"Stay on the main road. It's better patrolled."
The blue-eyed knight's voice echoed in Isla's head as she and Clara set off again, their horses kicking up dust from the well-trodden dirt beneath them. It was advice Isla knew they should heed, but the weight of her mission—whatever it was—made her feel like every decision was pulling her further into uncharted waters. She glanced back at Clara, who was muttering something to her horse about behaving for once, and then turned her focus forward, toward the city looming in the distance.
The capital.
It beckoned them like a deceptive beacon, its towering walls and spires promising sanctuary but concealing something darker beneath its gleaming exterior. Somewhere in that labyrinth of stone and intrigue lay the answers to the cryptic letters, the secrets Isla had been chasing since she arrived in this world. And yet, the closer they got, the more she felt like she was walking into a trap.
---
By the time they reached the capital gates, Isla and Clara were, in a word, wrecked. Their clothes were caked in dust and mud, their cloaks hung askew, and their hair was doing impressions of haystacks. Clara's mare had decided to make a meal of every shrub they passed, leaving her rider half a second away from declaring war on the beast, while Isla's horse seemed determined to trip over every loose stone on the road.
The guards at the capital gates barely spared them a glance. Why would they? To the casual observer, they looked more like bedraggled travelers than anything remotely noble or important. And for once, Isla was glad for the anonymity. Their disheveled state allowed them to slip into the city unnoticed, the clamor of the streets swallowing them whole.
"Gods above," Clara groaned as they led their horses through the crowded thoroughfare. "If I never see another horse again, it'll be too soon."
"You've said that at least five times now," Isla pointed out, though her own legs were screaming in agreement.
"And I'll say it five more times before I'm done," Clara shot back. "I swear, the next time we travel, we're hiring a carriage. Or better yet, I'll invent one of those horseless contraptions myself."
Isla snorted but didn't reply. Her attention was on their surroundings—the tangled maze of streets, the towering buildings that seemed to lean in on them, the throngs of people moving with purpose or none at all. The city was alive in a way that was almost overwhelming, its pulse a steady hum of voices, laughter, and the occasional bark of a street vendor hawking their wares.
The last time Isla had been here, it had been as Lady Evangeline, the fiancée of the Duke of Blackthorn. She had arrived in style—or at least, she assumed she had. The details of that visit were hazy, like a dream she could only half-remember. But she knew she had been at the palace. She had walked these streets, though they had been far cleaner in her memory. And somehow, she had ended up at Blackthorn Manor, the transition from one place to the other glossed over in both her recollection and the pages of the novel.
Now, she was back, though her purpose was far less clear. The palace loomed in the distance, its spires cutting into the sky like jagged knives. The sight of it stirred something in her—a mix of dread and determination.
"Alright," Clara said, snapping Isla out of her thoughts. "What's the plan?"
"The plan," Isla said slowly, "is to figure out what's going on."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "That's... vague."
"I know." Isla sighed, running a hand through her hair. "But we can't just barge into the palace demanding answers. We need to be smart about this."
Clara gave her a dubious look but didn't argue. Instead, she pointed toward a nearby inn. "Let's start with not looking like we just crawled out of a ditch."
---
The inn was modest but clean, its common room filled with the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread. After securing a room and stabling their horses, Isla and Clara took turns washing up, their spirits lifting slightly as they scrubbed away the grime of the road.
When they finally sat down to eat, Clara let out a contented sigh. "I don't care what happens next. As long as I have food in my stomach and a roof over my head, I'll die happy."
"Let's not die at all," Isla said, though she couldn't help smiling. The simple act of sitting down and sharing a meal felt like a small victory, a brief respite in the chaos that had become her life.
But even as they ate, Isla's thoughts kept drifting back to the palace. She couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out, that every moment they spent here was a moment lost. The letters, the whispers of rebellion, the blue-eyed knight—everything was leading her to the same place.
And yet, she hesitated.
What if she was wrong? What if walking into the palace was exactly what her enemies wanted? The novel had provided her with some guidance, but it was incomplete, fragmented. She knew how the story was supposed to end, but she didn't know how it got there. And that uncertainty terrified her.
"Hey," Clara said, nudging her with an elbow. "You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you stare off into the distance like you're in a tragic opera." Clara smirked. "It's very dramatic, but also kind of concerning."
Isla rolled her eyes but couldn't help laughing. "I'm just... thinking."
"Well, don't hurt yourself," Clara said, leaning back in her chair. "We'll figure it out. We always do."
Isla wanted to believe her, but the knot of tension in her chest refused to loosen.
---
The next morning, they made their way to the palace gates. Isla had expected some kind of grand revelation as they approached—the kind of moment where everything fell into place. Instead, she felt a growing sense of unease. The guards at the gates were different from those at the city walls—more alert, more scrutinizing. Their eyes lingered on Isla and Clara's faces, their postures stiffening as the two women drew closer.
"State your business," one of the guards said, his voice curt.
"We're here to see the Duke of Blackthorn," Isla said, keeping her tone calm and measured. "It's urgent."
The guard raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking over her travel-worn clothes and Clara's perpetual scowl. "Do you have an appointment?"
"We don't need one," Clara said before Isla could stop her. "Now let us through."
The guard's expression hardened. "The Duke is a busy man. If you don't have an appointment, you'll have to wait."
Isla opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak, a voice interrupted them.
"That won't be necessary."
The air seemed to shift as the figure stepped forward, their movements smooth and deliberate. Isla's breath caught in her throat as she turned to face him—a man with sharp, angular features and eyes that gleamed with an unsettling mix of amusement and menace. He was dressed impeccably, his dark coat trimmed with silver embroidery, and the smirk on his lips sent a chill down her spine.
"Lady Evangeline," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Or should I say... Isla. We finally meet."