It began with a wooden bird and a sweetcake.
Because Sarah couldn’t help but glance over.
By the hearth, Jory was at it again, carefree as ever—as if nothing had happened. His hands moved deftly, conjuring ribbons from thin air, delighting the cluster of children that surrounded him. His voice, loud and teasing, carried across the hall.
The great hall still thrummed with unease, the low murmurs of the refugees rising and falling like waves against the stone walls, broken only by the somewhat menacing figure of Lady Elena, who wove through the crowd, parting the villagers like a ship’s prow cutting the sea.
Sarah huddled near the edge of the crowd, Martha at her side. Her curls, dark and still damp with snowmelt, clung to her shoulders.
She was drawn in by his laughter and the wonder in the faces of the other children.
Then, she caught Jory’s eye. With a mischievous grin, he pulled a small toy from his pocket—a rough-carved wooden bird—and waved it playfully in her direction.
“Sarah!” he called, his grin widening. “Come here, let me show you some real magic.”
Before she could react, Martha’s hand shot out with gnarled fingers, gripping Sarah’s arm with surprising strength.
“Stay away from him,” Martha warned.
“Martha!” Sarah gasped, recoiling at the sting of her grip; it wasn’t hard, but just firm enough to sting her pride.
“Go on, boy,” Martha barked at Jory.
Jory’s smile faltered. He stuffed the wooden bird back into his pocket and retreated into the crowd, first throwing a wink over his shoulder at Sarah.
A fiery blush rose on Sarah’s cheeks, a blend of mortification and simmering anger. Her gaze dropped to the mug she held, the chipped rim blurring as her eyes stung with frustration.
“I told you to stay away from him,” Martha scolded.
“I thought you said everyone could be saved,” Sarah shot back, her words defiant.
“That’s not your business. That doesn’t have to do with you.”
“What do you know about me?” Sarah snapped, her tone rising despite herself. “You don’t know me, Martha. You don’t know anything about me.”
Martha simply shook her head. “We don’t have to save his kind, Sarah.”
“That’s not what you say about every homeless person or sick old coot in Threadneedle. You’re nothing but a lying hypocrite, Martha,” Sarah snapped. “And the Candlemakers? It’s all just a big lie! Old Edric was right.”
The slap came hard and fast, snapping Sarah’s head to the side. For a moment, there was nothing but the ringing in her ears and the slow, burning spread of pain. A hush fell over those nearby. Martha’s lips parted, shock on her face, regret creeping in too late. But Sarah was already on her feet, her vision blurred with tears she refused to let fall. She ran.
A patient’s cry for a bandage snapped Martha back.
“I’ll deal with you later,” she murmured to Sarah, though the edge was dulled by regret.
Sarah ran to a corner of the hall, ducking through the throng of people until she found a quiet place to hide—from most, but not all.
Elena had been scanning the room with quiet intensity. Seeing the girl alone, she moved in, her presence almost imperceptible until she knelt beside Sarah. Elena’s movements were smooth, deliberate, and unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world.
“Poor child,” Elena murmured warmly. She brushed a stray curl from Sarah’s face, her touch as light as snowflakes. “You must be so cold. So frightened. And what’s this on your cheek? Such an awful bruise.”
Sarah’s wide, brown eyes darted toward the shadows, then back to Elena, before turning her cheek away. The Lady’s presence was upsetting, yet her face now seemed kind. Her features held warmth, and her lips curved just enough to disarm her. She held a small cake, wrapped neatly in fine cloth.
“I’m not a child, Lady Elena.” Sarah’s delivery was even, though her nerves frayed beneath it.
“Of course not,” Elena said, her smile deepening. “You know my name, and I know yours. I’ve seen you around the castle, with your grandmother. But she’s not really your grandmother, is she?”
Sarah stiffened, her hands gripping the mug tighter. She didn’t answer.
Elena softened her tone, becoming almost apologetic. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry.” She held out the bundle. “Here. A little sweet to warm you. It’s not much, but… well, everyone deserves a little kindness.”
Sarah glanced to where she had left Martha, her stomach aching with hunger. But an instinctual distrust, a flash of nausea at the sight of Elena, held her back.
“It’s alright,” Elena whispered, coaxing. “Go on.”
The cake was warm, its sugary aroma enticing. She stole a moment, and then her hands closed around the cloth. It was small, harmless. Only a cake.
A nod, and then a tentative bite followed. The rich sweetness dissolved on her tongue, releasing her from the hall’s crushing weight.
“You remind me of myself, you know,” Elena said. Her touch swept lightly over Sarah’s hair again, almost absentmindedly. “Dreaming of something more.”
Sarah’s lips parted, but she said nothing.
“Do you ever dream, Sarah?” Elena asked. “Of a room with windows to the sky? Or a warm bed just for you, with fleecy blankets and space to draw whatever your heart desires? No one to hush you. No one to hide from.”
Sarah’s mind wandered with the sugary sweetness of the cake, and she could see Martha’s cottage, dark and cramped. She slept on a pallet shared with two others, where her drawings were scratched into the dirt, only to be wiped away.
“It’s not just a dream,” Elena continued, leaning closer. “You could have that. A room of your own. A place where you can be safe. All you’d have to do is trust me.”
“Martha says…” Sarah started, barely audible, but the rest of the words caught in her throat before they came out.
Elena’s tone turned almost sorrowful. “Martha says… but is that what you say? What can she really offer? Hunger? Fear? A lifetime of hiding?” She gestured to the hall, to the huddled villagers. “Look around you, Sarah. Is this what you want to hold on to?”
Elena gently took her hand. “I only need one small truth. Where do they gather? You’re not one of them, Sarah. You never were. You have a family in the castle.”
“I just…” The words caught in her throat. “I don’t think I know.”
Sarah pulled her hands away, scattering a few cake crumbs.
“It’s alright,” Elena said compassionately, turning to leave. “If you change your mind.”
Jory’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“Sarah!” he called, darting out from behind a pillar, his face alight with mischief. “The old witch is gone, isn’t she?” His gaze landed on the bruise swelling on her face. “Did she do that to you?”
Sarah shifted her gaze between Elena and Jory, her heart pounding.
“Wait,” she said, the word tumbling out before she could stop it. “Maybe I can help you…”
It began with the crack of Kael’s boots and the sound of a lone squeaky wheel echoing in the keep’s corridor.
“Crownsman,” Riven hollered, his voice syrupy, punctuated by a crooked bow that sent the patchwork of his coat moving in ways Kael didn’t think possible.
Torches sputtered in their sconces, their uneven light a flimsy defense against the heavy damp air, laced with the scent of ancient mortar and mildew. The cold bit through the thin fabric of his tunic, the stone walls holding a chill.
Kael almost missed Riven slipping out of Elena’s chambers.
The Peddler’s gait was a near-shuffle, but too much precision lay beneath the guise of fatigue. His fingers, stained with the residue of medicines and who-knew-what-else, worked the edge of his cart, coaxing it along the narrow hall. A sharp, chemical tang clung to him like a second skin.
The cart itself was an affront to order. Vials of murky liquids swirled in the dim light, satchels of powders bulged ominously, and ancient, gutted tech gleamed amid the mess.
A disassembled quantum drive sat nestled next to binary scanners with exposed circuits, relics of a world long, long past. He stopped the cart with a jolt, his grin stretching wide to reveal tannin-stained teeth that made Kael’s stomach churn.
“Fortunate timing, your Lordship. I’ve just administered Lady Elena’s final treatment. Not a drop of fever left in her! You have, no doubt, borne witness to her miraculous recovery under my care?”
He lifted a small vial, its contents shifting like smoke trapped in glass. “Better than your fine healer’s herbs, if I might be so bold. I dare say she, and I’m being a fool here, she nearly killed the lady herself! Is she still among the living? Or was she, oh, taken to the dungeon? I had heard such awful gossip—how tragic!”
Kael’s focus on Riven was focused, stern. “Your business here is done, Peddler. Be on your way,” he said, cutting off his theatrics.
“Business?” Riven chuckled, the sound grating against Kael like stones grinding underfoot. “A humble, lowly peddler like me has no business here, only the noble desire to aid those in need. I pick up many things on my travels—physics, potions, medicines, and the like. It’s my trade, after all. I offer cures where others fail. But as your Crownship requests, I shall take my leave-ship.”
He leaned closer, the smell of sweat mingling with something antiseptic and unsettling. Then, with a creak of the cart’s wheel, he began to move.
Stopping midway, Riven reached into his cart and produced a worn leather bag with an animated flourish. “Almost forgot, your Lord-ificence, or is it your Highhouse? Nevertheless, I found this in her Lady’s chambers, Crownsman. Fever makes folk trust the wrong hands sometimes. So, so unfortunate.”
His volume dropped conspiratorially, his grin spreading wide like a slash across his face. “The healer in the dungeon, she left this behind before she fled, taking her murderous plans with her. Thought it might be of interest to a man of your, uh, uttermost and worthiest standing. Her healer’s bag, no doubt.”
Kael’s gaze lingered on the bag. The leather was worn, its edges scuffed with years of use. Faint stains marred its surface, their rusty hues hinting at a more sinister origin. He reached out and took it, touching the cold, smooth leather as his eyes locked with Riven’s glittering gaze.
Riven bowed again, shuffling backward with a half-step that belied his calculated movements. “Such a very fine, humbling pleasure to serve, your lord-over-ship,” he murmured, mockingly reverent.
Then, like a shadow peeling away from the light, he slipped into the hallway’s dim recesses, leaving only the faint creak of his cart and the sterile, metallic scent of his presence behind.
Kael lingered there for a moment, the bag in his hand heavier than its modest size should allow. As he started down the hallway, its weight seemed to press deeper into his grip, matching the burden of unspoken questions swirling in his mind.
The air grew colder with each step. Torches guttered in their sconces, casting erratic shadows that leapt out, as if they, too, sought escape from the corridor’s oppressive confines.
Ahead, the faint shuffle of boots caught Kael’s ear. A single figure leaned heavily against the study door, his head lolling a bit before snapping upright. Garrick.
Kael slowed his pace, studying the man. His armor was scuffed, straps loosened as though hastily thrown on. His broad frame sagged with exhaustion, and a faint twitch pulled at his eyelids, betraying how little sleep he’d managed over the last few days. The smell of stale sweat and the faint scent of spilt wine clung to him, though his spear remained gripped tightly in one calloused hand.
“Drowsing at your post?” Kael asked, crossing into the torchlight.
Garrick straightened, blinking rapidly. “Not a chance, sir.” His tone carried a forced cheer, but the slump in his shoulders and the heavy lines on his face said otherwise.
Kael let the silence settle between them. “How long since you last slept?”
“Same as the rest of us,” Garrick replied with a shrug. “Not much since Lord Edric’s… departure.” He glanced at the bag in Kael’s hand, his brow furrowing. “That the healer’s?”
Kael’s expression hardened. “Know much about her?”
Garrick licked his lips, weighing his words. His fingers drummed lightly on the shaft of his spear. “Look, she and Lord Edric, they spent time together. He had her in quite a bit. Always asking questions. Look, pardon my boldness, sir. I saw what you saw in the dungeon, and I know what you did for her. She isn’t… what she seems.”
Kael gripped the strap of the bag. “Did you also see her in his chambers the night he died?”
Garrick glanced at the door before speaking. “No, sir, no. But I don’t need to. I’m no fan of castle politics, but I saw the way you protected her earlier. You’re getting yourself in over your head, if I may speak freely. Oona… there’s something off about her. I don’t doubt for a second she murdered him.”
Kael tensed. “You’re certain of that?”
“I’m certain anyone in this town had a reason to want Lord Edric dead,” Garrick replied, dipping into conspiracy. “But her? He suspected there was more to her than she let on. I think she was on to that. And the tower…”
Kael stiffened. “The tower?”
Garrick scanned the hallway, as if the shadows might be listening. “Look, sir, I followed them once. They went down through the tunnels, the old ones that connect the castle to the signal tower. Don’t know what they were doing, but they were there a long time. He came back with that look, like he’d seen something that freaked him out of his mind. After that, he started drawing maps of the tunnels, writing that weird stuff. He left this behind.”
Garrick reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a folded scrap of parchment. The edges were rough, hastily torn from a larger sheet; but the inked lines were precisely drawn tunnels branching out like veins, all leading to the unmistakable outline of the signal tower.
With a quick motion, Kael took the map. “You think she had something to do with what he found there?”
Garrick shrugged. “I’m not one for superstition, sir. But if you’re looking for answers, that’s where they’ll be. I’ve seen enough to know the tower’s at the center of all this. And her, too.”
“Get yourself some rest, Garrick,” Kael said. “That’s an order.”
Garrick pressed his lips into a thin line. For a moment, it seemed he might argue, but Kael’s gaze was iron. With a muttered, “Yes, sir,” Garrick pushed off the wall, his spear tapping softly against the stone as he shuffled down the hall, his boots scuffing with each step.
Kael waited until the echo of Garrick’s footsteps dissolved into silence. He unfolded the map and traced the inked lines as if the answer lay hidden within their tangled paths. He wasn’t a man prone to hesitation; Kael Darron had always moved forward with certainty. But now, something strange and sharp tugged at him. It wasn’t doubt, or not exactly, but a pull from somewhere deeper.
Kael pictured Oona’s face, her calm defiance, the unspoken strength that defied the judgment pressing down on her. It stirred a feeling he couldn’t name, one that moved him forward, even as the world pushed against her. Was he chasing answers? Or chasing her? Or both?
The chill of the iron handle seeped into his palm, a cold that both steadied and resolved him. He was ready now.
With a deliberate motion, Kael pushed the study door open.
Kael’s sword shot up, fast as instinct, dropping the photograph he was holding on the desk. He swirled up and around, dust shooting from the feet of the old chair as he pushed it aside.
Squeak.
A mouse skirted across the stone floor. His sword dropped, tension leaving his face as he sighed deeply. The two of them were the only occupants in Edric’s study.
The fire had burned down to ash, and frost crept across the shattered windowpane, forming intricate patterns that glimmered faintly in the dim light, as if alive. Despite a draft, the air was heavy and stale, carrying the scent of old paper and cold metal.
He lifted the aged and sepia-toned photo off the desk as he slid back into the cracked leather—into the very chair where only days earlier Edric had met his end. In the frame, Oona stood at the center, unchanged by time, as though she had been carved into the scene, rather than captured by it.
As his gaze moved from the mouse, now at the bookshelf, back to the photo, it wasn’t her appearance in the image that caught Kael’s attention now—it was the room she was standing in.
Kael leaned closer. The bookshelves loomed in the background, their wooden spines bent inward, as if listening. It was this room she was standing in. Long ago. Before the Thorns. Before Edric. The only thing missing was the mouse!
And as he set the print on the desk, alternately glancing at the mouse as it disappeared behind a tome, he noticed something else. Behind Oona’s shoulder, barely visible in the photograph’s shadows, was the faint, unmistakable outline of a… safe.
His heart lurched. Grabbing Oona’s key from his pocket, the key she had given him in the dungeon, his gaze snapped to the bookshelves. They loomed over him, their leather-bound volumes cracked and neglected.
Rising, he cleared them away, his unhurried movements deliberate. As Kael’s fingertips passed over the seam in the stone, there it was. A faint outline, nearly invisible.
The key slid in cleanly. The safe opened with a faint metallic groan.
Inside, a tangle of papers and folders lay in disarray, their edges frayed and curling with age. The scent of mildew clung to them, absorbed into the fibers.
Kael held his breath as he reached for the topmost folder.
It wasn’t the diagrams or equations faintly visible beneath the cover that sent a chill down his spine. It was the title: Covenant.
Cautiously, Kael opened the folio, his pulse speeding up.
The diagrams were dense and unfamiliar, but their designs stirred a cold instinct in his gut. He knew they were schematics.
Edric’s notes were scrawled in the margins, frantic and unrelenting. “Burn away the old world… purge and recreate… Oona.”
A tremor ran through him. This was why Oona had given him the key, hoping he would find the safe. For this discovery.
For the Covenant wasn’t just a fairy-tale horror or something from the history books. It was real. And it was here. The old world had torn itself apart to bury it, to erase it. And yet, Edric had been chasing it. The Covenant.
A bomb to end all bombs. Destruction itself.
The Crown had never cared about the purges, the rebellion, or Edric’s killings. They wanted the Covenant, the power to hold the world in fear with a button, and a return to law and order by force—the kind that had shaped history before, the kind that had forged kingdoms into empires, the kind that had turned empires into dominion.
They had sent Kael to find it, to secure it. He was their tool, and they had been using him without hesitation. Did Sorian know?
Regardless, history was clear. The Covenant could not be activated. The key was lost—scattered forever after the final battles of the first Android Wars.
Wars that had ignited again decades later—when his sister died. His hand went to his pendant.
Kael’s breath was quick, his mind a storm. And then he saw her name again. Edric had linked Oona to this. Not once, but again and again. Questions swirled. Was she the key? Did she have the key? Or was she the threat itself?
Kael moved to close the safe—but his fingers caught on a corner that didn’t belong.
He froze, his breathing shallow. Slowly, he ran his fingers along the seam of the back wall.
A faint click. A hidden panel slid open. Kael stared at the contents. A single folio tucked away, never meant to be found. The title, written in sharp, deliberate handwriting. Oona.
Kael’s heart hammered when he opened it: vitals, methodically recorded; blood work, annotated with cryptic symbols; notes in Edric’s own hand, detailing her movements and responses with the sterile detachment of a scientist, like she was an experiment.
Why had Edric hidden this? A cold feeling sunk into his chest. It wasn’t just that she appeared the same then as she did now. It was that she had never changed at all.
His hands trembled as he sifted through the rest of the folder. Edric’s words kept spiraling back to her, again and again, as if she were the answer to everything. A single note scrawled in the margin caught his eye. The key is not what it seems. Blood answers blood.
Kael’s grip tightened. The fire crackled in the hearth, snapping him back to the present. He glanced at the papers he held, then at the flames.
For a long moment, he stood there, torn between duty and the bond that had grown between him and Oona, one he’d tried to deny.
If the Crown found Edric’s notes, they would no doubt justify getting what they wanted from her, whatever the cost. He saw her future: torture, examinations, and extractions.
And what of his own role in delivering her to this fate?
His answer came in the form of action. One by one, he fed the pages to the fire—the vitals, the notes, the print—all of it disappearing into smoke and ash.
But as he reached the final page, Kael suddenly stopped. He scanned Edric’s final note, a cryptic phrase that felt like both a warning and a prophecy. Covenant Key, Oona 13.
Kael folded the page and slid it into his coat pocket. The fire roared as the rest of the folder darkened and turned to ash.
He reached for the healer’s bag Riven had given to him. Its weight was somehow heavier now, as if burdened by all Oona’s secrets he had discovered.
It shifted slightly as he hoisted it, the motion catching his eye. The firelight glinted off a metallic object inside. Kael opened the bag, a slight tremor in his hands.
Tucked in with the bandages and vials lay a knife. Its blade was intricately carved, the hilt adorned with the Crown’s insignia. Dark, dry blood stained its edge.
He lifted it from the bag, feeling its weight settle in his palm. The balance was perfect, the craftsmanship exquisite. It was a weapon meant for someone of high station and not the kind of blade a healer would carry.
But it wasn’t the heft or the blood that made him stop in his tracks. It was the initials etched into the blade’s base.
L.E.T.
His stomach turned. Lord Edric Thorn. The knife was his.
Kael had seen it displayed in this very room when he first visited Edric. And now, it was in Oona’s bag, wrapped in blood. The fire spit and snapped, pulling him from his ruminations.
Kael whispered to the empty room, “Why?”
The cold wind slipped through a broken pane, swirling the ash. He stared at the dungeon keys, while his mind shifted the pieces into place—
The Crown. Edric’s death. Oona. The tower. The Covenant. The knife.
Everything pointed back to her. And for him, the choice was already made. With a steadying breath, Kael grabbed Edric’s dungeon keys from a hook on the wall and stepped into the dark.