Lysandra made her way through the quiet streets of the village, the inn she'd chosen for the night perched on the far edge of the settlement. The glow of the tavern behind her faded with each step, leaving her to the company of moonlight and the hollow echo of her boots against the cobblestones. Her cloak swirled around her ankles as she walked, and her thoughts, much to her irritation, drifted to Alaric.
His touch lingered in her memory, the way his hand had enveloped hers with a kind of tenderness she didn't know how to process. It wasn't just a gesture—it was the way his fingers curled around hers, deliberate yet gentle, as though she were someone precious to him. It unsettled her deeply.
Lysandra's thoughts kept circling back to his words, no matter how hard she tried to shove them aside. Admiration. The word felt foreign, strange coming from someone like him, a prince who had every reason to look down on her. Yet, when he said it, there was something in his voice—something raw, unguarded—that made her believe he meant it.
She clenched her jaw, her boots crunching against the dirt path as she tried to focus on anything else. But her mind betrayed her, drifting to another moment, one she had buried as deeply as she could. It was during the journey to the flatlands, when they had ridden side by side for hours.
He hadn't said much that day, which was unusual for him. Instead, he simply rode alongside her, his presence quiet and steady.
She remembered glancing over, catching the way he held the reins with ease, his posture regal even in the saddle. His expression had been soft, thoughtful, as though he wasn't riding beside a mercenary but an equal. His gaze occasionally flicking toward her as if studying her, trying to understand her in a way no one else ever had.
And now, thinking back, she couldn't help but wonder if that was the moment it had started for him—this so-called admiration. Her chest tightened at the thought, her fingers curling into fists. What did he even see in her? A girl who lived by the blade?
She shook her head sharply, her lips pressing into a thin line. No. He's a prince.
It was laughable. And yet, the memory of his voice—low, steady, and so frustratingly sincere—kept circling back, chipping away at her defenses. The way he'd looked at her, not with pity, but with something far more dangerous…
Lysandra shook her head, her steps quickening as if she could outrun the thought. It unsettled her. Worse, it warmed something deep inside her—a flicker of something dangerously close to hope. She scoffed at herself, shaking her head. Warming up to Alaric? She bit back a bitter laugh.
Lysandra reached the inn. The flickering lantern outside cast faint light across the weathered wooden sign, has she pushed open the door, stepping into the warm but quiet lobby. The innkeeper barely looked up from his ledger as she crossed the room, her boots tapping softly against the worn floorboards.
She climbed the narrow staircase, her senses sharp despite her exhaustion. Each creak of the wood beneath her feet set her on edge, but the walk through the dark village streets had been uneventful—too uneventful. It only heightened the nagging feeling that something was amiss.
By the time she reached her room, her wariness had only grown. She slid the bolt into place the moment the door closed behind her, the soft click of the lock offering a small sense of security. The room was modest but serviceable—a single bed tucked against the far wall, a rickety table beneath the window, and a small washbasin in the corner. She dropped her satchel on the table and shrugged off her cloak, draping it over the back of the chair.
Her thoughts began to drift on Alaric again as she unbuckled the belt holding her dagger. She shook her head, brushing the thoughts away. For now, she needed rest.
But the room wasn't as empty as it seemed.
She had just turned toward the bed when she felt it—the faint shift of air, the unmistakable sense of being watched. Her instincts kicked in, her hand flying to the dagger still on the table. Before she could fully draw it, a figure stepped from the shadows near the corner of the room.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice commanding. Her dagger gleamed in the pale moonlight spilling through the window, her stance low and ready. "How did you get in here?"
The figure was cloaked and hooded, their face hidden in darkness. They moved with an unsettling grace, stepping into the light but remaining eerily silent. The faint glint of a blade at their side confirmed what Lysandra already suspected—this wasn't a social call.
She tightened her grip on the dagger, her muscles coiled like a spring. "Answer me," she barked. "What do you want?"
Finally, they spoke, their voice low and distorted, as if carried on the wind. "Have faith in Eldren."
The words sent a chill down her spine, colder than any steel. Her blood ran hot with adrenaline, but those four words rooted her in place for half a heartbeat. Then, she lunged, her blade flashing as she aimed for their center mass.
They didn't flinch. With an almost inhuman speed, the figure sidestepped her strike, their movements fluid and effortless. She spun on her heel, her dagger raised for another attack, but they didn't counter. Instead, they took another step back, their head tilting slightly as if studying her.
Lysandra advanced, her blade glinting in the dim light. "Who sent you?" she growled. "What does that mean? Answer me!"
The figure didn't respond. Instead, they took one final step into the corner of the room, where the shadows clung thick and heavy. Before her eyes, their form seemed to dissolve into the darkness, vanishing as though they had never been there.
She froze, her dagger still raised, her chest heaving as she scanned the room. The door was bolted, the window shut. There was no way they could have gotten in—or out.
Her hand trembled slightly as she lowered the blade, her sharp eyes darting to every corner of the room, searching for any sign of the intruder. But there was nothing. No sound, no movement—only silence.
Have faith in Eldren.
The words echoed in her mind, more chilling now than ever. Slowly, she backed toward the bed, her gaze never leaving the shadows that had swallowed the figure whole.
Lysandra's eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, the lack of sleep from the night before weighing heavily on her. She pushed open the door to the tavern, where the smell of fresh bread and spiced tea mingled with the low hum of conversation. Her cloak was draped over her shoulders, but it did little to hide the tension in her posture. Her hand rested instinctively near the hilt of her dagger, a habit she couldn't shake after the events of the previous night.
As she scanned the room, her gaze landed on her companions gathered at a corner table.Kellan was already halfway through a plate of eggs, while Donall sipped from his mug, his sharp eyes flicking toward her as she approached.
"Morning, sunshine," Kellan said around a mouthful of food, grinning at her. "You look like you've been wrestling demons all night."
"Something like that," Lysandra muttered, sliding into the empty seat at the table. She reached for the pitcher of tea and poured herself a cup, her movements slow and deliberate. The warmth of the drink did little to chase away the chill that clung to her, the memory of the hooded figure's words still fresh in her mind. Have faith in Eldren. It had echoed in her dreams—if the restless haze she drifted in and out of could even be called sleep.
"You alright?" Kellan asked, his smirk fading as he leaned forward, his voice low enough not to carry beyond their table. "You're jumpier than usual."
"I'm fine," Lysandra replied curtly, taking a sip of tea. The bitterness grounded her, though it did little to soften the edge in her tone. "Just didn't sleep well."
"Didn't sleep at all, by the look of it," Donall remarked, his tone flat but not unkind. His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he turned back to his plate. "We'll be riding all day. You'd better hope you can keep up."
"I'll manage," she said, her voice sharper than she intended. She regretted the snap immediately, but none of them reacted, accustomed to her moods. Still, her weariness was making her reckless. She couldn't afford to let them see how deeply the events of the night had shaken her.
"We're leaving in an hour," Kellan said, steering the conversation away from her visible fatigue. "The convoy's packed and ready. Shouldn't take more than a couple of days to reach the next town."
"Good," Lysandra said, her fingers tightening around her mug. The sooner they left this village behind, the better.
Kellan nudged her plate toward her, piled high with bread, cheese, and dried meats. "Eat something. You'll need your strength."
She shot him a look but didn't argue, tearing off a piece of bread and chewing mechanically. The food was bland, but it kept her hands busy, distracting her from the gnawing unease that had followed her from her room.
The convoy bustled with activity as the morning sun rose higher, casting long shadows across the village square. Thw royal knights loaded their wagons with crates of fresh supplies, mercenaries checked their weapons and armor, and horses whinnied, sensing the journey ahead. Amidst the organized chaos, Lysandra stood beside her horse, tightening the saddle straps with practiced precision. Her movements were methodical as she worked, double-checking every buckle, strap, and knot.
Satisfied the saddle was secure, she turned her attention to her personal supplies. Her satchel was slung over the side of the saddle, its contents neatly arranged: dried meat and hardtack for food, a leather flask filled with water, and a small pouch of herbs and bandages for emergencies. She adjusted the satchel's straps, ensuring it wouldn't jostle loose during the ride.
The sound of boots crunching on gravel drew her attention, and she glanced up to see Prince Alaric approaching. He moved with an easy confidence, his cloak billowing slightly in the morning breeze. The faint smile on his face was as disarming as ever, and Lysandra felt her muscles tighten instinctively.
"Lysandra," he greeted, his tone warm but careful, as if testing her mood. His gaze flicked briefly to her horse, then back to her. "Preparing for the journey?"
She didn't pause in her work, slipping her dagger into its sheath on her belt. "Always am," she replied curtly, tugging the strap of her satchel one last time. "What do you want, Alaric?"
His smile widened slightly, unbothered by her brusque tone. "Just making sure you're ready. We've a long road ahead, and I wouldn't want my finest scout unprepared."
She snorted softly, turning to face him fully. "Flattery doesn't suit you, Your Highness."
"Doesn't it?" he countered, his tone light. But there was something behind his words, an undercurrent of sincerity that gave her pause. "I meant what I said last night, Lysandra. About admiration."
Her eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on the reins of her horse. "Is that why you're here? To remind me of last night's conversation?"
"No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm here because I wanted to see how you're holding up. You seemed... unsettled at breakfast."
She stiffened, her jaw clenching. "I'm fine."
"You always are, aren't you?" he said quietly, his gaze searching hers. For a moment, the noise of the convoy seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them in a bubble of tense silence. "But you don't have to be."
Her stomach twisted at his words, a knot of frustration and something she refused to name. She looked away, busying herself with adjusting her horse's bridle. "I don't have time for this, Alaric. If you're finished, I have a convoy to join."
For a moment, he said nothing, the weight of his presence pressing against her resolve. Finally, he stepped back, his voice softer. "If you need anything, you know where to find me."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there with her horse, her chest tight and her mind racing. She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to refocus. There were more important things to worry about than a prince and his misguided feelings.
Lysandra mounted her horse, her gaze sweeping over the convoy as it began to move. She tightened her grip on the reins.