the first fort built in the harbor. “I’m sure the Tellers have a record somewhere,” he said. “They have a guild in the business district. Most of the important records are held in the university, but the Tellers like to keep some of their books from the Sages.”

Arya chuckled. “You sound like someone who’s looked into this. Who would have thought the prince had so much interest in history?”

“Not history for its own sake,” Garrin admitted. “Just when it concerns Gille.”

“Ah, I should have guessed. A musician who traveled the world and helped establish the three kingdoms... it’s not hard to see the connection.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Garrin said.

“Isn’t it?”

He paused in a patch of sunlight streaming between two buildings. “He wasn’t just a musician. He wrote the first ballads about Fyrest. He helped King Kaldis establish a lasting kingdom throughout the continent.”

“The kingdom broke up within a single generation,” Arya pointed out.

“It passed to his three children,” Garrin corrected. “It didn’t break up. It’s still here in mostly the same form, it’s just ruled by three kings instead of one.”

Arya shrugged. “Who is your history teacher? He seems to have left a few things out.”

“The Architects didn’t tell you that?” Garrin said, bristling. When Arya simply stared at him, he rolled his eyes and said, “It’s Sage Dellon.”

She wrinkled her nose. “He’s hardly older than you are. Why not have someone who’s experienced history teach it?”

“Dellon is a good teacher,” Garrin said.

That was a lie. Dellon assigned readings and mostly left Garrin to his own devices, checking in a few times a month to make sure he was keeping up with his “studies”. Most of that centered on Dellon’s favorite period in history, the Revitalization—when the focus of most Fyrestians shifted from settling and taming their country to creating and trading art. “It was when our national identity truly began to take shape,” Dellon had told him. “It was a time of unity, of collaborative pursuit of a worthy goal, of intellectual gain. If history does repeat itself, let us repeat the Revitalization.”

Arya shot him a doubtful glance. “If you say so.”

“If you have such a poor opinion of history, why did you want to see the old town?” he asked.

“The cemeteries,” she answered. When he frowned, she laughed and added, “Is that not fitting for a princess?”

“Not particularly,” he said.

She shrugged. “Go back to the castle if you want to. I’ll meet you there.”

“I can’t leave you here alone,” Garrin said.

“You can,” Arya argued. “You just shouldn’t.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered. Part of him wanted to turn around there and leave her to her own devices, but he continued down the street toward the nearest cemetery. The day seemed less pleasant than it had when they’d started out. Maybe it had gotten colder; maybe it was just his mood. He was ready to end this bizarre trip and return to the castle.

Garrin chided himself silently. He wanted to be an adventurer, but at the first hint of a chill in the air he was ready to run back home? That wouldn’t do.

“Perhaps after the cemetery we can try the guilds,” Garrin suggested. “Some of them have music or indoor tumbling demonstrations during the—”

“Hey, Othe!”

Garrin turned in surprise as a wiry man slinked out of the shadows behind him, pulling an oiled cloak tight about his shoulders. “A lord and lady from the hills got lost in the sewer streets.”

“They’re from higher than the hills,” said another man, stepping out of an alley ahead of them.

Another joined the first man in the cloak. “You’re right—look at them furs. They gotta be noble, Othe. We should leave ‘em alone.”

“Nonsense,” said the man in front of them. Othe, apparently. “By the looks of ‘em, they got the money to afford a donation. Won’t be much. Nothin’ they would miss.” He eased toward Garrin, holding out his hand and grinning.

Another man darted out of the alley and pushed Othe’s hand down. “Hang on now. Let’s think about this logically. We can take their money, sure, or we can take them. What do you figure a pair like them’d fetch us?”

“With all them furs and feathers,” Othe said. “Thousand crescents at least. Maybe two.”

“Nothing,” Garrin said firmly. “Except perhaps an arrest warrant. It would be better for you to let us go.”

Othe laughed. “The little bird has a voice! Or do you think he’s just singing for his lady? What’s your name, little bird?”

Arya put a hand on his arm, but the warning was unnecessary. The men had faint Thiyaan accents—sailors, most likely, men who planned to be out on the sea again before the law could catch up to them. They might defer if they knew Garrin was the prince, or they might escalate. There was no way to be sure. “Let the lady go at least,” Garrin said. “I will stay behind if you wish to attempt a ransom exchange.”

The men cackled. “So she can run for the guards?” Othe said. “No, little bird, you both stay with us. Come quiet, now.”

Garrin set his feet. “We’re not going anywhere with you.”

“You’re outnumbered,” Othe pointed out. “You think you can fight us all?”

With swords? No question. Garrin had trained to use the sword his whole life, though most of the moves he knew were for show over practicality. But none of these men were armed, and neither was he. And Garrin knew nothing about brawling.

It didn’t matter; he couldn’t just let them take Arya. “Run for help while they’re distracted,” Garrin muttered, lifting his fists.

Arya shook her head.

“I’ll run as soon as you’re far enough away,” Garrin promised. “But not till you’ve gone. Understand?”

“Don’t—” she started, but Othe took a step forward and reached for her arm.

Garrin swung.