The sun hadn't risen yet, but the capital city of Valebourne was already stirring.
Beneath its marble towers and golden domes, behind velvet-curtained windows and the scent of roasted almonds from merchant stalls, shadows moved in silence. Messengers ran in back alleys, cloaked in red. Bells rang once, then stopped. And in the throne room of the empty royal palace, the seat meant for a king remained shrouded under a black cloth.
Altheria was leaderless, and the silence of the throne echoed louder than any war horn.
Far away from this world of splendor and secrecy, Eritrea trudged beside Prince Ronan through the dense woodlands skirting the Old River Trail. They had walked all night, only pausing when Ronan's legs threatened to give out beneath him. His wound had worsened, and though Eritrea tried her best to wrap it, she had little skill and even fewer supplies.
Still, he pressed on. So did she.
They spoke little. Silence wasn't just caution—it was processing.
What could one say after finding out you might be the heir to a kingdom you didn't know you were born into?
The sky above slowly began to shift from violet to rose gold. As the mist lifted, they reached a break in the trees and found themselves overlooking a valley choked with golden fields of wild wheat. A narrow road slithered between them, barely visible through the stalks.
Ronan sat down heavily on a stone, wincing as he did.
"We'll follow the river," Eritrea said. "If the map I remember is right, we'll pass through two border hamlets before reaching the northern trade route."
"That route's patrolled," Ronan murmured. "Which means traps. Ambushes. Saboteurs."
"I'm not taking you back into the mountains," she said. "We're not surviving a second night up there. Besides, we need a healer."
Ronan nodded. "Agreed."
Eritrea opened her satchel and pulled out a shriveled root, gnawing on it quietly.
He watched her for a moment, brow furrowed. "You aren't afraid."
She didn't look at him. "I'm always afraid. I've just gotten good at hiding it."
There was a pause.
"Most people," he said slowly, "when faced with all this—prophecies, death squads, bloodlines—they break. They run."
"I don't have the luxury of running."
He gave a faint smile. "You sound like someone who grew up a soldier."
She snorted. "I grew up with rats chewing on my boots. Maybe there's not much difference."
She didn't say it to provoke. It was simply the truth.
They began walking again once the sun was high enough to warm the road. The fields danced on either side of them, whispering in the wind. Birds cried overhead.
By mid-morning, they reached a small stone bridge crossing the stream that fed into the Old River. Eritrea paused.
Across the bridge, a small hamlet slept.
A dozen homes. A tavern. A blacksmith's forge that hadn't been lit in days. Laundry lines strung between windows swayed in the breeze. It looked peaceful.
Which is why Eritrea didn't trust it.
"We'll stop," she said, eyeing the rooftops. "But we keep our heads down. Don't use your name."
Ronan nodded. "I'll be a farmer's cousin from across the ridge."
"Let me do the talking."
He gave a mock salute. "Yes, general."
They entered the village slowly, Eritrea supporting Ronan with one arm while trying to look casual. A few villagers glanced at them, but no one stopped them. Eritrea knocked on the tavern door and was greeted by a squat woman with strong arms and a suspicious frown.
"We're looking for a place to rest," Eritrea said, voice calm. "My cousin took a spill in the ravine. Do you have a room for the night?"
The woman looked them over.
"Coin?"
Eritrea reached into her pouch and offered a small silver piece. It was all she had.
The woman took it and nodded toward a narrow stairwell. "One room. Second floor. And if you die in there, clean it up yourselves."
"Fair enough."
Inside, the tavern was dim and empty. Eritrea helped Ronan up the stairs and into a tiny room with a straw-stuffed mattress and a cracked window. He collapsed onto the bed, groaning.
"Let me take a look," she said, unwrapping the blood-soaked cloth at his side.
What she saw made her stomach lurch. The gash was deep and angry red. Infected.
"We need a healer," she whispered. "Or… something stronger than boiled leaves."
"There's a man," Ronan said, barely conscious. "An old friend. He lives in a tower east of here. A botanist. Knows the old arts."
"What's his name?"
"Denvin Thorne."
Eritrea's eyes narrowed. She'd heard that name before—in the whispers of old traders, in the margins of her book. A scholar was once accused of necromancy. A physician was banished from the palace for speaking against the crown.
"If he's as dangerous as they say—"
"He's loyal. And he'll help. If he knows who I am."
Eritrea hesitated.
"You're in no shape to move," she said. "Then I'll go."
"No—" He tried to sit up, but she pressed him down gently.
"You trusted me once. Do it again."
She turned to leave, but Ronan grabbed her wrist.
"Be careful," he said. "Not everyone in the capital wants me dead. Some want you. They just don't know who you are yet."
Eritrea's blood chilled.
Outside the cracked window, a crow landed on the sill—its single red eye glinting in the sun.
Eritrea left the tavern with the prince's words burning behind her ribs.Some want you—they just don't know who you are yet.
That wasn't just a warning. It was a prophecy sharpening into reality.
She pulled the hood of her tattered cloak tight around her face and moved through the village like smoke—quiet, careful, unseen. The townsfolk were awake now, men repairing carts, women tending to fires, and washing. No one paid her more than a second glance. But that didn't comfort her. Invisibility was something she'd worn her whole life. Now it felt more like camouflage for a target she hadn't asked to wear.
The directions Ronan had given her were rough—an old tower two leagues east, past the salt flats, tucked between two cliffs. It sounded like a place people went to die or hide. Eritrea adjusted the straps on her satchel, feeling the cold hilt of her knife press against her back.
She walked fast.
The farther she got from the village, the wilder the land became. Trees thinned. Grass gave way to scrubland and flat stone. The wind picked up. It carried a scent she didn't recognize—sharp, herbal, almost metallic. As if the air itself had been steeped in ancient medicine.
It was midday by the time she found the tower.
It wasn't what she'd expected. No broken stones or ivy-choked ruin. It was tall—maybe four stories—with circular black stone walls smooth as glass. No windows, just slits near the top for birds to perch. There were no banners, no guards, no doorbell—just an engraved iron door with a symbol she couldn't understand: two snakes coiled around a star.
She hesitated. Then knocked twice.
Silence.
She knocked again, louder.
A click sounded. Then a series of mechanical groans and shifting locks echoed through the door. After a few seconds, it creaked open by two inches.
A pale eye stared through the slit.
"State your purpose," came a man's voice, dry as leaves, and twice as brittle.
"I need help," Eritrea said. "Someone's injured. He said your name was Denvin Thorne."
Silence again.
Then the door opened fully.
The man who stood before her was tall and wiry, dressed in a long, slate-grey coat stained with ink and powder. His face was lined with age, but not weakness—his eyes burned with intelligence. One hand clutched a glass vial. The other rested on a cane shaped like a serpent.
He studied her for a long moment. "What's your name, girl?"
"Eritrea."
The cane tapped once against the stone. "Come in."
She stepped through.
The inside of the tower was a chaotic sanctuary. Shelves climbed the curved walls like vines—stacked with books, bones, dried herbs, vials glowing with impossible colors. Strange symbols circled the ceiling. In the center of the floor, a brass contraption spun slowly, humming with energy.
Eritrea stared. "What is this place?"
"A lab. A library. A prison, depending on who's asking," Thorne said. "Tell me. This wounded man—what did he look like?"
"Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Scar near his collarbone. Carries a sword with a lion-hilt. Calls himself Ronan."
Denvin Thorne's eyebrows rose. "So. The Ghost Prince lives."
"He said you'd help."
"I owe him that much."
Eritrea handed over a torn piece of cloth from Ronan's bandage. "His wound is infected. He can't travel much farther."
Thorne sniffed the cloth. Then tasted it with his tongue. Eritrea recoiled.
"Rot root and rust-blood. Nasty," he muttered. He walked to a shelf and began pulling down jars. "He'll need salve, distilled foxvine, crushed bluebell root… and a mirrorstone to draw out the corruption."
"Can you come with me?" she asked.
"No. I can't leave this place. The wards would fail. The Red Crows have sniffers on the wind."
Eritrea narrowed her eyes. "Then give me what I need."
Denvin paused, looking at her again. "You speak like someone raised for fire."
"I speak like someone who doesn't want to see another person die."
He nodded once and began assembling a bundle of items, carefully packed in wax cloth, tied with hemp string. "This will burn like dragon venom," he warned. "Tell him not to scream. They may be listening."
"Who's listening?"
Denvin turned toward her, face suddenly grave. "The ones who hunt prophecy. The ones who believe power belongs to blood and blood alone."
"You mean the Red Crows?"
He shook his head slowly. "The Red Crows are only knives. I speak of the hand that wields them."
Eritrea felt a coldness in her bones that had nothing to do with wind. "What hand?"
But Denvin was already writing something on a scrap of parchment, folding it, and sliding it into her satchel.
"Give this to Ronan when he wakes," he said. "Not before. And if he reads it aloud, cover your ears."
She didn't understand. She didn't ask.
He walked her back to the door. "Be swift. They already know he's near."
She hesitated at the threshold. "Why are you helping us?"
Denvin looked at her with something between awe and sorrow. "Because thirty years ago, I held you in my arms. And I promised your mother I would protect you, should the time ever come."
Eritrea's heart stopped. "You knew her?"
His hand rose gently, pressing two fingers to her forehead. "You have her eyes. And her fire."
The door creaked shut.
Eritrea stood alone in the wind, the satchel heavier than before—not from weight, but from truths beginning to bloom like wild thorns in her chest.
She didn't know how or why or what she was supposed to be—but one thing was becoming very clear.
She was no longer just an orphan.
She was a memory they had tried to bury.
And now…She was rising.
Eritrea ran.
The trail back to the village was longer than she remembered, as if the woods themselves had shifted in her absence. The wind had picked up—cold and sharp—and carried with it the distant calls of crows. Real or imagined, she couldn't tell. Every snapping twig beneath her boots sent a jolt through her nerves.
But it wasn't just the urgency of Ronan's wound that pushed her forward.
It was what Denvin Thorne had said. I held you in my arms.Your mother.Words that shouldn't have meant anything to a girl with no family, but somehow did.
Her thoughts spiraled.
What did her mother look like? Sounded like? Had she ever sung lullabies under these same trees? Did she have the same fire-thick hair Eritrea loathed brushing every morning?
A memory, unbidden, surfaced: the healer's hands when Eritrea was young, brushing tears off her face after a fever. The whisper of a voice she hadn't remembered until now: "She'll be safe here, hidden."
She'd thought it a dream. Now, she wasn't so sure.
By the time she reached the village, the sun was dipping behind the hills, throwing long shadows across rooftops. Lanterns flickered in the windows like fireflies trapped in glass. The tavern loomed ahead, quiet, too quiet.
She slowed. Every instinct screamed danger.
Creeping up the outer wall, Eritrea peered through a crack in the shutter. The common room was empty. Not just empty—ransacked. Chairs overturned. A broken mug on the floor. Blood—dry and dark—smeared across the counter.
Her heart dropped.
She bolted around the side, slipped through the alley, and climbed the back stairs to the second floor.
The door to their room hung open.
She stepped inside, knife drawn.
"Ronan?" she whispered.
No answer.
She turned, breath shallow, scanning every shadow. The bed was tossed, blankets ripped, blood trailing toward the open window. On the floor, a smear of red—and the Prince's sword, half-drawn from its sheath.
Then the movement.
A figure lay crumpled near the hearth. She rushed forward—and nearly fell to her knees.
It was Ronan.
Alive. But barely.
His breathing was shallow, face was slick with sweat. His skin had taken on a greyish pallor, and when she pressed her fingers to his neck, his pulse fluttered like the wings of a dying bird.
She cursed and tore open the satchel Denvin had given her. Vials. Roots. A mirrorstone wrapped in blue silk. Instructions scribbled on parchment.
She read them aloud quickly.
Step 1: Clean the wound with river salt.She used the last of their water, boiling it with salt she'd bartered for days ago. The wound frothed and bubbled. Ronan groaned in his fevered state but didn't wake.
Step 2: Apply the foxvine paste. Let it burn. Don't stop it.She did as instructed. The paste sizzled on contact. His body jerked violently, teeth clenching. She pressed his shoulders down, murmuring softly—words she didn't know she knew.
Step 3: Place the mirrorstone over the wound. It will draw out what festers beneath. Do not look directly into it.
She obeyed.
The stone began to glow softly at first, then pulsing like a heartbeat. As it pulsed, a thin black mist leaked from the wound, curling in the air before vanishing. The smell was awful—rotten earth, old blood, burned feathers. Ronan's body convulsed once. Twice. Then stilled.
And just like that… the air changed.
The room grew lighter.
The rot was gone.
Eritrea sat back, breathing hard. Her hands trembled. She had no idea what she'd just done—but something inside her felt… cracked open. Like a door long sealed, now swinging inward.
She stared at the stone.
For a moment, as it dimmed, she thought she saw her own reflection in it—not as she was, but older. Crowned. Dressed in fire and silver. A throne behind her. Blood on her hands.
Then it was gone.
Ronan stirred. His eyes opened. Weak, but clear.
"You came back," he rasped.
"Don't flatter yourself," she muttered, wiping her hands. "You owe me now. Twice."
He smiled faintly. "That's a dangerous kind of debt."
She sat beside him, exhaling slowly. "What happened here?"
"They found me," he said. "A woman in a red veil. Said she knew me. That the throne would never be mine. Then… darkness. I fought, I think."
"You think?"
"I remember biting her hand."
Eritrea almost laughed. "Very regal."
He shifted, groaning. "You saved me. Again."
"Denvin did most of the work."
"No," he said, meeting her eyes. "He gave you tools. You made the choice."
She looked away.
"I don't want to be someone," she whispered. "Not someone important. Not someone chosen."
"None of us do. Until the world gives us no other choice."
A silence fell.
Then, from below, a voice rose.
Not shouts.
Singing.
Low. Melodic. Strange.
They both tensed.
Eritrea stood and moved to the window. In the square below, a group of figures had gathered—cloaked, faces masked, moving in slow circles. They carried no weapons. Only lanterns filled with blue fire.
"What is that?" she asked.
Ronan's voice was barely audible. "A mourning song."
"For who?"
He looked toward the window.
"For the kingdom."
Eritrea backed away from the window, heart pounding.
The procession below moved like a ritual—slow, rhythmic, mesmerizing. The cloaked figures carried no banners, wore no symbols. Yet something about them disturbed her deeply. Each held a lantern glowing with cold blue fire, and their mournful hymn echoed through the night air like a ghost's lullaby. The language wasn't one Eritrea recognized. It wasn't meant for her ears.
"I thought you said they were Red Crows," she whispered to Ronan.
"They're not," he murmured. "Not exactly. They're the Ash Circle."
She turned sharply. "The what?"
"They serve the Red Crows… in the way vultures serve a battlefield. They follow after violence. They prepare the land for death."
The chanting grew louder. Below, one of the lanterns flared suddenly, then another. Blue flames flickered upward, stretching unnaturally high, licking at the rooftops.
"What are they doing?" Eritrea asked.
"Marking the village," Ronan said, slowly pulling himself up. "Once a town is marked, no one gets in or out without permission. It's like sealing a grave before the body's cold."
She stared at him. "We're trapped."
He nodded grimly. "For now."
She scanned the small room, panic rising. "We need to move. Tonight."
"We can't. Not until the ward fades."
"Ward?"
Ronan nodded toward the window. "Those flames aren't just light. They're warding the perimeter. Old magic. Blood-bound. They're searching for something-or-someone-and until they're done, anyone who tries to cross the ring... dies."
Eritrea felt the weight of the satchel at her side. The mirrorstone inside was warm, as if reacting to the energy beyond the walls. Every part of her wanted to run. But something deeper-the part she never listened to—told her not to move yet.
"How long before the flames go out?" she asked.
Ronan didn't answer.
Because they both already knew the truth: they didn't go out. Not until the Ash Circle found what they were looking for.
Or who.
There was a sharp knock at the tavern's main door downstairs. One. Then two. Then a third, slow and deliberate.
A signal.
Eritrea crept to the top of the stairs and peeked through the crack. She could see the cloaked figures from behind now, stepping inside. Five of them. One taller than the rest, his cloak edged with white bone-thread. In his hand was a staff topped with a circle of iron and ash.
The innkeeper, the squat woman who had given Eritrea the room, stood by the bar, silent and pale.
"We are looking for a girl," said the tall one, his voice like gravel dragged across stone. "She carries the scent of royalty. The curse of light."
The innkeeper shook her head. "No one by that name here."
"There are only two guests upstairs."
"They're travelers. Cousins from the ridge."
The tall man stepped closer. "The crow at her window says otherwise."
A pause. The air thickened.
Eritrea turned and slipped back into the room. "They're coming," she whispered to Ronan.
He clenched his jaw. "We don't have time. Help me stand."
"You're still bleeding."
"Then I'll bleed while walking."
She helped him up, slinging his arm over her shoulder. They moved to the back of the room, where a trapdoor led to the thatched roof. Eritrea had used it once before, long ago, when she snuck into the tavern for old bread scraps.
She shoved it open with her free hand and helped Ronan through.
The roof slanted dangerously. The ash lanterns below cast eerie shadows that danced across the village like specters. From this vantage, Eritrea could see the ward's full circle—blue flame pillars placed precisely at eight points, surrounding the square like glowing sentinels.
No breaks. No openings.
"We're caged," she muttered.
"Not quite." Ronan gestured toward the far edge of the village, where a crumbling grain mill lay half-buried in ivy and smoke. "That's where the ward is weakest. The roots there have old iron buried beneath them. Iron disrupts their flame."
"How do you know?"
He gave her a thin smile. "I was trained to survive this kingdom."
She nodded. "Then let's survive it."
They made their way across the rooftops, careful not to dislodge tiles or attract attention. Below, the Ash Circle spread out, entering homes, speaking to families, and placing charms on doors.
One wrong step would expose them both.
At the grain mill, they climbed down carefully, Ronan nearly falling from the last ledge. Eritrea caught him, barely, his weight heavy against her. Together, they limped toward the mill's back wall, where weeds had overtaken the stone and thorns knotted like angry hands.
The blue flame was nearest here, but flickering, unstable.
Eritrea reached into the satchel and took out the mirrorstone.
It pulsed.
The moment it touched the edge of the ward, the flame nearest them shuddered and bent, as if reacting to the presence of something older—something stronger. The air rippled.
"Now," Ronan said through clenched teeth.
They pushed through.
The flame hissed. The mirrorstone cracked.
But they passed.
The pain was sharp—like a thousand needles driving into their skin—but it faded quickly. Behind them, the flame flared, then dimmed.
The Ash Circle didn't notice.
Not yet.
They stumbled into the woods again, breathless.
And then Eritrea heard it.
A sound that didn't belong in any forest.
A heartbeat.
Not hers.
Not Ronan's.
Louder. Stronger. All around them.
She turned.
The trees were glowing.
Veins of silver light pulsed in the bark, casting soft, rhythmic pulses through the branches. The wind stopped completely. And in the silence, a voice whispered—not aloud, but in her mind:
"Welcome, Windborn. The forest remembers you."
Ronan collapsed beside her.
Eritrea stood alone, in a forest that knew her name—before she'd ever spoken it.