The bells of Spade's northern chapel rang a clear, single chime that echoed down the frostbitten stone corridors of the royal residence. Nine o'clock sharp. The kind of punctuality that didn't just live in Spade—it thrived in its very bones.
Aerion, dressed in a travel-coat of layered crimson silk lined with stitched golden panels—custom, of course—stood near the base of the entrance stair, arms crossed, one brow already raised before Kaelen had even opened his mouth.
"You're late," Aerion declared flatly.
"I'm on time," Kaelen said, clasping his gloved hands behind his back. "You're early."
"Debatable," Aerion muttered, adjusting the collar of his coat. "But no matter. Are we ready?"
A footman waited off to the side, the royal carriage already prepared just outside the gate. The doors were open, the cushions inside puffed and pristine. Spade's emblem—a split sword-and-star—gleamed on the polished side panel like it had never touched mud in its life.
Kaelen cleared his throat. "You'll be taking the carriage into the city."
"Correction," Aerion replied brightly. "We will be walking into the city."
Kaelen blinked. "No."
Aerion gave a dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Must you insist on being such a doorbolt all the time?"
"I insist on fulfilling my orders. You're to be escorted in the carriage for security reasons. You're a visiting royal, in an unfamiliar city, during a festival setup. That's three variables I don't like."
"Kaelen." Aerion took a step closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "How can I experience a city through a window? You expect me to sit there like a gilded parakeet peering through glass while the world happens without me?"
"Yes."
The flat answer hung in the air with all the enthusiasm of a wet sock.
Aerion grimaced. "I will be walking. It's not up for debate."
Kaelen's jaw tensed, but his expression remained neutral. "If I let you wander on foot, every guard on duty will have my hide tanned and nailed to the castle gates."
"Then walk beside me," Aerion said simply. "No one needs to know."
"I would know."
"Gods, you are insufferable."
"You're reckless."
Aerion sighed once more, louder this time, placing a hand over his heart like a man burdened by great tragedy. "Fine, fine, if it makes you feel better, I'll start in the carriage. Just to the main district, where it's busier. But I will walk after that."
Kaelen narrowed his eyes. "You'll remain in my sight the entire time."
"Thrilling. I always dreamed of having a dark-haired shadow."
"And you'll not initiate conversation with unknown civilians."
"Define 'initiate.'"
Kaelen exhaled slowly, as if already regretting his life choices. "Just get in the carriage."
With a smug little flourish of his coat, Aerion turned on his heel and ascended into the carriage like he was accepting an award. Kaelen gave a silent nod to the driver and followed, taking the seat opposite him—arms folded, back straight, gaze focused through the tiny slatted window.
Aerion propped his elbow on the side and rested his chin on his hand, peering out at the shifting scenery as the city gates opened to welcome them.
Spade's capital was a stark contrast to Heart's gilded ease. Here, the streets were tighter, angled, and precise—built with more stone than wood, more order than artistry. Buildings stood like teeth, uniform in height but different in decor. Iron signs hung from wrought brackets, the shops already busy as festival workers moved carts and crates across the main roads.
Despite the coldness of the city's frame, its people gave it breath.
Children darted between the legs of merchants setting up banners and garlands of dark blue and silver. The smell of baked rye, hot broth, and boiled sugar coiled through the air. Musicians were tuning strings at the edge of the plaza, and the sound of hammering echoed faintly from some scaffold deeper within.
When they reached the city square, Aerion practically launched himself out the door the moment it opened.
"Aerion—" Kaelen started, but the prince was already spinning in a half-circle to take in the towering buildings, the approaching bustle.
"I love this already," he declared.
Kaelen caught up beside him in two long strides. "Stay close."
Aerion smirked. "What, worried I'll get lured away by spice vendors and questionable musicians?"
"I'm worried you won't."
Aerion was a man possessed. Not by chaos, but by curiosity. He veered from stand to stall, eyes alight as he took in everything: a baker slicing braided loaves into perfect ribbons, a craftsman carving chess pieces from black horn, a woman stringing star-shaped charms into a silver net.
"Tell me, Kaelen," Aerion said, stopping abruptly to admire a carved statue of a fox perched atop a fountain. "What's the significance of this?"
"It's just a water spout."
"Surely not. Look at the shape. That tail could hold secrets."
Kaelen's eyes twitched. "It's a fox. It pours water. Keep walking."
Moments later—
"Kaelen, what does that symbol mean? The double triangle inside the circle?"
"A butcher's guild. Don't touch the salt barrel."
A few paces on—
"Kaelen, what would happen if I rang that bell?"
"It would summon guards. Don't ring the bell."
And thus began the slowest, most excruciating patrol Kaelen had ever endured.
♠♠♠
The square they'd settled into for lunch was tucked slightly downhill, just off one of the main thoroughfares of Spade's capital. The buildings here leaned closer together, their upper windows angled like whispering heads. Festival flags hung from balconies—blues, greys, and the occasional silver streamer catching the light like broken glass in wind.
Aerion, of course, had not stayed seated.
Kaelen had left him precisely one instruction—stay put—and returned to find the prince halfway across the square, nose practically buried in a merchant's spice display, poking through tiny glass jars like a scholar unearthing forgotten runes.
Kaelen's boots struck the stones in sharp rhythm. "Prince Aerion."
The prince glanced up from a tin of dried pepper-berries. "Oh, there you are. I've discovered at least six things I want to smuggle home in my boots."
"You left your seat."
"I relocated it. Emotionally."
Kaelen reached his side in three more strides, eyes scanning the crowd. Too many people. Too many angles. Too many blind spots.
"I turned my back for ten minutes."
"Six, actually. I counted."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "You're supposed to be under escort. Not browsing like a common tourist."
Aerion turned, lips quirking up in that particular way that Kaelen was beginning to dread—a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes, that said I'm pretending not to provoke you while doing exactly that.
"I am under escort. You're right here."
"I wasn't before."
Aerion shrugged. "Well, you should've walked faster."
Kaelen snapped.
"Gods above, Aerion—you behave like a reckless child!" The words came out sharper than intended, like a sword drawn too quickly.
The air between them shifted.
The crowd kept bustling around them, oblivious, but in the narrowing space between their stares, something brittle hung.
Aerion tilted his head slightly. "Did you just—scold me?"
Kaelen clenched his fists at his sides. "Yes."
"Properly scold me? Like a governess in breeches?"
Kaelen looked away, exhaling through his nose like a warhorse checking its patience. "You're insufferable when you do this."
"When I what, Kaelen?" Aerion stepped closer, voice lowering, teasing but edged. "Remind you that I'm not made of glass? Or just prove that I can navigate a market without being shanked by a fruit vendor?"
"You don't understand the risk."
"I understand being watched," Aerion said, not smiling now. "And I understand being caged by concern pretending to be duty. But I'm not your fragile burden, Kaelen. I'm not your—"
"You're not just mine," Kaelen interrupted, voice cracking ever so slightly—just enough to catch Aerion mid-step.
There it was.
For the first time since they'd met, Kaelen wasn't speaking from a protocol manual. He wasn't quoting orders or citing strategic precautions.
He was… frustrated. And worried. And just tired enough that his guard slipped in one breath too many.
Aerion blinked.
Kaelen quickly turned away, pretending to scan the nearby rooftops for threats. "You're not just mine to protect. You're the Heart Kingdom's heir. A single misstep, a single mistake out here, and it could ripple through two realms. I've seen it happen before. I've seen it go wrong."
A pause.
Aerion's voice softened. "Someone you failed to protect?"
Kaelen didn't answer.
Aerion let the silence stretch this time, not filling it with his usual prattle. There was a weight there—a scar carved beneath the armor—that he wasn't meant to press on just yet.
So instead, the prince offered something gentler.
"Well," he said, nudging Kaelen lightly with his elbow, "lucky for you, I'm famously unkillable."
Kaelen gave him a long, flat look.
Aerion grinned.
"…And irritating enough that most would-be assassins would just give up halfway."
"Mm," Kaelen muttered. "Can't imagine why."
Then, softer—too quiet for anyone else to hear—
"Just don't scare me like that again."
Aerion pretended not to hear it.
But he did.
And for once, didn't make a joke.
As they resumed their stroll, the city around them blurred into the soft hum of midday—traders haggling, children laughing, the distant clang of festival preparation echoing off slate rooftops. Aerion walked a bit quieter now, more thoughtful than before, while Kaelen kept his gaze ahead, back straight, jaw set as if he could will the past from surfacing.
But memory is never so courteous.
All it took was a flicker—a glint of dark hair darting through a nearby alley, too quick, too familiar—and the grip on Kaelen's mind loosened.
The world shifted.
♠♠♠
The sky above the borderlands was a tattered sheet of gray. Clouds hung low, bloated with rain, and the hills that rolled between the Spade and Cloveland Kingdoms were nothing more than wet silhouettes under the oncoming storm.
Sixteen-year-old Kaelen stood outside the carriage, rain clinging to his short black hair like moss to stone. His armor was too new—polished, stiff, the breastplate still bearing the fine crest of the Spade Kingdom's training corps. His knuckles were red from gripping reins, and his left boot squeaked with every step—a curse he had yet to outgrow.
He was tall already, with the beginnings of that ever-present scowl forming in his features. But back then, it hadn't yet hardened into habit. It was still just… caution. A boy's earnest attempt to look older than he was.
From the carriage door, a voice chirped, bright and unfazed by the drizzle.
"Sir Sour-Face," it said. "Be a dear and help me with my boot. The mud here eats shoes like sweets."
Kaelen sighed through his nose.
"Lady Sirea, I've asked you to call me Kaelen."
"And I've asked you to smile once. Seems we both enjoy disappointment."
A foot emerged from the carriage, dainty but covered in road-grime. Sirea followed after, pulling her hood low against the rain. She was fourteen, pale as porcelain, and dressed in a travel cloak two shades too fine for the muddy roadside inn they'd be resting in tonight. Her boots were indeed half-swallowed by muck, and she held out one foot expectantly.
Kaelen didn't move.
Sirea wiggled her foot.
Still no response.
"I suppose I'll die here, consumed by the bog like a tragic fable."
"You are remarkably dramatic for a diplomat's daughter."
"I practice."
With a huff, Kaelen knelt, bracing the edge of the carriage and lifting her foot carefully. He began to tug the boot free, but the squelch that followed sent a splash of mud onto his breastplate. His eye twitched.
Sirea tried to stifle a laugh. She failed.
"Sorry. Truly. I deeply respect your boot-removal skills."
Kaelen handed her the boot. "You shouldn't joke. You're under protection detail for a reason."
"Yes, yes," she said, hopping slightly to the step. "'The borders are unstable,' 'there are tensions with the lowland lords,' 'mercenary rebels grow bold.' I read the briefings, Kaelen. I'm not some caged canary."
"Then stop acting like one," he muttered.
But not unkindly.
♠♠♠
The manor they stayed in that night was old. Once a lord's estate, now repurposed as a military waypoint. The stone walls were thick, but the windows rattled in their frames and the hallways creaked with every step. A storm rolled in as dusk fell, turning the skies to ink and the grounds to a soup of cold wind and slashing rain.
Sirea had commandeered the upstairs study by evening. Kaelen, as always, stood outside the door—arms crossed, back straight, sword sheathed at his side. He hated how quiet it was here. The manor was too empty. Too still.
Inside, muffled through the oak door, he could hear Sirea humming to herself. Something simple. A folk tune, probably Clover-born. She did that when she read.
After an hour, the door opened.
Sirea peeked out. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ribbon, and her eyes—sharp, blue-gray like thunderclouds—looked softer in the lanternlight.
"Still sulking in the hall?"
"I'm working."
"You're standing."
"I'm guarding. There's a difference."
Sirea opened the door wider. "Come inside. Just for a minute. It's not like anyone's going to assassinate me while you drink tea."
Kaelen hesitated.
She cocked a brow. "You'd really rather stare at blank walls than join me in warmth and biscuits?"
He didn't answer.
She turned around. "Suit yourself."
Ten seconds later, he was inside. Standing like a statue, hands behind his back, while she poured a cup for him anyway.
"You're an odd one, Kaelen," she said, seated cross-legged on a plush chair, a book open across her lap. "Most boys your age are shouting about sword lengths and archery trials. But you—no, you wear discipline like a second cloak."
Kaelen sipped the tea and said nothing.
"Why?"
He looked over. "Because if I don't, someone like you might die."
Sirea blinked, startled.
And for a rare moment, her usual cleverness faded.
"...Oh," she said, quietly.
They sat in silence a while longer.
Then she broke it, softer this time. "Would it help if I told you I'm not afraid?"
"No."
"Well, too bad. I'm telling you anyway."
He looked at her properly now—really looked. At the firelight dancing in her eyes. At the way she refused to be cowed by talk of war or risk or the weight of her lineage.
There was something... admirable in that.
Something that made Kaelen feel both responsible and alive in ways he didn't fully understand.
He stood to return to his post.
"Kaelen?" she asked.
He paused.
"If they ever try to take me," she said, playful but deadly serious beneath the smile, "you better draw your sword first."
He gave her the faintest nod. "I will."
He had.
And still lost her.
♠♠♠
The smell of blood and burning wood came back first.
Then the smoke. Screams. Steel clashing in narrow halls. Kaelen's blade catching against leather and bone, his lungs heaving as he shouted her name.
He'd reached the balcony too late.
One of the White Thorns—masked, bleeding—had dragged her there. She fought, gods, she fought like fire incarnate. But they pushed her.
And the fall—
Her scream still echoed in his skull some nights.
When the other guards reached her, she was broken. Silent. The enemy already fleeing, their message made.
A life stolen not for strategy, but symbolism.
A girl who mattered because she wasn't royal. Because she was just important enough to hurt someone.
Kaelen carried her body back inside himself.
And he never let go.
♠♠♠
Back in the present, Aerion had turned again, squinting at a particularly bizarre festival sign.
"Do you think this artist meant to make that goat look like it's choking?"
Kaelen didn't reply.
Not right away.
He simply looked at the prince—smug, alive, stubborn as ever—and whispered to himself, so quietly even the wind didn't catch it:
"Not again."