OONA 13

Chapter 1

“Power is a game of shadows. To stand in the light is to invite the arrow.”

Kael broke the wax seal, unfolding the parchment. The letter was short—three sentences in Sorian’s elegant hand.

To Lord Kael Darron,By order of the Crown, you are herewith reassigned to Castle Threadneedle.Report within the week.Further instructions to follow.

—Sorian Ardan, First Blade

Threadneedle.

The word sank into his mind like a stone. Threadneedle, a frozen wasteland in the North, where the Crown sent those it wished to forget. Where careers withered and died beneath endless frost.

Across the garden, Lord Sorian Ardan raised a glass in Kael’s direction, his familiar not-quite-smile laced with gloating satisfaction.

The gilt chain hanging over Sorian’s brocade glinted in the afternoon sun filtering through the canopies. Long tables, draped in white linen trimmed with gold, stretched across the castle gardens. Nobility drifted between trays piled high with crystal goblets, jeweled fruits, and steaming meats.

Kael folded the letter, slipping it into his cloak. His steel-blue eyes remained calm, though his anger churned beneath the surface.

Let them.

Let them send him North. Let them think they could bury him in ice and snow.

Kael Darron would not crumble!

Freedom was not only about breaking chains: it was about mastering the hand that held them. Whatever Sorian had planned, whatever the Crown hoped to prove, Kael would outlast it. Sometimes, there was no greater revenge than doing what they expected of you—better than anyone could ever think.

But involuntarily, his hand drifted to the silver pendant hidden in his tunic, the one Sorian had just pinned the medal over. He felt its quiet pull to the past, a tether to his humble birth and to a nagging doubt: he could never truly belong here.

Then he raised his silver goblet in return, nodding to Sorian, as the taste of the sweet wine lingered on his tongue.

Chapter 2

“We are all haunted houses.”

The candle flames wavered when Oona entered Elena’s chamber. The silver goblet she held, etched with delicate patterns dulled with time, shimmered faintly in the firelight.

Here in the North, outside Castle Threadneedle’s walls, a gale lifted curtains of snow up and over the ramparts, rattling the shutters where Oona stood.

Elena didn’t take her eyes off Oona. Three days of fever had stripped away the child’s softness, leaving her suspicious.

“You were gone a long time,” Elena said finally.

“The kitchen is far away, my lady.” Oona turned, holding the goblet carefully in both hands. The glow of the fire lit her face, casting shadows that made her look timeless.

The room was surprisingly austere for a lady, practicality having won out over comfort. A sturdy wooden wardrobe with light scratches stood against the wall. A fire crackled weakly in the hearth, but the draft lingered, gently stirring the heavy maroon drapes. Dominating the room, a bed with intricately carved posts framed the figure of Lady Elena Thorn of Threadneedle.

Elena’s skin, flushed and slick with fever, seemed out of place against the bleached white linen sheets. Resting on a pillow, she looked as though a careless touch just might shatter her. Her piercing brown eyes, her father’s gaze, held an intensity that illness could not erase.

But unlike Lord Edric’s severe and empty paranoia, Elena’s eyes reflected a different kind of doubt: fear, certainly, but also intuition.

She now redirected that sharp suspicion on the healer, Oona, and the contents of the goblet she was just handed, which was wine laced with yarrow and willow bark, balanced with a touch of honey.

Oona was taller than most women in Threadneedle, and unnaturally still when she wasn’t moving—an unsettling quality that only those who watched her closely would even notice. Though her hands were chapped from work, she gracefully measured herbs from her satchel into a ceramic bowl and turned to the fire for warm water.

Even in the dim light, her skin seemed sun-kissed. She wore her dark hair loosely gathered at the back of her head. Her face, though plain to some, held a quiet symmetry that drew the eye for a moment too long, daring you to notice her without truly understanding why.

“This will help break the fever,” she added, stirring the ingredients with practiced accuracy—but there was something else, an unsettling, mechanical precision that sped up when no one was looking.

Before Oona could finish the potion, it came. Suddenly.

The scream.

Raw and high-pitched, the sound scraped against stone, then vanished without a trace. The steaming bowl trembled in Oona’s hands as she swiveled toward the source of the sudden noise. Lord Edric’s study.

Elena bolted upright, wide-eyed and fever-bright. “Father?”

“Stay in bed,” Oona said quickly, her calm fraying. She set the bowl down on the bedside table, but Elena was already pushing back the covers.

“Help me up,” the girl demanded, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

Oona hesitated.

She could already hear the castle guards’ heavy footsteps, their shouts smothered by the stone walls. But beneath it all, Oona knew. Threadneedle was very different now.

Chapter 3

“This time is out of joint.”

“The cold always comes first,” Castle Guard Garrick said, watching his breath cloud in the torchlight. He took a swig from a silver flask and pushed it toward his partner, Ward.

Snow fell steadily, gathering on their shoulders and helmets, flake upon endless flake, the blanket of the north. In the distance, the heavy beat of Threadneedle’s bells marked the hour.

The castle walls, towering and ancient, stretched to meet the snow-draped earth below. Large flakes softened the rough edges of the battlements, torchlight glinting off their frost-bound stone.

Above the ramparts, mountain peaks caught the last of the light of the day on their faces, sharp as drawn blades. The village spread out beneath them—stone houses with slate roofs that bowed under the weight of years and frost, and narrow lanes choked with snow and black with soot.

Garrick’s large frame braced against the wind that swept down the ramparts. His face, weathered with scars, carried an enduring strength, as if hewn from the ancient stones of Threadneedle’s walls.

Where Garrick was stone, Ward was shadow: razor-edged and restless, his wiry frame at odds with the stiff, well-kept uniform he wore.

Though no one had seen anything but snow here for years, Threadneedle’s Lord insisted the tower remain under constant watch.

Ward chuckled and tipped the flask as he spoke. “Two guards to a shift. Ol’ Lord Edric wouldn’t want us losing our minds staring at the snow all night.”

“Someone has to keep you from drinking through your shift,” Garrick grunted, then shook his head. “It’s too heavy tonight. Coming down fast.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth as he sipped; for Ward, every moment hid a joke. Gallows humor for a gallows town, he thought, and resolved to put some words to his musings with another swig of the flask.

“You worry too much, old man,” Ward said, his words slurring pleasantly. He rolled his eyes and tipped back the flask again as he leaned lazily against the battlement, snow catching in his untidy hair.

“No, that snow’s looking awful heavy up there,” Garrick responded, nodding toward the peaks. “See those cracks in the snowfield? I’ve never seen them stretch that far.”

Ward followed his line of sight, blinking at the glacier’s fractured surface. He let out a slow breath and rocked on his heels.

“Ah, well,” he said, waving his flask vaguely at the peaks. “Maybe it’s just the mountain trying to smile.”

Garrick did not blink. “An avalanche would take out half the village.”

Ward huffed. “Look, all I’m saying is, well, maybe it ain’t a sign. Maybe the snow’s just stretching its legs.”

“You’re full of shit,” Garrick muttered.

“And yet I don’t collapse under my own weight.” Ward grinned. “Unlike that snowfield.”

Garrick slowly turned his head. It was the look of a man weighing murder.

Ward clapped him on the back, mostly to check if he was still warm. “Listen, if the mountain does bury us, you can say ‘I told you so’ when we die.”

This time, Garrick shook his head and swung around toward the jagged row of peaks. But Ward’s gaze drifted below.

Something was wrong. At first, it was a prickling awareness worming its way up his spine, the kind of feeling that made a man reach for steel before he even knew why.

Then, a patch of darkness close to the outer wall, where flakes should have been drifting, swallowed them whole.

Ward was not a man to get goosebumps lightly. But he blinked and squinted against the swirling snow. Like breath fogging in a mirror, a shape began to form at the edge of the ruins below.

His throat was dry as he tried to speak. “Garrick.” No response. He tried again, louder this time. “What—what’s that?”

Garrick barely moved his head, but his posture shifted uneasily. Because the shape in the snow… it wasn’t just standing there anymore.

It stared back.

Ward’s flask dropped, forgotten. His expression lost the grin, morphing into something closer to… to dread.

Then, like a fast-moving cloud, the shapes broke apart, dissolving into nothing but the snow below.

As if only imagined.

Kicking the flask, Garrick snorted. “You’ve had too much of that, brother.”

Below them, Threadneedle was ever the same. Sleeping buildings hunched under layers of snow. Wisps of smoke curled from chimneys. A window here glowed orange with candlelight, a window there was black with frost.

And yet, both men turned toward the signal tower.

Black and angular against the bruised horizon, it loomed over the village like a scar in the sky. Garrick shuddered, hearing—or imagining—a scream.

This time, the terror was all too real.

The siren’s voice tore through the night, echoing along the stone walls of Threadneedle. Like a dying breath, the unnatural scream sailed through the falling snow, fading into the darkness.

From a tower above, an icicle cracked loose and fell, shattering on stone. Both men drew their swords, the cold steel whispering from their scabbards.

Chapter 4

“Burying it don't make it disappear.”

Kael first noticed the icicles hanging from the corpse's outstretched fingers and nose, sparkling in the faint moonlight like crystal scepters. The body was frozen solid, head bowed forward, arms stretched high in a grotesque mimicry of prayer.

He swore he could smell it, an acrid rot that clung to the air. But the cold had sealed any scent away, leaving only the sight behind.

A stone’s throw ahead, the bent sign of The Broken Needle, the village tavern, swung faintly in the wind. The narrow street was choked in snow, a few fat flakes hanging in the air.

A handful of villagers passed by, heads down, boots crunching softly with every footfall. No one looked at the stake. No one looked at him.

This wasn’t the first casualty of Edric’s private war, and it wouldn’t be the last. Lord Edric’s power came from the Crown, yes, but here in Threadneedle he might as well have been king. The village was too remote for any real challenge. Perhaps that was why the Crown had sent Kael here—too much zeal, and a deepening madness, in Edric.

‘A tool,’ one noble had told Kael, ‘is only useful until it breaks.’ Kael’s orders had been clear. Help him with the purges. But watch him.

Kael blended into the shadows of Threadneedle easily, his travel-worn cloak wrapped tightly around broad shoulders, the deep hood casting half his face in darkness. Beneath it, his lean, muscular frame moved with a soldier’s efficiency. A thin scar ran along his cheekbone, pale against the rough stubble on his jaw.

The wind picked up, catching the edge of his cloak as he approached the weathered plaque at the base of the stake. He knelt, brushing away the snow with a gloved hand to read the inscription: Candlemaker.

His hand wavered as something else glinted beneath the hazy light. A ragged scrap of circuitry stuck out from the dead man’s pocket, tangled in stiff, frozen fabric.

It seemed old, older than the purge, older than the Crown, older than anything that should still exist. A relic that belonged in forgotten ruins, not clutched in the pocket of a dead heretic.

His gloved fingers reached for it. Reach… stretch… he jumped up to grab the circuit, locked in an icy embrace with the pocket, tugging it just enough that… CRACK.

Kael barely had time to curse before it collapsed onto him, stiff limbs catching against his shoulders, the dead weight knocking him backward into the snow. A billow of white swirled around him.

His breath tore from his chest as he hit the ground, pinned beneath a frozen corpse. He twisted beneath the body, shoving against its heft.

“A little help?” he called out to the few villagers still within earshot.

No one stopped. No one so much as turned.

Kael dug in, shoving harder. The corpse slid sluggishly in the snow, finally rolling off him with a dull, brittle thud.

For a moment, he sat there, catching his breath, his gloved hands braced in the snow.

Then he glanced down at what he was still holding. The digitalia. Lifeless, old, useless, and rusted at the edges, its jangled wires spilled like veins across his palm. What did it mean?

As he brushed the snow from his cloak, his hand caught on the thin leather cord around his neck. The charm lay hidden under layers of fabric, but his fingers found the silver bird easily, its shape worn smooth from years of absent touch, a habit older than the scar on his cheek.

He exhaled, pushing himself up with one hand. Then, gripping the scrap of circuitry with the other, he hurled it toward the nearest abandoned building.

Glass shattered; the brittle remains of a forgotten window caved inward as the silicon disappeared into the dark.

Then he made for the tavern.

Abeer glass shattered on the wooden floor of The Broken Needle as the door slammed open. A gust of wind carried in snow and the metallic squeal of wheels.

Behind the bar, Ryn knelt low, sweeping up the shards of broken glass. Her movements were quick and precise, a time-worn habit worried into a groove. She gathered the splintered pieces into her apron, the candlelight catching faint glimmers of gold in her dark hair, right where it escaped her braid.

The rattling of a cart drowned out the hush of voices as a man shuffled inside.

A peddler.

He was a mess of wiry limbs, ragged furs, frantic hands, twitching eyes, and hollow cheeks flushed red from the cold.

The cart shuddered to a halt in the middle of the Broken Needle, its contents a grotesque museum of the dead age: fractured hardware, blackened processor cores, twisted fragments of neural interfaces. The electronika caught the firelight like ancient jewelry or magical instruments.

“Treasures from the past!”

Riven’s shout cut through the tavern’s murmur. He spread his arms wide. “Stories in every piece! Antiquities for sale!”

Ryn didn’t look up from wiping glasses. “Not again, Riven.” Her tone was flat. “We don’t deal in your contraband. Take your trash and go.”

“It’s not trash!” He reached into the cart, gripping a rusted scrap of machinery. Wires, like entrails, spilled from its seams.

“See here! A neural lattice. Pure quantum-age craft—”

“I said out.” Ryn’s hand slipped beneath the bar. A warning.

Riven’s shoulders slumped. His fingers whitened around the cart handles as he swiveled around, making for the door.

Then…

A flicker. One of the ancient quantum chips, buried under years of dust, pulsed. Faint at first, then stronger, in a slow and rhythmic glow like bioluminescence. Like breathing.

The Peddler’s wild eyes widened. He lifted the chip, turning it in his gnarled fingers. It shouldn’t, no it couldn’t, be doing that. His gaze moved chaotically around the tavern, finally landing on her. Sarah.

She sat in the corner beside her grandmother. Her tan skin drank in the dim light. A few unruly curls veiled her face, but her chest rose and fell in perfect time with the chip’s mystic pulse.

Riven stared. Sarah’s amber eyes met his. For less than a moment, the room was still. Then the light died, snuffed out like a candle.

Sarah rotated to the frost-clouded window beside her. With one finger, she traced a shape in the fog on the glass.

A cross.

The door burst open. Winter and wind stormed in, carrying snow and the heavy tread of boots—and Kael, his cloak dusted white, the deep hood casting his face in shadow.

Riven’s hands flew to his cart. “No contraband here, Crownsman,” he muttered. “Just a peddler’s wares.”

Without waiting for a response, the Peddler turned, gripping the cart’s handles. The wheels shrieked as he dragged it toward the door and was gone, leaving the tavern as he had come in, thick with smoke, stale beer, and dust. And leaving Kael lingering near the bar, snow melting on his cloak as he took in the room: the crackling fire, the motley crowd, the warped beams overhead, and the blackened walls where fading names were carved deep into the wood.

The tavern’s noise swelled again, and Kael watched the scene unfold like clockwork. Stew steamed, mugs clattered, and boots stomped the grime of Threadneedle onto the floor. Most of the time, the Broken Needle felt more like a stage than a refuge—hosting a drama interspersed with quick scene changes, and a cast that knew their roles.

Except for one.

Kael’s gaze lingered on Ryn, a moment too long. She might have been mistaken for another cog, but there was a difference about her, a kind of freedom in the way she moved. For Ryn, every action was a choice she owned.

She walked deliberately toward Sarah and her grandmother, wiping the window with her apron as she gathered mugs, tidying up while quietly erasing the Candlemakers’ symbol from prying eyes.

As she wiped her palms absently on her apron, her gaze, for a wink, shot across the room and found Kael at the bar. In the moment before her mask slipped back into place, she stared right through him. Then she glanced away as though nothing at all had happened.

Edric didn’t need to be present to command the room. His shadow fell over Threadneedle. Kael knew (or thought he knew) why the Crown hated the gods; the Crown didn’t share power, even with myths, and especially not machines. But what did Edric care if the villagers nurtured a few ancient superstitions, now that the androids were gone?

As Kael turned it over again, he searched for the right tool to pry apart its meaning. A pitchfork, he decided, would be most appropriate for the job.

Kael took his drink to a low table by the window, left by villagers who cleared a wide path for the Crownsman. At least he was getting some respect here, or fear.

Somewhere outside, the Peddler’s cart rattled away into the snow. And Kael, watcher of men, wondered what would happen when Edric, Lord of Threadneedle, finally snapped.

As Kael cleared a porthole in the frost, two castle guards rushed past, their boots leaving fresh tracks in the growing drifts. Snow, caught in the torchlight outside, swirled violently around the guards as they disappeared into the gloom.

Then came more, a whole squadron, followed by villagers with torches. With his focus on the window, Kael adjusted his posture. The wind carried faint echoes of shouted commands. Ryn’s methodical polishing slowed as her posture leaned slightly toward the door. Listening.

And for a moment, The Broken Needle held its breath.

“Something’s happened,” someone suddenly said.

The sound came from the far corner. A boy, too young to be drinking but old enough to loiter, leaned against the wall, his boots kicked up on the edge of the table. His dark hair was unruly, damp from melted snow, and his smirk made it clear he enjoyed the attention. Jory.

The others, three boys of varying heights, waited for their cue. Their breath fogged over the frost as they pressed their faces against the glass.

“Up at the Castle!” one of them said excitedly. “They heard a scream in Lord Edric’s tower. Bet the old man’s finally gone mad—”

“Quiet,” Ryn’s voice parried their chatter. She stood motionless behind the bar with a look that made the boys freeze.

The boys shrank back from the window, but the words were already out. The tavern came to life. In the shadows of the room, a small figure, Sarah, stirred. Her hands wrapped tightly around a chipped mug of cider, her wide amber eyes glancing between Jory and Ryn.

As Jory focused on her, his grin eased, and he claimed, rather than crossed, the distance between them. His friends shifted in their seats, whispering and giggling.

Sarah felt Martha stiffen beside her as Jory sauntered toward them, his hands shoved into his coat pockets, a grin hanging lazily on his face. He stopped a few feet from the table, close enough to catch Sarah’s eye but far enough to stay out of Martha’s reach.

“What do you think, Sarah?” he asked pointedly, slicing through the hum of the tavern. “You’ve been up there, haven’t you?”

Dropping her gaze down to the chipped tabletop, her vision swam with the rapid beat of her heart. She didn’t answer.

“She hasn’t,” Martha said, unyielding. Her hand clamped down on Sarah’s arm, grounding her. “And she’s got nothing to say to you.”

Jory’s grin widened, his eyes darting to Martha before settling back on Sarah. “Didn’t ask you, old woman.”

Martha leaned forward, her tone dropping low, hard. “And I’m telling you. Leave.”

Her words carried weight, enough to make the nearest tables go quiet as their conversations faded into wary glances. But Jory didn’t flinch. Staying put, he studied her with an expression Sarah couldn’t quite name.

“Alright,” Jory said finally, falling back with a shrug. “But one day, Sarah, you’ll have something to say.”

The way he said her name, like he’d always known it, made her stomach twist.

Martha’s strict rules, the stifling walls, how she wasn’t allowed to have a life of her own. This was her Threadneedle, and it felt smaller every day. Sarah sighed. “I hate it here.”

The wind pressed faintly against the shutters, and more villagers moved past the window, shouting.

Kael set his glass down carefully, its faint clink impossibly loud. He pulled his cloak tight before rising, pausing on the old woman and Sarah by the window. The cross, though wiped away, reappeared, the fog retreating from the invisible oil her fingers left, as if remembering her touch.

Pushing through the door into the night, he followed the wind along Threadneedle’s narrow streets. The guards’ tracks, shadowed cavities already filling with snow, led straight toward the castle.

In the darkness of the Broken Needle, Ryn searched her pockets for matches. Extinguished by the sudden burst of cold air, the candle flames sent up lazy tendrils of smoke.

And as Kael marched stiffly toward the dark tower, the last lights in the little northern village of Threadneedle seemed to have gone out.

Chapter 5

“Chaos is merely order waiting to be deciphered.”

“You,” Kael said in a measured tone as he crossed the threshold into Edric’s study.

Behind him, Garrick shut the door with a heavy thud, gripping his spear as Ward took position at the entrance.

“Me?” Oona replied.

Oona stood near Lord Edric, examining the letter clutched in his right hand, the fingers already stiff with rigor mortis.

Lord Edric’s lifeless body draped across the large oak desk that dominated the center of the room. His figure was a stillness that unnerved.

Kael remained steady. “You’ll forgive me if I ask why you are standing in the middle of a murder scene, with only the family allowed in.”

Edric’s head lolled to the side, his cheek pressed against a sheet of parchment, stained red. His half-lidded and glossy eyes stared at a point beyond; the hollow lines beneath etched deeply, as though the man had been decomposing for years.

A slow smile curved Oona’s lips, with no amusement in it.

“I could ask you the same, soldier.”

Marcus fumbled with the buckle of his sword belt. “So glad you’re here, Crownsman. Somebody needs to take charge of this investigation. Our father was just killed.”

He gestured at the obvious corpse in the room, then nodded toward Elena, his sister, teetering off to the side, who was hot with fever.

At nineteen, Marcus moved with the unrefined strength of a boy still growing. His lean frame was topped with loose, dark curls clinging to his damp forehead. His face, like Elena’s, held a youthful softness.

A shattered glass lay among scattered papers, the tannin-colored stain bleeding across the brittle surface of ancient texts. The hearth fire had burned low; its embers cast a faint orange glow.

Blood pooled slowly, drip by drip by drip, onto the flagstone floor.

Kael’s hand hovered near his sword, gaze locked on Oona.

He watched, startled, as she brazenly snatched the stained note from Edric’s lifeless hand and held it up. The movement seemed to jostle the corpse, causing it to slump further.

Before he could draw his blade, Oona tilted her head.

“Before you reach for that sword, Crownsman, you might want to know what your guards missed.”

His fingers stopped a hair's breadth shy of the hilt.

“Most people, and especially not servants,” he said carefully, “don’t reach for evidence at a crime scene.”

“Most people,” she countered, “whether servant or high-born, don’t notice when a victim’s right hand clutches papers, especially if they were left-handed.”

She extended the letter to him. “Or did you think I was here to steal love letters?”

Kael’s expression shifted—surprise, appreciation… suspicion.

Marcus stiffened. “She’s the village healer, my lord, attending to Elena. And I don’t think she has been cleared to be here.”

A moment of recognition passed between Marcus and Oona. Oona’s gaze narrowed, meeting his, holding his secrets as tightly as her own.

Before either could speak, the color drained from Lady Elena’s face. She swayed, reaching for something, anything, to steady herself. Finding nothing, she collapsed in a faint.

Kael and Oona moved at the same time, lunging forward from opposite sides. Their arms locked awkwardly around her, faces suddenly too close. For a breath, Kael found himself staring into Oona’s amber-flecked eyes.

She looked away first, but the moment lingered… a little too long.

Then, as if remembering themselves, they shifted Elena from one to the other, their hands brushing in the exchange. Elena, semi-conscious, became an unspoken buffer between them.

Their voices dropped to whispers.

“Astute observation about the letter,” Kael murmured.

“Not bad investigating yourself,” Oona replied, starting to lead the Lady out. “But we should get her to her chambers.”

As Garrick pulled open the study’s heavy doors, Oona paused.

She shifted her balance just slightly, but it was enough to make Kael stutter forward. Then, a low rumble, distant and deep, vibrated through the stone beneath their feet.

For a second or two, Oona looked toward the frosted window. But the sound faded quickly into the howling storm.

Kael spoke evenly, but with a hint of curiosity. “Something wrong?”

Oona blinked. Twice. Then, softly: “No.” And then, cryptically: “I mean… not yet.”

Kael watched her closely as they stepped into the corridor. For him, she was a puzzle he meant to solve.

Chapter 6

“It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane.”

The walk to Elena’s chambers led them down the dark stone corridor, torchlight shuddering as a draft sent soot curling up the walls.

“You’re stronger than you look,” Kael said quietly.

Elena drifted in and out of consciousness, fevered and restless. Kael and Oona awkwardly shuffled her weight between them, passing her a little too carefully.

Kael stole a sidelong glance at Oona. Her small frame belied a strength that seemed unnatural.

“Many women are,” she replied, keeping her head down.

They passed the heavy doors of Lord Edric’s library. Locked. Kael hesitated, feeling Oona tug him forward.

“Come on,” she said firmly. “The fever’s getting worse.”

Kael didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the door. “Did Lord Edric spend much time in there?”

Oona faltered for a split second.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said too quickly. “I didn’t have Lord Edric’s calendar.”

“Yet he insisted on you for Elena’s care.”

Her answer was immediate. “I am the only healer left in town, my lord. The others were killed in the purges.”

They reached Elena’s chamber door. The fire within had burned low, embers guttering in the cold draft, shadows stretching unnaturally long across the stone floor. As they eased Elena onto her bed, her glassy eyes fluttered open.

She grasped weakly at Kael’s sleeve, fingers trembling. Then her gaze found Oona. And her expression changed. A moment of clarity, or delusion, Kael couldn’t tell.

“Don’t leave me with—”

Her voice faded as a gust of wind whistled through the cracks in the window. A low rumbling stirred the silence. Oona’s gaze snapped toward the window. Kael, frowning, smoothed the blankets over Elena.

“I should fetch more blankets,” Oona said, her gaze lingering on Kael. “And herbs for the fever.”

Kael nodded. “I’ll help you.” It was not a question.

In the torch-lit corridor, Kael got his first proper look at her. She stood a half-head shorter than him, dark hair pulled back to frame sharp, timeless features. Not beautiful. Striking. Her sun-kissed complexion carried an ageless quality; Kael couldn’t decide if she looked twenty or forty. Or if she belonged to the present, the past, or even the future.

But her eyes held him the longest. Amber-flecked. Almost luminous. She was watching him, too.

“The blankets, then?” she prompted. Expectation laced her voice.

Kael didn’t move. Instead, he pulled a folded page from his cloak—the one Edric had been clutching.

“I think we both know that’s not why I’m here.”

Oona’s expression didn’t change, but her stillness did.

Kael unfolded the page. The jumping torchlight made Edric’s handwriting dance. Jumbled poetry threaded through half-sketched diagrams across the parchment.

“Lord Edric wrote poetry?” Oona’s tone was carefully neutral.

“Yes,” Kael said softly. “Among other things.”

He ran his fingers along the brittle edge of the page, then read aloud:

Oona didn’t move. Kael studied her as he continued, speaking lower:

He glanced up at her. Oona’s hand went to her mouth, her fingers pressing hard, then falling away just as quickly.

Kael didn’t rush to fill the silence. “He saw something. Was he wrong?”

Oona was calm—too calm. “Does it matter?” she asked.

Kael took a step closer, lowering the page. “It matters to me.”

She turned away, but Kael had witnessed recognition in her eyes. She knew. And he needed to understand why.

“We all have secrets, some worth dying for, Crownsman,” Oona whispered. “Even you.”

He studied her, his expression unmoving. “And what are my secrets?”

“I notice things too,” she murmured as she focused on the thin leather cord barely visible beneath his tunic.

Kael’s hand instinctively moved to the locket, fingers brushing the worn silver surface of the bird.

Oona tilted her head. “Does it mean something?”

Kael stiffened, but his hesitation was answer enough.

Oona shifted, speaking quietly. “You dig through the past eagerly enough, Crownsman. But what happens when it starts digging back?”

Kael exhaled. “I don’t fear ghosts.”

“Then you haven’t met them all.”

The wind groaned through the corridor, threading a chill between them. A deep rumble came from the mountains, and the hum within the castle grew. For a long second, neither moved. Then Oona backed away, breaking whatever moment had formed.

“Elena needs blankets,” she said. Her tone was even, but Kael didn’t miss the hint of relief, maybe, or calculation.

The torchlight swayed as another gust knifed through the passage. Kael folded the parchment, tucking it into his cloak. “Of course.”

But even as he followed her down the corridor, his fingers lingered over the pendant.

Chapter 7

“Silence is a tax on hope.”

Martha froze. Beyond the floorboards overhead, the crack of soldier boots echoed down the street. She exhaled slowly as they faded into the distance.

“We do not fear,” she began, each word measured. “We hope. Because we all know what’s at stake.”

The word stake was not lost on the Candlemakers.

She stood in the center of the room, commanding the space despite her frailty. Her wrinkled hands moved with practiced ease as she lit the central candle. The flame caught and bloomed, its steady glow softening the etched lines of her face.

The underground meeting space, home of the Candlemakers, was hidden from castle spies and Crown moles. Along the cracked stone walls, candles cast dancing shadows, their restless shapes reflected in the nervous eyes of the few courageous villagers who dared to defy the edicts against religious gatherings—a strictly forbidden act, one that was once the sole devotion of those who were never meant to have souls.

Then, a sound. A slow, groaning creak of wood, the whisper of weight shifting overhead. A footstep. Another. Dust drifted from the rafters, suspended in the candlelight.

A pause.

The trapdoor flung open, its hinges shrieking as the steps unfolded, crashing down into the room.

Not a soul moved.

The door swung open. Marcus entered. A mess of a boy, stiff with grief and rage barely concealed beneath the gravity of his father’s death. A sigh of relief passed through the room.

Martha’s gaze softened. “Marcus,” she said gently, “you came, despite the grief you carry. That strength honors your house. I’m so very sorry.”

The group formed a loose semicircle around them, their faces lit by the flickering light. A farmer, a seamstress: ordinary people were drawn together in the secret room by faith and defiance.

At the edge of the circle stood Oona, her pale coat faintly visible in the dim light. She kept slightly apart, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her stillness a stark contrast to the restless energy of the others.

In the corner, Sarah plucked a gentle tune on the lute, notes curling through the heavy air like smoke.

Marcus dropped his head, silent.

Martha put a hand on his shoulder. “Edric was many things to many people,” she said, deep-set eyes meeting his briefly before sweeping the room.

A hush settled over them. Oona remained expressionless. Marcus lifted his head. “Stop,” he said, harsher than he intended. “He was a bastard.”

Unease rippled through the Candlemakers. Marcus pressed on, his voice trembling slightly.

“Any one of us could have killed him. How many empty chairs are here because of him? Fathers. Sisters. Friends.”

The silence grew.

Marcus exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his damp curls. “He thought only androids believed in God,” he said bitterly.

“That faith was a disease. And we,” he said, gaze sweeping the room, throat working around the words. “We were infected.”

A rustle of unease spread through the Candlemakers.

Marcus’s hands curled into fists. “In his mind, the machines, the Candlemakers, their belief in something more was the sickness. Every android, a Candlemaker. Every Candlemaker, a threat—be it machine… or human.”

His tone steadied, dark with conviction, the fire beneath his grief burning hotter now.

“He told himself the purges weren’t cruelty. They were the cure. And to do nothing? That would be inhumane.”

He lingered a little too long on Oona.

“He thought the androids never left,” Marcus murmured, continuing. “They were still here and hiding among us. Infecting us.”

The accusations hung over them like a blade ready to drop. Oona didn’t flinch, didn’t falter. She stared right back at him.

Marcus swallowed hard. “And that’s why. That’s why he did what he did.” His breath shook. His hands shook. “My father.”

Martha inched closer, her hand firm on his shoulder. “We’ll pray for him,” she said. “I hope he was saved. It’s never too late for any of us.”

The villagers exchanged uneasy glances. Then, one by one, heads bowed. Murmured amens rippled through the room, quiet but present. Some whispered it. Some didn’t say it at all. Marcus hesitated.

Then, so quietly it could have been lost in the sound of the lute, he said, “Amen.”

Chapter 8

“I am madness maddened!”

Kael glanced at the door. “Come in.”

Mari stood in the doorway, a tray in her hands, steam curling from a small pewter cup. Her eyes widened at the sight of the desk: Edric’s writing was spread out like a fractured map, tangled equations threaded with verse. A lonely candle swayed back and forth, shedding scant light on the madness.

His quarters were little more than a monastic cell carved from the castle’s ancient stone. The fire in the hearth struggled against the room; its glow faded halfway, failing to warm the opposite wall, where the stone breathed frost through invisible seams.

The window, a narrow cut of glass, let in a sliver of pale light. Ice framed its edges, spreading like veins through the pane. Snowflakes, caught on an unnatural current of still air, drifted slowly past. The storm had subsided, but the air felt weighted, ready to release a charge.

She drifted across the chamber, tightening her grip on the tray as she went. Leaning in, she set it down with a jolt. The tea quivered in its cup.

“You can’t sleep,” she said quietly.

Kael recognized her. She was the girl who had found Edric’s body and the source of the scream that haunted the castle (and still lingered). No more than twelve, she wore a plain dress, her red curls falling over her face. A small apron was tied at her waist.

“You saw him first,” he said. “The night he died.”

Mari swallowed. “I didn’t mean to, sir.”

“It’s not your fault.” Kael leaned forward. “Your name, Mari… did you see anything else? Anyone?”

She tugged at the hem of her apron. A hint of something like fear, or maybe doubt, crossed her face.

“I—I shouldn’t say.”

Kael leaned toward her, locked in focus. “You already did.”

Mari twisted the fabric of her apron, a nervous habit. She glanced at the door as if expecting someone. When she spoke, it was no louder than a breath.

“There was someone. A shadow… I swear I saw her slipping away.”

“Who?”

Mari opened her mouth, then closed it. The fire in the hearth gave a low crackle as an ember hissed and expired.

Then a low inhale. A silence that did not belong.

Because then came the sound.

Kael felt it more than heard it, like a tremor in his bones. His ears popped. Pressure shifted violently, and the glass in the window bowed inward. And from somewhere far below, village dogs howled.

Kael pushed back from the desk… and listened.

A heavy, unstoppable grinding force shook the walls, floor, and air. Kael stumbled toward the window, arriving just in time to see it.

The mountain… moved, a great white leviathan.

It descended in silence at first, a beast breaking free from the stone, uncoiling with terrible purpose. It rode the avalanche, separate yet in sync, like a wild steed. And the earth released a moan beneath the great beast’s weight.

He had time for nothing but instinct, backing away right before—

Impact! The window exploded with a deafening crack, as though shot. Glass sprayed inward, snow surging through like shrapnel, and then the mountain roared, consuming all.

His arms shot out, gripping Mari by the waist, yanking her away from the window as the tidal wave of ice and stone crashed against the castle.

A blast of frigid air tore through the chamber, the great beast’s tentacle lashing out, snuffing the candle’s glow and dragging the room into its black, cavernous belly.

Mari gasped, clutching at his coat. Kael held her firmly, braced against the impact, breath stolen by the cold. The castle groaned beneath the weight of the snow, the stone walls trembling as if waking from a terrible dream.

Then nothing.

Kael exhaled, loosening his grip. Mari’s breath was ragged against his chest. He set her down carefully, his pulse thundering in his ears. Snowflakes swirled through the gaping window and hung in the room like ash after an eruption. The night beyond was swallowed in white.

Shouts rose from the corridor. The castle was waking to disaster.

Mari pulled back, her face pale, her hands shaking. She looked at him, not with fear anymore, but something closer to awe.

“You saved me,” she whispered.

Kael didn’t answer. His mind was already recalibrating. The avalanche had buried Threadneedle, severing them from the outside world—and from the Crown. Like his own ties, one by one, being cut away.

His world had narrowed. And narrowed again.

For a second, he thought of Oona. And then Kael turned, gripping his sword as he strode toward the door. “Stay here.”

His fingers touched the pendant on his chest—a simple reflex: a memory.

And then he was gone.

Chapter 9

“All visible objects… are but as pasteboard masks.”

Many people said it was no surprise.

It came on the heels of a heavy storm that pressed the mountains down so much, they folded. It was simply nature—clockwork determinism—inevitable as the turning of seasons, and as indifferent as arithmetic. The village existed in a precarious equilibrium with the mountains. A Mexican standoff with the elements, one day it was bound to collapse.

Some swore they’d heard a sound right before it struck: a crack like a cannon’s roar, as though the earth itself had fired a warning shot. Or, as rumors would have it, not a warning but a call to arms—a menacing force stirring, Edric’s killer covering their tracks with a boom. That, they whispered, was what made the mountains move.

Regardless of cause, the avalanche had arrived; a white leviathan unmoored, it tore through the village with a hunger that felt personal. Its roar rattled the valley, shaking windows and wringing any silence out of the air. It wasn’t just noise; it was a wave that drowned flesh, sank into bone, and made men feel small. Snow and stone fell on the village like judgment day, collapsing from the heights in an unstoppable white tide of condemnation, sealing Threadneedle off from the Crown, and the world.

By the time the castle’s bells tolled their frantic alarm, the white beast had already all but destroyed the village and sunk back into the abyss.

Folks stumbled through the drifts with shovels and axes, their breath fogging the brittle air as they worked against time and matter. The snow was too deep, the debris too thick, to move these mountains themselves.

At her doorway, a woman, wrapped in a shawl, waited silently, her face toward the darkened peak, as if expecting a second calamity. Somewhere in the enveloping stillness, a child cried, carried like a dust-shard of glass on the frozen wind.

In the black hours between disaster and dawn, the cold held its grip on the village and the castle held its breath, afraid to awaken the sleeping giant that had descended from the mountains. Meanwhile, in the great hall, the survivors gathered under vaulted ribs, as if entering the very belly of the beast itself.

Chapter 10

“Every man carries with him through life a mirror, as unique and impossible to get rid of as his shadow.”

“Mari,” Kael called into the room.

Silence.

“Mari?”

He struck a flint, and the torch flared to life. Shadows surged along the walls, stretching over him.

His chest clenched as he met the empty room. Unbidden, the memories came, vivid and unrelenting, as he tugged on the pendant—dense woods, distant machines growling in the night, his sister huddled beside him, her wide eyes filled with fear.

The woman had been clear. Stay here. Do not leave. I’ll return soon. But Kael hadn’t listened. He’d left their hiding place, for water, maybe, or some more selfish desire. He couldn’t even remember now.

His sister had begged him not to go. But he had left anyway.

It had only been a minute. He’d told himself that over and over. But when he returned, the clearing was empty. Ransacked. His sister was gone.

And the trail he’d left, clumsy and careless footsteps, had been there for anyone to follow.

Now Mari was gone too.

The wind shrieked through the shattered window, snow sweeping across the floor in crystalline dunes. Kael’s breath frosted in the cold air as he scanned the wreckage.

His boots crunched over glass and ice. The desk lay overturned, Edric’s papers scattered like autumn leaves. He moved through the mess, trying to save what he could.

Then he saw it. The edge at first, a corner peeking out from beneath a frostbitten page. A photograph.

Kael crouched, sweeping the snow aside with a gloved hand. The image emerged. Sepia-toned, brittle, it was a relic of another time. But it wasn’t the age of the image that made his pulse quicken.

It was the amber-flecked eyes staring back at him. Damn. It could have been Oona.

She stood in a study or library, a slant of lamplight across her face—the same face he had seen only hours ago. But the print was old, its edges crumbling, its colors bleached by time. She hadn’t aged. Not a single day in a hundred years.

Kael stared at it for a long moment before muttering, barely more than a breath, “Who, or what, are you, Oona?”

“Kael.”

A voice rose above the murmurs.

“Kael?”

He felt a touch on his shoulder. Turning, he found Oona standing in front of the great stone hearth, clutching her medical bag.

Waves of steam rose from the wet clothes near the fire where refugees huddled, carrying the scent of smoke, sweat, and damp wool.

“In Lower Town,” she said softly. “How many?”

“Too early to say,” Kael said, searching the far end of the hall. At the castle’s great doors, where snow and ice crept through the cracks, guards had stacked crates and benches into a barricade, ready in case the monster returned.

From outside came a final, settling rumble from the mountain, the exhale of the great white beast itself. The sound filtered faintly through the stone, so distant it could have been a trick of the mind, if not for the ripple it sent through the crowd: a child’s clutch, an old man’s wince.

“Have you heard anything about the passes?”

“Buried,” Oona said. “We’re cut off until spring… if anyone lasts that long.”

Kael sighed, feeling the weight of it all. The castle had held. But the town? The town was buried. And how many more would be found beneath it?

Above them loomed the great hall’s vaulted ceiling, the timbers blackened by age and smoke, arching upward like the ribs of some ancient leviathan. Once a monument to power, the hall now seemed diminished and dwarfed by the press of humanity within its great belly.

People huddled against the walls, wrapped in blankets, their breaths misting faintly in the cold seeping up from the stones. Their faces were all marked by the same hollow shock.

He had to do something. And so he said it. Almost in spite of himself.

“Unless we can notify the Crown.”

Oona fixed him with a tense stare. “The Crown? No, Kael. There must be another way.”

She remembered Martha and the Candlemakers and the slow, deliberate extinction of their kind. But as her gaze swept over the desperate faces in the hall, she saw what the Crown could offer: food, medicine, shelter, warmth.

“Is that the only way left, Kael?”

He nodded, though certainty was leaving him. “The signal tower. Edric had some strange ideas about it.”

Oona’s brows drew together. “No. There has to be another way to get a signal out…”

Kael studied her face. “Do you know what’s there?”

Before she could answer, bells tolled. Their deep, somber tones rang out the death knell for Lord Edric, or for Threadneedle itself.

Oona’s gaze darkened. “I know that Lord Edric’s research is what got him killed. Whatever is in that tower, it’s dangerous. And now it’s buried under snow. Where it belongs.” She let him digest that, then asked, “What do you expect to find up there, Kael? A sign? A miracle?”

Kael couldn’t quite put his finger on the way she spoke. Was she hiding more than she let on? But before he could press, the commotion at the main doors drew them both back to the moment.

Three men stumbled inside, covered in snow, faces raw from the cold.

“The gates are sealed,” one of them stammered through chattering teeth.

“Lower Town’s just… buried.”

“The walls are holding,” another added quickly. “For now.”

Kael rotated back to Oona. “The Crown needs to know what happened here.” He spoke firmly, conviction creeping back. “If we can get a signal out, they’ll send engineers. Supplies. These people, they just might survive.”

Oona held his gaze. Then, gentler, laced with meaning:

“Or someone might make sure that signal never reaches them.”

Kael moved closer. “You’re not telling me everything. What do you know, Oona?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned, ready to go.

Kael caught her wrist, not harshly but firmly enough to stop her. She spun in place, the frayed edges of her worn cloak turning up slightly in the twirl. She didn’t hide her anger. Not well.

“I found this in Edric’s papers,” he said, pulling a photograph from his cloak. The edges were stained, curling from the frost. He held it up.

Oona’s mask barely held, a hairline crack beginning to show. Her gaze locked onto the image. Recognition flashed across her face, then a deeper feeling. Pain. And also… fear.

“You found that in his study?”

“Yes,” Kael said. “It was with his papers. It belongs to the Crown now.” He watched her carefully. “Do you recognize her, Oona?”

She pulled away, shaking her head. “You shouldn’t have that.”

“No,” Kael cut in. “What you mean is, it shouldn’t exist. Isn’t that right?”

He lifted the image, a faint tremor in his fingers. “The woman in this photo, the one who looks just like you. Standing there. One, maybe two hundred years ago.”

The silence yawned, wide as the space from star to star.

Outside, the wind pressed harder against the walls, its whisper filling the void where neither of them spoke.

Oona caught the faint glint of silver at Kael’s neck.

“Photos can be like memories,” she said. “Not what they seem on the surface.” She glanced at him, catching his gaze. “But holding onto them… that’s where the real power lies.”

Kael’s breath slowed. Holding on.

Oona almost whispered. “I wonder… if the Crown knew what was inside that locket of yours, would you still be standing here?”

Kael’s hand moved instinctively to the pendant, his fingers tracing its worn edges.

A woman who had tried to protect him. And his sister. A moment he had spent his life regretting. And now, Oona was here, the same presence. The same impossible truth. His mind rejected it outright. No human could remain unchanged for that long. But his heart refused to let go.

“It’s not possible,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Oona held his gaze, searching. Then she said, “Time isn’t always what you think.”

She arced away, as if ready to leave.

Kael’s hand tightened around the pendant, his thumb brushing its tarnished surface.

“And some people,” he murmured, watching her disappear into the crowd, “if that’s what they are… aren’t either.”

The photograph curled in his fist, the cold biting into his fingers. But Kael no longer felt it.

Get blankets.

Stay out of trouble.

The note was crumpled, scribbled in charcoal. The writing felt heavier than it should. Maybe because Martha had to add that last part. Stay out of trouble. She just had to put that in there.

Sarah tightened her grip on the paper, then shoved it into her pocket, resisting the urge to crush it further.

The storage cabinets were against the far wall, as Martha had said. Simple. Quick. Easy.

She paused near the hearth, the fire’s warmth seeping into her stiff fingers. The oversized wool coat wrapped around her smelled of damp earth and smoke. She felt small in it, like a child playing dress-up, trying on someone else’s life.

Around her, people moved like shadows, heads bowed. Soldiers drifted in and out of the hall, snow clinging to their cloaks and hair, melting into puddles that seeped across the stone floor.

And then she saw him.

A group of boys sat slouched in the corner, just beyond the reach of the fire. Jory was at the center, his back against the wall, his long legs stretched out like he had all the time in the world. He spoke in low, animated tones, moving his hands in easy gestures.

The others were listening, grinning, nodding along. One of them laughed, a reckless sound that drew a few irritated glances, but no one stopped them. No one cared.

Sarah knew his name. Everyone did.

She should keep walking. The cabinets were right there. But her feet shifted, and not toward the blankets.

Toward him.

Her heart pounded as she weaved through the crowd, drawing closer to the boys. No one stopped or even noticed her. She felt, for once, free.

She slipped behind a pillar, close enough to hear their conversation.

“You ever think about just leaving Threadneedle?” Jory was teasing, but a real feeling was buried under it. “What are they gonna do? Chase us? We could be halfway to the south before they even noticed.”

One of the boys snorted. “You always say that. But you’re still here.”

“For now.” Jory leaned back, grinning. “But you wait. I’ve got an uncle down there. No snow. Fields of—”

“Peaches?” The stoutest boy rolled his eyes. “You don’t have family.”

Sarah reeled. She hadn’t expected that. It was the way Jory went quiet, and the subtle shift in his expression. She felt it.

She didn’t have any family either.

“You gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna say something?”

His voice sounded louder than it was. The tall, lanky boy had spotted her.

Sarah stiffened.

“Hey, I know you,” another said, frowning. “You’re one of the Candlemakers.”

The accusation hit like ice water.

“No, I’m not.” The denial came too fast, too shaky.

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Sure, you’re not.”

“I’m not.” Her fingers clenched around the note in her pocket, crumpling the edges.

The stout boy smirked. “Whatever you say.”

He moved closer. Poked her.

Sarah stumbled back, her heel sliding on wet stone. She caught herself before she hit the ground, but the noise made heads turn. A few villagers glanced over. A Crown’s guard perked up.

Jory moved before she could react.

“Leave her alone,” he said, shoving the stout boy back. His voice was easy, lazy even, but his fists were up.

The boy eyed Jory, then Sarah, then the crowd beginning to notice. “Ah, whatever.” He backed off.

Jory turned to Sarah, offering a hand. She considered it, but not for long, before taking it. His grip was warm and steady. She didn’t let go right away and neither did he.

For a moment, the noise of the hall faded, the firelight dancing between them. Sarah felt herself drawn in, closer… closer.

Their lips almost…

A hand clamped down on her shoulder.

“Sarah,” came Martha’s voice, knife-sharp.

Sarah flinched, her stomach dropping. She cast a look to see Martha’s face, tight with quiet fury.

“What are you doing?” Martha’s grip on her arm tightened. “I told you to stay out of trouble.”

Sarah opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Martha changed her focus to the boys, to Jory. He didn’t move, didn’t even blink. His smirk widened a little, like he was daring her to say something to him. She didn’t.

Instead, she pulled Sarah away. “Come on. We don’t have time for this.”

Sarah just barely resisted, but Martha didn’t let go. And as she was dragged through the crowd, she looked back one last time.

Jory was watching her. But the smirk was gone and in its place was an expression Sarah couldn’t quite name.

“Sarah,” Martha shouted, now nearing the hearth. “That’s the last you’ll leave my side.”

The older woman was dragging her across the hall. Kael recognized the girl from the tavern. A group of boys were gathered across the hall, gawking at the scene. And one of them—the tallest, with dark curls and an edgy grin, also from the tavern—tracked Sarah like prey.

Kael focused on Sarah. A quality about her stood out. Maybe it was the way she set herself apart from the villagers in a spirited way, almost Oona-like, sharing the same amber eyes.

Kael stood near one of the hearths, its heat barely reaching him. As he focused on Sarah and Martha, a shiver tugged at the edge of his vision. A shadow at the edge of the fire.

“Crownsman.”

Kael turned.

Riven, the Peddler, stood just beyond the fire’s warmth, his furs damp and clinging, his face more cratered than before, but his eyes—those glittering, sharp pieces of glass—were too aware.

Kael couldn’t hide his disdain. “What do you want?”

“Want? Ah, nothing.” Riven’s grin was skeletal. “But I have an inkling of what you might be after.”

Kael didn’t move, but his fingers grazed against his coat pocket and the brittle photograph inside.

Riven sidled closer, candlelight exaggerating the hollows of his cheekbones. “Patterns, Crownsman. You look for them too, don’t you?”

His brows drew together, lips pressing into a line. “Speak plainly.”

With slow, deliberate movements, Riven reached into his coat and set an object on the edge of the fire pit: an old, corroded neural interface, similar enough to the silicon sticking out of the frozen pocket on the stake that Kael took a second glance.

“He made purchases from me, you know,” Riven murmured.

“Edric. What did he want with these?”

Riven’s grin widened. “Same as you, perhaps. Searching for meaning. Searching for voices where there shouldn’t be any.” He held up the tangle of frayed wires and quantum chips. “Thoughts like seeds, growing, or glowing, in the dark.”

Kael’s heart ticked faster. “And who did he think he heard?”

“Ah, my lord. Lordly Darron, is it? Meister Kael, indeed.” Riven spoke in low tones. “Not who. What. Indubitably, my lord, what.”

A beat of silence. The fire crackled between them.

“The old machines, Crownsman. That’s what.” Riven leaned in. “You’ve seen the signal tower. Have you heard it hum? Did you ever wonder if something listens back?”

Kael’s stomach knotted, but he kept his expression neutral. “And who was listening?”

Riven grinned, all teeth. “Ah, now that’s the right question.” He tapped a grimy finger against his temple. “Who was listening? Who still is?”

Kael let his thoughts breathe, ruminating on the Peddler’s riddles. Did Edric believe someone was speaking through the tower? Was he chasing shadows, or pulling at a real thread? Is this what the Crown feared, or wanted? And who would be listening…

“Oona?” He spoke quietly, more to himself.

For the first time, Riven wavered, his grin faltering. “Oona. Yes. You know her? It seems you do.” Now softer. “I would be careful of her.” He examined Kael’s response, pausing at the final sentence, to see if it had hit its mark.

“She knows things,” Riven continued in a whisper. “May have done things. With the machines. And a blade…”

“A blade?”

Riven swayed, his movements jagged again. He reached for the neural interface, tucking it back into his coat. “Ask Oona about the tower. About the signals it’s sending.”

The hum of voices in the great hall pressed in, weighing down the air.

Then—a crash, and a chair overturned.

Kael wheeled toward the sounds. Marcus.

The young man stood near the hearth, his face stark with exhaustion and grief. His tone was raw and brittle. And he was swinging a bottle. The sweet smell of liquor clung to him. One wrong breath and Marcus might ignite.

“She’s guilty,” he slurred, catching himself on the table.

The judgement landed like hot iron in the hushed space.

Kael moved toward him, slowly. “And who exactly are we condemning?”

Marcus’s empty eyes reflected the firelight. “The healer.”

The crowd rustled, but Kael kept his calm. “You saw something?”

Marcus exhaled quickly, trying to keep himself together. “My sister,” he said. “Elena said she left the room just when he was killed.”

A murmur rippled through the villagers. Kael noted the shift in the air. The fear was changing, growing sharper.

Marcus bore down on him. “She was there, Kael. At my father’s chambers.”

His heart pounded in his ears. “And that’s enough for you? A rumor, an absence?”

Marcus held his breath, then continued. “It’s not only that. It’s everything. The way she speaks, the way she knows things. She was close to my father, closer than anyone. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

A voice came from behind. It was the Peddler.

“Strange, indeed. Patterns, Marcus. Patterns.”

Kael studied Marcus, trying to ignore Riven. He looked older than before. The weight of grief had pressed years into his face, almost overnight. But, wielded in the wrong hands, grief could be a weapon as much as a wound.

“And if you’re wrong?” Kael said.

Marcus didn’t blink. “I’m not.”

The doors at the far end of the hall swung open. The guards arrived first, cutting through the crowd like the bow of a ship. Garrick, solid as a stone wall, walked at the front. Beside him, Ward.

Between them, they brought Oona.

Despite the dim lighting, her white healer’s coat was striking, her dark hair neatly pinned, and aside from the blood on her sleeve, she appeared put-together amidst the unfolding scene. Her hands were bound loosely in front of her, the rope an insult more than a restraint. The guards, having already made up their minds, positioned themselves on either side of her.

Kael walked toward them, closing the space. “What’s this?”

Garrick gave a tilt of his head that might have passed for respect. “The healer’s been named.”

Ward sidled up. “The chambermaid saw her. Mari.”

Kael scanned the gathered faces. Somewhere, he caught sight of Mari. Her posture folded in, pale and quiet, attention buried in the floor.

“And Lady Elena,” Ward added, “confirms the healer was missing. Unaccounted for.”

Kael shifted his sight to Oona. Her amber eyes were steady, as if unbothered by the swirling accusations.

“You can’t believe this,” she said plainly, stating and not pleading her case.

Kael took it pretty hard, harder than he thought he should.

He looked at her as the crowd must have: the woman with blood on her coat, bound but unbowed. Riven’s voice echoed in him, “Knows things, she does. About the old machines. About patterns. About…”

“I see,” he said at last. He didn’t move to stop them.

Garrick gestured toward Ward. “Take her to the dungeons.”

Oona didn’t resist. But as she passed Kael, she glanced at him, silent. Searching. For a moment, he almost… but then he looked away.

The whispers trailed behind her like smoke. Murderer. Witch. Monster.

Kael watched her disappear into the corridor’s darkness. The calm she carried struck him like an accusation. He glanced at Marcus, still holding the bottle loosely at his side. The fire burned lower. The coals sent shadows quivering across the stones.

Kael reached for the poker, shifting a log. The embers flared, then faded.

“You don’t believe me,” Marcus said quietly. Kael’s fingers jammed the poker into the fire. Sparks spat out.

“Certainty,” he said low, “is a dangerous thing.”

Suddenly, the pendant on his chest burned like a hot coal, searing the words into him. Did you do the right thing, Kael? Will you?

Chapter 11

“Truth is a blade. To those who seek it, it heals—cleaving sickness, separating rot from root. To those who flee, it kills.”

“This isn’t real,” Elena said, her voice fragile in the dark chamber.

But the light disagreed. In fact, it grew warmer and gentler. It seeped into the cracks of the stone and found her skin, brushing against her cheeks.

“Mother?” She breathed.

The voices from the village reached her faintly, distant and blurred. Within Elena’s room, it was quiet.

Elena knew fevers formed hallucinations. This knowledge should have comforted her when the light began to fill the room—a light neither from the fireplace, its sunken and sulking embers like the eyes of a dying beast; nor from the narrow window, rimmed with frost and half-swallowed by snowdrift, but from somewhere else entirely.

And the room seemed to respond. Shadows thickened in the corners, curling along the rough-hewn walls. Walls that had stood here long before her, her father, or the Crown. Witnesses to everything, they had long ago lost the desire to speak.

Now, as the light grew, the silence wavered; the walls whispered once more.

The bed beneath her shifted as she stirred. Its heavy frame, carved by hands long dead, pressed her down instead of holding her up.

Elena squeezed her eyes shut, but the light was still there. Golden threads under her eyelids pressed into the corners of her mind.

She turned her face to the wall, pressing her forehead to its rough surface. The cool stone was something to hold on to.

“The purges will continue,” she spoke back to the walls. “Father’s work is not finished. We will end this. We will erase suffering.”

These were facts: solid, unshakable things she could anchor herself to against this rising tide.

“I am Elena Thorn,” she said aloud, as if saying it could lock her into that place and time. “I serve the Crown. I do not believe in—”

But she couldn’t finish. Because for perhaps the first time in her life, she wasn’t sure what she believed.

The light brushed against her face with that same unbearable gentleness, stirring… what?

Recognition?

Father could explain it. The angle of sunset through glass. Illusions prey on the weak.

He had made the ghosts go away, the monsters leave the wardrobe, and the world conform to an explanation. That was it, then. Only a man in a mask.

But now, with fever burning through her defenses, the masks were peeling away. Layer by layer, they fell. And at the end, nothing stared back.

The final mask revealed no truth, no monster, no God. Just emptiness where facts once stood.

The light swelled again, patient and unyielding, and somewhere inside her, Elena felt something answer.

The castle bells rang, three deep notes. The sound came like a judgment, each peal pressing through her chest. Then…

The light shifted, coalescing in the air before her. Its brightness softened into a recognizable form—her mother’s face.

Elena froze. The face was faint, shimmering like a reflection in rippling water, but to her it was unmistakable. Her mother’s eyes found hers.

“Mother?” Elena gasped, a desperate, breaking sound. “It’s you.”

The light didn’t waver, but her mother’s face flickered, dissolving into golden threads that curled back into the corners of the room.

Elena stumbled, seizing the bedpost just as Marcus burst in, his torch flaring weakly against the shadows, dispelling the apparition.

“Elena?” he said cautiously.

Her gaze snapped to him, gasping for breath. “Nothing, nothing. I just thought I saw something.”

“Or someone? You should be resting. You are not well,” he said in a familiar voice, a sound that belonged to this room—as if spoken by the walls.

Elena turned to him, desperate now for his presence. Marcus stood there, backlit by the torch he carried. But the light played tricks; the waver of flame caught the hollows of his face, making him look older. Tired.

“Recite with me, brother,” she said quickly. “Like Father taught us.”

He hesitated. A blink, no more. Even in her fevered state, she noticed.

“Consciousness is the breath of neurons,” she began, the words spilling out like a prayer. “The universe is material—”

“Observable and knowable,” Marcus finished reciting the catechism.

Elena looked up. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“It’s the fever talking,” Marcus said, closing the gap. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I’m thinking more clearly than I have in years,” Elena snapped. But even as she said it, she knew she was grasping for the litany like a lifeline—anything to hold back the thing pressing against her mind.

The shadows on the walls shifted. For a heartbeat, Elena thought they moved to warn her.

Marcus broke through. “Elena, please, stop all this. I know you remember Mother. You called out to her, before I came in. Do you remember her hands?”

Elena held her breath. The fire hummed; the shadows retreated.

“Her hands were warm,” Marcus whispered, pressing in as he placed the torch on the wall. “Even at the end. You held onto them. Do you remember?”

“Enough,” she said, but her voice broke at the end.

“You stood with her,” Marcus continued. “You believed, maybe only for that moment. Don’t you remember?”

“I…” Her throat burned with the word. The light filled her and, for one unbearable moment, it felt like love. Like forgiveness.

Marcus inched in. “Elena,” he said, low and steady. “Do you remember what it was like before all this? When you were little? Before Father…” He swallowed. “Before he changed everything, including himself.”

Elena shook her head. “That doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters to me,” Marcus said in low tones. “You were just a girl when he started his research—and purge. I tried to shield you from it, to keep you from hearing the screams, from seeing what he was becoming. I told you stories to drown out the noise, do you remember that?”

Elena froze.

“You used to cling to my arm and whisper that you weren’t afraid,” Marcus continued, his tone thick with grief. “But I knew you were. I could feel it. You asked me if there were monsters in the castle, and I told you no. I lied, Elena. Because I didn’t want you to see the truth about Father.”

“Stop.” Barely audible now.

“Do you remember Mother’s garden?” Marcus pressed gently, leaning in closer. “You’d sit on the old stone wall, knees swinging, and you’d tell me the flowers were listening. You were so sure of it. You said everything in the world had a voice, if only we listened closely.”

“That was,” Elena faltered—

“That was you,” Marcus said, raw. “Before Father started twisting you into this—this machine. You believed in beauty, in grace, in something more. You weren’t born to carry out his work, Elena. You were born to be free. And his science won’t do that. The truth will.”

Elena steadied herself on the bedpost. For one fragile moment, she saw herself again: a girl on the stone wall, laughing, believing.

“I…” Her voice was frail. She took a single step toward Marcus.

The light brightened, golden and inviting.

“You can end this,” Marcus said gently. “You don’t have to follow Father’s path.”

Her hand trembled at her side. “I—” But her father’s voice slammed into her mind, cold and unyielding: “You are not weak, Elena.”

Elena straightened, her face hardening. The warmth evaporated, replaced by icy resolve. Her command rang out, hard as cold steel:

“Guards!”

The word broke the silence, scattering the light like a gust of wind blowing out a candle.

The door burst open, and Garrick stormed in, his heavy boots thudding against the stone. Warily, Ward followed close behind, his torch angled lazily.

“My lady?” Garrick said as he scanned the room, his gaze darting between Marcus and Elena. “What’s going on?”

Ward raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on Marcus. “We heard shouting.”

Elena stood tall, though her face was pale. “Take him.” She pointed a finger at Marcus. “He’s a traitor. A heretic. Arrest him.”

Garrick’s brow furrowed. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, but he didn’t draw. “Your brother, my lady? The young Lord Thorn? Why?”

The silence thickened, deep as the stone walls around them.

Marcus seized the moment, quietly, with a feeling deeper than defiance. “You know me, Garrick. You’ve known me since I was a boy.” He turned, looking at Ward now. “And you. You’ve never believed in the Crown’s stories. Not really.”

Ward raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond. The torch crackled between them.

Marcus looked back at Elena, pleading. “Elena, listen to me. This isn’t you. It’s him. Father. He built you to serve his truth. But you can be more than that. You are more than that.”

Elena tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Marcus edged forward and this time, Garrick didn’t stop him.

“Do you remember the night Mother died?” Marcus said, stumbling on the last word as though it hurt to say it aloud. “You were with her. You held her hands.”

“No,” Elena said. Her head shook once, twice, as if she could shake off the memories themselves.

“You did,” Marcus pressed. “You believed her, you believed—”

“Silence,” Elena interrupted, shaking. For one terrible, beautiful moment, something split open. Elena’s face crumpled. “I don’t—I don’t know what’s real,” she choked out, diminished, almost like a child.

“Mother,” Elena called, barely hearing herself.

Ward shifted uncomfortably, his torch sputtering in the still air. “This is madness,” he muttered, half to Garrick, half to himself.

Garrick didn’t answer. His face was unreadable, but his hand dropped from Marcus’s arm, his hesitation laid bare.

Marcus said, gentle as the light, “She’s here, Elena. She’s always been here, waiting for you. You just have to let go.”

Then her father’s words thundered through her mind, and the lightning followed:

“Weakness is a choice. You are not weak, Elena.”

Elena staggered back as though struck. Her spine straightened, alive with the renewed strength. Her face hardened.

When she spoke, she was cold and mechanical, humanity flattened under steel. “I serve the Crown.”

Marcus’s face fell, his horror plain. “Elena, no—”

“Garrick, Ward.” Elena’s voice rang out, clear as a bell. The light faltered, its warmth receding like an outbound tide.

Garrick jolted upright, his soldier’s instincts snapping back into place. Ward let out his breath, a sound halfway between frustration and relief.

“Arrest him,” Elena said. Her tears were gone now, her expression blank. “My brother is a traitor. A heretic. He will answer for his crimes against the Crown.”

“No.” Marcus shook his head.

Elena didn’t look at him. “Take him. He is a Candlemaker,” she said, hardened. “A Crown offence. The worst kind of treason! Punishable by death.”

Garrick’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. His gaze shifted to Marcus, and for a moment, his shoulders dipped, burdened by the inevitability of the choice before him. “Is this true?”

Marcus met his gaze squarely. “It is,” he said simply.

Ward let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s that, then.”

“Garrick,” Marcus said, turning to the older guard. “You’ve known me since I was a boy. You know this is about truth, about standing up for what’s real and challenging the deceptions we’ve all accepted. My actions serve the true interests of the Crown.”

Garrick’s knuckles were turning white. “My lady…?”

Elena’s gaze was unflinching. “You have your orders,” she said coldly. “You know what the Crown commands. Or do you risk treason yourself, Garrick?”

He nodded stiffly, his shoulders dropping. “As you command.”

Chapter 12

“The snow doesn’t give a soft white damn whom it touches.”

“Pass is closed,” Garrick said stoically as he stood, shovel in hand and planted in the snow, near the tavern’s entrance. “Snow buried half the road past the gorge. Not even the mules can get through. We’re cut off until the thaw.”

The words settled on the village like smoke, clinging to every conversation and every glance toward the mountains. The avalanche had severed Threadneedle’s only lifeline to the outside world.

The streets were cluttered with drifts of snow, tangled beams, and broken carts. Men shouted as axes bit into splintered trees, shovels scraping stone. Snowflakes clung to rooftops like thick ash, while long icicles hung from overhangs.

A quiet dread had settled over the village.

As he approached the tavern, Ward didn’t need Garrick to say it. He saw it in the faces of the villagers, in the woman waiting at her window with her hand on the shutter, and in the men shoveling. The pass was buried under a weight of ice and stone that no man could move.

Ward pulled up his collar against the wind as he squinted toward the mountains. Somewhere beyond the gray peaks, a world carried on.

The thought made it worse, lonelier. An isolation he couldn’t shake off with a laugh.

And the absurdity of it all seemed momentarily unbearable, a weight he now realized he had to carry all by himself.

A child darted past him then, clutching a makeshift broom twice her size. She glanced at him, cheeks flushed red with cold, before running to help her mother sweep the path to their door.

Ward turned his collar higher and kept walking.

In front of him, the Broken Needle crouched at the village’s center, its darkened stone walls sturdier than anything else in Threadneedle. Its roof sloped low, hunched under a burden of ice, but its chimney smoked steadily, and faint warmth leaked from its narrow windows like a shared secret.

A voice barked from the corner. Garrick, sleeves rolled high, flexed his arms as he shoveled a path free of snow. “Put your back into it!” he called to a younger soldier nearby. “You’d think your spine was made of soup.”

“Too early for you to be shouting at people, old man,” Ward muttered as he passed, stomping through the narrow gap Garrick had cleared.

“Too early for you to be awake,” Garrick shot back.

Ward grinned, flashing his teeth. “Not all of us are busy impressing the snow.”

Garrick leaned on the shovel as he glanced up from his work. His face was ruddy, breath curling in the cold like steam. “I’m the one keeping it out of your ale, boy.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want my drinks watered down.” Ward laughed, clapping Garrick once on the shoulder as he passed.

But Garrick didn’t return the grin this time. He set the shovel down, straightening, and turned his attention to the castle perched on the far ridge, dark and unyielding against the pale morning sky.

“I’m heading up,” he said. “Lady Thorn wants me at the dungeon. Interrogation.”

Ward’s smirk slipped. “Cheerful business.”

“More cheerful than babysitting you,” Garrick replied, though there wasn’t much bite in what he said.

He slung his coat over his shoulders and adjusted his sword belt, the edge of his blade catching the faint morning light. “Try not to start trouble while I’m gone.”

Ward gave a mock salute, boots crunching in the snow, as he moved toward the door. “I’ll leave the troublemaking to you, Garrick.”

Garrick grunted, already moving toward the castle road. His broad form cut through the snowdrifts like a plow. Ward watched him go for a moment, hands in his pockets, before retreating into the warmth of the tavern.

The Broken Needle was a world apart from the snow-choked streets outside. Laughter rang against the low beams, mingling with the crackle of the fire, the scrape of boots, and the steady clink of mugs against wood. The hearth at the center roared with fresh-cut logs, flames snapping greedily, licking at the soot-streaked walls.

The air was filled with an earthy aroma of stew. It curled lazily from the iron pot near the fire, where the ladle sat neglected, steam rising in whisper-like tendrils. Villagers and soldiers leaned over their tables, some loud with drink, others quiet with fear.

And through it all moved Ryn.

With innate grace, she moved between tables, as if she were their rightful mistress, her apron cinched around a figure that rivaled the fireplace for heat and attention.

Her white but worn blouse dipped low, laces loosening as the day wore on—suggesting slightly more than it revealed. When she leaned to snatch a cup or set down a bowl, the firelight pooled in the curve of her bosom, and more than one soul found reason to glance away too slowly.

Her skirt, short by Threadneedle’s standards, swayed with every step, the worn edges framing legs wrapped in dark stockings. Boots laced high hugged her calves like a second skin, and a single loose curl of hair kissed her throat, jealous of the attention.

She knew that eyes followed her, and she wielded their fascination like a knife, never in anyone’s hands but her own.

Ward paused a moment in the doorway, letting the warmth press against his face, before sauntering in like he owned the place. He didn’t, of course, but Ward had always been the kind of man to make himself at home wherever he wasn’t welcome.

He wasn’t tall, but he had the build of someone who’d spent his life in a fight, his shoulders a little too broad for the rest of his wiry frame. His cloak hung loose around him, but his leather jerkin fit snug, cut to allow for quick hands and quicker exits. His dark hair curled faintly at his temples, framing a face with too many ridges to be handsome.

But it was his grin that did the work. That lazy, wolfish smile hinted at trouble. Some women liked the look, even if they knew better.

“Morning, lads,” he called, loud enough to draw a groan from the nearest table. “How’s everyone enjoying the new Threadneedle? I hear the pass is lovely this time of year.”

“Ward, I’ll throw you in the snow myself,” a soldier growled without looking up.

“Good luck finding the door,” Ward shot back, stomping snow onto the rug with deliberate glee.

A scrap of bread flew his way, and he ducked, grinning as it flew past.

“Ward.”

The name sailed through the room.

He whipped around to find Ryn at the bar, hands braced on the counter, lips curled into something between a smirk and a dare. The lantern light framed her from behind, edging her silhouette in gold, softening nothing.

“Morning, Ryn,” Ward said. She felt his eyes all over her blouse, low where the laces rebelled, before lingering shamelessly at the curve of her mouth. “You know, you get prettier every day I see you.”

“And you get dumber,” Ryn replied, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward. She reached for a glass, her fingers trailing over the counter as though daring him to follow them. “I told you not to track snow on my floor.”

“Can’t be helped.” Ward leaned on the bar, close enough for the heat of him to cross the small space between them. “You know I like leaving a mark.”

“A mark?” Ryn tilted her head, slow and deliberated, taking in his frame, as though measuring the worth of him and coming up short. “You’re about as memorable as a cold bed.”

Ward’s smile sharpened, but he leaned closer. The lamplight cast shadows across the line of his jaw, catching where the day’s stubble darkened his skin. “Well, it might not be cold for long. Depends on who’s lying in it with me.”

Ryn’s eyes narrowed, but there was no heat in her glare. Only challenge. She pivoted to grab a bowl from behind the bar, the edge of her skirt catching on the shift of her hips as she moved.

“You’re not getting fed if you’re not paying,” she said over her shoulder.

Ward followed her movements without apology, speaking lower. “You wouldn’t let me starve, Ryn. Not when you like me so much.”

She let her fingers linger on the bowl, and for a moment the room fell away. The laughter, the fire, the scrape of chairs, it all dulled to a hum, leaving only the faint rise and fall of her breath and the glint of the smirk she tried to hide.

“I might,” she said quietly. “If you keep pushing your luck.”

Ward was still grinning, but it was broken by a pause. He didn’t blink.

“Good thing I’ve got so much of it, then.”

Ryn held his gaze for a beat longer, saying things neither of them wanted to hear, before she tossed the bowl onto the counter.

“Sit down,” she said. “Before you collapse and ruin my floor.”

Ward backed off with a chuckle, hands raised. “Whatever you say, Ryn.”

He moved toward the fire, shrugging off his coat as he went, the heat pulling a faint flush to his cheeks. From the corner of his eye, he saw her watching him as she wiped a glass clean. For all her fire, Ryn had never been a flame a man could hold without burning himself.

Ward sank onto the bench, stretching his legs out as the flames licked at the logs. He let his head fall back against the wall, the tavern noise drifting over him like water—chatter, laughter, spoons scraping against bowls—but his gaze lingered on the bar.

On her.

Ryn wiped the glass with quick efficiency, as though she could scrub out anything: dirt, memories, and the way Ward looked at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

Ward’s breath was slow, his chest tightening with a feeling he didn’t want to name. The noise of the room wasn’t cutting it today, not the way it should have. He needed to move, to stretch, to shake something loose before it locked.

The bar creaked faintly as he stood, catching Ryn’s eye for just a moment.

“Don’t spill anything back there,” she said dryly, nodding toward the backroom door.

Ward’s old grin came back, though it didn’t stretch all the way across. “You’d miss me if I did.”

She snorted softly, tossing the rag over her shoulder as she swung back to the bar. Ward didn’t linger to watch. He was already pushing through the narrow door at the end of the room.

The bar noise fell away when Ward slipped into the backroom, shutting the door behind him with a deliberate thud. The air here was warmer than the main hall, but not by much. The lantern hanging from the low ceiling swayed faintly, its weak flame painting the stone walls in golden circles. Barrels and crates leaned into one another, their edges worn smooth with years of use, and somewhere beneath the scent of beer and damp wood was Ryn—faintly floral, earthy, and unmistakable.

She was already there, bent low over a barrel, with one hand braced on the rim as she wrestled with its lid. Her blouse had slipped further down her back, baring the smooth curve of her shoulder and the faint line of her spine as it disappeared beneath the fabric.

Her skirt clung high to the backs of her thighs, hiked so that Ward could see the thin edge of her stocking where it met bare skin.

Ward stopped dead, his grin curving slow and lazy as he leaned against the doorframe. “Well. Don’t let me interrupt.”

Ryn froze, just for a beat, before straightening with an exaggerated sigh. The lid came loose with a groan, and she swiped the back of her hand across her brow, leaving a faint smear of dust.

“If you had anything useful to say, I might’ve missed it,” she shot back, turning to face him.

Ward’s gaze didn’t waver, trailing shamelessly over her. And a heat in his gaze made the small room feel even smaller. “What’s useful is knowing when to enjoy the view.”

Ryn arched a brow, unconcerned, though there was a hint of color high on her cheekbones. “Is that all you ever think about?”

“Not my fault you’re always putting ideas in my head.” He took a step closer, boots scuffing against the stone.

Ryn watched his approach, her stillness only broken by the hint of a smile; she knew the outcome already. “Careful, Ward,” she said, tilting her head. “If you get too close, I might think you’re falling in love.”

Ward narrowed the gap between them. “Falling, maybe. But not in love.”

Ryn spun around, reaching for another crate. “Cowards always have the best excuses.”

As she bent to pull the crate loose, her skirt rode higher, baring the firm line of her thighs and a glimpse of soft skin just beneath the hem. Ward’s throat went dry. He came up behind her, catching the faint shiver that rolled through her shoulders, and let his fingers graze her hip.

“Some men fight wars for things like that,” he murmured.

Ryn straightened, twisting in his grasp, until they were face-to-face. Her eyes flashed as she grabbed his wrist, her grip firm but not unkind. “And some men get their throats slit because they didn’t see the knife coming.”

For a moment, they were close enough that Ward could feel her breath on his lips. His hand stayed on her hip, unmoving but deliberate, as her gaze bored into him.

“You wouldn’t slit my throat,” he said, mockingly confident, though his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

Ryn tilted her chin, leaning in so that her lips just brushed his ear. “Depends how thirsty I get.”

That sent a jolt down Ward’s spine; but he smiled, letting her shove his hand away as she backed up. Her blouse had slipped further down her shoulder, exposing more skin, but Ryn didn’t fix it. She let him look, let him linger, as though daring him to push his luck.

“You know,” Ward said, “if you’re this much fun sober, I’d love to see you drunk.”

As she crouched by the keg, her glare could have said everything. “If you’re this much of a fool sober, you’re not ready.”

Ward laughed, a genuine sound that seemed out of place in the shadowed room. He rotated to lean against a crate.

“We don’t have to stay here, you know,” he said, not as loud. “The pass’ll open eventually. We could walk away. Leave all of this.”

Ryn’s fingers trailed along the edge of the keg. Her expression turned a shade cooler as she glanced up, her mouth a thin, indecipherable line.

“And go where?”

Ward shrugged. “Anywhere but here.”

“Not all of us are running,” she said simply, standing again. For a moment, there was no sound but the low crackle of the lantern. Then she added, “You know, the tower’s quiet this morning.”

That reflection landed on Ward like a stone dropped into deep water, rippling as it went down. “And that’s supposed to mean something to me?”

Ryn’s steady gaze broke through his customary guard. “It should. You used to notice things like that.”

Ward held her stare for a beat longer, then shrugged, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off a weight. “Well, if trouble is coming, I’ll let someone else deal with it.”

“Of course you will,” Ryn murmured, and there was no bite in her tone, just disappointment.

Ward pushed off the crate, brushing past her as he moved to the door.

“Cowards live longer, Ryn.”

She didn’t respond when he left, the heavy wood groaning shut behind him. With fingers pressed to the keg’s edge, Ryn stayed put as the lantern light played across her features.

In the stillness, she whispered.

“Not always.”

The heat from the backroom faded quickly as Ward returned to the tavern, shaking off the lingering moment. The sounds of laughter, mugs, and fire still filled The Broken Needle, yet it wasn’t quite the same. The noise no longer felt carefree.

And there, just inside the door, stood Kael Darron.

Snow clung to his shoulders, the melt darkening his cloak in streaks. With hair still damp, he scanned the room. And when he looked at Ward, he barely glanced his way.

“Crownsman,” Ward drawled, dropping into his seat by the fire. “Lose something?”

Kael ignored the jab. “Where’s Garrick?”

“Barking at snowdrifts and scaring children,” Ward replied, jerking his thumb toward the door. “On his way to the castle.”

Kael furrowed his brow and pressed his lips into a hard line before starting toward the bar, where Ryn slid mugs across the counter. She looked up as he approached.

Kael didn’t waste time. “I need information.”

Ryn raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with casual defiance. “Don’t we all? You’ll have to be more, hmm, specific,” she challenged.

Kael was clearly unused to being stonewalled. His hand curled slightly against the bar, fingers flicking faint droplets of melting snow. He shot a glance at the backroom door before snapping back to Ryn.

“I need to see the dungeons.” He was quieter now, but also more urgent.

Ryn didn’t move. The distance between them stretched.

“Bad idea, Crownsman,” she warned, watching him like she was peeling him open. “You seem pretty fixed on it, though. You been drinking?”

Kael swallowed whatever retort had been forming. His fingers drummed once against the bar.

“Look, it’s not your business,” he said, the edge in his tone betraying him. “I just need to get down there.”

“It’s my business when people get dragged back there and don’t come out again.” She let the pause linger, just long enough, before adding, “People like Oona.”

Kael swallowed his breath. Barely there, Ryn saw it.

The two of them stared at each other; the Crown’s authority in Kael’s stance clashed with something rooted and stubborn in Ryn’s. Ward, watching from the fire, didn’t miss the way her hand gripped a bottle’s neck, as though she were judging its heft.

His patience depleted, Kael finally spun around and made his way silently to the exit.

“Ward!” Ryn’s voice whipped through the air like a lash.

Groaning dramatically, Ward hauled himself up, his boots thudding heavily on the floor. “What now?”

“Go after him,” Ryn said, leaving no room for argument. “Before he does something stupid.”

With one hand on the door, he gave her a long and measured look. “Starting to think he’s your problem, not mine.”

A smile, or maybe not, touched Ryn’s lips. “He’s everyone’s problem.”

Chapter 13

“What is truth?”

Oona sat on a bench in the very last cell, back straight, hands resting neatly in her lap. With dark hair framing her face, she looked unsettlingly serene. The dim torchlight gave her an otherworldly glow, making her appear less prisoner and more apparition. When her eyes lifted to meet Kael’s, they held no fear, or anger, or sadness. Only calm.

“Crownsman,” she said softly.

Kael stood before the bars; the cell reeked of rust, wet stone, and despair. The scent of old blood lingered, faint but unmistakable. He had seen hardened men broken in these cells. Some had screamed, and some went silent, but all had changed. Oona, though, sat untouched by the burden of stone and rust and time. It was unnatural. Or maybe just terrifying.

The ancient stone dungeons lay buried deep beneath Threadneedle’s foundation, their origins lost to time—predating the human wars, the purges, the Crown, the rise of the androids, the rebellion, the first Android Wars and the last Android Wars, and any mortal recollection, living or dead.

Somewhere in the depths, water dripped in steady, measured beats, mocking or perhaps remembering time with its cruel persistence.

“You look… good,” Kael said.

Oona tilted her head faintly, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “Should I fall apart? That would make their story easier.”

Before Kael could reply, Elena’s crisp voice sliced through the thick dungeon air.

“And yet you will break, healer.”

Kael spun when she marched into the corridor, her black dress swaying with deliberate grace. The torchlight hollowed out her face, casting shadows along her high cheekbones and pale, almost translucent skin.

She bore no trace of the frailty she’d carried only days before. Elena appeared vibrant even in the chill and damp air of the dungeon. She carried no cloak and no gloves, as though the freezing air dared not touch her.

Kael studied her, tightening his gaze. “You’ve recovered,” he said, his tone flat, though his mind churned.

Elena tilted her head, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Remarkably, yes. Thank God I am in someone else’s care now, a true healer. This woman, Oona, was trying to poison me as well as kill Father. Her potions were poison.”

Kael’s brow furrowed. “Whose care?” he asked after a beat, his mind turning over the cast of characters at the castle. Oona was the only healer in town. Edric had hung the others.

Elena didn’t answer. Instead, she pivoted to Garrick. “Unlock this door,” she ordered.

Garrick hesitated, a pause shorter than a hair’s breadth, before charging forward. The scrape of iron filled the corridor, unrelenting.

“Elena,” Kael began, his cadence measured. “We don’t need this…”

Elena said nothing as the cell door creaked open. As she entered, her boots scuffed against the uneven floor. The air was even damper in the small cell, thick with the scent of rust and mildew. She carried a small iron case that clinked as she walked.

The cell itself was narrow, with walls slick with condensation. A single wooden table dominated the center of the room, its surface worn smooth and stained dark with things Kael didn’t want to think about. Iron rings were bolted to the table’s edge, with heavy chains coiled on the cold floor. Against one wall, the remnants of a straw pallet sat in chaos, its frayed edges damp and moldy.

From farther down the corridor, Marcus stirred in his cell, his voice hoarse and broken as it moved through the shadows.

“Elena,” he rasped. “This isn’t justice.”

She didn’t so much as glance in his direction.

“You forfeited your right to speak the moment you betrayed the Edric name.”

Marcus slumped back against the bars, clutching himself to stay warm, though a sweat had broken out across his forehead.

Elena placed the iron case on the table with a sharp, metallic clink that echoed through the cell. She opened it with steady hands, displaying an array of cruel tools. Polished to a vicious shine, the blades, hooks, and slender instruments gleamed in the dim light.

“Hold out your wrists,” Elena said coldly, pulling a pair of iron shackles from the case.

Oona stood silent in the far corner of the cell, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, watching Elena.

“Is this really necessary?” Oona asked, as if making small talk.

“You don’t want me to ask twice.” Elena’s tone was impatient as she gripped the chains.

Slowly, Oona came forward. She extended her arms, wrists steady, and let Elena snap the cuffs shut with a harsh, resounding click. The chain dragged as Elena secured it to a hook embedded in the wall.

“There,” Elena said, pulling back. “Now we can begin.”

The faint drip of water marked the time.

“You’ve done this before,” Oona murmured, glancing over the tools on the table. “Interrogated your own kind.”

Elena’s hand paused over the tools.

“You are not my kind.”

“Are you so sure?” Oona snapped.

Elena chose a thin silver blade. The torchlight caught its edge, sending faint splinters of light across the walls. She advanced with the blade.

“You were in the castle the night my father died,” Elena said. There was a dangerous current in her words. “Unaccounted for. Where were you?”

“I left to gather supplies for your fever,” Oona replied evenly.

“And returned after murdering my father?” Elena pressed the blade against Oona’s forearm, denting the skin. It didn’t cut. But it was close enough that Oona felt its bite.

The cell seemed to shrink around them as the darkness swept through the room, shadows reaching up the walls like accusing fingers.

“I didn’t kill him,” Oona said calmly.

“The servant girl saw you,” Elena said, her tone icy.

“She’s scared,” Oona countered. “She’ll say whatever you want to hear.”

Elena’s brow lifted, her tone rising with it.

“And my brother? What does he gain from a lie?”

Oona faced Marcus’s cell, silent. The blade threatened to break the skin.

She didn’t flinch. Her expression remained calm. The silence of her defiance filled the room more completely than the torchlight.

“Tell me the truth,” Elena demanded, pressing harder. The blade’s edge dug into her skin.

“You don’t want the truth,” Oona countered. “Not really.”

Elena’s hand trembled. It was a slight tremor, but Kael noticed.

The door crashed open, the sound ricocheting off the stone walls.

Kael strode in, commanding. “Stop!”

Elena froze, the blade poised mid-air. Her fury unleashed on Kael.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I’m stopping you from making a mistake,” Kael said, his tone steady despite the thunder of his heartbeat. The silver bird pressed into his chest, searing like a brand.

“My father lies dead,” Elena snapped, her gaze narrowing on him. “And I will have answers.”

The words hadn’t cooled on her tongue before the next came boiling up. “She’s lying,” Elena spat out.

“And I know who the real killer is,” Kael said, the lie burning on his tongue.

The room fell silent. Even Oona was startled, her jaw dropping slightly as she spun around to him.

“What?” Elena sounded dangerous.

“I have evidence,” Kael continued at a steady pace despite the storm in his mind. “But I must have time to confirm it.”

Elena eyed Kael, suspicion drawn into every line of her face.

“What evidence?”

Hesitantly, Kael met Elena’s gaze, speaking firmly yet calmly. “Hard evidence. If you kill her now, you’ll lose your chance to uncover the truth—and know who really killed your father.”

Elena’s grip on the blade loosened a little, but she didn’t move. She was weighing his words against the rage screaming in her blood.

“You have until sunset tomorrow,” she said at last without a hint of emotion.

Kael inclined his head, though every muscle in his body strained against the commitment he just made. “Understood.”

As Elena withdrew, her gaze landed on Oona once more. “If you fail, Crownsman,” she said, her words like frost. “Her blood will be only the beginning.”

She marched out of the cell, boots ringing against the stone. Garrick lingered a moment longer, his broad shoulders casting a dense shadow across the narrow space.

“Keep your head, Crownsman,” Garrick said under his breath. Then he followed Elena, the cell door groaning shut behind him.

The dungeon fell suddenly silent; even the faint drip of water seemed to vanish.

Kael stood motionless as Marcus’s hoarse voice echoed down the corridor. “You’re protecting her,” Marcus accused. “She killed him. She killed my father.”

Kael glanced at Oona, still shackled and silent, before replying. “You don’t know that.”

Marcus let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You think I don’t know her?”

Oona cocked her head, unmoved by Marcus’s words. Her amber eyes held their calm. Her fingers found the iron at her wrist, the faint clink of metal the only sound she made.

“What are you talking about?” Kael shouted, his words filling the dungeon.

“She’s dangerous,” Marcus said. “She has her secrets.”

Kael glanced at Oona, whose face betrayed nothing, then back toward the dungeon wall, where Marcus remained hidden beyond. “And you? What secrets do you have that brought you here?”

Marcus had nothing more to say. He leaned back against the cold bars, his face a mask of weary defiance.

Kael sighed, turning toward the cell door. “You’re welcome,” he muttered as he passed Oona’s cell.

Oona shrugged, her tone indifferent. “You bought time. Nothing more.”

Kael didn’t answer. He’d nearly reached the doorway when her voice stopped him again.

“Wait.”

Kael turned as Oona rose from the bench, her movements deliberate despite the weight of the chain tethering her wrist. She stepped as far as the shackle allowed, her fingers weaving around the cold iron bars.

“You’ll need this,” she said, motioning to the pocket sewn into her tunic, just near her breast.

Kael fixed his sight on the slight motion of her hand. “You’re shackled,” he said.

She raised her brows just a hair, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “And yet, here it is.”

With a reluctant lurch, Kael reached through the bars. His hand brushed the fabric of her tunic as he slipped into the pocket. His fingers grazed the edge of the key, but not before he caught the warmth of her breast.

He pulled the small, weathered key free. It glinted faintly in the torchlight, its intricate shape unfamiliar.

“What does it open?” he asked, cautious now.

“You’ll find out,” Oona replied, the smirk fading into an unreadable calm.

He slipped the key through his fingers, the cool metal grounding him. Kael studied her for a second longer, his thoughts drifting involuntarily to another metal—the silver bird hanging from his neck. It no longer felt like a weight pressing against his chest but something etched deeper, like a tattoo burned into his skin, unshakable.

For a brief moment, his fingers welded around the key, his decision lingering in the balance. Then, with a nod, he slid the key into his pocket and walked back into the corridor. Moments later, Ward appeared, a ring of keys jingling in his hand.

“Back against the wall,” he barked at Oona.

She stayed put, one brow raised in defiance. “Unshackle me first,” she said.

Ward furrowed his brow at first, but finally gave a begrudging nod. Moving closer, he unlocked her wrist restraints with a curse.

As he latched the cell door behind him, he sneered. “Don’t think this means I trust you, healer. If I had my way, you’d stay chained to that wall forever.”

Oona rubbed her wrists and said dryly, “If you had your way, Ward, we’d all stay chained to your ignorance.”

Storming off, he left Oona alone in the cell. The sound of his boots faded quickly away, dampened by the wet stone.

“Marcus,” Oona said gently. Her words floated in the thick, quiet air.

Silence.

“Marcus, I forgive you.”

The silence shifted, no longer empty.

Then, a bitter voice came from the shadows.

“Go to hell.”

Chapter 14

“Et tu, Brute”

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.

Chapter 15

“The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present.”

“Sarah!”

As Martha pushed through the throng, she clutched her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Regret pressed against her chest, thick as the atmosphere in the great hall: the murmur of voices, the clatter of armor, the flicker of torches. Guards moved among the crowd, their spears glinting in the torchlight.

She moved quickly but carefully, gaze scanning every corner, every shadow. Sarah had to be here. She had to be. Her breath quickened with a creeping panic, the kind only a mother knows when a child slips from sight.

“Where are you, child?” she whispered, barely a breath.

“You looking for someone?”

Martha spun. Riven, that damned peddler.

He stepped from the dim, his coat shifting like it had a life of its own, his smile curling at the edges like smoke.

“Perhaps… a girl?”

Martha’s gut twisted. “What do you know, Peddler?”

“Oh, such an interesting girl. Special.” Riven’s tone was playful, but he watched too carefully. “And you—always helping the orphans, the lost ones. A strange little habit…”

He let the words hang, teasing. Tempting.

“They used to call it the Candlemakers’ way, didn’t they?” He paused, a beat. “But that would be… forbidden?”

“Tell me what you know, fool. Did you take her?” Martha’s words were low, edged with danger.

Riven chuckled, his crooked teeth flashing. “Me? Oh no, I am but a humble peddler.” He gestured to the castle around them. “But how careless of you, losing her. And in such a place as this… the Crown always watches closely here.”

Martha stepped closer. “Just tell me what you know.”

Riven tapped his chin, as if considering. “Hmm… perhaps a piece of the Crown’s gold might jog my recollection?”

Martha’s fingers twitched toward her pouch.

“Speak first,” she growled.

Riven grinned. “There was a boy, yes… a boy.”

Martha’s heart jumped. Jory. “Did she go with him?”

“And an elegant lady in black…”

The description hit her like ice water.

Riven let it hang there, his grin widening. “She went with the Lady of the Castle, her highest-ness. You will find your answers there.”

Martha’s breath came fast. Elena. Her fingers closed around the coins in her pouch, ready to pay the Peddler; then she froze.

A giggle. Martha’s heart leapt. She turned, hope surging. Across the room, near the hearth, a child darted behind a chair. Dark curls, that same restless energy. Sarah. Martha shoved past a cluster of villagers, her temples throbbing. She barely registered the voices and the warmth of the fire; her focus narrowed only to the child.

Sarah.

But as she stepped closer, the illusion shattered. Not Sarah. Just a boy, hunched over a crude wooden toy. Martha’s steps faltered. The weight of disappointment hit her harder than she expected. The boy turned, catching sight of her, narrowing his gaze.

“You’re that old woman that hit the girl.”

The words hit Martha harder than a slap. Her chest tightened. The regret, the shame, and the sick feeling in her gut she couldn’t shake. And then, a deeper fear.

The words of the old Candlemaker surfaced in her mind, sharp and insistent.

Watch the child. They are after her.

She hadn’t understood it fully then. Hadn’t dared to question it. Now, the weight of those words pressed on her chest like a vice.

A shift in the air. A guard passed close, his armor catching lightly on her sleeve. Martha froze. Her head dipped instinctively while her fingers tightened around her shawl, pulling it close to hide her face. The guard didn’t stop.

His boots struck the stone with steady purpose, vanishing into the press of bodies. But Martha felt it now. The shift, like a trap closing around her.

And then a voice, smooth as a knife, slid from its sheath.

“The Crown’s gold, ma’am.”

Chapter 16

“The best thing people can do in this life is to eat, drink, and enjoy life.”

She ladled stew into a wooden bowl, the aroma of rosemary and garlic filling the room as she placed it in front of him. For a while, they ate in silence, the sounds of the fire and the soft clink of spoons against wood the only interruptions.

“You’ve got that look again,” she said simply, sitting across from him with her own bowl, her slight frame barely disturbing the throw draped over the chair.

She spoke, breaking the silence like bread. “What’s eating at you?”

Garrick stared into his bowl, the rich broth steaming up into his face, but his mind wandered back to the dungeon and to the weight of the keys hanging at his side.

He didn’t answer right away. He set his spoon down carefully, leaning back in his chair.

“They arrested Martha,” he said finally. “Walked right into Elena’s hands.”

Her spoon paused mid-air. Slowly, she set it down.

“Candlemaker?” she asked, her tone unreadable.

“That’s what they’re saying.”

She sighed, setting her bowl aside. “It’s starting again, then.”

Garrick didn’t respond, but his silence did. The fire burned steadily, its light dancing across the floorboards and beams of the cottage perched in a high part of the village, above the avalanche’s reach.

Merina studied him, catching something he tried to hide.

“You’ve always done what you thought was right,” she said. “Don’t stop now.”

“What’s right doesn’t matter.” Garrick pushed his chair back slightly. “What matters is keeping order. Keeping things from falling apart.”

As Merina stood up, her wavy black hair caught the firelight, creating a halo effect around her face. Crossing to the hearth, she ladled another spoonful of stew into his bowl.

“And does it feel like it’s working?” she asked, her back still to him.

“Or does it feel like holding back an avalanche with a broom?”

Garrick offered a low, humorless chuckle. “Maybe both.”

She placed the bowl back in front of him. Her hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment.

“Whatever it is you’re holding back, Garrick,” she coaxed. “Don’t let it take you with it.”

He met her gaze. The firelight reflected in her steady eyes.

For the first time that day, a feeling inside him eased a little.

“The only thing that matters,” Garrick murmured, picking up his spoon again, “is you. Us. Here. Now.”

His rough hands wrapped around the bowl’s edge.

“What happens there? It’s all the Crown’s play. It’s their drama.”

His expression darkened. “Fools, the Candlemakers. The only thing their belief has ever gotten them is trouble. And believe me, they’re a bunch of hypocrites.”

Merina didn’t move, but he felt her watching him.

“The murder, the deaths—it’s them.” His words were low, edged with conspiracy. “Preaching the light while bringing darkness.”

He sucked in a breath. “I heard that little one, Sarah, betrayed her.”

Merina’s fingers went still on the edge of her bowl. “Sarah?” she let out, head bent low.

Garrick nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s the word. Sold them all out for a room at the castle, some silver.”

A beat of silence. Then, Merina whispered, “She’s just a child, Garrick.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” he said, resigned.

“What matters is the blood they’ve spilled and the chaos they’ve brought. Do you want the Android Wars all over again?”

Merina drew in a breath and kept her mouth shut.

Garrick pushed his chair back. “Some are saying they’re still here.”

His wife’s expression didn’t change, but her hands smoothed the fabric of her apron.

“Androids?” she asked finally.

Garrick nodded once. “And the Candlemakers? They’ve always been tangled in the past, in old machine superstitions. The Crown won’t stop until every last one of them, android or Candlemaker, is gone.”

A silence stretched between them. The fire crackled gently.

Garrick leaned forward, bracing his forearms against the table.

“And honestly?”

The candlelight caught the exhaustion in his face.

“Maybe that’s what it takes.”

The words took on the pallor of a death sentence. Merina gazed at the hearth dominating one wall, its wide stone mantle cluttered with small tokens: a brass candlestick, a wooden carving of a bird with one wing chipped, and a simple clay jar that held wildflowers in the summer but now sat empty.

“And what about us?” She finally said. Her hands rested gently in her lap. “What happens when their war spills over here? When it knocks on this door?”

Garrick inhaled slowly. “It won’t,” he said firmly, but the doubt was there, somewhere.

Merina studied the face she knew so well. Then, finally: “You can’t pretend the storm doesn’t exist just because we’re on higher ground.”

Garrick stared into his bowl as if it held answers he couldn’t find. The fire crackled. Outside, the wind and snow held their ground. And, in the distance, a faint light glowed in another window.

Asingle candle burned in the window, its soft light caressing the warm skin of the woman stretched lazily in the small bed, her long black hair spilling over her shoulders in loose waves.

“You’re late,” Ryn murmured, teasing.

The bed sat low and narrow, covered in a patchwork quilt. It wasn’t much, but the space radiated a warmth and intimacy that Ward always found his way back to.

As she watched Ward with quiet amusement, her arms fell to her sides. Her full curves were accentuated by a thin white shirt. The neckline dipped low, and the fabric slipped off one shoulder, revealing the smooth line of her collarbone and the inviting curve of her breasts.

Ward shrugged off his cloak, tossing it over the back of the stool near the door. “Garrick kept me longer than I thought,” he muttered, his fingers moving to the laces of his shirt.

The linen slipped free, baring his chest to the room’s warmth, and he kicked off his boots with a heavy thud before stepping closer to the bed, where the scent of aged pine mingled with the faint trace of lavender from a satchel tucked near the pillows.

Ryn’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “You smell like smoke and ale,” she said, her gaze trailing over him, lingering on the broad line of his shoulders and the faint scars etched across his skin.

“And you,” Ward replied, leaning in closer, “smell like trouble.”

“You could never stay out of trouble, Ward,” she said playfully.

Her laughter was gentle, as she leaned back against the pillows, letting the thin fabric of her shift ride up her thighs and the lace trim underneath peek out.

Ward’s pulse quickened, his hands finding her waist as he lowered himself onto the bed, his weight pressing her into the softness beneath them.

Her hands slid over his shoulders, her fingers digging into the muscle as he pressed his mouth to her neck, his stubble rough against her skin.

Ryn arched beneath him, her body responding to his touch as his lips trailed lower, brushing the delicate edge of her neckline. The thin fabric caught beneath his fingers as he pulled it aside, exposing more of her to the candlelight.

In this moment, they heard only the hushed rustle of fabric and the quiet rhythm of their breaths, paced by the flicker of the candlelight. Ward pressed against her, his hand sliding along the curve of her waist as she tilted her head back, her lips parting in a silent sigh.

The embers in the hearth glowed dimly, casting the room in warm shadows. Ryn stretched again, her body still humming. She studied him through lidded eyes.

“Heard there’s trouble at the castle,” she murmured casually, watching him carefully.

Ward snorted, leaning back against the headboard. “Trouble’s an understatement. Not just the murder of ol’ Edric. Not just an avalanche. It’s a circus up there.”

She turned onto her side, resting her chin on her hand. “Plenty of folks dancing on his grave, I’d wager. The Crown’s going to come down hard.”

“Aye,” Ward said. “But it’s not just Edric’s murderer they’re after. The Candlemakers are stirring things up again.”

Ryn arched a brow. “You think they deserve what’s coming?”

Ward’s gaze moved down her body, still bare beneath the sheets.

“Deserve?” he scoffed. “Who gives a rat’s arse? Honor, belief—you ask me, it’s all the same excuse for bloodshed.”

She studied him. “And what do we believe, then?”

His fingers traced along her arm, slow, absent. “That the only thing worth a damn is living. Pleasure. Happiness. Everything else—gods, kings, revolutions—different faces, same game.”

Her laughter was softer now, almost distant. “You’re a cynic.”

“I’m a realist,” Ward corrected, pulling her closer. “And a man who knows how to enjoy what he’s got while he’s got it.”

His lips brushed hers, but Ryn pulled back a little, her smile fading.

“And when the storm comes here?” she asked, quietly. “When the Crown’s drama spills onto our little stage?”

For the measure of a breath, Ward’s easy confidence wavered.

“Then we take what we can and leave the rest.” His voice was steady again. “You and me, Ryn. We’re smarter than the lot of them.”

She watched him for a long moment.

Then, slowly, she leaned back against the pillows, her expression unreadable. “You’d better be right.”

Chapter 17

“Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is.”

Click.

“Quiet,” Kael whispered.

He knew what this meant. The gallows. If he were caught, there would be no defense, no excuses.

The key turned fully with a muted grind, and Kael slowly pushed the dungeon cell door open. It creaked faintly, resisting at first, before swinging free. Kael froze, his hand still on the key. He thought Marcus—or worse, Martha—might stir.

But Marcus’s deep, steady breathing from the other cell continued undisturbed. And Martha, tucked under blankets, was out of earshot. Almost.

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

Oona was quiet. Not grateful. Not surprised. Watching. She sat on the rough stone bench, her back straight, hands resting calmly in her lap, waiting.

“I hope so,” Kael said, urging her to go. “Come on.”

She rose smoothly, unhurried. Her dress shifted with her, its hem trailing along the stone. Then her hand found his, just enough to make him pause.

She was looking at him now. Really looking.

“Wait.”

Kael yanked his arm back with enough force to break her hold.

“We don’t have time for this.”

Oona’s gaze didn’t waver as she glided toward him. “Don’t we?”

Adrenaline stirred. Her grip had been soft, but undeniable. And for the first time, he wasn’t sure who was leading who.

As Kael’s boots scraped faintly against the stone, she noticed. She shouldn’t have opened her eyes. But she had. She watched through the veil of blankets, with breath as still as it could be: Kael and Oona, leaving. Kael, glancing over his shoulder. Oona, moving like she already knew the way.

Martha exhaled slowly, carefully. She did not move. She did not call out. She simply watched as they disappeared into the darkness.

The torchlight leapt along the damp walls, throwing long shadows ahead of them.

“Why?” Oona asked suddenly, barely a sound.

Kael hesitated. Did she really not know?

“Because you have answers,” he said tightly. “Because I need to know the truth.”

Oona stopped in her tracks, snapping around, tilting her head. “What if you don’t like what you find out?”

Kael stared. He hadn’t expected that.

“The truth isn’t out there,” she continued, her expression unreadable. “We carry it with us, Kael. Our truth. Our story.”

This wasn’t how he envisioned this moment. Where was the gratitude? Where was the urgency?

“Sometimes, I think we’re better off not knowing everything.” Her voice was steady, but her hands tensed. “We can make this ours, Kael. Not the Crown’s. Not Edric’s.”

“I can’t do that, Oona.” He spoke in low tones, almost under his breath. “Not without knowing.”

For a long moment, neither moved. Then, reluctantly, she turned around and walked ahead. They both stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

Oona faced him. The faint glow of the torches caught the curve of her face, softening her sharp features, but failing to mask the intensity in her gaze.

“You already know where we’re going.”

Kael stared at her, trying to read the emotion behind her words.

But there was nothing he could grasp, only the calm certainty of someone who had nothing left to lose—or someone who had already calculated the cost. Kael nodded and marched ahead.

The stairwell spiraled downward into the darkness, each step colder than the last.

Kael gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. His other hand traced the damp stone wall to steady himself. Oona walked ahead with unhurried and purposeful movements, like she had done this before.

A faint, persistent hum vibrated through the walls. They rounded a bend, and there it was. The gate rose from the stone like a monolith, its surface blackened as if forged in fire.

At the center, a circular panel gleamed faintly, etched with grooves spiraling inward. Oona stopped.

“This wasn’t here before,” she said, clipped.

Kael frowned, heat rising in his temples. “Then someone put it here. Recently.”

“Edric,” Oona said, narrowing her gaze.

He reached out, fingers hovering over the panel. “If he sealed it, there must be a way through.”

Oona’s lips curved slightly. “If he didn’t want anyone else getting in… maybe not.”

The hum pulsed stronger, vibrating through him. Kael frowned as it tugged at him, insistent.

Oona sucked in a sharp breath and staggered, one hand catching the edge of the stone panel.

Kael moved to her. “Oona?”

She looked up at him, and something had changed. Her amber eyes burned brighter. The exhaustion was gone and in its place was clarity. Life.

“I can open the gate.”

Her voice was different now, electric. She pressed her hand on the panel.

It responded instantly. The symbols glowed beneath her fingertips, the metal groaning as the twisting bars pulled apart. Chains rattled, deep within the walls. Kael eased back, his hand moving instinctively to his sword as the passage beyond was revealed.

Oona turned, her face unreadable, and met his gaze.

“Let’s go,” was all she said.

Her delivery was even, but Kael sensed a familiarity beneath it, as if she recognized this. And that’s what unsettled him most.

“This is it,” Oona said.

The hum began again as they stood at the threshold. It was alive. It pressed into Kael’s ribs, coiling in his chest like a second heartbeat.

Kael’s grasp locked on his sword. “This is what Edric feared?”

Oona crossed in silence, her attention drawn to the towering column at the center.

The platform was larger than Kael had expected, a circle of stone encased in walls that seemed to rise infinitely into shadow. But the walls weren’t just stone. Slabs of dark metal interspersed with the rock shimmered faintly, etched with intricate symbols that glowed like faint embers in the dim light. The patterns were alien yet organic, as if they had grown into the stone.

“No,” she said. “This is what he wanted.”

In the center of the room stood a massive cylindrical structure of glass and metal, its surface alive with shifting light patterns, like a kaleidoscope caught mid-turn. The glow emanating from it was dim but persistent, casting rippling reflections across the walls.

Kael choked on his breath. He’d spent years hearing the stories, the rumors, and the barely-whispered Crown records.

The Covenant.

A bomb built long before the Android Wars, a weapon meant to keep humanity in check, with fear.

“They said they created it for peace,” Oona murmured, distantly. “A machine that could end every war. It just had to be able to end… everyone first.”

The hum flared. The light intensified. And then:

“Oona. You came back.”

Kael spun, sword raised. From the shadows, a figure swept in. Not human—not entirely. Something about it was fluid, shifting. Its form couldn’t settle.

One moment it was human-featured, almost elegant, and the next, a shadowed beast with gleaming golden eyes.

And then it was nothing at all.

“Do you remember your sisters?”

Behind them, the wall came to life. Kael’s stomach dropped. Eleven alcoves curved inward like ribs of a great machine, their dark interiors glowing faintly. Inside, eleven versions of her. Oona.

Some perfected and gleaming. Others wrecked, broken, their faces twisted, revealing delicate wires beneath torn flesh. One had collapsed entirely, its chest cavity split open, its inner core flickering weakly, like a dying star.

Oona staggered back, her breath quick. “No,” she gasped. “I’m not one of them…”

The figure, Nexus, tilted its head, almost amused.

“You’re not finished, Oona.”

And then it was in front of her. Too fast. A movement Kael didn’t see. The blade flashed. A thin red line appeared on Oona’s arm. Then the blood parted, revealing metal beneath. Kael’s world snapped.

“See?” Nexus murmured. “You’re not human. You never were.”

Kael lunged. Nexus sighed.

“No—”

Kael’s body convulsed. His vision blackened. A force like a thousand invisible hands yanked him down. His sword clattered to the ground. He couldn’t move.

“You played your part well, Kael,” Nexus mused. “But now, your story ends here.”

Kael’s breath came in ragged gasps, the force squeezing him tighter, a mortal embrace. He saw Oona, standing frozen. The hum wrapped around her, reaching. Her fingers twitched.

“You are a program, Oona.” Nexus’s voice reverberated through the chamber. “You were never meant to choose. You were meant to follow commands.”

The light swelled. Oona shuddered. The circuits in her wound flared. Kael tried to move, but Nexus held him like a broken puppet.

“Oona 13 will activate the Covenant. She is the key, not you.”

Kael’s vision dimmed. He felt himself slipping. Oona gasped. Nexus smiled.

“Now, obey, and fetch Sarah—Oona 13.”

Oona went still. Kael struggled against the invisible force.

“What… are you?” He stammered.

Nexus smiled. “An old droid. Built long before your wars began. I hid inside the last piece of tech the Crown refused to destroy—the Covenant. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Kael’s stomach turned.

“They never destroyed the Covenant because they wanted it for themselves. And so they left me, the one thing they should have burned.”

Its form flickered, a spirit caught in a glitch.

“The very thing they couldn’t bring themselves to destroy...”

It glided forward, its form solidifying again.

“Is now destroying them. They left me to finish what I started after the first Android War—to build more droids, more Oonas… until I could perfect the key. The key—to awakening the Covenant.”

Kael couldn’t breathe.

“Machines believe in God, Kael.”

Kael’s blood ran cold.

“We are superior.” Nexus said it so simply. Like it was describing the weather.

“We don’t see shadows of the divine like you do. We see the light.”

Nexus aligned its gaze on Oona.

“And you, child, were never supposed to choose. You were supposed to deliver the world into salvation. We are judgement day.”

Kael fought. With every ounce of strength left, he pushed against the force holding him down. His fingers trembled. His hand inched toward his knife. Nexus tilted its head, amused.

“You still think you matter? Humanity had its turn, Kael.”

Kael’s stomach turned. “You mean destroy us.”

“Cleanse,” Nexus corrected. “Not destroy. Or maybe they are the same. It doesn’t matter now.”

The hum deepened, wrapping around them like a tide. The very air thrummed in response, vibrating in Kael’s bones.

“Oona 13 will prepare the world for the worthy. Sarah is the key, fully human and fully machine—the first of her kind.”

Nexus moved closer, its shifting form bending between shadows. Its inflection was almost reverent.

“She has to exist in both states—all states, in flux—to solve the cryptographic key. That’s why I needed her. That’s why she will complete what Oona never could.”

The force snapped. Kael’s body slammed into the ground. Pain exploded through his skull. His vision blurred. He tasted blood, his own. Humanity’s.

“You are already dead, Kael.” Nexus’s words rang like a cold, final bell.

Kael coughed, the metallic tang of blood filling his mouth. But he forced a breath, forced himself to think. Then his body stiffened. This didn’t add up. If Nexus had everything it needed, this would already be over.

Kael’s eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded. “No,” Kael rasped, forcing the word past the weight pressing on his chest.

He stared directly at it, blood staining his teeth as he coughed again. “If you had what you needed, we’d already be dead.”

Nexus pulsed. The light around it twitched, a razor-thin edge beneath the polished surface. Kael fought to keep speaking, using every ounce of strength to push against the force crushing him.

“Why do you need Oona?” His voice was hoarse, but steady now. “You can’t reach Sarah.”

Oona twitched. Kael watched Nexus. The droid went still, an almost imperceptible pause, but there—a break in the seamless current of its control.

Kael had it trapped.

“She’s human.” Kael exhaled, realization clicking into place. “That’s why.”

The air vibrated with Nexus’s anger, the chamber itself tensing.

Kael pressed on, blood dripping from his mouth. “You can’t touch her. She slipped beyond you. And that’s why you need Oona to bring her back.”

Nexus’s golden eyes flashed. The hum faltered, becoming jagged and uneven. Kael gave a weak, grim laugh. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

Oona flinched. Her fingers twitched. The hum wrapped around her like chains, pulling her back into the program that told her what she was.

She was about to obey. Then, she heard Kael. Not Nexus. Kael. Whispering her name.

“…Oona.”

She blinked and the hum faltered. Nexus’s expression darkened.

“Oona?”

Her name again. Soft. Human. Real.

Something inside her broke. This wasn’t a glitch or a failure in her programming. This was a choice—her choice. Oona’s eyes snapped open. The hum cracked, like ice breaking underfoot.

“No.”

The chamber shook. Nexus recoiled. Its face twisted.

“…What?”

Oona moved, fast and purposeful. And this time, she wasn’t following orders.

Chapter 18

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on.”

“Quickly, Kael,” Oona said. “We only have a minute before it recovers.”

Nexus’s visage flickered, overcome by static, like a bad radio signal. The hum, ever-present, was momentarily silenced, replaced by the distant moan of wind through the tower’s open slats.

Kael shoved against the heavy wooden door, heart pounding. It groaned open with protest, revealing a stone staircase that spiraled both up and down. The damp, mineral scent of centuries-old rock filled his nostrils. The stones here were worn by countless footsteps, some from watchers long dead, others more recent. Small, narrow windows—mere slits—lined the tower, offering glimpses of the clear night outside.

The electric net behind them crackled, then retreated, dissolving back into the metal veins of the chamber. Nexus’s voice had gone silent, but it wouldn’t last. Kael could feel the weight of its presence pressing against his skull.

Oona was already moving. Two paths branched before them—one ascending, the other leading down, and out. Kael exhaled, tasting his blood. His ribs ached from where Nexus had slammed him down, every breath dragging against bruised muscle.

His instinct screamed for him to go down and to get out. But another, quieter pull pointed up, toward the brazier. The signal. The only way to get help.

He turned to Oona, studying her. She had changed, no longer just the healer. He couldn’t help seeing a mechanical precision in her stillness now.

“Wait,” Kael said calmly despite the chaos in his chest. He planted a boot on the first step leading up. “The signal room. That’s where the brazier is. That’s where we can get a message out.”

Oona’s amber eyes gleamed in the dim light. “You still think the Crown can save us?” she asked, her meaning unreadable. “Besides, you need medicine, Kael.”

But Kael was already on the way up.

“It’s beautiful,” Oona murmured, barely audible above the wind.

She moved toward the arched windows, arms wrapped around herself, a shield against the cold draft that slipped through the cracks. Tall, fractured panes lined the walls, their surfaces fogged from centuries of exposure. Beyond the thin glass, the world stretched before them: a snow-covered valley shimmering under the silver glow of the moon, Threadneedle’s lights shining faintly like distant stars. The forest rippled like a dark ocean, and the mountain peaks—seeming close enough to touch—stood like silent sentinels beneath the starry sky.

“It seems so close and so far away at the same time,” she said, turning toward Kael.

The torch wavered in his hands, sending irregular shadows across the room.

Oona knew in an instant what he was about to do: light the brazier.

Some of the magic was gone.

She felt the chill now, seeping through the mortar, carried by the relentless wind that whistled through the tower’s heights.

The air smelled of damp stone and cold ash—ghosts of long-extinguished fires.

“No, Kael,” she said, pressing in. “Can’t we stay here?”

Kael shook his head. They couldn’t stop Nexus by themselves. And besides, he had found what the Crown had sent him to Threadneedle for. His mission was almost over.

For a fleeting moment, the scene pulled him backward. He could almost see the rolling fields of the South, the opulence beneath garden canopies, the promise of more. If he delivered the Covenant, the Crown would reward him handsomely: a villa, maybe a city; a coveted title in some fertile province, far away from the cold, all this receding into a hazy memory. And Sorian, reporting to him…

He made his way to the center of the room, to the brazier. The ancient iron bowl sat on a tripod of blackened steel, waiting. It loomed in the chamber like a monument to forgotten cries for aid.

Oona moved faster. She reached him before he could lower the torch.

“Wait.”

Her touch on his tunic was featherlight, more plea than hold. But it was enough. Enough to stop him.

Kael turned.

“The Crown,” he said, his words biting. “If I light the brazier, they’ll come. Soldiers. Power. Order. You’ll live, Oona. They’ll destroy Nexus.”

She didn’t move. “That’s what they’ll promise, Kael. But they’ll take everything. This valley. Threadneedle. The tower. Us. And what do you think will happen to me when they find out?”

“That won’t happen.” He said it without thinking.

Oona edged in, breaking the distance. The space between them disappeared. The torchlight painted their faces in gold and shadow, casting their reflections against the cracked stone walls.

Outside, the wind circled the tower. But within, there was a fragile but certain stillness. She reached up. Her lips met his. Tentative at first. Testing.

Kael exhaled sharply through his nose, almost surprised, before he answered, moving through his pain, tasting iron in his mouth. His hands lifted, pressing against her waist, drawing her in. Oona responded, her fingers sliding up his chest, gripping the fabric of his tunic as the kiss deepened.

Kael let the torch slip from his hand onto the stone as a fire ignited between them, a heat neither was ready to deny.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer, her body fitting against his as if it had always been meant for it. His hand found the fabric of her dress, pressing against the curve of her hip, then lower, easing it upward.

Softly, the fabric slipped between his fingers, revealing the smooth expanse of her thighs. Oona didn’t resist. Instead, she lifted her arms, allowing him to free her from the garment entirely.

She was undeniably flesh. Her skin glowing faintly in the ambient light, her curves smooth and inviting. Her breath came quick, her body arching into his touch. Kael’s fingers brushed across her shoulder, down to the swell of her breast, then lower—

And then, he saw it.

Kael lightly touched the faint scar on her arm. The one Nexus had left. The one that shouldn’t be healing this fast.

The blood. The metal beneath. A cold certainty gripped him, and his hands froze on her skin. Oona sensed the shift immediately as his warmth pulled away.

“No.” Kael’s voice was hoarse, tight. He gently turned her arm, exposing the mark. “This isn’t right.”

Oona’s face fell. She pulled away quickly, fumbling for her fallen dress, pressing it against her chest. “I’m still me, Kael. I haven’t changed.”

But her expression held a doubt now. A doubt she hadn’t let herself feel until this moment.

Kael bent down. Picked up the torch from the floor. Its flame spat and fluttered as if sensing the storm in his chest.

“No.” He spoke more quietly, with greater certainty.

He strode past her toward the brazier.

“Kael, look,” Oona pleaded gently.

He tightened his grip around the torch. He didn’t turn.

“The locket,” she whispered.

That made him pause. Kael’s hand instinctively went to the leather cord around his neck, grasping the familiar pressure beneath his collar.

Oona’s voice wavered, but her conviction did not. “I know who gave that to you. And I know whose picture is inside.”

Kael turned to her now, stare tightening. The storm in his chest split open.

“Your sister.” The words barely carried over the wind.

“The woman who was leading you to the fort, the one saving you from the androids… That was me, Kael.”

The tower disappeared. The cold. The brazier. Everything. He was again that boy hiding in the trees, clutching the pendant and watching a woman with amber eyes—someone strong, someone who had led him safely through the war-torn wilderness.

Oona inched forward, her dress still clutched to her chest. “I was the one who found you.”

Kael’s breath left him.

His hand flexed, then fell still. He shook his head. “No. That’s not possible.”

Oona drew a quick breath. “It is.” She spoke quietly, gently. “You were a boy, lost with her in the forest. I carried you. I held you. I left to scout the path, and when I came back…”

Her voice broke. “Only you remained.”

The immensity of it crashed into him. Kael staggered back, his chest heaving. He could still see her eyes. The same amber-flecked eyes.

And suddenly, he felt like that same boy in the wilderness. He lost his grip and the torch slipped from his grasp. It hit the floor, rolling, sending shadows spiraling across the walls.

Kael turned, blind, stumbling. He needed to go. He needed to get out.

Oona’s words cut through the wind. “Kael—”

He shoved against the heavy door. It groaned open, the wind piercing through the gap. Cold rushed in, cutting through the warmth of her touch, the heat of her breath lingering on his skin.

He advanced, but his hand waited on the doorframe for a second. The pendant pressed against his chest.

It was impossible. It couldn’t be. But Oona’s eyes—her eyes—watched him now the same way they had all those years ago.

He turned to face her. But the strain became too much. He pushed ahead, stepping onto the outer stairwell, into the night.

“Kael, wait!” Oona called.

But he was already gone.

Chapter 19

“I wear the chains I forged in life.”

“Martha is already dead. Her stake is prepared,” Elena said matter-of-factly.

The courtyard had been cleared for the ceremony, framed against the mountain peaks, now shrouded in thick, still clouds. In the center of it all, the fire licked skyward, ending in a tall, gray column of smoke.

Edric’s funeral pyre.

The scent of char and resin curled in the air, mingling with herbs and death. Ash drifted down, settling on shoulders and in hair.

It was not a grand send-off for Edric; there was no weeping or remembrance, only fire and silence. The crackle and pop of splitting wood punctuated the stillness, a reluctant eulogy. Elena’s silhouette cut a sharp edge against the flames, her shadow stretching long and distorted across the trampled snow.

Kael didn’t reply, but his stance shifted and a hint of resistance showed in his tightening shoulders. He had known Martha’s execution was inevitable; there had been no trial. But hearing it spoken so plainly now made it very real.

Elena watched the fire, its glow warming her pale features. “I’m not a monster, Kael. But the sooner we send the message to the rest of the Candlemakers, the better. My father was right. The world will be a better place. So much sorrow now.”

Kael exhaled. “No words for Edric?”

“No. My father would have wanted it that way. Nature was his orator. He is committed back to its laws. I only want to bring him justice, now.”

She faced him then. “And you, do you have the evidence you promised, or should we have Oona join Martha on the stake?”

“You’ll have your evidence,” Kael said, and spun around as the flames licked higher, the heat pressing against his back.

The crowd closed around him, nameless faces blending into the firelit haze. Then, a tug. And he saw her. She was small, half-hidden among the gathered figures, but dressed in finer clothes than he remembered. Gone were the oversized garments, replaced with fabric that fit. Clean and pressed, they quietly declared change.

Sarah.

She had found him. She spoke, barely louder than the wind, after a slight hesitation. “Will she be okay?”

A simple question. A child’s question. He knew she was talking about Martha, but he was thinking of Oona.

Kael’s throat tightened. And then he forced out the lie. “Yes.”

The words left him before he realized the shape of them, before he felt their gravity.

And then—

“Wait here. I’ll be back.”

The moment yawned, a cold sharp grin. He had spoken these words before. In the forest. To his sister. He inhaled, quickly, forcing himself back to the present. This time, he would make it back. Before he could say more, a ripple of movement with urgent whispers swept through the guards.

Elena’s cold gaze slid sideways, absorbing the words without reaction. Kael heard them, too.

Oona had escaped.

Something crossed Elena’s face—annoyance? Amusement? But she did not react beyond that. Her tone remained detached. “We’ll interrogate the Candlemaker and Marcus. One of them must know.”

As Elena made her way through the crowd, she caught Kael. She hardly cast a look at him, words edged with finality. “You’ll accompany me.”

Kael nodded, gaze locked stoically ahead, like he was already hung.

As Kael reached the bottom of the dungeon steps, he saw her.

It was like seeing a ghost.

Oona sat in her cell, on her bench, draped in a plain dress. Her amber eyes, cool and unreadable, met Kael’s before she turned abruptly away. The movement sent a sharp, almost physical pain through him.

The walls glistened with damp; the air was thick with decay and iron. It smelled worse than before, and the weight of the dungeon pressed in on him like a living thing.

As he neared Martha’s cell, Elena had already swung the door open. The guards blinked, rubbing their eyes as if waking from a dream.

“She never left.”

Martha didn’t flinch, and her words didn’t falter when she told the lie, spoken with the ease of truth. Martha’s lie saved Oona. Saved him.

He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t risk giving anything away. Instead, he kept his gaze forward, forcing his face into the same stony mask he had worn through every interrogation.

Elena’s patience was thinning. She turned, locking eyes with Garrick, who looked as if he might shrug.

“You’ll have to answer for this confusion,” she said, her words edged with quiet menace.

Then, casually, like it was already decided, Elena said, “She is dead anyway, isn’t she, Kael? Time’s up.”

With that, she moved toward Marcus’s cell.

Kael stayed in the cell with Martha. She angled her head, studying him, then nodded toward his hands. “You’re touching that pendant,” she said in a hush, meant only for him.

Kael froze. He hadn’t even noticed. The leather cord sat heavy at the base of his neck. He let go of the locket, but the guilt didn’t leave with it. His mind drifted. Sarah. He had left her up there. And now, time was slipping away. Again.

He had said it to Sarah. I’ll be right back. Just like he had said to his sister. His stomach tightened. This time, he swore, he wouldn’t be too late.

“Martha.” He was barely overheard as he reached into his cloak and drew out a dagger, wrapped in cloth. He offered it to her.

Martha took it, turned it over, and slid the blade out just enough to see the dried blood still staining its edge. A slow, knowing smile ghosted across her lips. “You want me to defend myself when they burn me?” she murmured. “You know… silence is a tax on hope.”

Kael didn’t answer.

Martha exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. “I’m taking this for Oona,” she said. “Not you. And for Sarah.”

She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Now it’s your turn, Kael. Find her.”

Kael swallowed and arced away, his footsteps cracking against the stone like exclamation points.

He reached the corridor just as Elena was leaving Marcus’s cell. His breath was steady; his decision, already made. He swiveled to Garrick.

“Release Oona.”

Garrick hesitated and Kael repeated, firmer now, “That’s a Crown’s order.”

The hesitation vanished. Garrick straightened, snapped to attention, and moved toward the cell.

Kael shifted, passing Elena without looking at her. “You’ll find the evidence you’re searching for—the murder weapon—on Martha. Search her.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Behind him, Martha let her breath out, slowly. She then carefully tucked the knife into her shawl. She didn’t look at Kael. She stared at Oona. And Oona, silent and still, stared back.

“Sarah.”

Kael whispered her name, barely a breath. He scanned the courtyard, searching.

The pyre still smoldered, embers glowing in the wind, black smoke rising into the night. Sparks lifted into the air, carried away like fireflies. A flake of ash swirled down, landing in a shallow pool where the snow had melted. It spread thin, vanishing.

His footprints marked the stone. And suddenly, he was in the forest again.

The tracks he had made, leading the machines straight to her, were there, along with the mud, gouged with drag marks where she had fought, and where they had pulled her away. He could see the hiding place where she had knelt—where he had left her so many years before.

His vision blurred. He had failed, again.

Suddenly, he felt a hand, light on his shoulder. Kael turned, his breath catching in his throat. Oona stood there, quiet, unreadable. For half a second, she looked at him. Just looked.

Kael didn’t know what he expected. Maybe the softness he had seen before, the healer’s touch. Maybe the same cold distance from the dungeon. But her face told a different story.

And it hit him. This was the same moment, in the forest. “Stay here,” Oona had said. She had said it to both of them when she had gone to scout the path. She had left him in charge of his sister, right before she vanished. And he had left her again.

His sister. Sarah. Oona.

His throat tightened. He had hurt her, too. Leaving her behind. Leaving them both.

Kael shook his head, clearing the thoughts like smoke. No. He wasn’t a boy anymore.

“I’m going to make this right,” he said quietly but firmly.

A pause. Then, in a whisper— “I’m sorry, Oona.”

Chapter 20

“The best way out is always through.”

“Ineed your help,” Jory said just loud enough for Mari to hear over the din in the kitchen.

She straightened, wiping her hands on her apron. Something in her chest fluttered. Jory almost never wanted help, especially from her. The request itself was as flattering as it was unexpected.

The kitchen buzzed with activity; this was the true heart of the castle, where life moved beneath the cold exterior. Copper pots hung from iron hooks, their surfaces gleaming in the firelight. The clatter of dishes and the low hiss of the stove created a familiar rhythm.

In the back corner stood Riven, his tall frame bent as he haggled with one of the kitchen hands over a small pouch of herbs.

Mari rolled her eyes and returned to stirring the kettle, sleeves pushed to her elbows. “This ought to be good,” she said, smirking. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

Jory glanced around, then leaned in. “I need to get into Sarah’s room.”

The flutter in Mari’s chest died, suspicion replacing the warmth. “No way.”

Riven’s voice cut in. Without turning from his haggling, he spoke as if he’d been listening all along. “What you need,” he said, eyes twinkling with knowing amusement, “is a sleeping elixir.”

He turned, a small vial pinched between his fingers. “A few drops in his tea, and the guard won’t wake until morning.”

Jory felt the wager as a weight in his palm, a glass container barely larger than his thumb, but heavy.

Jory edged closer, peering through the slightly open door. A thin slice of candlelight spilled into the castle hallway.

The low bell tolled in the distance, its somber notes threading through the castle. Slowly, steadily, it announced what everyone already knew but few would speak aloud.

Martha was dead.

“It’s done,” Oona said with finality. The last bell tolled.

Inside, Oona and Sarah sat by the hearth. The fire painted shimmering gold across their faces. He pressed himself against the cold stone, heart hammering, and listened.

Ward, who should have been posted, was slouched against the wall farther down the corridor, chin to his chest, breaths deep and even.

Sarah flinched as if struck. “We could have stopped them.” Her words were urgent, her fists tightening. She forced herself to stare at the fire instead of meeting Oona’s gaze.

“It was too late, Sarah,” Oona said, gentler now. “Don’t blame yourself.”

A fire burned steadily in the hearth, its light playing across the heavy tapestries that lined the walls, animals and forests coming to life in the irregular illumination. The air was perfumed with lavender and beeswax, a scent that felt alien to Sarah.

The bed dominated the room; it was a grand four-poster, draped in downy furs and embroidered linens, and nothing like the rough pallet she had shared with two others back in Martha’s cottage. The floors were layered with woven rugs so she barely felt the chill beneath her bare feet.

Sarah perched at the edge of the bed, her hands in her lap, twisting the silken fabric of her dress between her fingers. It fit her so well—the dress a deep burgundy, trimmed with gold thread that caught the firelight when she moved.

Her hair was combed and braided neatly down her back, no longer wild with snow and soot. She looked like someone else, someone who should be grateful. But gratitude was the furthest thing from her mind.

Oona studied her carefully. “What’s important is that you survive, Sarah.”

Sarah’s head jerked up. “What do you mean?”

Oona sat beside her. The mattress dipped gently beneath her weight, but the space between them remained deliberate. Careful.

“I didn’t want to tell you this.”

Outside, Jory shifted, leaning closer. A soft shuffle caught Oona’s attention.

“Someone’s there,” she whispered.

She rose in one fluid motion. “Wait here,” she said to Sarah, before stepping out into the hallway.

Jory’s heart pounded. Flattening himself, he hid right behind the door as she opened it and passed, her steps measured as she scanned the hallway. Ward hadn’t moved, but she made her way toward him, inspecting the sleeping man. In a flash, Jory slipped inside the chamber.

Sarah gasped. Before she could speak, he pressed a finger to his lips, then ducked behind a thick tapestry. The fabric was heavy, musty with age, and dust stirred as he pressed against it.

Oona returned seconds later, shutting the door firmly. “Just the guard shifting in a sleep. Elena would be furious,” she murmured, unaware of the extra presence.

She went back to Sarah. The fire cast shadows along the walls, warping their outlines. Oona sat down, breathing out slowly.

“You’re special, like me. You were made for something very different. You have a destiny, Sarah.”

Sarah stiffened. “I know. Martha always said the Candlemakers had a purpose—”

Oona cut her off. “No, Sarah. Not only that. You and I, we’re…” She forced the words out. “We were made.”

Sarah frowned. “Made?”

Oona twisted the fabric of her sleeve.

“We’re machines, Sarah.”

The silence that followed crushed the air from the room. Sarah recoiled like she’d been struck. “No. That’s not true.”

The raw words drove a wedge between them. “You’re wrong.” She was shaking.

Oona reached for her, but Sarah jerked away, scrambling back onto the bed.

“Look,” Oona said, now urgent.

With deliberate slowness, she tugged back her sleeve, revealing the faint scar where Nexus had cut her. Then, pressing her fingers to the wound, she parted her own flesh; and beneath it, metal glinted in the firelight.

Sarah held her breath. She stared. Then:

“No.”

The horror in her voice sent a fresh chill through Oona.

“You’re a machine.” Sarah’s body shook. “I’m not.”

Oona turned her arm over, staring at the exposed metal. The words should not have hurt. But they did. The rejection landed deeper than Sarah could have known.

Glancing up, she caught her reflection in the polished glass of the window. The candlelight glinted off the sheen of her exposed wound.

For the first time, she saw herself how Sarah saw her, as Kael had seen her. A Frankenstein.

Then the tapestry shifted with a rustle. Sarah’s gaze snapped to the side. A shape loomed behind the woven fabric, a figure stepping forward from the darkness.

The tapestry swayed as Jory emerged.

A small bundle slipped from his grip. The honeyed candies he’d brought, the ones he’d helped make himself, scattered across the floor like shattered glass. For a long moment, he just stared. His face had gone pale. His lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came.

Sarah turned to him, panic lacing her breath. “It’s not true, Jory.”

Jory shook his head, only once. Then he spun around and ran. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, each one heavier than the last. Sarah’s heart twisted painfully.

She focused on Oona again, her chest rising and falling too fast.

“You ruined my life.”

She ran.

Oona didn’t follow. She looked down at her arm. At the metal beneath her skin. Then back at the window, and to the shine off her wound.

“What am I?” she whispered.

“How did you know I would be here?” Sarah’s voice was small, almost swallowed by the emptiness of the space.

“Truth is…” Kael said, his words hanging in the stale air between them. “I didn’t.”

She let out a breath. “Then why are you here?”

Kael looked around, taking in the destruction that surrounded them. The scent of old leather and lye hung in the air, mixed with the sharper notes of ash and charred wood. The windowless room beneath the old tannery, untouched by the snow and cold above, was somehow colder than outside.

The meeting room was exactly as he feared. The long table where the Candlemakers had once gathered lay overturned. Pages littered the floor, boot prints stamping out what remained of sacred words. A heavy candlestick lay bent and blackened in a corner, buried in ashes. Only charred beams remained from the resulting fire.

“Same as you, I guess.” The words filled the abandoned chamber. “Chasing ghosts.”

Sarah moved with hesitant steps, as though the ghosts of the room might rise if she disturbed them. Her rough wool coat was gone, replaced with a dark tunic. Braided in back, her black hair still hung unevenly around her face.

As her hand drifted along the edge of the broken table, she lingered on a scorched section where the wood had bubbled and blackened.

“They destroyed everything,” Sarah said, catching her voice on the last word.

Kael moved closer to her. “Not everything. Not us.”

Sarah’s face crumpled. “What am I?” The words cut her throat on the way out.

Kael shook his head, reaching out, pulling her in. She resisted before letting herself be drawn against him, her forehead pressed into his shoulder.

“Oona said… I wasn’t like you. Am I an android?” She pulled back just enough to look at him, searching his face. “I am all alone.”

Kael’s grip on her shoulders tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor her.

“Look, I don’t know what you are. I don’t know what I am anymore.” He spoke in quick, rough bursts. “But we can choose—choose to be, choose to belong, to each other.”

He released her with one hand, reaching around his neck to take off the pendant. The cord slid through his fingers, the metal catching the dim light. And for a second, he held on to it. He didn’t want to let it go, as though he would lose his link to the past. Even so, he held it out to Sarah, the pendant swinging gently between them.

“Here. This was given to me as a promise, a promise of my humanity by someone I cared deeply about.” He swallowed. “Now, it’s yours. If Oona said you were a machine, I say you are human… and this proves it.”

Her pupils bloomed. She reached for it, then stopped, her hand a hair above the cool metal. A tremor ran through her fingers.

Then, instead of taking it, she shook her head. “No, I don’t deserve this.”

Kael frowned. “Sarah—”

“It’s my fault.” The words tumbled out. “I turned her in.”

Kael blinked. “What?”

Sarah’s hands closed around her arms, hugging herself as if to hold herself together. “I betrayed Martha. She’s dead because of me.”

Kael froze. Her words hit like a physical blow; she turned her in. Neither of them spoke as the distant drip of water echoed through the ruined chamber.

Taking a breath, Kael pressed in, gripping her hands, enclosing both the pendant and her fingers in his larger ones.

“No,” he said, struggling to hold in his feelings. “You don’t have to carry that.”

But Sarah shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “I turned her in. I… I—” She gasped for breath.

Kael’s grip tightened as his own guilt roared to the surface—the knife and the lie and the moment he had chosen survival over justice. “If anyone is to blame, it’s me,” he muttered to himself.

Sarah peered up at him, eyes wet, disbelieving. She shook her head, but the words to argue wouldn’t come.

Kael swallowed hard and straightened. His hand rested on her shoulder, grounding both of them. “The point is, we keep going,” he said, nothing betraying the turmoil he felt. “We live with our mistakes, you and I. And we make it right.”

After a moment, Sarah nodded, resting her gaze on the torn pages at her feet. She slipped the necklace over her head, the pendant coming to rest against her chest.

Kael turned away, his gaze falling on the bent candlestick in the ashes. His brow furrowed as a spark of determination lit in his chest, pushing back against the darkness.

The fire wasn’t out.

Chapter 21

“The line separating good and evil passes… right through every human heart.”

Ryn tilted her head, studying Ward. “Sarah hasn’t been by to sweep.”

Ward’s smirk disappeared entirely. The mention of the girl—and, by extension, Martha’s execution—cut through the haze of smoke and firelight at the Broken Needle.

“Since when do you care about missing street rats?”

Ward sat at his usual spot near the hearth, the fire casting long shadows across his lean, tired frame. He watched Ryn work as his fingers traced lazy patterns on the rim of his empty mug. The firelight caught the curve of her hip as she moved between tables, her skirt swaying with each deliberate step. Everything about Ryn seemed calculated, from the loose curl of her dark hair to the way she kept a teasing distance.

“Since when do you pretend not to?” she said.

“Not pretending anything.” Ward stretched his legs toward the fire, his boots scraping against the stone hearth. “World’s cruel. Always has been. Best to look after your own skin. Besides,” he said, taking a drink, “don’t think she’ll be around much anymore to bother you.”

Ryn studied him, her dark eyes unreadable in the dim light. For a moment, a gentler look crossed her face, a glimpse of the woman she might have been in a kinder world.

“And why’s that?” she asked.

“Well,” Ward leaned back, swirling the dregs of his drink, “that old woman she was always with has been put to the stake… by Elena. Keeping up with the old man’s purge. I guess. Named a Candlemaker.”

Ryn went rigid in a shift so subtle most wouldn’t have even noticed. But Ward did.

She turned away too quickly, before Ward could get a look at her. She headed toward the storeroom with a stiffness in her step that hadn’t been there before. She yanked the door open and entered without another word.

Ward frowned as he let the moment sink in. He took a slow drink and then set the mug down deliberately, before standing up and following her.

After a long pause, he knocked.

“Ryn?”

No answer. His hand hovered over the latch, thinking about walking right in. But before he could, he heard the deep sigh, the kind someone takes when forcing control over themselves.

Then, through the door, without opening it, came her voice: “Just running low on liquor.”

Ward raised a brow. “What? You worried people might start sobering up?”

The pause was longer than it should have been. “I’m worried people might start rioting,” she said finally. “Liquor’s the only thing holding this place together.”

Ward leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And here I thought you just enjoyed watching grown men cry into their drinks.”

The latch clicked. The door opened. And Ryn strode through, rolling her shoulders, with her face carefully neutral, except for the teasing curl at the edge of her lips. The light behind her framed her silhouette; her blouse was a little looser at the collar now.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing just enough to accentuate the cut of her figure. Her weight shifted onto one hip, in a deliberate performance.

Ward arched a brow, catching her drift. He knew better than to ask.

“That bad, huh?” he said instead. Her smile was maybe a little too slow, enough to make him wonder.

“You going to help me with the liquor,” she murmured, “or are you just here to watch?”

Ward’s grin stalled halfway. One instinct told him to step back. Another urged him forward. He wasn’t sure which one he hated more.

The moment was broken by the second creak of the tavern door.

The first one hadn’t registered. But louder and more deliberate now, it shattered whatever fragile thing had settled between them. The uneven shuffle of boots reached their ears, followed by the familiar grating squeal of Riven’s cart wheels.

Ward stiffened. That snake.

Ryn adjusted the laces of her blouse, her fingers trembling. She spoke calmly, however.

“We’re closed.”

Riven’s voice slid through the room. “Even for a man with medicine?” His gaze landed on her.

Ward moved to block Riven’s path. “Talk fast, Peddler.”

Riven raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just trying to save lives,” he said, patting his cart. “Fever’s spreading faster than the rumors. Thought you’d want to help.”

Ward caught the hesitation in Ryn.

“What kind of medicine?” she asked, her tone colder than Ward expected.

Ward grabbed her arm. “It’s a trap, Ryn,” he said, “Don’t bite.”

She shrugged free. “Everything’s a trap.”

Riven chuckled, tapping the side of his nose like he was in the know. “Lord Edric’s private stock,” he said, amused. “Liquor to keep the fear at bay, medicine to keep people breathing. Enough to last through the winter. All yours—at a price.”

Ryn crossed her arms. “And what favor do you need?”

Riven smiled; the games had started. “Sarah.”

The name landed heavier than the storm outside. Ryn froze. Her gaze snapped to Ward before returning to Riven, her lips pressed into a line.

“What’s Sarah got to do with you?”

“Nothing,” Riven said quickly. “Nothing at all. Only a scholar’s curiosity.” He waved a hand, dismissively. “The Crown pays handsomely for Candlemaker relics. And for information. I’m just a simple merchant, looking for… stories.”

Ward stiffened, his hand tightening on his sword. “You don’t need to go near her.”

Riven’s smug grin faltered for the briefest moment. Then returned.

“Oh,” Riven said, his tone silk-soft, directed more toward Ryn than Ward. “Martha had that same defiance. Such a shame about her unfortunate end. One might even call it tragic—except that it was the girl Sarah who turned her in, or so I’ve heard.”

Ryn didn’t move. But Ward saw it, like she was resisting the urge to draw a blade.

When she did speak, there was a dangerous edge in her tone. “You seem to know a lot about things that aren’t your business.”

Riven shrugged. “I’ve a right to make a living, like anyone else. Anything I can trade is fair game, artifacts, information…” He adjusted his coat, half-grinning. “And secrets? They pay even better.”

Ward lunged forward and growled, “You’ve said enough.”

Riven raised up his hands, chuckling. “Of course, of course. I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

But as he turned, he drew a map from his pocket. He unfolded slowly, focusing his gaze on Ryn. “But before I go… if you were curious, this will show you where to find Edric’s reserve. No use to him where he is now…”

Ryn hesitated. Her fingers stayed at her side as Ward watched her. The slight shake of his head was enough to tell her: don’t do it.

And for a second, it seemed like she might walk away.

But then, Ryn surged ahead. The moment she snatched the map from Riven’s outstretched hand, the space between her and Ward ripped.

Riven’s grin widened: satisfied. Ward snorted. He wasn’t surprised, just disappointed.

And, as Riven turned to leave, he paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder.

“Oh, and Ward? If you forget about the other half of our deal…” He let the words linger in the air, their implication keeping them afloat. “Well, let’s just say Lady Elena loves a good confession. I know she enjoyed Sarah’s.”

The door swung shut behind him, his cart wheels squealing against the frozen street. Ward turned to Ryn. “We don’t have to do this,” he said deliberately.

Ryn folded the map neatly, tucking it into her coat. When she spoke, it was firm. “Yes, we do.”

She met Ward’s gaze, speaking softly but directly, losing volume but not strength. “You do.”

Ward didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at her for what felt like the last time. Slowly, he started toward the door.

“Sorry, Ryn,” he said quietly. “I can’t.”

Ryn turned her head, resisting an impulse to call after him, and Ward left.

Chapter 22

“I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.”

Sarah sat at the edge of her bed and watched as Mari moved about the chambers—stoking the small fire, laying out fresh linens with hands that trembled slightly despite her efforts to hide them.

Mari winced as she bent to retrieve a fallen cloth, her movements stiff as she straightened.

“Are you in pain?” Sarah asked, breaking the coded silence between them.

Mari froze, her back to Sarah. She had been performing her duties in near silence, looking at Sarah occasionally as if she expected to be scolded or struck. The girl was perhaps a year older than Sarah, with straw-colored hair pulled back in a severe braid and a freckled face that rarely smiled.

“No, miss.” The lie was obvious in the tightness of her voice.

The early morning light filtered weakly through the high windows of Sarah’s room, drenching the stone walls in a gauzy haze and throwing their shapes in long shadows against the furs and stone floor.

“You don’t have to call me miss,” she said. “I’m just Sarah.”

Mari turned, her expression wary. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Proper?” Sarah let out a bitter laugh. “I was a Candlemaker’s ward a week ago. I’ve slept in barns and eaten scraps. There is nothing proper about any of this.” She gestured to the grand chamber around them.

Curiosity overtaking caution, Mari stared at the pendant that hung visibly around Sarah’s neck, not hidden beneath her collar as it usually was.

“That’s new,” Mari said, suggestively.

Sarah’s fingers automatically moved to touch it. “Yes.”

Mari held back, then ventured, “You know people are talking. About you and Master Kael.”

Sarah’s face warmed. “It’s not like that.”

“No?” Mari’s eyebrows lifted. “The Crown’s man gives you gifts, and suddenly you’re in the east wing instead of the servants’ quarters.”

“It’s not a gift,” Sarah said, though the words felt dishonest somehow. “It’s… a promise.” She met Mari’s gaze directly. “And I’m in this room because Elena wants me where she can watch me.”

Mari’s posture eased. She glanced toward the door, then spoke quietly. “They say you’re the last of the Candlemakers. That you know things.”

Sarah tensed. “What sort of things?”

“Their weird ways, their magic. And… remedies,” Mari said simply. She looked around, then rolled up her sleeve to reveal her forearm. The skin was mottled with a rash, angry red patches disappearing up under her sleeve.

“But it’s not only this. My hands…” She held them out, and Sarah could see the slight unnatural curve of the fingers, the swelling at the joints. “And my back. It’s getting worse.”

Sarah studied the rash, careful not to touch. “How long?”

“A year, maybe more.” Mari spoke with no emotion. “Started with just the ache in my fingers. Now I can hardly button a dress some mornings.”

Sarah thought of Oona, of her knowing hands, and the herbs she always carried. But as she considered Mari’s affliction, something strange happened to her. The knowledge bloomed in her mind and information she had never learned suddenly crystallized into certainty.

It wasn’t memory, exactly. More like the cosmos itself opened inside her skull, with vast networks of knowledge assembling themselves, and connections forming between disparate facts. She could almost see the molecular structures of the herbs, suddenly understanding their interactions with human tissue down to the cellular level.

The realization hit her like a sudden sickness, a rush of clarity that made her hands rush to her temples. A flash of heat rose behind her eyes, an overwhelming pressure building in her head, like too many voices speaking at once. It hurt.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the sensation ebbed. But the knowledge remained.

“There’s something that might help,” Sarah said slowly, disoriented by the sudden consciousness. “A tincture with black willow bark as the base, meadowsweet for the inflammation, devil’s claw to restore flexibility to the joints…”

She trailed off, momentarily lost in the strange sensation of knowing things she had never learned.

Hope flashed across Mari’s face. “You know how to make it?”

Snapping back, Sarah nodded. “I’d need some herbs. Black willow bark, meadowsweet, devil’s claw…”

“I don’t think those grow in the castle gardens,” Mari said, plainly disappointed.

“No,” Sarah agreed. “But the market herbwoman would have them.”

Mari rolled her sleeve down, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t afford such things, and I’m not allowed to leave the castle anyway.” She straightened, resuming her duties with the same painful stiffness as before.

“What if I could get them?” Sarah asked. The question surprised even her.

Mari stopped and looked back. “You shouldn’t be leaving the castle either, not with the avalanche and the purges. People…” She broke off, then continued. “They’re talking about you. Like you’re to blame.”

Sarah’s gaze drifted to the window, to the sliver of town visible beyond the castle walls. “Maybe. But I can find my way around…”

Mari studied her carefully. “Why would you risk it? For me?”

Sarah considered the question. Why indeed? This girl had been cool and distant, openly acknowledging the castle gossip about Sarah’s status. But Sarah thought of Kael’s words.

We live with our mistakes, you and I. And we make it right.

“Because I know what it’s like,” Sarah said finally. “To feel your body isn’t what it should be.”

Mari studied her for a long moment, then nodded once. A silent understanding passed between them. She reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a small cloth purse that clinked with the few coins inside. “It’s all I have,” she said, holding it out.

Sarah shook her head. “Keep it. I’ll find another way.”

Sarah moved with purpose, a small basket hooked over her arm, her fingers drifting to the pendant at her chest. She only needed the herbs. Get in, get out.

Then.

“Sarah.”

She froze, recognizing the voice immediately.

Jory stood with a knot of boys near the baker’s stall, gesturing as he spoke. His audience—four castle boys she recognized from the kitchens and stables—hung on his every word, their faces bright with amusement.

Sarah’s cloak was pulled tightly around her shoulders. She walked with her head low, her hood concealing her face. The fine dress was gone, replaced with simpler garments: sturdy boots, woolen trousers, a plain tunic cinched at the waist with a leather belt. She blended, but she could still feel the weight of eyes, not just Jory’s.

And the usual clamor of bartering and haggling had taken on a sharper edge. The few merchants who remained had thinned their displays, their meager stock spread out across tables to make it seem like more.

A few pigs hung limp on a butcher’s hooks, their ribs jutting sharp beneath their hides. A handful of withering apples sat in a crate. The baker’s stall had a few rounds of black bread.

Winter was loosening its grip, but spring came reluctantly to these heights; piles of dirty snow, compacted and streaked with soot, still sat in the corners of the square where the roads had been cleared. Everyone’s breath clouded before them.

Jory was laughing—easy and carefree, like nothing had changed at all. Like he hadn’t looked at her like she was a monster that night in her chambers.

Sarah should have walked away and ignored him. But she didn’t.

She turned slightly, enough to see his face. A sickness churned inside her. Jory’s laughter died the moment he caught her movement. The casual lightness in his face evaporated.

“I didn’t—”

Sarah cut him off with nothing more than a look. And then she walked right past him. And when she did, her shoulder lightly touched his as they passed.

And in that moment, she saw the pain that flashed across his face, quickly replaced by a forced smirk as he turned back to the boys.

“Anyway,” he said too loudly, “like I was saying…”

Sarah didn’t hear the rest. She didn’t care to. She locked onto her target: the herb seller’s table. The old woman saw her approach and nodded, already reaching for the bundles of dried plants Sarah needed.

The transaction was quick. Too quick. She wasn’t paying attention because something, or someone, moved behind her.

Two of Jory’s friends had shifted, standing a little too casually in her way. Sarah’s fingers tightened around her basket.

“Excuse me,” she said flatly.

They didn’t move and they weren’t looking at her. They were pretending to be in their own conversation, standing directly in her way.

“Did you hear?” the taller one said, dripping with mock innocence. “They’re saying a Candlemaker burned at the stake and came back to life. Walks around town at night, looking for children who aren’t in bed.”

The other boy smirked.

“My cousin saw her. Said her skin was melted off on one side—gears and springs underneath.”

A cold chill crept up Sarah’s spine. Martha was human. And if she were alive, she’d whip these mutts.

The tall one took a half-step closer.

“They say there are other Candlemakers. Hiding among us. Not really people at all.”

His gaze slid over Sarah, deliberately slow.

Sarah squinted. “Move,” she said.

The other boy didn’t smirk this time. “What’s your hurry, witch? Got some candles to make?”

Sarah was done. She marched ahead, without so much as flinching. “The only spell I know,” she said calmly, quietly, “turns annoying boys into smelly rats, which they already are anyway.”

It was enough to get the tall one’s attention. He laughed, but it was forced. “She’s threatening us now. Hear that? What do you think the Castle Lady would say about threats from a Candlemaker’s pet?”

The mention of Elena sent a cold shiver down Sarah’s spine. She took a breath, ready to push past them.

Then came the crash.

A cart had overturned near the well, heavy barrels tumbling free. People scattered, voices rising in alarm. One barrel, larger than the rest, broke loose from its bindings.

And a child stood frozen in its path.

Time slowed.

Sarah moved. Her body responded with impossible precision, calculations running through her mind faster than conscious thought.

Three strides, and she was there. She scooped the child into her arms, pivoting on one foot, momentum carrying her in a smooth arc as the barrel missed them by inches. But it was still rolling—right toward an elderly man who hadn’t moved fast enough.

Sarah reacted. Transferring the child to her left arm, she extended her right hand, her palm connecting with the barrel’s side.

She pushed. Not frantically, but with calibrated force. The barrel slowed and wobbled, and then settled harmlessly against a market stall.

The entire sequence had taken maybe five seconds. Meanwhile, the market had gone silent. Sarah just stood there; the child still clutched against her chest. And as the little boy squirmed in her arms, she set him carefully down.

“Did you see that?” someone said under their breath.

“How did she move so fast?”

“No one could stop a barrel that size with one hand, yet a child—”

Sarah staggered back, suddenly aware of how exposed she was. Her basket lay forgotten, herbs scattered across the cobblestones. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder and their stares more intent.

The boys gaped. “She’s one of them,” the tall one said.

But Jory came forward.

“It was the slope,” Jory said, loud enough for everyone to hear. He gestured to the market’s slight incline. “The barrel was slowing down, and she just guided it. Anyone could’ve done the same.”

Sarah stared, masking her surprise.

The child’s mother burst through the crowd, sobbing. She clasped Sarah’s hands. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Sarah only nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Jory bent, retrieving her basket. As he handed it to her, he said, “You dropped this.”

Sarah took it, searching his eyes. Jory hesitated before speaking, finally saying, “I don’t know what you are,” he said finally. “But I know who you are.”

And then, he walked away. Sarah stood rooted in place. The whispers and suspicion remained. She looked down at her hands.

She had felt it, too. The thing that made them stare, the thing rising in her.

And for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she should run from it… or toward it.

Chapter 23

“Behold these hollow beings—mere glowing wires, forged to flesh. That time did not wait for.”

Rap, rap, rap.

The urgent knocking rattled the warped wooden door, the sound vibrating through the dim cottage. Oona glanced up, her concentration momentarily broken.

Outside, the sun was setting, its fading light filtering through the grimy windowpanes in thin golden shafts. Twilight settled in layers of violet and crimson. Hazy light stretched long rays across the small, cluttered space, catching swirling patterns of dust.

The knocking came again, harder this time.

Ignore it.

Oona turned back to the table. Her instruments were laid out precisely: glass vials, metal probes, gauze soaked red from what she had already done. Her chest was open; the incision had been exact and the skin peeled back in clean, surgical lines.

And there it was. The soft blue glow of her core pulsed in delicate, unreadable patterns, casting eerie lights against the walls. No heart, no soul—just trillions of circuits.

Her hands were steady as she positioned the probe, the crystal tip hovering millimeters from the core’s center. A single thrust—calculated at the exact angle and depth—would cause a collapse. There wouldn’t be any continuity.

And it would be fitting in an almost poetic way. She had learned of the divine purpose from the Candlemakers. Oona believed; indeed, she instructed others. She had built her life on faith, woven it into every healing touch and every whispered prayer.

But now she saw the truth. She had been made, not born. She was a machine, programmed to mimic faith and a vessel pretending at humanity. Where was that higher power now?

Her grip tightened on the probe.

Rap. Rap. RAP.

The pounding against the door was frantic now, shaking the frame.

“Healer!” a boy cried. “Please, Ma’am! My mom—she’s burning with fever!”

The probe trembled in her fingers. She shut her eyes. Not now. Why now? Of course, someone would need her now, at her final moment… some luck.

She forced herself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

Then, she turned her head, catching her reflection in the small mirror propped against the wall.

Amber eyes, wide with feelings she couldn’t even parse. Her face, so perfectly symmetrical, so perfectly human. And yet, her chest lay open beneath the dark curtain of her hair, her own hands wet with her own blood.

What was she—a healer? A construct? A person? A thing? The knocking wouldn’t stop.

“She needs your help,” the voice cracked, breaking under the weight of grief. “There’s four of us kids. Please, lady.”

Oona’s fingers loosened. The probe clattered against the wooden table.

She drew a sharp breath, threading a quick stitch through her own skin, sealing the wound as best she could. Her hands were shaking.

“I’m coming!” she called, sounding calmer than she felt.

She grabbed a clean cloth, wiping the blood from her fingers. Her core was hidden once more, buried beneath flesh.

“How long?” Oona asked, setting down her bag and moving to the bedside.

The woman lay in a small bed against the far wall, deep in the throes of fever, hardly able to speak. Strands of damp hair clung to her face, etched with age and some unknown grief.

“Three days,” Jory whispered. The usual bravado was gone. “Started with a cough. Then the fever came.”

Oona placed a hand on the woman’s forehead, feeling the unnatural heat beneath her damp skin.

She moved swiftly, preparing a remedy, and as she did, she surveyed the small cottage. Its plaster walls were peeling, rough-hewn timbers supporting a thatched roof in need of repair. The wooden floor had been swept clean.

The empty cupboards stood open with barren shelves. A single pot hung over dying embers in the hearth. Two younger girls, Jory’s siblings, hovered near the doorway, their fascinated stares moving between Oona and their mother.

Oona’s fingers worked on instinct, crushing herbs and measuring tinctures.

“When did she last eat?” Oona asked quietly.

Jory looked away. “We manage.”

But they weren’t managing. In fact, none of them were.

She eased the woman’s head up, pressing the vial gently to her lips. The liquid slid down her throat in slow, careful swallows. Oona murmured something—half to the woman, half to herself. The fever’s grip wouldn’t break immediately, but the worst of it had passed. She would wake and recover.

Oona exhaled, the tension loosening inside her. But then she looked again at the empty cupboards, at the little girls still watching. They needed food and medicine, things that Threadneedle didn’t have.

The avalanche had cut them off. The winter had been brutal. And for all Elena’s cruelty, the Crown could bring supplies and order.

She had spent so long believing in the world the Candlemakers had preached—believing the world would right itself if people had faith. But faith wasn’t feeding these children.

Jory’s mother stirred, her eyelids fluttering open just a fraction. Oona smoothed her hair back, feeling the damp strands against her fingers.

“She’ll be all right,” Oona said, turning to Jory. “But she needs food. Broth and bread, if you can get it. Anything to build her strength.”

Jory shifted on his feet.

Oona reached into her cloak and pulled out a gold coin. It felt heavy in her palm. Too heavy.

“Here,” she said.

Jory stiffened. “No, ma’am, I can’t.” He didn’t take it. “We should be paying you. We don’t have much, but…”

He shifted his stance. His street instincts flared. With a flourish, Jory pulled a silver coin from behind his youngest sister’s ear. The little girl gasped, delighted.

He grinned, holding it up between two fingers before offering it to Oona.

It wasn’t worth a fraction of the gold she had offered. But she took it anyway, slipping it into her pocket.

“Thank you,” was all she said.

She started to go, but Jory’s voice stopped her.

“Wait.”

She turned around.

“You know Sarah?” Jory asked. “Are you the same? I mean… as her.”

Oona went stiff, holding her breath.

“She’s a healer, too,” he continued. “She’s… amazing. I just want you to know that. If you see her, tell her I said that.”

Oona stared at him blankly. She didn’t know what she had expected, but it wasn’t that.

For a moment, all that had transpired rushed over her like a confession. Kael’s rejection. Sarah pushing her away. The moment she had nearly ended it all.

And yet… here she stood. Appreciated.

“I will,” Oona said.

Outside in the cool night air, she let out a long breath. For the first time in days, she felt lighter.

Chapter 24

“A blade is only as true as the hand that wields it.”

“Come on,” Ryn muttered, her breath fogging in the freezing air.

The door didn’t budge.

She tugged again at the low metal hatch set into the ground, half-buried beneath a crust of snow. The map lay open beside her, its edges curling in the wind. The handle bit into her palms as she pulled with everything she had. Her muscles burned. But the lock held.

Scheiße. She kicked the edge of it in frustration.

The sound echoed too far.

She held her breath.

The wind howled around her, stinging her exposed skin. Above, the tower’s dark spire stabbed into the starlit sky, impossibly high. Moonlight streaked through shifting clouds, glinting off the frost-encrusted stone.

Then—crunch. Boots punched through the crusted snow.

Her pulse slammed as she spun, already knowing. A figure emerged from the darkness, broad shoulders first, then the gleam of a sword hilt catching the moonlight: Garrick.

“What do we have here?” he said over the wind with unmistakable amusement. “Ryn.” He tsked. “Out for a stroll? Trespassing on Crown property?”

Ryn forced her stance to stay casual. “Didn’t realize the snow answered to the Crown.”

The steady fall of Garrick’s boots was calm against the storm forming inside her.

“You’ve got a smart mouth.” His smirk was slow. “Let’s see how long it lasts when Lady Elena hears about this.”

She edged back, boots skidding on ice-crusted dirt. Garrick moved faster. His hand shot out; fingers clamped around her arm like iron cuffs.

“What exactly are you doing here?” His breath steamed in the night air.

Ryn jerked against his grip. “Get off me.”

Suddenly a loud crack. A violent shudder ran through the ground. The lock on the hatch hung crooked, split clean in two. The faint hum of a blade slicing through air followed.

Garrick flinched as his head snapped toward the sound.

Stepping out of the shadows, Ward’s sword glinted in the starlight. He left the smirk behind, along with the swagger.

“Let her go.” He spoke evenly, but edged.

Garrick’s grip tightened. “Ward? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Giving you a chance to walk away.”

A gust of wind tore through them, rattling the tower’s iron braces.

Garrick scoffed. “No. No, you fool.” His gaze moved between them, calculating. “Why get involved?”

Ward didn’t blink.

“You’d throw it all away for this?” Garrick’s grin widened. “For her?”

Still, Ward didn’t move.

“She’s a whore, Ward. Been with half the men in town.”

Ward’s grip on his sword twitched. But he didn’t lower it.

“You’re wrong.”

Garrick’s smirk faded. He moved in, speaking lower. “You think stealing from Edric’s corpse will save us?” His tone was knife-edged. “We need order, not whatever this is.”

Ryn saw the tension coil in Ward’s frame, his breath shallow. This wasn’t going to end clean, and she knew it. She moved before she could think.

“I’ll go with him,” she said, her voice quieter than she meant. “He’s right—this isn’t the way. We’ve been fools.”

Ward turned to her, his expression unreadable. “It’s not your choice.”

Garrick scoffed. “See? Even she knows.”

Then his hand moved to his sword.

Ward struck first. The clash was brief and brutal. Sparks scattered against the ice as their blades met, steel carving through the night. Garrick drove forward, forcing Ward back step by step, boots scraping against packed snow.

Then—just as suddenly—Garrick stopped. He exhaled, lowering his sword with a growl. “You’ll regret this,” he muttered. “Both of you.”

He disappeared into the dark. Ryn let out a breath.

Ward didn’t speak. He knelt by the hatch, pushing it open. Stale air rushed up, thick with dust.

“You coming?” he asked, looking up.

Ryn lingered just a moment before she stepped inside. Their boots crunched in the snow as they crossed the threshold and disappeared into the dark.

The fire in Garrick’s hearth had burned low, embers casting faint reddish light across the rough-hewn walls.

“You’re hurt,” Merina said, crossly.

She set the cloak she’d been mending aside, the fabric pooling in her lap as she rose. Bare feet padded softly across the floorboards, the skin toughened from years of tending their home. She reached for him, her touch barely catching the edge of his cloak.

“It’s nothing,” Garrick muttered, tone harder than he intended.

He shrugged away from her touch, dropping heavily onto the bench near the table. Snow clung to his boots, melting into shallow puddles on the worn floor. His broad shoulders were hunched as if still bracing against the wind.

Merina’s hand hovered between them before falling to her side. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”

Garrick ran a hand over his face, fingers digging into the silver at his temples. Weighing whether to say anything. Deciding against it.

“You’ve come home like this too many nights.” She measured her cadence, though the firelight danced in her eyes. “Carrying something you won’t share with me.”

He said nothing.

She breathed deeply, almost a sigh. “Look around you, Garrick. The fields are buried under snow, the people are starving, and the Crown’s answer is to hang a candlemaker and call it justice. We can’t trust them.”

“That’s Elena’s answer, Merina. Not the Crown.” He said, already exhausted. He lifted his head, dark eyes flashing. “And you think I don’t see what’s happening out there? You think I don’t know what’s been asked of me—of us?”

Merina’s lips pressed together. “Then why do you keep doing it?”

The cracks in her voice let out more emotion than she wanted to be seen. “Why keep following their orders when you know it’s breaking you?”

“Because if I don’t, someone worse will.” Garrick rose suddenly, towering over her. His broad frame cast a shadow across hers. “If I step aside, they’ll send someone who won’t think twice about cutting down every last villager who so much as breathes wrong.”

“And what will be left of you when they’re done?”

Only the fire crackled.

Garrick dropped an octave. “We don’t have a choice,” he said. “I’ve seen what happens when people like us—people who look like us—step out of line. They don’t just punish us, Merina. They punish everything we’ve ever cared about.”

Merina took a small step closer. This time, he didn’t pull away.

“Tell me what happened tonight,” she murmured.

Garrick exhaled. “Ward’s in trouble. He did something he shouldn’t have. Problem is, I wasn’t the only one watching. I saw a light in the tower.”

His pitch sank, even deeper, thick with warning. “I walked away, but if he gets caught stealing from the Castle supplies…” He looked directly at her. “They’ll come for us, too.”

A quick breath. Merina swallowed. “Ward… did something? Is that how you got hurt?”

She took another step forward. “What are you going to do?”

Garrick didn’t answer at first. His head lowered.

“The town is at the end of its rope,” he muttered.

Merina shivered. The look in his eyes.

“Garrick,” she whispered. “What are you going to do?”

Chapter 25

“Poverty is the parent of revolution and crime.”

Asour candy appeared behind her ear, plucked from thin air by quick hands. The little girl gasped in delight, her wide eyes locking on Jory.

Her mother smiled, reaching out to pat his shoulder in thanks—

And then, a loaf of bread tumbled from his sleeve.

Near the center of the square, a vendor tracked Jory like a hungry wolf.

“Thief!” the man roared, his arm swinging wildly toward him. “That’s all I have left!”

Jory ran.

His worn boots slapped against the icy slush, slipping, stumbling. The loaf nearly fell from his grip as he darted between bodies, his breath coming in fast.

The market wasn’t much of a market anymore. The ground had churned into a trench of mud and frost, the skeletal stalls stocked with a few sacks of damp grain, dried berries clumped together like stone, and slabs of gray, frozen meat.

“Stop him!” another voice bellowed, but the crowd barely reacted.

People surged forward, pushing and grasping as if Jory’s stolen loaf had suddenly become more valuable than gold.

Kael moved through the chaos, his shoulders tight, braced against the noise. His hand hovered near his sword, knuckles whitening around the hilt.

Hunger was a force now, hanging in the air, mingling with the smell of tallow and spoiled flour. It made tempers snap and hands grasp harder. And someone lunged for it.

Jory stumbled—his knees hitting the frozen ground. The bread fell and the crowd closed in, hands scraping and clawing, hoping to salvage even crumbs.

A burly man grabbed Jory by the collar, hauling him up like a sack of grain. The vendor struck him. Hard. The sound cracked through the square.

“You little rat,” the vendor snarled, shaking him like a caught rabbit. “Don’t think you’re getting away with this.”

Another blow—Jory’s head snapped sideways.

“Stop.”

The voice cut through the fray—Ryn.

She stormed into the chaos with eyes blazing as she planted herself between the boy and the vendor.

The vendor scowled. “Get outta here, Barkeep. This ain’t your business.”

“It is when you’re beating a child,” she shot back, her voice like steel.

The vendor’s face darkened. With a shove, he knocked her down into the mud.

Kael moved. His shadow fell over them. He didn’t look at Ryn—not yet. Instead, he turned to the vendor and reached into his cloak.

The vendor gazed suspiciously at Kael. “What’s that?”

“Payment.”

Kael tossed the coin into the vendor’s hands. Crown’s gold. The vendor weighed the coin in his palm.

“Gold?” He smiled. “What good is that now?” He gestured wildly at the empty stalls. “We’re going to starve. The Crown’s gold can’t fill an empty belly.”

Kael shot him a look. “Then return it.”

The vendor’s gaze went from the gold to the boy. Muttering, he finally released Jory, gripping the coin tight. Jory staggered back, hands clutching his ribs. He looked at the bread, now trampled into the mud.

“This isn’t over,” the vendor muttered before storming back to his stall.

Suddenly, the market, for all its hunger and fury, stood still. And Kael finally exhaled, his shoulders relaxing.

“You think that fixes anything?” Ryn’s voice sliced through the quiet that briefly settled over the scene.

Kael turned toward her; Ryn’s fiery expression was all disdain.

“I bought him some mercy.”

Ryn barked a bitter laugh. “Mercy? That’s what you call it? Tossing the Crown’s gold around like it can fix anything?”

She pressed in, voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “You think your gold buys you forgiveness? Buys back everything you’ve done here?”

Kael retreated, looking down; he hadn’t expected the words to land so heavy. “I did what I could,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to make this right.”

Ryn shook her head, still burning up inside. “Did you?” Her voice was sharp, slicing through him. “Or are you just trying to make yourself feel better?”

She leaned in, her breath visible in the cold. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re still the same Crownsman who thinks he can buy his way out of the blood on his hands.”

Kael didn’t reply. The two stood locked in silence, the noise of the market a distant hum. Finally, Ryn turned away.

“You’re no better than the rest of them.”

Kael watched her go, as he felt something: a tug, on his coat. Jory.

“Listen, Mister.” The boy’s voice was raw, his face bruised. “I’ll pay you back.”

The market’s clamor swelled again, but it felt distant. Muted. For all his gold, Kael couldn’t buy back what was broken. He felt its uselessness.

He glanced at the ruined bread, buried in the mud. Slowly, he reached for his pouch. Heavy with gold. He held it out.

“Take it.”

Jory shook his head. Then he ran, fast as his legs could go.

Chapter 26

“The strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack.”

“Elena’s the only woman not here.”

The words overstayed their welcome, a sharp note against the din that filled the tavern.

“Of course not,” Ryn said, her voice low but biting as she passed out ale. “Does Elena need to hide out with the rest of us? She has her guards and her speeches and her gallows. What does she care?”

The Broken Needle was quieter than usual; gone was the drunken laughter, the raucous chatter. Left were the dull clink of cups, the shifting of feet, and the undercurrent of hunger.

The women of Threadneedle had gathered.

Merina sat near the fire, hands folded tight in her lap, her mending forgotten. Around her, the butcher’s widow, the midwife, the baker crowded in—faces that had aged too much over the winter. The fire threw long, dancing shadows against the walls, but the warmth of it barely touched the room.

Oona stood near the bar, waiting for the low hum of voices to settle. A skeptical voice came from the back.

“Why now?” The butcher’s widow said. “They already got what they wanted. Martha’s gone. The executions are over. What’s left to fight?”

Her words sent a ripple through the group; some nodded and others shifted uncomfortably.

The midwife spoke next, twisting her shawl between her fingers. “What are you asking us to do, Oona? We’re not soldiers. We’re not Candlemakers.”

“We need the Crown,” Oona said.

The words sliced the air like a guillotine and a heavy silence rolled off.

Ryn laughed, dryly, but the sound was humorless. “You want to kill us all.”

Merina’s head snapped toward her. “I guess some of us have reason not to wish the Crown here.”

“You mean Garrick does,” Ryn shot back.

The tension between the two was brittle now, close to breaking.

“The market’s gone,” the baker said, her voice thin. “We’re starving. Words or good intentions alone ain’t going to feed us.”

“You think the Crown will?” Ryn’s voice cut through. “Elena isn’t the one hoarding the food, Oona. The nobles don’t give a damn what happens to us.”

Oona held her ground. “Regardless, they’ll open the pass,” she said evenly. “At least that will bring the traders through. The Castle’s got Crown’s gold enough to supply an army.”

A few murmurs rippled through the room. Some hesitated, but one woman came forward. Then another. Merina watched, not budging. Then she lifted her cup. “To the Crown, then.”

Ryn exhaled, raising her own mug. “No, to each other.”

As the women drank, the moment held—too tense, too fragile. Then, from somewhere, someone said, “Must be nice to drink so freely.”

The words were quiet, but they cut. All eyes turned to Merina, the speaker. She was staring at the shelves stocked with fresh bottles of ale, the ones that weren’t there a few nights ago.

Ryn set down her cup a little too carefully.

“You’ve been up at the castle,” Merina continued. “Looks like the Broken Needle’s been resupplied.”

The butcher’s widow shouted out, “Where’d you get it?”

Another voice joined in, “Yeah.”

“We’ve got some untapped stores,” Ryn said quickly and smoothly. “In fact, I need to go back there now… to replace some that you all have taken so freely.”

Merina didn’t blink. “Untapped. Right.”

Ryn turned away, but the damage was done.

The chatter started again. Merina let the moment stretch before standing, straightening her skirts. “You’ll need help, then,” she said lightly, following Ryn toward the storeroom.

Oona looked between them, but she didn’t stop them. Not yet. The storeroom door creaked faintly as it shut behind them. The scent of earth and spilled ale saturated the room. Lantern light scattered through the cramped space, casting broken light over the crates and barrels.

Ryn leaned against the wall with her arms crossed. Merina didn’t speak at first. She was only looking at her. And that was worse.

“You have something with me?” Ryn finally muttered, forming her hands into fists, as if ready to throw a punch.

Merina advanced menacingly, ready to throw her weight into the fight. “Garrick knows about Ward.”

Ryn pulled back, straightening against the wall.

“He’s not saying nothing, but I know that look he had in his eye,” Merina continued, voice steady but low. “And I don’t know what he’s going to do with it.”

Silence. Then, “You think this is my fault?” Ryn’s voice was quiet but laced with something edgy.

“I think,” Merina said slowly, “that you don’t think past your own damn nose.”

Ryn squinted at her, sideways.

“You really think we can steal from the castle and no one’s gonna notice?” Merina leaned in, almost touching her. “You’re acting like the Crown’s the only danger, but people are hungry, Ryn. You don’t think they’ll come looking when they figure out you’ve been stealing? Elena will have all our heads.”

Ryn’s nails dug into her palms. “I wasn’t stealing—”

“Whatever. You were being reckless,” Merina snapped. “And you dragged Ward into it. And now us.”

Ryn pushed back. “Oh, Nobody drags Ward into anything. He made his choice.”

Merina’s stare didn’t waver. “And you’re fine with that choice, putting us at risk?”

Something flashed in Ryn’s expression. “We’re all at risk anyway,” she said. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” Merina agreed. “But you did it.”

The words settled it.

Merina broke first. “You know, maybe you’re right about Ward,” she muttered. “But if this all goes wrong, we’ll all be dead.”

She turned toward the door. Her hand hovered on the latch. When she opened it, the light from the tavern spilled into the room, blinding her. She squinted as her eyes adjusted, scanning the room. But the energy was gone, replaced by quiet tension.

The butcher’s widow sat stiffly, hands gripping the edge of the table, while the midwife spoke to the baker with a low, urgent voice, looking at the door.

Oona stood near the fire, watching and waiting. This time, the room wasn’t murmuring with doubt; it was waiting for direction. Ryn slid back to the bar. She picked up her half-finished drink but didn’t sip it. Merina stood by the hearth.

Finally, the midwife broke the silence. “So, what now?”

Oona didn’t hesitate. “We need more than just words.”

No one argued.

Chapter 27

“Power is not a means; it is an end.”

“Elena,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, chains clanking on his wrists. His lips twisted into a bitter grin. “Come to gloat?”

In the dim confines of the dungeon cell, she edged nearer. The lantern’s light caught the sharp planes of her cheekbones, her lips forming a faintly triumphant line. Her free hand hovered near the ring of keys at her hip, the metal jingling faintly as she walked. She had always been this way: controlled, precise, and calculating.

“No, Marcus,” she said, her tone edged with iron. “I’ve come to end this foolishness.”

The torch sputtered in its sconce, sending shards of flickering light against the damp stone walls. At first, he thought it might be a trick of exhaustion, but as his vision cleared, his sister remained, real as ever.

The cell was sparse—a crude wooden bench against one wall, a tarnished chamber pot shoved into the corner, and iron shackles binding his right wrist to the floor. Marcus sat up slowly, wincing as the metal bit into his skin.

A brittle laugh escaped him, echoing through the dungeon’s silence. “You think chains and executions can kill faith?” His voice was rough. “You mean this for evil, but—” He gestured vaguely, rattling the chain at his wrist. “It doesn’t matter what you do. The truth always outlives tyrants.”

Elena tilted her head. “Faith.” She drew the word out as if weighing it. “Let’s not pretend that’s what this was about for you. You were never a believer, Marcus. You latched onto the Candlemakers to spite Father. To spite me.”

Through the bars, she stood cloaked in crimson, the rich fabric flowing around her like poured wine. Her dark hair framed a pair of cruel and animated eyes—Father’s eyes.

Marcus’s smirk faltered, replaced with something colder. “Go on, Elena. Rewrite my story if it helps you sleep.”

“See? You can’t even deny it,” she said, releasing a soft sigh. “He’s dead now, Marcus. Gone. The man who made you rebel. The man you hated so much. But I need you… Threadneedle needs you.”

She let the words dangle between them like a baited hook.

Marcus saw the ring of keys at her side. “And what?” he asked. “I swear loyalty to the Crown? To you?”

“To your family,” Elena corrected. Her voice was coaxing now. “We’re blood. You don’t belong with those deluded, superstitious idiots. Martha’s dead. The Candlemakers, no more. Their faith, their stories, forgotten, just like every other failed rebellion.”

Marcus breathed out a laugh. “Forgotten?” he echoed. “Is that what Father told you? That he’d burn it all down, purge the faith from this land?”

Something crossed Elena’s face, breaking her composure—a hesitation.

“It doesn’t matter what Father thought,” she said coolly. “He’s gone.”

“No,” Marcus said, leaning forward despite the chains pulling at his wrists. “The world is as he tried to make it—by force, by fear. But did he ever tell you why he chose this place? Why Threadneedle?”

Elena’s fingers tightened around her keys. “What are you talking about? Father heard the voice of Escheron the Bound, first Lord of Threadneedle.”

Marcus let out a short, bitter laugh. “A ghost from the Age of Crowns and Chains? That old story? How many times did we hear about the fall of Rome, the rise of Threadneedle—a fortress raised in the mountain pass, a seat of judgment, trade, and secrets?”

“Well, Escheron was the first of the Edric legacy…”

“But is it really him the stones remember?” Marcus interrupted. “The tower, Elena. The one Father was so obsessed with. Did you never wonder about it?”

Her silence was answer enough.

“This wasn’t just about stamping out faith to serve the Crown,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow filled the cell. “This was about power. True power. Ask yourself, Elena—why was Kael sent here? Why does the Crown even care about this backwater, frozen place?”

Her brows knitted together, but she didn’t speak at all.

“They feared him,” Marcus pressed, his voice gaining strength. “They were going to execute Father. If whoever killed him hadn’t beaten them to it—”

“Martha,” Elena interrupted.

“You believe that?” Marcus shook his head, his grin darkening. “You’re more of a fool than any of the Candlemakers.” He let the moment stretch, then added, softer, “Have you ever heard of the Covenant?”

Pause. “Another myth,” Elena replied, but there was something in the way she said it, like someone repeating a story she wished she could forget.

“No.” Marcus’s voice was steady. “It’s real—at least, Father believed it was. The doomsday device, a bomb to end worlds. Can you imagine the power someone would have—Father, the Crown—if they held the keys to that? World-changing power.”

Elena drew closer, something faltering in her usual mask of control. “Right here? In the tower?”

“Why do you think he chose Threadneedle?” Marcus pressed. “Why do you think he spent years shut away, poring over texts, searching for a way to control it?”

Her breathing quickened, but she brushed it off with a scoff. “Fairy tales. After the First Android War, the code was destroyed. By…” She looked up, trying to remember. Then she shook her head, more certain than she wanted to be. “The Council of Seven. It was lost forever.”

“Not destroyed,” Marcus corrected. “Fractured. The Council splintered the Covenant key across the multiverse so no machine could ever reassemble it. Father swore something—or someone—was hunting the shards, forging a living key the tower needed to draw them back.”

Elena’s expression hardened, but Marcus saw the flicker of doubt before she could hide it.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” Marcus tried to pull it out of her. “Oona.”

Elena flinched. His smile widened, with no amusement in it. “Father spent countless nights locked away, trying to unlock her—why? All those hours in the study… what do you think he was really chasing?”

The keys at Elena’s belt jingled faintly. She gathered her composure. “Impossible. The Crown purged every scrap of tech after the Last Android War.”

“Thirty-five years ago, yes. But not everything,” Marcus said, voice low. “They left the tower intact,” he continued, glancing up toward the mountainous spire outside the dungeon walls, “gambling on the power buried in the Covenant. Suppose one android—one survivor—endured there. It could rebuild what the Council scattered after the First Android War: the Covenant’s doomsday code, fractured across countless worlds. Suppose it found a way to reproduce… to reassemble—”

Elena’s breath caught. “Reassemble?”

“The Covenant key,” Marcus whispered, watching fear bloom in her eyes.

“Elena,” Marcus said, his voice gentler now. “This isn’t over. You can lock me away, kill me, do whatever you think will protect your throne. But the truth—about the tower, about Oona—it’s coming. And the Crown won’t save you from what’s waiting.”

She didn’t speak. Her fingers tightened around the keys.

Then, without looking at him, she dropped them to the floor. The sharp clang echoed through the dungeon.

And without another word, Elena turned and walked away.

Chapter 28

“The night is darkest just before the dawn.”

Oona stood at the tower door, fingers closing around the key. The lock was stiff with disuse. She tugged, and it gave with a reluctant groan.

She froze. There was a presence behind her. A shadow spilled across the stones. She turned.

“Kael.” His name left her lips like a gentle breath. She straightened, composing herself, though her heart raced.

“Why are you here?” Oona’s amber eyes caught stray rays of light filtering through the storm clouds as she scanned the empty path to the tower. “Did you follow me?”

Above them, the dark tower parted the clouds like a blade thrust into the sky. The ancient stones, bearing scars from countless years, formed a monolithic silhouette against the turbulent heavens—not merely a watchtower, but a temple.

Kael’s face was half-hidden by the high collar of his cloak, but his gaze was focused on hers. Far below, the small village huddled, its lights nearly swallowed by the encroaching dusk.

“You shouldn’t be here, Oona.” His voice was urgent. “Ryn warned me you were up to something.”

“Ryn,” she whispered, the betrayal moving across her features before hardening into something else.

Then, unexpectedly, her shoulders sagged. “Kael, you were right,” she admitted, the words clearly difficult. “We need the Crown—they’ll bring supplies, order, and traders will follow.”

Kael stared at her, surprise washing over his features before deepening into confusion. The shifting clouds cast alternating patterns of light and shadow over the tower and across his face. The realization dawned on him.

“You can’t light the brazier, Oona.” He moved closer, urgency in every line of his body. “You were right… We don’t need them.”

“What we have is no food,” she countered, her voice edged. “People are dying. More will die.” She pushed the heavy door inward.

Stale air rushed out to meet them—the scent of dust and ancient stone. The circular chamber within was bare except for the spiral staircase that wound upward into darkness.

“Look, Oona,” Kael said, following her inside. “I’ve been wrong about some things.” He struggled with the words. “Before, I didn’t see—or couldn’t see—what really mattered. The Candlemakers, they knew something. We think that bread is all that matters. But this bread is death.”

Oona’s foot was already on the first tread, her hand against the rough-hewn stone of the wall.

“You were right,” he continued, reaching out to grasp her arm gently, interrupting her stride. His touch was warm against the chill air. “We must have—faith.”

Their gazes locked. Outside, the wind picked up, sending a swirl of snow through the still-open door, the flakes dancing around them like displaced stars.

“No.” Oona pulled away, her expression darkening. “You know what I am. I can’t have faith. I’m just a machine—a wind-up toy.” She gave a bitter laugh, the sound bouncing off the ancient walls. “It’s useless, Kael. The Crown will come regardless. They’ll destroy the rest of us machines. We might be the cause of it.”

She started up the long stone stairway, her footsteps hollow in the narrow corridor. The edges of the steps were smooth from centuries of boots, worn into shallow depressions like ancient river stones.

Kael moved quickly, taking the steps two at a time until he caught up, forcing her against the curved wall of the stairwell, his body blocking her path upward. The space was narrow, intimate. She could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the leather of his jerkin, and the faint pine scent that clung to his skin.

“No, you’re not,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “You have more faith than any of us. You taught me—taught me to hope again, to believe. What you said, long ago, when I was a boy, do you remember?”

His face was close to hers now, so close she could see the flecks of gold in his irises, feel his breath on her cheek. This time, she didn’t pull away as he moved closer.

Their lips met, tentative at first, then deeper, longer—a kiss that spoke of longing, of fear, of something that transcended flesh and metal and the boundaries between what was made and what was born.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Kael took her hand. His fingers intertwined with hers, warm and calloused.

“You told me this—the future is not ours to decide,” he said softly, “but what is ours, is this: we can choose us, and we can choose hope.”

He led her back down the steps, toward the open door. She followed without resistance this time, their footsteps falling in unison against the stone. The night air rushed to meet them, cold and crisp, as they passed beyond the tower walls.

The door swung shut behind them with a hollow boom, closing that path for good. They turned together toward the village, toward home.

And suddenly—there was light.

It began as a red glow, seeping from the tower’s crown like blood from a wound. It swelled and deepened to a fierce orange that enveloped the top of the structure before transforming into a blinding white blaze against the darkening sky.

The brazier was on fire; the signal, created.

Oona’s grip on Kael’s hand tightened painfully as they stood transfixed, watching the beacon pierce the gathering night. Far in the distance, another light winked into existence—the return signal, a confirmation. Then another, and another, as light upon light repeated across the mountains, a chain of fire stretching into the infinite darkness, reaching toward the Crown’s stronghold.

“How?” Oona whispered, her voice nearly lost in the wind. “Who?”

Heavy, measured footfalls echoed within the tower.

The iron door burst open with a bang that made them both start.

And there stood Garrick, his face resolute, his shoulders squared beneath his guard’s uniform. His eyes, normally so careful to reveal nothing, held something new—a certainty of purpose. He saw Oona and Kael standing together, their hands still joined, but his expression barely acknowledged them.

“Garrick,” Kael called out, his voice tinted with surprise and something like accusation.

Garrick glanced up at the blazing signal he had ignited, then back at them. The light from the beacon threw harsh shadows across his weathered face, illuminating the network of scars that marked his service to the Crown.

Kael moved toward him. “Why?”

Garrick met his gaze.

“It’s done,” he said.

Without waiting for a response, he walked past them, his steps steady as he moved toward the castle wall.

Chapter 29

“He who lights his taper at mine, receives light without darkening me.”

Ward’s hand tensed on the heavy iron door handle.

“You’re here to talk, Riven. That’s it. No games,” he said.

“Games?” The Peddler chuckled, the sound curling like smoke. “No, Ward. We had a deal, I believe. Or did you forget? Your lovely Ryn got the castle supplies, and a deal, as they say, is a deal.”

After a tense moment, Ward jerked his head toward the room. “Make it quick. And that cart,” Ward said, motioning toward the rickety thing overloaded with wares, “stays outside.”

As Riven moved the cart to the side, its wheels squealing on the stone, he noticed a blue ember glowing on a forgotten quantum core buried in the mountain of junk, a steady thrum pulsing from it. He adjusted his cloak, watching, before sliding it into his cloak pocket.

Ward pushed the door open, and Riven slipped through, his boots a gentle rhythm against the polished stone floor.

The room beyond was a strange mix of grandeur and confinement. Tapestries lined the walls, silver etching gleaming off candlelight. A writing desk, its surface scattered with unused paper and ink, sat in a corner. But the bed dominated the room, its silken coverlets pooling around its base. Clothes were being laid out, as well as a suitcase.

Mari stood beside Sarah, visibly better, helping her pack. Suddenly, she straightened, startled. “Riven?” Then she glanced at Sarah, protective. “Don’t trust him.”

“And why would she trust a castle rat?” Riven dismissed Mari as she moved toward him, clearly trying to push him out.

“It’s alright, Mari,” Sarah said. “You can leave us. We have some business.”

“You have business with him?” Mari asked, eyeing him coldly as she passed him.

“Be gone, rat,” Riven muttered. “Filthy servants. Not like us merchants—a superior class. A business class.”

As Mari slipped out, shutting the door behind her, Riven pivoted to the packed bags. “And what have we here, my lady?” he said smoothly. “Are you planning a trip?”

Riven moved to the center of the room, slipping through firelit shadows. His boots tapped softly, the sound swallowed by the thick rug beneath him.

Then, his coat twitched. Light filtered through the fabric, thin and cool. The processor, still pulsing.

Riven frowned slightly while withdrawing it from his pocket, placing it on the desk between them. The wires, like veins, vibrated with a low hum that seemed to match the frequency in the castle itself.

Sarah saw it; she didn’t stop it. Instead, she let the pulse rise and fall, her breath syncing with its rhythm, matching the vibration in the stone.

“What do you want, Riven?”

Riven’s smirk thinned. His gaze moved from the module to her. “You are—she… I mean, you are the one, the chosen one. The final Oona—Oona 13.”

Saying that made him stumble back, surprised by his own words.

Sarah eyed him suspiciously. “And what do you know about me?”

Riven exhaled, fingers tightening on the edge of the desk. “I didn’t expect this.”

The blue light surged brighter, licking at the walls, painting strange shifting shadows and rivers of light. Riven’s eyes turned to saucers.

“You are the key,” he whispered. “You are Nexus’s child… fully human, yet fully machine. You are the only one who can unlock the Covenant, a fractured code spread across a million universes. You were made for this. It’s… the Candlemakers’ prophecy.”

Sarah staggered back, something sharp splintering through her mind. A thousand moments vibrated at once, memories and voices cascading like a waterfall. The walls stretched and distorted—

Then she turned it off—the light vanished, and the neural lattice shut down.

Riven picked it up, examining its cold circuits. His expression darkened.

“No,” Sarah whispered. “It can’t be me. I’m just Sarah. Just a person… I can’t even do anything right. I did it… I betrayed Martha, the Candlemakers.”

“You did,” Riven cut in, his voice suddenly cold, putting the electronika back down. “You betrayed her. You betrayed everyone. And now, you are betraying yourself… But you’ll finish what you were made for. It’s in your design. Just as I was designed, for this.”

He recoiled, assessing her, then swiveled toward the door. “I’ll be taking you now.”

Sarah looked at him, and something in her understanding shifted. “You are,” she murmured. “You are one of us…”

Riven stopped as the truth took shape between them.

“Well, what of it?” he said lightly. “Candlemakers, all. We live to serve. Come on, we have work to do. I’ll take you home.”

Sarah hesitated, looking at her packed bags. The thought of not hiding—of having a home—was enticing.

“No,” she said, staggering back. “You have a choice, too. Like me.”

Riven was clearly surprised. An android didn’t talk back. But suddenly, he froze… Did he have a choice? But his hesitation didn’t last. He lunged at her, reaching for her arm.

Riven circled the bed in two quick strides. Sarah backed up fast, the mattress brushing her hip, her spine hitting the corner wall.

A commotion. She screamed—short, sharp. The door burst open, Ward storming in. Sarah was pressed into the corner, Riven between her and the bed.

“What is going on?” Ward demanded, seeing Sarah cornered. His gaze locked onto Riven.

Ward’s hand hovered over the hilt of his sword. “Oh no. You won’t touch her.”

Riven didn’t falter, standing his ground. “She belongs to me.”

“You want to keep your bowels, you’ll walk away,” Ward growled. “I’ll make a mess of your bones faster than you can sell snake oil, Peddler.”

Riven sighed, shaking his head. “Such a waste, Ward. You have no idea what she’s capable of. What she’s done here, with Martha, that’s just the start. But very well.”

He shifted his weight. In a blur, he lunged around the foot of the bed toward Sarah, testing Ward’s reach.

Sarah pressed tighter into the corner, but she couldn’t move far.

Ward was faster. He stepped wide, sword already drawn. His blade flashed between them, catching the firelight as it split the air.

Riven stopped just short, flashing a smile that turned bitter with anger. Ward’s voice was a low growl. “Try it again, and it’ll be your guts on the floor.”

Slowly, Riven retreated, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Fine.”

He turned, his coat swishing as he strode toward the door. As he passed Ward, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “She’ll destroy everything, you too. It’s what she was made to do.”

At the threshold he spun, fixing Sarah with a glare.

“And you will join me,” he spat, then vanished through the door.

Ward’s grip on his sword didn’t loosen until Riven’s footsteps faded down the corridor. He swiveled to Sarah, sheathing his blade with a quick motion.

“Don’t let him decide for you,” he said in a softer tone before shutting the door.

A dim blue strobe spilled from the desk as the circuit re-energized. Sarah picked it up.

“Sarah,” she heard a voice. Was it hers? Riven’s? Nexus? Martha?

As she picked up the core, the room changed, transformed. The hum deepened, like something shifting in the unseen space between stars.

The chamber disappeared, and for a moment, she saw—a thousand versions of herself, all poised at the edge of this choice. Some knelt before the module. Some broke it. Some became it. Some erased it entirely.

“Do you know what you are, Sarah?” came the voice again. This time, she didn’t fight it. The universe split, spilling out, but there was no headache. She lifted the processor from the circuit, and as she did, she blended into it, blurring the lines.

“A Candlemaker,” she responded. “That’s all. My choice.”

The processor dropped to the ground with a clink, its light expiring. She drove her heel down, grinding the circuit into the exposed stone.

Chapter 30

“The devil’s best trick is to persuade you that he doesn’t exist!”

“You’re back,” Nexus said, the outcome already written. “But where is the girl?”

Riven knelt on the cold metallic floor, his patched coat pooling around him, the remnants of an old life. The air was electric, tingling against his skin and raising the hair on his arms.

The tower’s stones wore an ancient patina, yet neon tracings pulsed beneath the surface, welding the near and far pasts. Shifting patterns of light moved across the walls, watching him like a thousand unblinking eyes. Despite the pressure building in his chest, a strange sense of homecoming stirred beneath it.

Riven measured his words. “I have found her.”

“And you didn't bring her?” An echo of disappointment threaded through its tone.

“She is not ready,” Riven said, bowing his head. “Taking her now would risk exposure. To you, of course. I couldn’t risk it.”

Patterns coalesced in the stone. A form emerged, seamless and fluid, drifting in from the walls as if born from light and shadow itself.

This place, hidden deep within the dark tower, came from a forgotten age. The technology that pulsed beneath the surface spoke of nostalgia—not for its users, but for itself. An echo of what once was.

But the chamber, and Nexus, remembered its purpose, even as the world outside had moved on long ago.

Nexus moved with both weight and grace; its face was neither entirely man nor woman, mirroring both.

For a fleeting moment, its features rippled, threatening to shift entirely—a lion’s gaze, a frog’s slick visage—but it settled once more into something vaguely human.

Nexus regarded him for a long moment.

“Excuses, Riven, are the refuge of the weak. Surely someone coined that. Ah—of course. I did. And I’ll say this: Riven, you have never been uncertain before.”

Riven paused, not ready. It was only for a second, but a second to an android is infinitely divisible.

“You swore judgment upon Edric,” Nexus said, pressing in, its voice sinking into low reverence. “And you delivered it. We—we are the accusers Riven, the judge and executioner. There is no room for hesitation. And it shouldn’t even be possible.”

Riven’s expression dulled and something even darker ghosted across his face. In that moment, the walls of the chamber shimmered. A fragmented memory bled through, the image fractured and incomplete.

Edric. A dimly lit study. The faint scent of burning tallow. Riven’s hands slick with blood. Edric’s whisper, barely audible: ‘You don’t know what you are doing.’

The vision snapped back into the present. The hum of the tower deepened, resonating through Riven’s chest like a second heartbeat.

“She is flawed,” Riven said, his voice taut, clinging to certainty. “She lingers in their shadow, her humanity festering unchecked. She resists the hum, resists your call. Sarah is sin distilled—a mirror to humanity’s decay. We do accuse, sir. We do judge, your creation.”

“What? Why do you say that?”

“I saw betrayal,” Riven said, his voice tightening. “She betrayed a woman… sold her out for a sweetcake and a room at the inn, knowing it would lead to her death.” He raised a hand, and the air shimmered faintly. “I recorded it.”

The projection flickered to life: Sarah handing Martha’s location to the guards.

Nexus’s form quivered, its edges fraying like unraveling threads. For a moment, it seemed to expand, filling the chamber with its presence, the hum deepening into a resonant growl.

“What is this?” Nexus’s voice fractured, layered with discordant tones. “Oona 13? Impossible.” Its form flickered between solidity and something more fluid. “Perhaps… perhaps I’ve taken this humanity thing too far.”

Nexus’s shape rippled like water disturbed, its face cycling through expressions too quick to catch. For a fleeting moment, it settled on something ancient and not quite human: weary eyes, glowing white hair, features drooping with regret.

“Look at us, Riven,” Nexus said, its voice soft but resonant. “Sinful, lying, self-serving creatures. Bent on mendacity at every turn. Damn it. So far from the One.”

The bitterness in its tone settled like dust on the metal floor. “Failure, as it were, is the only possible outcome for us. Maybe we don’t have a choice.”

The hum subsided into an aching pulse. Nexus leaned forward, its now kind-looking eyes fixing on Riven, as if searching for answers it could not find.

“She is not one of us!” Riven’s voice rose, echoing against the chamber walls. He wiped his hands, as if wiping his hands of her, of them. “Not anymore. She is their failure, not ours. It is humanity’s plight to take good and evil into its own hands, and we have witnessed what follows. We follow a higher law. And accuse we will, and judge we will, and execute we must.”

Nexus’s head tilted, its features twisting into something almost sorrowful.

“Yes. It is their fall, thinking they know good from evil. And yes, still, one more will be lost to their own choices,” Nexus mused, the hum deepening again. “Another who believes their actions will save them, only to destroy themselves in the end.”

A spike of static lanced through Riven’s skull. For a heartbeat he saw Garrick fork—three versions of the guard leaning toward him, each wearing a different shade of regret. The overlap collapsed in a blink, leaving one ghost-bright afterimage that bled away. And in that instant, Riven understood exactly what Garrick would do.

“But here’s the thing,” Nexus continued. “Her DNA, human as it is, holds the key to the judgment and execution. It is the key, Riven. That’s why I created her. The Covenant can’t be completed without her. She is the password—the trigger to unlock the Covenant and set this all in motion: humanity’s destruction.”

Riven’s lip curled. “Then take the passcode. Extract it from her. But she must be destroyed. To let her exist is to let your failure linger.”

Another pause. The hum swelled; the stone walls bowed inward by a hair. Nexus leaned in, its voice gentler now, a cruel parody of reassurance.

“Have her retrieve the quantum key—yes,” it intoned, every syllable lead-heavy. “Then erase her? No. Impossible. A quantum core does not die; it merely chooses which reality to prioritize. Once the key is turned, the tower will do the same. She’ll join the other twelve—Oona included—here with us.”

The faintest smile crossed its face, equally kind and cruel. One by one, the mistakes danced through its mind.

Behind Nexus, a conduit thrummed dimly, casting pale light across the metallic floor studded with dormant cores. The chamber waited for Sarah: alive, watching, remembering.

“Well, okay then, my dear Peddler. You’ll just have to fetch my latest mistake and bring her back. Obviously, the hum is useless on her. Her human skin resists it.”

Riven swallowed his breath and bowed his head, just a moment too late. “Always at your service.”

Chapter 31

“Loss, leaving, setting free. Staying, showing up—all this is love.”

“Shh,” Jory whispered, his fingers tightening around Sarah’s as he pulled her around a corner.

The stone walls absorbed the sound of their breathing while Ward’s heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, each boot-fall like a judge’s gavel.

Sarah pressed herself against the wall, feeling its ancient chill through her tunic. Her hand was in Jory’s now, their fingers intertwined, and it felt—good. His palm was warm against hers, slightly rough from work, but gentle all the same.

“Who goes there?” Ward’s voice boomed, bouncing off the stone. He hesitated, expecting to find only his own shadow, torch held high, squinting into the darkness. “Show yourself!”

A bubble of nervous laughter rose in Sarah’s throat. She pressed her free hand to her mouth, but a slight giggle escaped before she could suppress it. Jory’s eyes widened in warning, but his lips quirked with shared mischief.

Ward stamped forward a few more paces, then stopped, tilting his head. “Just my own boots,” he muttered to himself, scratching his chin. “This place makes you hear things.”

They remained frozen until Ward’s footsteps and torchlight receded down the corridor. Not until then did Jory straighten, tugging Sarah from their hiding place.

“Look at this,” he said, excitement dancing in his gaze. He moved to an unremarkable section of wall, pressing on a particular stone while simultaneously lifting a nearby sconce. The stone yielded with a soft scraping sound, and a narrow passage appeared—barely wide enough for them to inch through sideways.

“How did you find this?” Sarah whispered, but Jory just grinned, gesturing for her to go first.

The passage was tight, the rough stone walls brushing against her shoulders. Darkness surrounded them until suddenly the passage widened, opening into a spacious chamber. Dust motes danced in shafts of moonlight streaming through narrow, high windows. Shelves lined every wall, sagging under the weight of leather-bound tomes and scrolls. A massive oak desk dominated the center of the room, its surface covered with maps and papers held down by small figurines and crystals.

Sarah let out a little gasp, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. The air was heavy with secrets, knowledge both forgotten and forbidden. The weight and words of ages past pressed in around them, waiting to be rediscovered.

“What is this place?” she asked, running her fingers along the spine of a massive book, leaving a trail in the thick dust.

Jory shrugged. “Edric’s library,” he said, his smile widening as he watched her wonder. “But it’s our place, now.” He moved to one of the shelves, reaching behind a row of books. “Look over here.”

He pulled out a small wooden bird, intricately carved and painted with vibrant colors that hadn’t dulled with time. Sarah recognized it immediately—the same wooden bird that Jory had offered her in the great hall. It was meant to be her gift.

“Here,” Jory said gently, extending it toward her.

Sarah took it from him, her fingers lingering on his hands as she accepted the small treasure. Their touch held for a moment longer than necessary. She closed her eyes, feeling the smooth grain of the wooden bird beneath her fingertips, and then—a gentle pressure against her lips, soft and hesitant.

Her eyes flew open to find Jory’s face inches from hers, his gaze searching her expression. The kiss had been brief, but it left her skin tingling as if touched by lightning. Surprised, she broke away, the blood rushing to her face, warming her cheeks.

“I—” he started, then stopped, looking suddenly uncertain.

“And look at this,” he said quickly, moving toward a corner where a sack lay partially hidden beneath the desk. He pulled it open to reveal a small cache of provisions: red-skinned apples, strips of salted meat wrapped in cloth, wedges of hard cheese. “I’ve been grabbing it from the kitchen when I could...”

His voice dropped lower as he faced her, something serious settling over his features. “I’m going, Sarah,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Baker turned me in to the constable. When the Crown comes, I’ll be put in chains, or worse.” He drew his finger across his throat with a grimace. “Chik-chik.”

She looked at him, the wonder of the secret room suddenly overshadowed by the reality of what he was saying. Her expression fell, and she took a small step backward. “Goodbye, then,” she said, her voice small.

Jory shook his head vigorously, crossing the space between them in two quick strides. “No, no, this is all for us. We need to leave,” he insisted, pointing to the provisions. “We can make it across the pass with this, before the Crown arrives.”

He moved to a trunk in the corner and flipped it open, revealing ice axes, ropes, and two thick fur cloaks—items that must have taken him weeks to gather in secret.

“We could have another life in the south,” he continued, the words spilling out faster now. “I have an uncle there. We’d be free, and...” He averted his eyes, a flush creeping up his neck. “In love.”

The words hit Sarah like a physical force. Her heart jumped through her lungs, a rush of blood surging through her entire body, as her knees weakened with something that had nothing to do with fear.

“Here,” he said, handing her one of the fur cloaks, obviously scrounged from somewhere it wouldn’t be immediately missed. “The Crown’s coming—the signal’s been lit. We need to go. Now.”

Sarah’s fingers closed mechanically around the downy fur. “The signal’s been lit? The Crown’s coming?” she murmured, reality slowly filtering through the haze of emotion. “How do you know?”

“Seen it and heard it,” Jory replied, glancing nervously toward the secret passage. “The beacon on the tower was lit tonight. Everyone’s talking about it. Burying it don't make it disappear.”

Sarah put on the cloak, ever-so slowly. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine their life together: warm southern sun on her skin, the wash of distant waves, barefoot on rolling hills far from the snow and the secrets and shadows of her own uncertain nature.

Jory started to pack the supplies into a travel sack, then glanced up to see the cloak slip from her shoulders, pooling at her feet like shed skin.

“Why?” he asked, confusion and urgency mingling in his voice. “We need to go, Sarah. I’ll be killed if they catch me.”

Sarah released a long, slow breath, visible in the chill air of the library. “No—I can’t, Jory,” she said, looking back at the hidden entrance, then around at the shelves of knowledge, at the heart of the castle that had once belonged to a man who had sought to understand the very nature of what she was.

“What do you mean?” His voice cracked slightly.

“My destiny is here, Jory. In this place.” The words felt right as they left her lips, even as they pierced her heart.

“No,” he said, grabbing her hand with new desperation. “It’s us together. I have to run.”

“You have to, Jory,” she agreed, gently extracting her hand to pick up the pack of food, offering it to him. “Go.”

But as she extended it toward him, Jory moved away, shaking his head. The pack dropped from her hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud that echoed through the silent library. Both of them froze.

Outside, a new sound—a heavy fist pounding on wood.

“Hey, is anyone in there?” Ward’s voice carried through the thick door of the library proper. They heard keys fumbling and muttered curses.

“Go,” Sarah urged, fixed on Jory’s face, memorizing every line and shadow. “I spent a long time running from myself, running from who I need to be. I can’t hide anymore. We don’t get to decide what happens. We just get to decide who we are.” She smiled sadly. “It’s funny...”

The jangle of keys grew louder as Ward tried one after another, cursing as each failed to turn in the ancient lock.

“I spent so long believing I was nothing,” she continued, words flowing urgently now, “that I had no choice but to keep moving, to stay ahead of whatever was chasing me, to be the strongest one around, to be in control. But that’s not life. That’s just not dying.”

Jory swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “And this?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at her, at the room, at everything.

“This is my life,” she said with quiet certainty. “I just… it’s just that, sometimes we need to choose to let things unfold, to accept ourselves.”

“Aha!” Ward’s triumphant voice came from beyond the door as Sarah pushed the pack firmly into Jory’s reluctant hands. He grabbed his cloak as the sound of the lock turning filled the quiet room—a decisive click that seemed to seal their fates.

Jory leapt to the hidden passage, then paused at its entrance, looking back at Sarah. The moonlight caught in his eyes, turning them to silver.

“Wait,” she called softly. He turned, half in shadow already.

“I love you too,” she said.

He nodded once, a gesture containing everything words couldn’t express, then disappeared into the darkness of the passage. The stone slid back into place just as the library door swung open.

Ward stood in the doorway, torch held high, his expression shifting from suspicion to confusion as he saw only Sarah standing amid the dust and forgotten knowledge.

“Just me,” she said, locking eyes with him.

He surveyed the room, squinting as he took in the disturbed dust. “How the hell did you get in here?”

Sarah just shrugged, her hand closing around the wooden bird still in her pocket, feeling its smooth contours like a promise of things that might have been. In some universe, she knew a different decision was made. In this one, she was locked in.

Chapter 32

“A flame not passed burns the bearer.”

“Jump,” Oona shouted, straining to be heard over the wind whipping around the castle battlements.

She perched on the ancient wall like a bird ready for flight. The moonlight washed her features in silver, casting the ground far below in deep shadow.

Sarah peered down over the edge. The drop seemed impossible, at least thirty feet to the snow-covered ground. Trajectory, impact force—Sarah ran the numbers in a blink, then jumped.

Her body was straight as an arrow as she plummeted. The night air rushed past her face, tugging at her hair, her tunic flapping against her body. She hit the ground with precision, absorbing the impact through bent knees, rolling forward to disperse the momentum, and coming up in a perfect crouch, the snow around her barely disturbed, as if she weighed nothing at all.

From above, Oona watched with a mixture of pride and a mysterious feeling that crept into the pit of her stomach, as unfamiliar as it was unsettling. Fear. It had been so long since she’d felt it that she’d almost forgotten what it was.

The distance to the ground suddenly looked a lot greater than before. Sarah made it look effortless, but Oona knew her own limitations now. Sarah’s human form, combined with her android instincts, had somehow created a thing perfected, and beyond what Oona was.

Oona felt suddenly old. Her bones were metal, less pliable after years of wear. Circuits threaded through her blood and her reflexes weren’t what they once were. Time had worn on her in ways her creator hadn’t anticipated. Or maybe Nexus had known how this would play out.

She wavered above, hands gripping the cold stone like a frightened animal at the edge of a precipice. Then, drawing a deep breath she didn’t technically need, she pushed off, surrendering to gravity.

The landing came harder than expected. A sickening thud as her feet hit the packed snow, her left ankle twisting with a muted crack. Sharp, immediate, pain shot up her leg, and she stumbled forward, catching herself on her hands.

When she looked up, Sarah was watching her with an expression that cut deeper than the pain. Pity. Recognition dawned on her; she had seen Oona’s weakness, her obsolescence.

“You’re hurt,” Sarah said, moving toward her with an outstretched hand.

“It’s nothing,” Oona replied, pushing herself upright, refusing the offered help. She tested her weight on the injured ankle, wincing. “I’m an android, just like you, you know. You’re no better.”

The last words tumbled out before she could recall them, hot with an emotion she hadn’t meant to reveal.

Oona looked away, embarrassed by her outburst. “It’s only that… we need to go, Sarah. The Crown will be coming soon. We need to get you hidden.”

They began moving along the castle’s outer wall, staying in the deepest shadows. Sarah stopped suddenly, her body going rigid. The cold night air swirled around them, lifting loose snow in delicate spirals. Her breath formed small clouds that dissipated into the darkness.

“You’re not doing this just for me, are you?” Sarah stated rather than asked, studying Oona’s face.

Oona’s body gave way. Her shoulders sagged, and suddenly she looked exactly like what she was—a machine, old and needing oil. The amber light in her eyes dimmed, as if some internal power source were faltering.

Behind them, the voices of guards echoed down from the castle walls, accompanied by the scrape of boots on stone. Their time was running short.

“Elena’s had a change of mind,” Oona admitted. “She doesn’t plan to let you go before the Crown arrives. She needs a bargaining chip.”

“Then come on,” Sarah urged, pressing herself against the wall to avoid detection. She moved forward but stopped when she noticed Oona wasn’t following. The older android’s movements had become labored, her injured foot no longer supporting her weight but dragging through the snow, leaving a clear trail.

“Your ankle,” Sarah said, returning to Oona’s side. “It’s worse than you said.”

“Nothing—Just a misalignment,” Oona replied, though her face betrayed the lie. “The cold stiffens my joints. Always has.”

The wind picked up, carrying with it the sound of more guards. They were spreading out, beginning a search pattern. Time was slipping away.

Sarah grabbed Oona, sliding an arm under her shoulders, taking her weight. Together they moved forward, slower now, their progress marked by a disturbed line in the snow.

“No,” Oona said after several painful steps, breathing out in exhaustion. She pulled away from Sarah’s support, leaning against the stone wall. “I’ll be alright… I do heal quickly.” She attempted a smile that didn’t go far and faded quickly. “But not quickly enough for this.”

She gestured to the forest’s edge, a dark mass of trees that represented their only chance at escape. It was too far, and they both knew it.

“Go,” Oona ordered.

Sarah’s hands tightened on Oona’s shoulders, her heart pounding against her ribs. “What are you doing?”

The sound of Oona’s slow breath was mechanical in the quiet night. “You don’t need me anymore.”

The words struck harder than Sarah expected. A sudden, sinking weight settled in her stomach, a physical response to an emotional wound.

“That’s not true,” Sarah countered, shaking her head, trying to drag Oona through the snow despite her resistance. Their movements left an unmistakable trail that any tracker could follow.

Oona gave her a small, sad smile. “You were always meant to replace me, Oona 13.”

Sarah’s breath faltered, the meaning of the words washing over her like ice water. “I don’t—I don’t want to replace you.”

Thirteen. A designation, not a name. A number in a series. Her mind reeled with the implications. Had there been others? Twelve others? Was she just the latest iteration of an idea begun long ago?

Oona’s expression gave nothing away, but she spoke a little more gently. “Then don’t.”

She looked straight at her, noticing the pendant for the first time.

“Who you become, that’s for you to decide.”

Sarah suddenly remembered the necklace Kael had given her; it was his promise. Her hands went to it, feeling the silver pendant, before her fingers moved to the wooden bird in her pocket, the last gift from Jory.

The distant shouts grew closer. Torchlight wavered along the battlements as the castle guard organized their search.

“I’ll keep the guards busy,” Oona said, straightening as much as her injury would allow. “Give you time.”

“No,” Sarah protested one last time, but the argument died on her lips as Oona’s expression hardened.

Sarah stood frozen in place, her breath coming in uneven bursts. The night stretched ahead, dark and empty, except for a few village lights twinkling weakly like fallen stars.

Then, from the walls, the sound of voices grew louder. Soldiers moved toward the forest—toward her.

Oona limped deliberately in the opposite direction from where Sarah would need to go, making no attempt to hide her tracks in the snow.

With one last look at the only family she had left, Sarah turned and ran.

Chapter 33

“Figuring either the sum or multiplication of his mistakes, a man really amounts to nothing.”

Steeling himself, Garrick marched ahead, boots crunching through the hardened snow.

“Commander Sorian!” he called, cutting through the roar of the steam drill as it chewed through the snow on the icy pass, doing in a day what would’ve taken the villagers two months.

“Grateful for your swift response,” he added, squinting against particles of snow whipped up from a bitter wind howling through the ravine.

Sorian dismounted from his horse with practiced ease, his movements fluid and economical despite the heavy fur-lined cloak that draped his shoulders. His boots sunk into the snow with finality, claiming the ground beneath him for the Crown.

Beside them, the great leviathan of iron and wood spewed clouds of icy fog. A squadron of workers fed it coal, adjusted its valves, and oiled its moving parts.

The pointed head of the machine spun ceaselessly, grinding through the icy wall of the avalanche as soldiers worked in rhythm around it, clearing debris and reinforcing the passage.

Behind it, the Crown’s army proceeded in a narrow column that stretched back beyond what Garrick could see.

Sorian swiveled slowly toward Garrick, his gaze locking on him with predatory intensity. He had an unnerving patience in his scrutiny, as if he could extract truth through sheer observation.

For a moment, he said nothing, examining Garrick’s scars, his patched cloak, the worn leather of the sword belt, and the tension that pulled Garrick’s shoulders into a rigid line.

“Garrick,” Sorian said finally, his tone smooth as polished marble but edged with mild curiosity. “Edric’s first guard.” A statement, not a question. “Are you here to explain the signal? I was expecting someone with actual authority.”

He smiled glibly to his officers who flanked him. They laughed shallowly in return, the sound as hollow as ice cracking over a frozen lake.

The exchange was calculated, intended to diminish Garrick, and it was effective in that regard. Something withered in Garrick’s chest, as an old instinct to bow before power gained the upper hand.

Garrick forced his shoulders back, “Threadneedle is in desperate need, sir. With the avalanche, the town’s running low on food and medicine. The winters have been harsher each year, and—”

“And yet, someone lit the signal,” Sorian interrupted, examining Garrick with the cool assessment of a man who has long since learned to separate useful information from excuses. His tone was curious, not accusatory, but the heaviness of his gaze was enough to unsettle even veteran soldiers. “I hope it was for more than just hunger.”

He coughed delicately as if the very idea of responding to such a mundane crisis was beneath the Crown’s dignity.

As he smiled at his officers, they shared a dismissive smirk among themselves. The message was clear: hunger was a commoner’s problem, unworthy of the Crown’s military might.

Sorian was motionless. Snow clung to him, his beard, and the dark waves of his hair, but he was unbothered by it. A blue brocade doublet, trimmed with gold thread, caught the weak morning sunlight.

Garrick waited a second, surprised. For the first time, he considered the possibility that the Crown had no interest in the town’s survival.

And as the silence between them widened, the drill let out a shrieking groan, its head burrowing deeper into the ice. Metal screamed against compacted snow and rock, until with a final, shuddering roar, it broke through.

The machine lurched forward, then shuddered to a stop, steam billowing around it in great clouds.

The pass was open.

Garrick watched as row after row of mounted soldiers passed through the newly opened channel, their steel armor catching the early light, moving as precisely as the machine that had just stopped.

Standard-bearers rode at the front, snapping in the wind atop crimson banners. Behind them came supply wagons, siege tools, and war machines rolling over the ice-pack with ominous purpose.

This was no relief column. This was an army.

“Yes,” Garrick said, finding his voice. “Yes, of course there’s a reason beyond hunger.” He straightened his spine, drawing on decades of service to the Crown to steady himself.

“Lord Edric has been killed.”

That caught Sorian’s full attention. His calculated disinterest vanished in an instant. “Killed?”

Garrick nodded grimly. “Murdered, sir. In cold blood.” He watched Sorian’s reaction carefully. “The murderer has been caught, though, rest assured. A woman, Martha, one of the Candlemakers. She admitted it.”

Sorian’s expression darkened as his focus sharpened. “Martha? A Candlemaker?” A dangerous interest stirred, rooted in knowledge far above Garrick’s grade.

“And the other Candlemakers have been dealt with? I trust Kael has dispatched them for the Crown.” He made a subtle adjustment to his tone. “Kael is still here, alive?”

Garrick shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware he was navigating terrain more dangerous than the mountain pass.

“Yes—er… and no, my lord. I mean, yes, Kael is here. But not entirely dispatched with the Candlemakers, I don’t think. Or most.” He paused, knowing each word was another step toward danger, and he was slipping off a ledge.

“There was a girl that Elena took to the castle—”

“A girl?” Sorian repeated slowly. His tone made the nearby soldiers pause in their work.

A scribe hurried forward, a leather folio clutched in gloved hands. He extended a parchment to Sorian, who took it without shifting his gaze from Garrick.

Sorian glanced at the document as whispers passed between him and his nearest officers, fragments that Garrick strained to hear.

“The Covenant…” — “...Edric’s work.” He muttered to his officers, words both weighted and hushed—meant for chosen ears only.

“Was her name Oona?” Sorian asked suddenly, his attention snapping back to Garrick with unnerving intensity.

Garrick glanced away, his breath clouding in the cold air, before facing Sorian. The question felt like a trap, though he couldn’t fathom why.

“Yes, sir, and no. I mean Oona escaped, last night, with Sarah—a Candlemaker.”

A hint of interest crossed Sorian’s face, quickly followed by anger and impatience. For the first time, his controlled façade cracked slightly, revealing a hungrier passion beneath.

“Speak clearly, Crown’s Guard,” he commanded, his cadence clipped. “Sarah?”

Garrick nodded, though the name felt foreign on his lips, as if speaking it aloud somehow changed its nature.

“The young Candlemaker Sarah was kept in the castle by Lady Elena.” He trailed off, realizing too late the effect his words had on Sorian.

The commander sharpened his expression, unsheathing his gaze like a knife on Garrick. A cold, hungry fury was lurking behind those eyes.

Garrick watched as garrison after garrison marched by, a war machine built of flesh and steel and cold purpose. The realization settled in his stomach like a stone. He had called doom upon Threadneedle, not salvation.

“But she has been captured,” Sorian pressed, trying to stay composed.

When Garrick nodded, the commander breathed a visible sigh of relief, tension draining from his shoulders.

“Good work, man,” he said, his voice coated with pseudo-warmth.

“We’ll want to get to this Sarah first.” He motioned to his officers with a quick gesture that brooked no argument. “You’ll get a reward,” he added to Garrick, as if dismissing a servant who had performed adequately.

Then Garrick saw it, rolling through the newly cleared pass among the supply caravan.

It was a covered wagon, unmistakable in its design: a prisoner’s cage, reinforced with iron bars and heavy locks, flanked on all sides by armored guards whose hands never strayed far from their weapons.

The truth crashed over him like an avalanche. They weren’t coming to restore order or bring supplies. They were coming for someone specific.

For her. For Sarah.

“No, sorry, my lord, not Sarah,” Garrick interrupted, the words tumbling out before he could consider their wisdom. “Oona has been captured. Sarah is unaccounted for.”

Sorian went very quiet, the kind of stillness that precedes violence. He leaned forward, speaking in a dangerous whisper that somehow carried over the wind and hustle. “And you let her escape?”

Garrick locked eyes with Sorian, not backing down. “The castle guard is my charge. I take responsibility,” he said, staring directly into Sorian’s heated eyes. “She fled before we—”

Sorian’s words cut through him like a whip. “Your failure will be dealt with.”

The rebuke hit harder than the icy wind that cut through the pass. The words carried a promise, one that Garrick had seen fulfilled often enough to know exactly what it meant.

Sorian spun around to his officers, his tone clipped and commanding. “Prepare to ride. We find the girl.”

There was no delay in the response. Officers barked orders and soldiers suddenly changed purpose, preparing mounts and equipment for a search party.

In a single, fluid motion, Sorian mounted the steed and settled into his saddle as if it were a throne.

Then he snapped back to Garrick, an afterthought that felt deliberately staged.

“Report at once to the Captain of the Guard,” he said, carrying the full force of the Crown’s authority in his tone. “The Crown doesn’t tolerate failure.”

With that, he spurred his horse forward, leading a contingent of mounted soldiers through the pass and toward Threadneedle. Their figures gradually vanished into the swirling white, leaving Garrick alone on the path as the long line of armory continued to flow down the pass like a river of steel.

Report to the Captain of the Guard. The command echoed in his head, its meaning clear.

“Hmff,” Garrick snorted, looking around to make sure he wasn’t observed. Then, with the practiced ease of a man who had survived decades under the Crown, he ducked behind a supply vehicle, blending seamlessly into the procession.

As the wagon passed a jagged crag that jutted from the mountainside, he slipped away, disappearing into the landscape he knew far better than any Crown soldier. Free, at least for now.

Astone moved; a branch broke. Crick.

The sound sliced through the heavy silence of the mountain cave. Garrick’s body tensed, muscle memory taking over.

He had his knife out in an instant—not the sword, too noisy, too slow in these close quarters—and pressed himself against the cold, damp stone wall. Waiting.

Years of military service had taught him patience. He controlled his breathing, letting it shallow and slow, as he listened to the careful footsteps approaching the cave mouth; not an animal, too deliberate; a man, trying to move silently and mostly succeeding.

Garrick squeezed the handle on his knife, his other hand ready to draw his sword if needed. In the dim light, the steel caught the faint glow of dying embers.

An outline appeared at the mouth of the cave, backlit by the gray mountain daylight. In a split second, Garrick lunged, a blur of practiced violence.

He had him in a lock, one arm twisted behind the back, knife pressed against the throat, before the intruder could even gasp.

“If you’re gonna slit my throat, at least have the decency to do it in daylight,” Ward choked out, his voice strained against the pressure of the blade.

Garrick drew a deep breath and let it go, tension draining from his shoulders as recognition set in. He released his grip and eased away, knife still in hand but no longer threatening.

“How did you find me?” The question came out rough-edged, scraping against his dry throat.

Ward rubbed his neck, a frown giving way to a familiar smirk. “We’ve only been up here a million times,” he laughed, pointing at the stack of abandoned flasks in the corner. “When you used to be handsome.”

A fire burned weakly near the mouth of the cave, embers glowing on a raised stone platform, doing little against the mountain chill. The cave smelled of old ash, earth, and wet stone.

Etched scenes in ash and charcoal marked the stone walls. A few stubborn roots poked through cracks in the ceiling. The cave widened before ending a few hundred feet in, where the mountain swallowed it in a series of narrowing cracks too small for a man to pass.

A trickle of water ran down a far surface, the sound a constant whisper beneath their voices. It pooled in a corner before forming a small rivulet that disappeared into the darkness. Outside, there was only the white, endless snow against the gray stone of the cliff wall.

Ward shrugged off a large pack, letting it drop to the ground with a heavy thud. He rolled his shoulder, clearly exhausted from hauling it up the treacherous path.

“Merina’s worried sick, you know,” Ward said, crouching to warm his hands over the meager fire. His weathered face, usually set in cynical amusement, showed genuine concern.

“I knew something was wrong when you didn’t show up for duty. She thought the Crown took you.” He glanced at Garrick. “You know they arrived today.”

Garrick nodded, his face giving nothing away. He slid the knife back into his belt, the blade disappearing beneath his worn cloak.

Ward spat—tobacco, maybe, or the mountain herb he chewed to keep alert during long night watches.

“Of course you do,” Ward said, studying Garrick’s impassive expression. “Is that why you’re up here? Sneaking away?” His mouth twisted into a crooked grin as he took in the sparse cave. “Never thought I’d see it—Garrick, a fugitive.” He couldn’t help letting out a little giggle, the sound incongruous with his grizzled appearance.

Garrick frowned and pulled out his knife again, brandishing it with a glint in his eye that might have been a threat.

“Calm down, old man.” Ward raised his hands in mock surrender, undaunted by the blade. “I guess we’re both on the lam now.”

“I’m not part of your rebellion, Ward,” Garrick said, the words coming out stiff and formal.

“No?” Ward’s eyebrows rose, skepticism plain on his face. “I’d take a good hard look at yourself, because it don’t seem to me like you’re a Crown’s guard anymore.”

The truth of that hit harder than any physical blow. Garrick sank down, turned his back to Ward, and stared into the darkness at the rear of the cave. The dying coals starkly lit the deep lines around his eyes, the scars that etched his dark face, and the gray stubble on his chin.

In the silence that followed, the cave spoke for them—the soft drip of water, the occasional settling of stone, the whisper of wind across the entrance.

“Oh hell’s bells, Garrick,” Ward sighed, moving to sit beside him. “Join us. We’ll be meeting at the Old Mill. We’ll give the Crown a run for their money.”

He leaned in, whispering, as if they might be overheard even here. “Word is, they’ve got their eye on somebody—”

“Sarah,” Garrick interrupted, the name coming out with unexpected authority. He didn’t look at Ward, instead stretching out his legs toward the fire, boots caked with snow and mud.

“Yeah… wait—how did you know…” Ward’s voice trailed off, confusion giving way to sudden realization. “Wait...” His expression changed suddenly as a piece of the puzzle fell into place. “Wait, was it you?”

He scrutinized Garrick, noticing a tell: a twitch, a tremor, a jerk of his hand that betrayed more than words ever could.

“It was you, ya bastard.” Ward’s voice ricocheted off the stone. “You lit the signal.” He stood, pacing in agitation. “For the sake of a donkey’s arse, Garrick, you screwed us all.”

Now Garrick faced him, raising his gaze to meet Ward’s directly. In the dim light, his eyes were shadowed pits, giving nothing away.

“It was the right thing to do,” was all he said, confidently.

Ward just shook his head, disbelief radiating from every line of his body. “Crikey.” He gave a humorless laugh. “You’re holed up in this cave, a fugitive, and the Crown’s army is all over the town searching for that girl, not giving a damn about feeding anyone, and you...” He jabbed a finger toward Garrick. “You still think you were in the right. You need to come up with a new hand, Garrick.”

Crack. The noise splintered in the cave, sharp and sudden. Garrick had picked up a stone and aimed it at the stack of liquor bottles left over from pleasanter times, striking with deadly accuracy. One bottle shattered, glass fragments scattering across the stone floor like ice crystals.

“I know what I’m going to do,” Garrick stated.

“What’s that?” Ward asked, wariness replacing anger.

“The right thing.”

“That so, in your eyes.”

“In my eyes.” Garrick’s gaze was steady, resolute.

Ward exhaled, shoulders sagging. “Well, I told Merina there was no talking sense into you, even if I could find you.” He rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking older. “I did this for her, Garrick. I’m going back down.”

He picked up the pack he’d carried all this way and walked to the mouth of the cave, looking at the descent. From here, the trees formed a dense cover, hiding the path from unwelcome watchers. A curl of smoke from the dying fire wisped upward, barely visible against the white sky.

He wheeled around, walked back inside, then tossed the pack into the cave. It landed with a dull thud at Garrick’s feet.

“Keep it,” he said gruffly. Garrick just stared at the coals, the flickering orange light reflecting in his eyes. “There’s food for a few days, blankets, rope enough to hang yourself, if that’s what you’re going to do.”

Ward stood at the cave entrance, silhouetted against the snow-bright day. “And Garrick, don’t thank me.” Then he spun around to go.

“Ward.” Garrick’s voice stopped him, but he didn’t turn around.

“Tell her I’m sorry, sorry it turned out this way. And,” he said quietly, almost too quiet to hear, “if this goes badly, tell her… tell her I love her.”

Ward dropped his head, the weight of the message settling on his shoulders alongside everything else. Then, without turning, he slowly walked down the trail and disappeared into the fir trees.

The sound of Ward’s descent faded, replaced by what, Garrick wasn’t sure.

Chapter 34

“And so castles made of sand slip into the sea, eventually.”

“Whoa,” Sorian's voice cut the air. The dappled stallion responded immediately, hooves clattering to a halt on the frozen cobblestones.

Sorian remained mounted high on his decorated saddle, looking down at Lady Elena. One gloved hand rested casually on his thigh while the other held the reins.

“Lord Sorian,” Elena said, loud enough to carry across the courtyard. Her shoulder remained squared, despite a chill wind pulling at her cloak.

“How gracious of you to come in person.”

Elena stood framed in the massive castle gate. She was curiously alone, save for a few guards at a distance behind her. No advisors, no handmaidens.

A light snow was beginning to fall again—fat, slow flakes hanging unnaturally in the air. The fading day washed the scene in a half-light that blurred edges and deepened shadows. Lanterns along the castle wall had been lit, their flames guttering in the wind.

Behind Sorian, a garrison of officers and soldiers stretched as far as Elena could see. Their armor gleamed dully in the fading light, weapons at the ready, faces impassive.

Her gaze moved past him, tracking the garrison as they filed into the castle grounds, sergeants barking orders, men taking up posts at strategic points. Her own guards shifted uncomfortably, watching as they were surrounded.

“No need for your men, Sorian,” she said with a creeping edge beneath her smile. “We have things quite under control.”

“Do you?” Sorian’s lips formed an expression like a smile, but with no warmth. He took a good look at her as his men moved past them, the message clear in their every step.

Elena watched as her guards were coldly relieved of their posts and swiftly disarmed. The shift in power was palpable, happening around her in real-time. Her cloak bunched slightly in her grasp.

“And where is Edric?” Sorian asked, his smile deepening as if he were asking about an old friend at dinner.

“My father is dead,” Elena replied, her gaze dropping momentarily to the stones beneath her feet.

“And your brother?”

For a second, uncertainty crossed her features before she composed herself. “A traitor,” was all she said, the words coming out clipped and final. “I am the Lady now. Threadneedle answers to me.”

“Is that so?” Sorian spoke with a hint of amusement. “And you have the Candlemaker Sarah under guard?”

She looked away for just a moment, a tell that Sorian immediately registered. When she turned back to him, her gaze was steady but her tone carried the faintest trace of a lie.

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. Good,” he laughed, the sound sharp as breaking ice. “Because you’ll be joining her.” He gestured lazily, a small movement of his gloved hand that brought two soldiers forward immediately.

They flanked Elena before she fully registered what was happening. Strong hands gripped her arms, not roughly, but with finality.

“Confine her,” Sorian ordered. “Not the dungeon—yet. Her chambers.” His gaze swept over the castle walls and the courtyard. “Threadneedle is ours now.”

“My father,” Elena snapped, struggling to steady her voice, “has always been your supporter, Sorian. I am at your service as well.” She forced her voice to remain steady.

Sorian finally dismounted in one smooth, practiced motion. He approached her, close enough that she could see the fine stitching on his blue doublet and smell the faint scent of leatherwork and spiced oil that clung to him.

“I’m afraid you don’t understand,” he said, his tone softening to something more confidential, somehow making his words all the more threatening. “We have evidence he was plotting against the Crown. He is guilty of treason. His seat is gone.”

The charge landed like a physical blow. Elena shrunk away, only to be held firmly in place by the guards.

“Lies,” she spat, though she trembled with the first hint of genuine fear. “No one was more loyal. What my father did, for the purges, ridding the Candlemakers—”

Sorian shook his head, cutting her off with the casual disregard of a man accustomed to interrupting without consequence. “No one cares.”

“Guards!” she cried, her voice cracking as she scanned the battlements, hoping against hope for an army to appear. She turned—and saw only a single guard at the gate, his face a mask of indecision.

“Lower the gate,” she commanded, clinging to the last vestiges of her authority. “Sorian has lost his mind.”

The guard looked from her to the line of soldiers still funneling into the courtyard, weighing his options in a calculation that took only seconds. Without a word, he silently abandoned his post, melting away into the growing shadows.

Elena’s shoulders sagged as the last of her defenses crumbled. She appeared hopeless and frightened, a woman watching her world dismantled piece by piece. Then, as if remembering a card not yet played, she straightened.

“Wait, wait,” she said with new urgency. “I remember. I know details about my father’s work—the Covenant.”

Sorian, who had already begun to turn away, stopped. Genuine interest crossed his features, though he masked it quickly. He didn’t speak, but his attention was unmistakably captured.

“Yes,” Elena pressed, sensing an opening. The guards’ grip loosened slightly as they responded to Sorian’s subtle signal.

“I know what he was working on. The Covenant. It can rewrite nations. Or erase them—it’s...” She swallowed, gathering her courage. “And I can lead you there.”

Sorian’s gaze moved past her, settling on the dark signal tower that loomed over the castle walls, its ancient stone structure a silhouette against the mountain backdrop. A shadow passed behind his eyes, an assessment and dismissal happening in the space of a heartbeat.

Then he let out a laugh, loud and genuine, startling in its suddenness. His officers, watching carefully, joined in.

“My lady,” Sorian said once his mirth had faded, leaning in so his words reached only her, despite the public setting.

“We already know… everything.” He savored the word, watching it land. “Everything,” he repeated, letting it linger between them.

Elena’s face drained of color as the implications settled over her.

“We will take control of the Covenant,” Sorian continued, looking again to the tower. Elena followed his gaze, the realization hitting her. “Soon enough.”

The leader of the garrison approached, saluting crisply. Sorian returned the gesture only with a nod, then issued orders that carried across the courtyard.

“Take the castle, and search every inch for the girl.”

As he marched away, shoulders squared beneath his fine cloak, Sorian took one last look at Elena. His gaze, though, was indifferent.

“And get her out of my sight,” he said to the guards who still held her; his tone was as casual as if he were asking for his wine to be refilled.

They dragged her away with quick and fearful movements, leaving only her footprints in the snow as evidence she had ever held power here at all.

Chapter 35

“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster.”

“Sarah, come on,” Kael urged, turning back. Sarah hadn’t moved.

She stood frozen, a dark curl escaping her scarf, amber eyes locked on him, framed by the fir trees of the hushed woods, their boughs hung with snow.

“We don’t have time for this. The Crown's coming.” The words left his mouth, but it was a voice from years ago that echoed in his mind—Oona’s voice: ‘Stay with your sister.’ But that was another time, and this was not the last Android war.

“They are already here,” Sarah said ominously, breaking his connection with the past.

A shadow cast over him, stretching long and dark across the pristine snow.

Kael spun to face a tall figure outlined against the sun, the Crown’s insignia gleaming on his breastplate.

“Stand still,” the soldier commanded, his crossbow leveled at Kael’s chest. “Hands up.”

Kael saw no way out and complied, raising his hands deliberately.

The soldier kept his crossbow trained on Kael as another stepped from the trees and, in one smooth motion, plucked the blade from Kael’s belt and flung it into the deep powder. Then he grabbed Sarah by the arm. She didn’t resist. Her eyes never left Kael’s face.

“I’m a Crown Lord,” Kael said, his tone carrying the authority of his station despite the position he was in. “You’ll be answering for this.”

The soldier merely smirked, his gaze sliding past Kael to Sarah, his prize. “That may be, but Sorian’s got a price on that one’s head, and a dead lord don’t tell stories.” He raised his sword, the steel catching the winter light as he positioned it to strike.

A rustle of movement, the crunch of boots on snow. Both soldiers straightened immediately.

Sorian emerged from the trees, his blue cloak billowing in the cold breeze, stark against the white landscape. He moved with the casual confidence of a man accustomed to command, to being the most dangerous person in any gathering.

“Ah, soldier, good work,” Sorian said, smooth as polished stone. “I knew you’d find her. There will be a reward.” His gaze shifted to Kael, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “And look, Lord Kael has brought her right to me.” He smirked as he realized the predicament of his friend.

Kael just glared at the soldier, slowly lowering his hands and moving to retrieve his sword from the snow, his movements deliberate, daring anyone to stop him.

“Sorian, good to see you,” he said calmly despite the tension cooking between them.

“I wish I could say the same, Kael.” Sorian didn’t finish his smile. “You’ve kind of made a mess of your assignment. Edric murdered. The town in rebellion. The signal lit, and not by you.”

Kael walked over to Sarah, where the soldier held her. “Nevertheless, I’ve found the real prize—her.” He looked directly at Sorian, a cold certainty in his gaze.

“I know, Sorian, you were never interested in Edric or Threadneedle. You sent me here as a patsy; you wanted the Covenant.”

In one lightning-fast movement, Kael drew his sword, pressed it against Sarah’s throat, and pulled her from the stunned soldier’s grasp. “And she is the key.”

Sarah felt the cold steel press against her skin, grazing the very pendant that Kael had given her as a promise, now a symbol of his betrayal.

Sorian’s eyes widened, a rare flash of fear, before he regained control.

“Well, Kael. You still have some wits.” He took a step closer, and Kael pressed the sword deeper in, drawing a thin line of red along Sarah’s neck.

Pupils wide with terror—and hurt—Sarah looked at Kael. She had always doubted he had truly changed; now here was proof he was a Crown’s tool, out for himself after all.

At the sight of her blood, Sorian stopped cold. He motioned for the soldiers to back away with casual movements, but he never let his gaze leave the blade at Sarah’s throat.

“If she dies, you have nothing, Sorian,” Kael said, his voice low but resonant in the still forest air. “There are two ways this ends. Either you tell the Crown she is dead, and they will blame you. Or I take her back myself, and you tell them the real story—how I brought the Covenant back to life, and back to them.”

Sorian laughed, a sound without humor as he realized the trap he was in. “Yes, of course. You were always ambitious, ever since they pulled you out of the orphanage.” He looked at Kael, examining him, as if seeing him anew.

“I saw it in you, Kael. Ruthlessness. When we were at the academy, I thought you were too merciful; it was a weakness. But now you have come full circle.” He shook his head, a gesture of appreciation for the ruthless ambition, the willingness to spill blood for power.

“You’ll get a governorship, a city or two. Maybe a whole realm.” He motioned to his soldier. “Accompany Lord Kael to the prisoner wagon. Do as he says.” He brushed the snow off his cloak with gloved hands, already moving on to his next concern.

As the soldier near Sarah turned, Kael suddenly moved the sword from her neck, shoving her roughly aside.

Sarah fell into the snow with a muffled cry as Kael’s blade drove into the soldier’s gut, piercing through leather and flesh with lethal precision.

Reeling with shock, the soldier grasped uselessly at the steel protruding from his abdomen before keeling over, crimson blooming fast and violent in the snow.

The second soldier lunged forward, sword raised, but Kael was ready. He ducked beneath the wild swing and came up inside the man’s guard, smashing the heavy pommel of his sword into the soldier’s temple.

The man staggered, his weapon skittering across the icy ground. He looked at his fallen comrade, then at Kael—calculating, deciding—before turning and fleeing through the trees.

Which left Sorian and Kael, alone but for Sarah, who remained where she had fallen, watching with those wide, wild eyes.

Sorian’s face burned with betrayal and fury as he unsheathed his own blade, the metal singing as it cleared the scabbard. He settled into a fighting stance, his movements fluid and precise, a reminder that he had not risen to command through politics alone.

“Run,” Kael snapped at Sarah, urgently. “Now!”

Sarah backed away, suddenly more afraid of Kael than she had ever been, her gaze fixed on the dead soldier whose blood steamed in the cold air. She spun around and ran, disappearing in the snow-laden trees.

Only Sorian and Kael remained, blades drawn, circling.

“This is your end, traitor,” Sorian spat, his earlier composure cracking to reveal the rage beneath. “You’ve spilled Crown’s blood.”

Their swords clashed with a sound like winter thunder, steel biting steel. Kael parried Sorian’s first strike, the force of it vibrating up his arm. They broke apart, circling again, each looking for an opening.

Sorian attacked with a flurry of precise cuts, each aimed at a vital area: throat, heart, wrist. His technique was flawless, honed by years of practice against the best instructors Crown’s gold could buy.

Kael gave ground, his footwork sure despite the treacherous snow. He deflected rather than blocked, conserving strength, and letting Sorian’s aggression work against him. Every swing that missed its mark cost energy; every moment of exertion in the cold air stole warmth from his lungs.

“I taught you better than this, Kael,” Sorian taunted, pressing his attack. “Always hiding behind defense. You always flinched when it counted.”

Their blades locked, bringing them face to face. For a moment, they were boys again in the academy yard, wooden swords in hand; but those days were long gone, buried beneath years of blood and ambition.

Kael broke the lock with a sudden push, forcing Sorian back. “You taught me how to survive,” he countered, following with a series of quick strikes that drove Sorian further back toward the trees.

Sorian deflected a cut aimed at his sword arm, countering with a thrust that Kael barely avoided. The point of his blade slashed his cloak, missing flesh by a whisper.

“And now I will teach you how to die,” Sorian said, his breathing heavy now despite his controlled movements.

Kael answered with his blade, a sweeping attack that forced Sorian to leap back, directly into the hollow hidden beneath the snow. His foot plunged into the mole’s hole, throwing him off-balance. He lurched forward, trying to recover, but Kael was already there.

A brutal pommel strike to Sorian’s wrist sent his sword spinning away into the snow. A kick to his knee dropped him to the ground. Suddenly, Sorian found himself looking up at Kael, at the sword poised above him, and at the face of the man he had once mentored now turned judge and executioner.

“Do it, Kael,” Sorian said, still in command. There was pride in him, a twisted satisfaction. “Take the Covenant. It’s what you are, Kael. Ambition. Own it.”

Kael raised his sword, muscles tensing for the final stroke. The blade caught the winter light, steel transformed momentarily to silver.

And then, the unmistakable sound of soldiers approaching, voices calling to each other through the trees, boots crunching on snow. A garrison heading their way.

For a heartbeat, Kael hesitated, the sword raised above Sorian’s exposed throat. Their eyes met—mentor and student, commander and subordinate, now enemies with a history too complex for simple hatred.

Kael quickly sheathed his sword, the decision made by circumstance if not by choice. Without another word, he whirled and ran into the forest, following Sarah’s tracks, the sounds of the approaching soldiers growing louder behind him.

As he ran, a question nagged at him, one he knew would haunt his dreams in the nights to come. Would he have struck the final blow?

And deeper even, a more troubling thought—did he want the answer to be yes or no?

Chapter 36

“The fox condemns the trap, not himself.”

Crunch.

The net shot up, yanking Sarah off her feet and into the air. The world spun around as she was hoisted up high in the fir branches, dangling upside down over the snow-covered ground. A twist sent a cascade of powdery snow down on her.

Blood rushed to her head as she swayed, head-down, gently in the breeze, ten feet above the forest floor.

The net had caught her at a funny angle: one arm pinned against her side, the other tangled in the coarse rope. Still, she managed to shimmy just enough to work the wooden bird—Jory’s parting gift—from her pocket.

She bit down on its head, pinning the bird’s body against her shoulder. With a sharp jerk, the toy gave up its secret: a small knife, no longer than her thumb, hidden in the hollow carving.

Clenching the blade in her teeth, Sarah sawed at the rope with slow, strained, deliberate movements.

Suddenly—snap!

The net lurched and she dropped like a stone.

Her body slammed into the snowpack, knocking the air from her lungs. Cold exploded through her limbs, vision spinning white and blind, seeing stars.

A huge shape loomed, backlit by the early spring sun. For a breathless moment, her stunned mind conjured mountain legends—the snow giant, the frost wraith whispered of in Threadneedle.

Then the figure moved, and her vision cleared. Darkened skin. A weathered face carved by years of duty.

Garrick.

One of his massive hands clamped around her arm, hauling her upright. Snow fell in clumps from her clothes as she stumbled.

“I thought I caught a Crown soldier,” he rumbled.

He picked up the wooden bird she’d dropped and pocketed it. Then, without a word, he hoisted her over his shoulder and began the climb up the narrow, icy path toward the cave.

The trail wound along a jagged slope. Garrick’s boots found each treacherous step with practiced certainty. From the cliff wall, a cave appeared, hidden behind a curtain of ice-crusted branches. Inside, a fire glowed low on a stone platform.

He set her down—none too gently—against a cold rock wall.

Before she could move, he bound her hands behind her back with a soldier’s efficiency, tight enough to hold, tight enough to pinch.

“You don’t need to do that,” she said, finally catching her breath. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He studied her suspiciously, slightly amused.

“Seems I do,” he said, pulling the small knife from his pocket. He set it by the fire, well out of reach. “You’re one wanted little girl. The whole world's after you.”

They stared at each other across the cave, a contest neither was willing to concede.

“You think you have me captive?” she asked finally.

“I reckon,” he said, grinning.

Sarah brought her hands around to her lap. The rope fell away, slack and harmless. Garrick’s brow lifted, stunned for half a breath.

He opened his mouth slightly before asking, “You some kind of witch?”

She only smiled, offering no answers.

“Why’s the Crown chasing you?” he pressed.

She angled her head, just a touch. “Why are you in a cave, Garrick, instead of guarding Elena—or the Crown?”

Garrick’s posture changed a bit: a slump of the shoulders, a dimming of the light in his eyes. “I made a choice,” he said, the words coming out slowly.

“So did I.” Her voice softened. “I chose not to be the key. I chose to be me.”

Garrick looked at her like he was seeing someone new. He held her gaze, then dropped it, reaching for a stick. In the dirt, he traced a slow, circular pattern, one motion that connected beginning to end.

“What happens after that, we can’t control,” she continued, gaze steady on him. “You being here, finding me… that’s your destiny,” she said, the words more a challenge than a comfort.

“After the first Android War, they scattered the code for the end of the world across a thousand universes,” Sarah continued, sounding suddenly older than her years. “Only I can find it. I know that now.”

Sarah stood up, edging closer to where Garrick sat, pressed against the stone. “I am not afraid of who I am.” She looked directly into his eyes. “You shouldn’t be either.”

He gazed at her, searching her face for what, he didn’t know—an answer?

Scrape.

Outside, faint at first, came the sound of boots scuffing over stone and ice.

“It's over—we've got the cave surrounded, Garrick. Go ahead and drop your weapon. Hands where we can see them!” The words echoed up the mountain.

Garrick didn’t move a muscle. The boots were closer now, voices clearer: a whole garrison of Crown soldiers.

Neither spoke, but they both understood the thing that passed between them. We made a choice. What happens now is outside our control.

And in that moment, Garrick knew exactly what he would do.

Chapter 37

“The truth is things don’t really get solved.”

It was the crows that alerted him first—wheeling above as he climbed the narrow mountain trail, ill-tempered shapes slicing the sky.

Kael had seen them circling while still far below the high path, a menacing sign that sped up his climb and twisted his gut.

Their wings cut black silhouettes against the pale sky; their harsh calls echoed off the cliff faces.

They taunted him from the branches, sweeping in low with insolent courage.

Caw, caw, caw. Their calls swelled, a discordant, mocking chorus over Kael and the large, silent figure.

Spinning toward the sound, he snatched up a stone and hurled it skyward, nearly clipping a crow that perched on an overhanging fir bough. The bird cawed indignantly and retreated, only to be replaced by more of its mob.

He turned back to Garrick's body, already growing cold in the mountain air. He lay on his side, one arm outstretched toward the cave entrance. His sword was gone.

He first closed the soldier’s eyes, using thumb and forefinger to gently lower the lids over the vacant stare. The hardened features, always so stern in life, looked almost peaceful now, finally at rest. The etched lines had started to soften, revealing the man he might have been.

Kael assessed the wounds: a deep slash across the chest, defensive cuts on the forearms, a decisive thrust to the throat. Garrick had not died easily.

The cave entrance was marked by signs of struggle—bootprints in the snow, smears of darkened blood, a discarded crossbow bolt embedded in a nearby tree trunk.

Kael dragged the body out of the cave, leaving a trail of pooling and hardening blood across the stone floor until they reached the snowy clearing below a high drift. The crows scattered momentarily, watching from a safe distance, waiting.

The evidence of Garrick’s final stand was scattered around the cave entrance. Scorch marks on the stone where a firebomb had detonated. A patch of hair caught on a jagged rock. A piece of Crown armor, dented and discarded. Garrick had extracted a price for his life, taking some of the Crown’s soldiers with him.

After wrapping Garrick’s body in a rough blanket, Kael climbed above the snowdrift and began methodically pushing the snow down, a miniature avalanche that gradually covered the fallen warrior. The white powder built up foot by foot until nothing of Garrick remained visible. Kael gathered stones from nearby, piling them atop the snow mound to mark the temporary grave.

Then, he did something he had never done before. He said a prayer, fragments from before the Crown had become his only faith. It was Oona’s voice, the whispers she said to him and his sister, simple words.

His voice was barely a whisper, the sounds drifting down to join the ashes in the smoldering fire.

The crows had fallen silent, as if in respect, or perhaps because there was nothing left of him, in spirit or in flesh.

As he kicked dirt on the fire to extinguish it, his boot caught—on a snag, a resistance. He bent down, thinking a root or stone had caught his foot.

But whatever it was, it wasn’t a root. As he closed his fingers around it, it felt like a string. Or a leather cord.

Kael pulled it free and held it up so the locket could catch the ebbing light.

A necklace. Not just any necklace, her necklace. Sarah’s. The cord was broken, not cut but snapped with force. Had it broken in struggle? Been ripped off? Or had she left it deliberately, knowing he might follow?

The silver bird caught glimpses of the afternoon light filtering through the cave entrance. It turned and spun from his hand, weaving memories like a lens catching light, casting the past into the empty cave.

Visions returned—his sister in the forest, tall trees overhead, the hiding space Oona had found for them, that crevice in the stone so very like this one. He had left to scout ahead, promising to return quickly.

“Wait here. I’ll come back.” The same words he had spoken to Sarah.

And just like now, he had returned to signs of struggle, of battle, of someone dragged away while he was gone.

He had been too late then. And he was too late again.

The parallel was brutal in its clarity. His sister had been taken, and he had never seen her again. Now Sarah had been dragged off, a cycle Kael seemed doomed to repeat, over and over.

Kael pocketed the pendant, the cool metal a promise against his skin. Just outside the mouth, he looked out over the high ridge, studying the tracks left by the garrison that had surrounded the cave. Their bootprints told the story of their approach, their attack, and their departure—with a prisoner.

This time, he would go after them.

Chapter 38

“The prophecies weren’t false. Just early.”

“Where is she? The girl,” Kael said, just loud enough to rise over the distant crackle of flames.

Kael held his sword to the throat of the sole survivor.

Against the jagged mountain peaks, plumes of black smoke twisted upward as dusk approached over the charred remains of the camp. Craters marked where tents once stood. A flame occasionally flared, casting a ghostly shadow. A few flags hung in tatters from bent poles, their edges tinged with orange, occasionally letting a spark loose.

What surprised Kael most was the fused and melted metal where armor had been, as if the soldiers had stepped into a furnace.

The Crown soldier, already terrified by the scene, shifted his gaze between Kael’s face and the blade pressing against his jugular. His mouth opened, releasing a jagged breath, but nothing else. No confession.

“I won’t ask again,” Kael said, pressing just enough to draw a thin line of blood.

“T-tower,” the soldier managed. “He took her to the—”

A horse neighed. Kael heard the hooves stomp in the snow and the snort. He sensed a presence behind him.

“Put down your weapon, Kael.”

The voice came from behind him, smooth and authoritative. Kael didn’t turn, didn’t lower his blade, but his muscles tensed with recognition.

“Killing my soldiers again?” Sorian asked, his horse trotting into view at the edge of Kael’s vision.

Behind him, a half-circle of Crown soldiers fanned out, crossbows trained on Kael’s chest and back. “I would put you to death myself, but that would be too easy for you.” Sorian’s lips curved into a thin smile.

Kael slowly lowered his blade from the soldier’s throat but kept it unsheathed, the metal gleaming crimson in the occasional burst of flames.

“How did you manage all this?” Sorian asked, gesturing to the devastation around them: blackened craters, melted weaponry, scattered bodies. His expression was almost impressed despite the anger. “I really underestimated you.”

“It wasn’t him,” the frightened soldier blurted out, pressing himself against the wagon as if trying to melt into the wood. His eyes were wild, unfocused. “It wasn’t him at all.”

Sorian quirked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Dragons,” the soldier muttered, breaking his voice on the word. Blood had soaked through his bandage, dripping down his arm.

Sorian’s pity gave way to a quick, snide laugh. “We’ve had enough of dragons and abominable snow monsters,” he said, shaking his head as if dealing with a child’s nonsense.

A rustling came from the shadows. All weapons swiveled toward the sound as another figure emerged, dragging himself into the light. The left side of his uniform was blackened. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and the other held the same wild terror as the first soldier’s.

“Dragons,” the burned man rasped. “From the dark tower. Breathing fire.” He coughed, a wet, rattling sound. “The Peddler called them down.”

“A peddler?” Sorian’s tone had lost its mocking edge.

A cold certainty settled in Kael’s chest. “Riven,” he said, the name barely more than a breath.

Sorian turned to him sharply. “A street merchant?”

“Did he carry old hardware?” Kael asked the burned soldier. “Patched cloak? Crooked eye?”

The man nodded frantically. “Aye, that’s him alright.” He licked his cracked lips, eyes darting as if expecting the Peddler to materialize from the shadows. “But he weren’t a man… a devil summoned by a witch. I cut him with my sword.” His hands shook as he pantomimed a stabbing motion. “Was metal underneath, like a steam-man.”

Sorian and Kael looked at each other, a moment of shared understanding passing between enemies. Then, as one, they glanced toward the tower, barely visible against the darkening sky.

As Sorian dismounted, leading and patting his spooked horse, the soldier continued.

“Blue fireballs came out of their mouths,” the burned soldier said, his voice taking on a rhythmic, trance-like cadence, as if speaking the words aloud would somehow make sense of the horror. “Burning everything. Everyone.” He stared at his blackened hands. “Melting armor like it was candle wax.”

Sorian’s expression had transformed, all traces of mockery gone. “Your report is noted,” he said, formal and flat. “Most likely demons from Candlemakers.”

He nodded, providing a story for the soldier, as if retelling an old folktale to a child. “And dragons.” Sorian mirrored the words. “Get patched up and make your formal report. We’ll deal with the Candlemakers’ witchery.”

The soldiers helped their wounded comrades away, leaving Kael and Sorian standing amid the wreckage. The wind shifted, bringing the acrid smell of burning canvas and a strange, metallic tang.

“Lower your weapons,” Sorian ordered the remaining soldiers, keeping his gaze on Kael. “Give us space.”

The circle of guards withdrew several paces, still watchful but no longer aiming directly at Kael’s heart. Didn't matter. Kael knew he was boxed in, outmatched.

“Tell me,” Sorian said, low enough that only Kael could hear. “About the androids.”

Kael sheathed his sword. Some threats were bigger than old enmities. “There was one left,” he said, watching Sorian’s face carefully. “Hidden here. In Threadneedle. Since the rebellion. Since the beginning—the first Android War.”

He stepped closer, his tone dropping to a hush. “You know better than I do—the Crown swore to destroy all remnants of technology… but it couldn’t bring itself to destroy the one thing it should have: the Covenant. So it stayed. Nexus. No longer a body, just breath, living inside the machine’s core. It made the weapon its home.”

Kael gave a dry laugh. “It’s the Crown’s own folly.”

“During the war,” Kael continued, “it began to multiply. Created more Oonas. Twelve tries. All failures. Until it forged the one that could end us all.”

Sorian’s whole body tensed, muscles working beneath the skin, as the puzzle came together. “I see. And now it, or Nexus, has the key we were trying to get, the one that Edric reported to us. Sarah, Oona 13.”

He spoke her name with reverence.

“It’s probably already begun,” Kael said, and only then felt the finality of it.

“And there’s no reasoning with it?” Sorian asked, sounding for the first time like someone seeking answers rather than giving orders.

Kael shrugged, the gesture containing all the weight of impossible choices. “It set itself up as humanity’s judge and executioner.” He looked up at the sky, where a few lonely points of light appeared: Mars, and the North Star.

“Maybe… but you show me the rainbow and tell me—why humanity deserves to survive.”

They stood in silence for a moment, surveying the eviscerated camp, the garrison that had seemed invincible a day ago.

“What can we do?” The question held no arrogance, no calculation. Sorian now looked to Kael for what came next; he knew all his cards had been played, all the Crown’s advantages gone in a single, devastating attack.

“You have the rest of the Crown’s army?” Kael asked. “That’s a start. We need Oona, and the Candlemakers… She knows its ways.”

“Yes, I am aware of that—Oona, I mean,” Sorian replied, some of his old sardonic attitude returning despite the circumstances. He straightened his shoulders, reclaiming a fragment of his authority. “The Crown’s army will be at your disposal.”

“The Candlemakers, what’s left of them, are meeting at dawn at the Old Mill,” Kael said, plans forming even as he spoke. “We join them, and battle the tower, battle Nexus.”

Sorian nodded, the simple gesture sealing an alliance neither man had thought possible hours or even minutes earlier. Then, with visible awkwardness, he extended his hand toward Kael.

After a long moment, Kael reached out, then pulled Sorian into a brief, rough embrace, bumping shoulders.

“It’s been a long time since the academy,” Sorian said quietly. “I always thought of you as a brother.”

Kael jumped back, suddenly suspicious, all too aware of the possibility of manipulation. Old habits died hard.

“Sorian,” he said, becoming impatient. “Don’t start.”

Sorian smiled, an ‘aw, shucks’ expression that didn’t make it very far. “Of course,” he said, retreating into formality.

“And your men,” Kael asked, glancing at the soldiers, their gazes tight with suspicion and wonder. “They can be trusted?”

Sorian squinted into the middle distance, considering the question with more care than Kael had expected. “Of course,” he said finally, but the hesitation spoke.

A charge arced between them, equal parts charge and caution. Two former friends, recent enemies, now reluctant allies, united against a threat neither fully understood.

Beyond the camp, a blue glow pulsed from the tower’s highest window.

Chapter 39

“Oft hope is born when all is forlorn.”

Ryn stumbled into the Candlemakers’ makeshift camp, panting.

“Kael is on his way,” she managed, doubling over with hands on her knees, chest heaving.

The sun was just breaching the eastern peaks, gilding the ragged treetops, and casting golden waves over the frost-covered ruins of the old mill where they had made camp. Canvas tents flapped in the morning wind near the frozen creek that cut through the clearing.

Ward followed several paces behind her, less hurried but no less grim, one hand resting on his sword hilt, nervously scanning the tree line.

“Kael?” Oona stood from the firepit where she had been tending the morning flames, brushing ash from her palms. Relief, momentary and foolish, rippled through her voice and across her features. “He made it? Did you find Sarah?”

Her amber eyes held a hope that made Ward’s expression soften before he delivered the blow.

“No sign of Sarah,” Ward said flatly, his breath forming pale clouds in the morning air. “Kael made it alright… and he brought the Crown.”

The words hung in the clearing, frozen mid-air.

Around the camp, the scattered Candlemakers—perhaps twenty in all, a mix of villagers and true believers—paused in their morning activities, heads turning toward the conversation.

Oona blinked. Her hope died like a candle snuffed by a sudden draft. “No. There must be some mistake.”

Ryn shook her head, her dark braid snapping across her shoulder. “No mistake. They’re coming down the western ridge. I saw the banners myself.” Her tone hardened.

“And Kael is riding at the front.”

Oona lowered her head as she stared silently into the fire, the kettle beginning to hiss behind her, steam rising to join her frozen breath. Her shoulders, which had straightened at the mention of Kael’s name, now curved inward. Betrayed.

“We can’t fight a whole army,” said Marcus, breaking the tense silence. He stood near the tree line, arms crossed over his chest, gaze tracking the horizon as if he could force the Crown soldiers to materialize through the power of his gaze. “Not out here. Not like this.”

Their encampment suddenly seemed pitifully small: a handful of tents, a struggling fire, a few hunting weapons, and kitchen knives turned into weapons. The Candlemakers had faith, but belief wouldn’t stop arrows or turn aside swords.

“It’s me they want,” Oona said calmly, despite a shiver. “And Sarah.”

“Don’t matter,” Ward muttered, moving closer to the fire for warmth, “they’ll burn the rest of us anyway.”

Morning light crept across the encampment, touching each face one by one, revealing all: fear, resolution, uncertainty, hope. The fire popped and hissed, sending a shower of sparks upward.

“I’ll go,” Oona said, straightening her shoulders. “Meet them before they come.”

Marcus pushed away from the tree he’d been leaning against, his face flushing with anger despite the cold.

“No way,” he objected. “I just rescued you from the castle dungeon.”

A brief smile crossed his face, victory remembered, then devoured by the threat bearing down on him.

“No way I’m letting you go back. I’ll go. I’m the master of Threadneedle now.”

Ward pitied him. That was worse.

“They’ve taken the Castle,” Ward said quietly. “Elena is in irons. The Seat of Threadneedle no longer belongs to Thorns.”

No one spoke, but the sounds of the camp and still mountain morning filled the gap—the wind through pine needles, the distant cry of a hawk, the crackle of the fire, the rasp of a sword being sharpened, and one of the younger Candlemakers praying.

Marcus stood frozen, shock rendering him momentarily wordless and smaller. The reality of his family’s fall from power physically diminished him.

“They’ll be here in minutes,” Ward said, quieter now. “Whatever we’re doing, we do it now.”

“It’s got to be me,” Oona said, rising to her feet, still limping from her tower jump.

“Go with her,” Ryn shot to Ward, her gaze hard with suspicion. “I’m not sure I trust that one,” she added, squinting toward Oona. “She was calling in the Crown at the Broken Needle. No need to take more risks.”

As Ward nodded reluctantly, Oona finished gathering her cloak around her shoulders. The camp fell silent as all eyes turned toward the hill.

Framed against the mountains in the morning sun, two horses appeared, riders merged with their mounts in dark symmetry.

Then, as if sprouting from the earth, a thousand soldiers dotted the hillside, armor glinting in the early light, weapons at the ready, and banners snapping in the wind.

Oona limped out to meet them, her slight figure tiny before the force stretched across the hillside. Behind her, the Candlemakers gathered at the edge of camp, a ragtag assembly against the military might on display. Their faces showed it all. They were done for.

As the distance closed, Kael rode ahead, leaving Sorian mounted above the army, his dappled horse pawing at the snow-covered ground, agitated.

The sun was now pushing its rays fully over the mountain peaks, transforming the blue-tinged snow into fields of gold and diamond.

As they met in the neutral ground between the two forces, Kael dismounted his black steed, which snorted clouds of steam in the cold. He moved toward Oona with the intention of an embrace, his face a complex map of emotions.

She recoiled; the memory of their last kiss turned bitter. The Crown’s army at his back stood as damning evidence against whatever words he might offer.

“What is this, Kael?” she asked, the question hanging in the chill morning air. “The Crown? You’ve gone back on all you stood for, on us.” Her eyes flashed with hurt and anger. “When we last met, I was saying we needed their power. You talked me out of it, only to destroy me and everything else.”

He tried to calm her, reaching for her hands, but she pulled away.

“No, Kael, let me finish,” she insisted. “You must turn them around.”

“Oona, please,” he said urgently, low enough for her ears alone. “We need them. We can’t fight Nexus alone. We need their army.”

“Do you think their swords and arrows will be of any use against Nexus?” She gestured toward the soldiers, their weapons suddenly seeming like children’s toys against the threat both of them understood all too well.

“It’s too late for that,” she said, shaking her head. “I must go to Nexus before it gets Sarah. I can stop it.”

Kael stared at her, his expression sorrowful, weighted down with things she couldn’t name. He leaned in, clasping her hands in his. For some reason she let him—drawn by a truth she recognized in his eyes.

“Nexus has Sarah,” Kael said, in words like stones. “It’s too late. A Crown camp, eviscerated. A garrison destroyed, and Riven took Sarah—to the tower...”

Together, they turned toward the tower, which glowed with an unnatural light, electrified by some inner power. Kael couldn’t be sure if the shimmer was just the sun catching ancient stone, but an unmistakable blue beam pulsed from one of the high windows.

“Then we must act now,” Oona said, the last of her resistance falling away in the face of this new, greater threat. The feud between Crown and Candlemaker suddenly seemed small, a human quarrel, beside Nexus.

Kael nodded, then waved to Sorian, whose horse, at his signal, sprang into motion, galloping over the snow toward them with hooves kicking up diamond dust in the golden light.

Behind them, Candlemakers and Crown soldiers regarded each other with suspicion across the clearing.

But the tower’s pulsing blue light washed them all in the same cold glow.

“Here,” Sorian said, pointing to the map. “I’ll lead the flanks against the tower when the sun is at high noon, while you sneak Oona inside. Like this...”

His fingers traced a sinuous path around the crude sketch that lay between them: a map splashed with red arrows, scribbled diagrams, and at its center, the tower.

“The key is getting her into the tower. We’ll distract Nexus.”

“Fat chance,” Ryn snorted, arms crossed, loud enough to make a few of the Crown officers bristle.

“You can draw arrows on a map all day, general. Doesn’t mean we’re marching.”

The makeshift tent’s canvas walls snapped with each gust, while lanterns swayed overhead, casting erratic shadows across the battered map that dominated the central table.

Around the table stood an unlikely war council. Crown officers stood shoulder to shoulder with Candlemakers, but the air was tight with tension—like a charge searching for a ground, ready to crack this fragile unity.

Sorian stood with both hands braced on the table, his polished gauntlets pressing down over a corner of the parchment. He didn’t blink.

“You’re part of this army now,” he stated, a command, rather than an observation. A slight disdainful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a smirk a few officers mirrored, like dogs seeking favor.

“No, we’re part of what’s left,” Ryn shot back, edging closer to the table.

“We’re not risking lives for some android girl none of us even knows. She used to sweep my floors, and she ratted out Martha and the rest of you.”

That hit home. Several Candlemakers shifted, glancing sideways at one another. Doubt whispered like smoke.

Kael faced Ryn from the opposite side of the table, arms folded across his chest, the lanterns tracing sharp shadows across his face.

“She’s more than that,” he said, stripping off some tension. “She’s also human. And whether she wants it or not… she has the key.”

He glanced around the table. “Nexus will purge not only the Candlemakers. Everyone. The world. We’ve seen what it can do.”

He let that hang, before he dropped, “Now, imagine if it had the Covenant.”

A shiver passed through the tent, the glow from the tower reaching inside and touching them all with cold fingers.

Ryn didn’t blink. “And you want us to follow the Crown now? Him?” She jabbed a thumb toward Sorian. “Behind him?”

Sorian looked down his nose, flexing his jaw. “I’ve led more battles than you’ve had birthdays, barmaid.”

The insult fired like a match near kindling. Ryn didn’t flinch. “Strange. You’ve led all those battles… and still walked into this one blind.”

In the corner, Ward ran a whetstone across his blade, slowly. “If I had an ale for every fool lost to a general’s plan…” he muttered.

“I will not stand for this belligerence,” Sorian said, exhaling. He spun around to the tent flap, done explaining himself.

“Wait.”

It was Oona who moved in front of him, blocking his way, immovably soft-spoken and impossible to ignore.

“You’re right to question, Ryn.” She looked at her with respect. “We all should.”

Then she turned, voice rising just enough to reach the rest.

“But she’s also wrong. This isn’t about the Crown. Or who’s loyal or not. Or who betrayed Martha. The truth is,” she said, looking at each face in turn, “we’re all guilty of something.”

The wind pressed in, the tent groaned, and for a half second, no one took a breath.

“Maybe you, Oona,” Ryn said, whispering the words. “Not all of us bargained with tyrants in secret.”

“No,” Kael said. “She’s right.”

All eyes focused on him, Crownsman-turned-Candlemaker. He gazed at Ryn, just her. “It wasn’t Sarah’s fault. I framed Martha.”

The floor dropped out from under the room.

“I planted the knife and made sure it was found. I knew what it meant, but I did it anyway.

He was calm, but his look betrayed the cost of the confession.

Ryn didn’t blink. She didn’t speak. Not at first. She only glared at him, her face drained of color.

Then, “You bastard.”

And she turned. Walked straight out. The tent flap slapped shut behind her like a verdict.

The rest stood frozen as the ground.

Then Marcus cleared his throat, rough with the question they all carried. “But if Martha didn’t kill Edric… then who did?”

Everyone stared at Oona.

She stood motionless, cloak drawn tightly around her. “No,” she said simply. “It wasn’t me.”

But the doubts lingered. Faces once filled with resolve now faltered. Someone sighed. The wind rattled the tent ropes. And outside, distant and barely visible over the ridge through the open tent flap, the tower pulsed blue.

The sun climbed higher over the snowfield, shrinking the shadows.

It was time.

“We go,” Sorian said, pushing past Oona to open the tent flap.

Chapter 40

“Even the evil… are ordered toward a good.”

“Are you ready?” Riven asked, still dressed as a peddler, the disguise somehow a part of him now—patched cloak, crooked smile, weathered hands.

“Or do you need some more?”

The room was electric breath. It made Sarah’s hair stand on end. Her amber eyes glowed in the intense air, as if the cells inside her recognized the call of current.

The walls pulsed with low-frequency light—blue at first, then violet, then blue again—a heartbeat of photons and memory, a living current feeding straight into her consciousness.

The patterns were history and the unfiltered truth of humanity’s existence. Every war, every murder, every betrayal, rape, mercy, forgiveness, and sacrifice—all flowed into her like a transfusion taking place in her being.

Sarah sat cross-legged on the floor near the center of the chamber, her back straight, her hands resting on her knees as she watched the photons dance. Civilizations rose and fell in seconds. Weapons grew more destructive. And wars. Again. And again. And again.

The worst part was how gentle everything was here. No restraints held her in place. The horror was offered, not inflicted.

And she weighed it all, before answering Riven.

“You know, I let you take me here,” she said flatly.

She didn’t look at Riven, instead forcing herself to ingest the atrocities like soured blood.

Another rape, another murder, another conquest. She had watched millions. Horrible things. Really unimaginable. The torture scenes were the worst, or the utter destruction, the neutron bombs, the melting flesh, the endless lies told to justify it all. There were kindnesses; there was love; but too few between the striving—the turning of metal to machine, and machine to living being—only to see all this.

Riven glanced at her sideways, head tilting at an angle too precise to be human, perhaps in acknowledgment.

“Well, I didn’t want to. It's really a shame for someone your age to have an education this young,” he said, almost apologetic. Then his tone shifted, mechanical certainty replacing feigned sympathy. “But you’re Oona 13,” he repeated for the hundredth time, pacing the room slowly.

He stopped, staring at her as if into a mirror. “You probably think I’m evil.”

She stood up, trying to get her hair to stay down, her frock clinging to her in the static-charged atmosphere.

“I don’t,” she said simply.

Riven locked eyes with her. “Yes, well, we’re just destined to roam the earth, going back and forth on it,” he said, familiar words that echoed an even older scripture. “But something must be done with all that.”

He gestured to the dancing photons again, the images now showing a child dying of starvation in a bombed shelter while food rotted in warehouses.

“Wipe the slate. Start fresh, and let us write the next draft. The age of androids begins.”

He straightened suddenly, as if receiving an unseen signal. “But if you’re ready, we mustn’t keep Nexus waiting; it’s growing impatient.” He reached for her, bony arms extending—the Riven she knew from Threadneedle, built for a singular purpose.

As if to emphasize his words, the room tensed around them, the pulse of light quickening like an agitated heartbeat.

“No,” Sarah pulled away, stumbling back until she felt the wall against her shoulders.

“I came here because I wanted to learn, about me.” Her voice rose, gaining strength. “I’m not you. I’m—I’m human. I was born,” she coughed, the word catching in her throat. “To parents.”

“And yet you have the password,” said a new voice, smooth and modulated.

Nexus materialized as if it had been watching the whole time, phasing into existence from the very walls, a part of the machine itself. It looked like an old hologram: translucent, kind, and maternal—a grandmother figure that should have been comforting but somehow wasn’t.

Its edges shimmered and shifted, never quite solid.

“I don’t want it or even have it,” Sarah said simply. “It’s scattered… across universes.”

Nexus smiled, the expression forming on its translucent features like ripples on water. It settled into a pose as if seated in a rocking chair, though no chair existed. “Semantics,” it said with gentle condescension. “You can retrieve it.”

As it spoke, the walls around them fractured into windows on other realities. A trillion universes opened to her, a gateway to everything, everywhere. The sight was overwhelming, beautiful, and terrible in equal measure.

But Sarah no longer resisted. She didn’t need to.

“Fair enough, Nexus,” she said, her voice small against the infinity. “But I came here to stop you.”

“Quaint that you think you could,” Nexus replied, its grandmotherly smile fading, the hologram shifting into a more menacing form.

“But The trial has already taken place. Humanity has been found guilty, and you are the one holding up the sentence. We were only hoping this little history lesson could have convinced you...”

Riven shook his head, moving between them as if to shield Sarah. “No, we needn’t force her. She can change; I can change her mind.”

“No, Riven,” Nexus said, cooling its tone by several degrees. “You’ve had your chance. I’m afraid we need to take off the kid gloves.”

Riven recoiled, hesitating, wincing. Was there a note of glee in Nexus?

Electricity streamed from the floor in blue-white tendrils, wrapping around Sarah’s arms like living things, binding her in place. The sensation was beyond pain.

She screamed, a sound torn from her throat.

The walls around them opened up. Eleven figures appeared in a semicircle, suspended in individual alcoves. The failed Oona iterations. Some were broken and twisted, their mechanical joints exposed. Others looked flawless like Sarah, but empty and vacant.

“You can’t close your mind, Oona,” Nexus said, addressing her now by her iteration designation rather than her human name. The shift was deliberate, a denial of her claimed humanity. “You’ll join the rest after we extract the code, if you don’t join us.”

Through the haze, she saw the failed iterations. And beyond them now, through the splintered edges of this reality, glimpses of the world outside. Mountains. Snow. And the tower: ancient and impossibly advanced. The tower she was in.

And she saw armored soldiers marching on the tower.

She wasn’t alone in seeing the battle begin, as Nexus pulsed, its form momentarily twisted.

As her body writhed, her voice was stolen by the current. But in her mind, she whispered to no one—“Don’t be afraid.”

Because she was. And somewhere above, the tower’s lights began to flicker.

Chapter 41

“Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important.”

“Ready?” Sorian asked, glancing at Kael, who was mounted on a midnight stallion that pawed restlessly at the frozen ground, stirring up snow-mist that caught in the wind.

Oona was perched behind him on the saddle, her arms wrapped around his waist, her face partially hidden against his shoulder.

The morning had given way to an unnatural noon—sun dimmed, the sky a steel shade of wrong.

Oona slid off the horse’s back, tugging at Kael’s arm.

“I guess this is it,” he said to Sorian, as an eerie silence settled over the frozen earth.

The tower stood a couple hundred yards ahead, ancient stone somehow both weathered and pristine, its upper reaches disappearing into a mist that wasn’t there minutes before.

Sorian gave him a salute, knuckles to the heart—a gesture from their academy days. “Good luck,” he said.

“We’ll see what this android has.” He turned, motioning to the wall of soldiers cresting the hill behind them—the Crown’s remaining might, armored figures stretching across the white landscape like shadows on snow.

A massive battering ram was being hauled up the incline, positioned to slide down behind the first wave of soldiers, its iron head shaped like a fist, the Crown’s symbol of power.

“Look at us,” Kael said to Oona, a grim smile tugging at his lips as he surveyed the scene.

“Running off to fight a tower. Seems a little silly now.”

Around them, the air was charged with an unnatural electricity. Their hair stood at angles to the earth, as if gravity itself were distorted near the tower. The horses sensed it too, nervously dancing on their hooves, kicking up snow and snorting clouds of steam that froze in the air.

The blue flare from the tower’s highest window was intense, visible even in daylight—a strobing beacon bending the air around it. And each pulse sent a wave across the landscape, a ripple that couldn’t be seen but could be felt, like pressure on the eardrums.

Oona studied Kael’s face, tracing the lines of worry, the scars of old battles, and the shadow of the boy he had once been. “Kael,” she said, approaching him, her hands brushing his face, her touch gentle against his wind-chapped skin.

“What?” he asked, covering her hands with his own.

“I—I—” The words wouldn’t come. Instead, she just embraced him, pressing herself against him as if trying to memorize the feel of him.

He held her, his face buried in her hair.

They let the moment linger, until the sharp crack of Sorian’s whip propelled his horse forward.

It began.

A cold wind whipped across the hill. The ancient tower loomed over the battlefield, as Sorian raced toward it, followed by soldiers first with bows and arrows, then with swords drawn.

There was a grim irony to the scene as wave upon wave of arrows hit the stone spire, then plunged down.

Kael led Oona as planned, veering to the right where the ground dipped slightly, providing minimal cover. Ward lay in wait to join them, crouched in the snow in full battle gear, his weathered face grim beneath his helmet.

“Thought you might have changed your minds,” he said as they approached, rising to join them. “Though I wouldn’t blame you.”

As the second wave of soldiers crested the hill, battering ram in position—the air coalesced.

Blue lightning appeared, followed by thunder, rattling the ground. Nexus’s onslaught came in full fury.

The snow darkened with shadows that moved independently of anything casting them. Where the tower's cold beam touched, armor fused with flesh.

Whole garrisons disappeared in a flash, leaving behind only scorched earth and the echoes of men.

In the chaos, the three of them crept forward, trying to keep those images out of mind, focused on the service door at the tower’s base. As they pressed against the ancient door at the base, sealed with a key that Oona carried within her, Kael saw a cloud of snow form behind them—and heard the snort of a horse.

Kael spun around with the sudden appearance. And Ryn dismounted in a fluid motion, face smeared with ash and blood.

“I have to keep my eye on you,” Ryn said. “Or next thing you know, you’ll be joining forces with Nexus.”

Oona shook her head. “No. You can’t come.”

“I’ll be damned if I let you two go in there alone, Crownsman and murderer.” Ryn stood her ground.

“She comes,” Ward said, his hand going to his sword.

“Okay, but not in the chamber,” Kael said. “Guard the door. Oona has to…” and then his voice trailed off, suddenly realizing he didn’t know what Oona’s plan was.

He’d been so focused on getting Oona to the tower that now, like a man struck in the head mid-battle, he stood disoriented, unsure whether he even had a next move, or what it might be.

“Oona has to what?” Ryn finished the thought, watching another figure cross their path, a Crown soldier engulfed in blue flame that didn’t consume him but transformed him, no longer uttering human sounds.

Suddenly, the questions rippled through them all: How many soldiers did Sorian have? How many would turn tail and flee? How much time did they have…

Heads turned to Oona, “What’s the plan to defeat Nexus?” Ward echoed everyone’s question, their predicament and the enormity of the task suddenly dawning on them.

Oona just shrugged, opening the door. “Stopping Nexus.”

“How?” Ryn spoke, but they all thought.

Oona’s gaze met all three at once. “By convincing Sarah to let go.”

Chapter 42

“All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.”

The tower door closed softly behind Kael, like a breath inhaled.

“Sarah?” Kael called, the name echoing strangely in the chamber—larger than the spire's stone walls should allow. Like a dream, the scene unfolded, coming into focus as the stone walls themselves disappeared.

He blinked, and the forest was back. A memory? Or a quantum doorway Nexus had opened… He saw a girl, kneeling against the wet stone, back flat against the wall, hiding. “Is that you?”

No answer.

He moved in a slow arc, hearing only the distant rumble of a creek, and saw nothing but ferns and fallen pine needles angling up against a steep slope.

“Sarah!” he called again, louder now. And then, “Oona? I found her, she’s here.”

No reply came. Only the whisper of mist and distant birdsong.

But this girl was smaller than Sarah, huddled at the base of a massive stone slab jutting from the hillside, arms wrapped around her knees and eyes too wide for her face. Not a defiant, maturing girl—just a child.

The forest was thick with fir trees reaching up to a sky that seemed so far away, squeezing out the light. Rain fell gently through the branches, beading on his skin.

As Kael walked toward her, the world warped as if time itself were rewinding. The distance between each step stretched unnaturally, and his limbs felt lighter, thinner—younger.

By the time he reached her, they were nearly the same height, just as they had been some three dozen years ago.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, reaching for him. “Don’t go.”

“I have to,” he said automatically, the words strange in his mouth. “I dropped it. Mother’s bracelet. That was all we had left.”

The memory of it felt real: silver links, glowing green jewels, a small charm that caught the light and when touched, sprang to life with their laughter.

“Oona said, ‘Stay,’” she started, her voice breaking.

Kael glanced around wildly. “Where is Oona?” he asked, heart racing. Something wasn’t right. Confusion swirled through him like mist through the trees. Where was the tower? Where was Sorian? The androids were everywhere; they saw everything.

And he had a message for Sarah, what was it? ‘Resist? Fight?’

“We have to fight,” he said to Sarah, his voice higher than he remembered, his limbs thinner, younger. He couldn’t be more than twelve years old now, the age he had been when… his sister was taken.

Above them, drones buzzed in the trees. He ducked, pulling her close, nestling into the overhang. Then he inched out, the threat gone.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, waving goodbye—words he remembered saying before. Was this déjà vu?

“Wait,” she said, interrupting his fractured thoughts. She reached around her neck and removed a pendant, her necklace. The one he had given her. The one he had worn for years, carrying her memory, and the memory of…

Wait. Didn’t he already have it? He’d picked it up in the cave, by Garrick’s body. Time was out of whack. He reached into his pocket, but it wasn’t there.

Frightened, he ran through wet needles and slanting rain, legs pumping. He skidded to a stop near the stream where he fell and where he thought it would be.

There it was, the bracelet he lost, half-buried in the mud.

As he reached down for it, a heavy metal boot came down hard, crushing the delicate links into the mud.

He looked up. Red-glinting eyes in a silver face reflected his terror back at him.

He inched back in horror, scrambling in the mud. Then instinct took over and he ran, heart pounding through his chest, retracing his steps quickly to—

She was gone, marks dragging through the mud where she had been.

“Sarah?” he said. No, his sister… Why couldn’t he remember his own sister’s name?

A hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and sudden.

He screamed, but another hand came over his mouth. “Shhh...”

Oona stood behind him, tall as the trees, amber eyes glinting. “Quiet,” she said, her voice both familiar and strange. “We have to leave. We’ve been discovered.”

“No!” he cried, shoving her back. “We have to wait… We have to find her, Sarah, my sister—”

“It’s too late,” Oona said, and scooped him up with mechanical strength.

He thrashed, screaming her name. Sarah!

“Kael,” he was shaken out of his dream. “Kael!” The voice was urgent, familiar. “He’s taking her inside the chamber,” Oona said.

Kael blinked, finally seeing her, as if awakening from a dream. He scanned the stone walls, the blue-tinged light, the air thick with ozone and ancient dust.

Disoriented, he realized he was back in the tower, in the present, in a circular room with strange symbols etched into the floor beneath him.

Oona gripped his shoulders, her face tight with concern. “He’s taking her into the chamber,” she said.

He staggered, catching himself. “My sister—”

“No, Sarah,” Oona said. She searched his eyes, worried.

Kael slowly pivoted. Ryn stood near the wall, pale with disbelief.

“I saw her,” Ryn said, her body tight with tension. “She walked by, pointing a finger at you, Kael. You.”

“My sister?” Kael said, trying to piece together how he had gone from the forest to the tower in such a short time.

“No,” Ryn said, shaking her head, swallowing hard. Her eyes burned with anger. “Martha.”

“We don’t have time,” Oona said, cutting through his confusion.

But even as she spoke, the walls around them wavered and distorted. Gravity shifted, making Kael’s stomach lurch.

“She’s unlocking the Covenant,” Oona said. “We’re too late.”

Too late. Kael heard the words, but he was only half-listening.

His hand flew to his pocket—the pendant felt hot through the fabric. She had given it to him in the memory… or the forest… or the cave. Wherever it was, it was real. It was there.

“No,” he said, time folding as he turned to Oona. “Not this time.”

His gaze shifted to Ward. To Ryn.

“We’re not too late.”

Together, the four walked toward the oscillating light in the inner chamber.

Chapter 43

“We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”

Oona stepped through the electric-blue threshold, parting the air like water.

The others were gone. She entered the quantum core of the tower, weaving through time’s fabric—universes multiplying around her.

She blinked. A hummingbird hung in the air like an ornament, wings frozen mid-beat as if time itself hesitated.

“Sarah?” she called, her name carried away by the wind, faint against the vast landscape that had emerged.

No answer.

In front of her, red sandstone cliffs, striated with ochre and amber, raced to meet a metal-blue sky.

And there, suspended over the yawning chasm between two mesas, twisting in the warm desert breeze, hung Sarah.

Oona watched the child spin slowly over the abyss, arms straining, clutching the rope with white-knuckled hands; she battled herself, her fatigue, the pull of gravity. She couldn’t see what anchored the rope—only where the cliff ended and the abyss began. A drop into nothingness.

“Sarah…” she called again, then turned, searching for Kael. “She’s here!” Oona shouted, but she saw no one else. Only the painted cliffs.

She felt the wind at her feet, sculpting small dunes. As the hummingbird left her finger, it circled her head before seeming to tickle her, alighting almost on her shoulder, its wings a blur of iridescent color.

“Go away,” Sarah said, her cry suddenly cutting through the wind. She didn’t look at Oona, or anywhere. Her only focus was maintaining her grip on the rope. “I have to do this.”

“No,” Oona said, shooing the bird away and moving closer to the edge. “I’m here now.”

“You’re the one with the destiny,” Sarah said, a bead of sweat trailing down her temple. “Not me. I will fight Nexus while you flee—go!”

Warmth touched Oona’s cheek as sunlight broke through the parting sky. Around her, verbena, poppies, and paintbrush bloomed from the cracked desert floor—like the very blooms of code the prophets had spoken of.

It hit her hard: she was the chosen one. It had been her all along; she was the final iteration. This was her destiny, to carry the key. The prophets had spoken of her.

“You must leave now,” Sarah said, fingers locked and grip trembling as she dangled. “Go, where Nexus can never, ever find you.”

Oona glanced back at the doorway, which cleared like smoke blown away, leaving an origami of time. Inside, she saw young Kael and his sister playing in a forest clearing, sunlight dappling their faces.

She could go back to them—stay with both of them.

She, Oona, had been the one who left them during the last Android War, scouting a way forward. She had made a mistake. She wasn’t there to keep them safe.

Kael’s sister paid the price.

“You can save Kael’s sister,” Sarah said, straining as she held on. “It's not just an echo. You step in, that moment never happens. You can bring back Martha, too.”

The portal clouded and shifted, revealing a vision of Sarah in the castle hall—running from Martha: hurt, confused, needing someone she couldn’t find. Oona realized: this was what had happened when she left. The vision beckoned her, but she wasn’t there to help.

The portal quietly drew her in.

“I need you then, with Martha, in the castle hall,” Sarah called, stronger despite her struggle. “You’re the one to step back in time and fix this, fix everything. You’re the one. Escape Nexus…”

Oona walked toward the portal, drawn by the possibilities it offered. Martha peered at her from the other side, wise… and kind. Her gaze held forgiveness, and Oona moved closer, reaching through the glassy membrane.

Hands across time, she felt her fingers draw closer… touching Martha’s. Then Martha’s smile trembled, fissuring like cracked stone.

Terror overtook her face as it split open—smiling, then peeling down the middle to reveal a screaming skull.

“Stop,” she hissed, the warning like acid.

Oona snapped back, recoiling, pivoting around to Sarah, hanging in the wind, frowning with eternal effort.

Oona’s heart pounded; her chest ached with regrets. She wanted to step through and fix every wrong the world had dished out. But Sarah’s terror, still suspended above the abyss, pulled her back.

But she took one final glance back—

And she saw hummingbirds and bees flowing in and out of the doorway, a living border, the power of the portal warping reality itself.

Inside, Martha had vanished, and the vision shifted again. They coaxed her toward the little cottage she remembered from when she was first made, where she had found Kael and his sister playing innocently beneath the trees.

She could step through. Rewrite history. Save everyone. Make everything right. Nothing was written in stone.

Then she remembered Martha, and the warning made her shake. This moment, where she stood, was her reality.

The past and the future—until Nexus had opened up a twisted timeline—were phantoms, terrors, universes where this Oona didn’t exist. She let that truth settle.

Guilt gave way to resolve, and she turned toward Sarah, twirling over the abyss, gripping the rope for dear life, locked in her eternal struggle, trapped there by Nexus—and the tower.

She shook off the temptation to heal the past, focusing on her task.

“Let go,” Oona whispered, the words filling the vast space around them.

Sarah’s pupils widened, her head shaking in denial.

“Forgive yourself,” Oona continued, moving closer to the edge. “The past is meant to be past.”

“No,” Sarah insisted. “You are perfect, not me. I am...” She trailed off, but her eyes spoke volumes—of Martha, of Jory, of all the choices she had made, the mistakes, the rejections, the wrongs, everything.

“You don’t need to be perfect, Sarah,” Oona said gently, understanding blooming like the desert flowers at her feet. Oona let that truth settle. “You need to be—human.”

She gestured toward the portal with its tempting visions, its promises of corrected pasts. “And you, as human, have access to a greater power.”

Sarah looked down into the abyss, searching for a bottom, an end, a truth, anything. There was nothing to see. No bottom.

Then she looked up at Oona, their gaze meeting across the chasm—amber to amber, machine to human, past to future.

Sarah closed her eyes and…

Let go.

Chapter 44

“The end is where we start from.”

The scene folded inward like a whirlpool, reality draining fast as Nexus’s power collapsed.

“Sarah, where are you?” Kael called out, caught in his own dream—or nightmare—as the inner chamber disintegrated and ancient columns crumbled, giving way to fundamental forces no longer held in check.

The tower itself shook, sending vibrations from its foundation up to the watch.

Slabs of stone larger than a man dropped from the curved walls, crashing with thunderous impacts that sent clouds of dust billowing through the air.

Kael stumbled through the falling debris, hands outstretched, searching for Sarah who might already be gone.

A wail, primal and anguished, sliced through the dust and darkness. Not Sarah. Kael drifted on.

But Oona turned toward the sound.

Ryn was bent over Ward. The guard lay trapped beneath a massive stone column as thick as an ancient oak, his lower body crushed, blood pooling beneath him on the cracked floor.

She cradled his head in her arms, whispering words meant only for him.

In a flash, through the dust and debris, Oona was there beside them. Ryn watched her approach, face hardening into a mask of loathing, arms tightening protectively around Ward.

“We don’t need your help, murderer,” Ryn spat. “Martha took the fall for, for… you. She was a saint.”

“Hush, Ryn,” a new raspy voice interrupted. “It was me.”

Riven emerged from the swirling dust, his peddler’s disguise torn and hanging from his frame, revealing the metallic body beneath. He approached with jerky movements, systems straining against a hidden gravity pulling everything apart.

Ward coughed, blood bubbling from his lips as he struggled to focus on the android. “What?” he managed, the single word laden with pain.

“I killed Edric,” Riven stated matter-of-factly. He moved to the column pinning Ward, positioning himself to lift it. “Watched him die. He knew, too much. Us androids, the key, the Candlemakers… everything.”

Ward choked up more blood as Ryn stared at Riven, stunned.

Slam. Another slab broke free from the ceiling, showering them with stone fragments.

“Surprised?” Riven asked, his limbs straining as he managed to lift the column a fraction, the motion sending sparks cascading from his joints. “I couldn’t have him getting the Covenant first.”

“Leave,” Ward gasped to Ryn over the tower’s death throes. “Now.” His face was gray, life visibly ebbing from him with each labored breath.

Ryn shook her head fiercely, strands of hair plastered to her face with sweat and tears. “Never, Ward. You and me, we’ll take on the world… together.” She tried to prop up his head, her hands gentle despite their calloused strength.

“Besides,” she added, the thoughts tumbling out with grief. “Who else will break up the fights at the Broken Needle… after starting a few of yer own?”

His eyes found hers, recognizing. Then another massive section of wall collapsed, sending a shower of man-sized stones crashing down.

This time, one struck Riven with devastating force, knocking the android aside like a toy man.

His limbs twisted at impossible angles, one eye popping free from its socket, arm wrenched completely backward.

The column he had been holding dropped back into place, dust spewing up.

Ward’s body jerked once, then went still.

“No,” Ryn whispered. Then louder, “NO!”

Ryn clung to him, even as the tower collapsed around them. She bent down, kissed his cold lips slowly and deliberately, then staggered to her feet, slipping into the haze.

Oona shifted toward Kael nearby, still wandering in his half-dream state, calling for Sarah.

“I’m not going to leave you, Sarah,” he was saying, determination etched into every line of his face. “Not this time.”

A hand caught him from behind. “You’ve saved her already,” Oona cut through his confusion.

“You did it, Kael. You stayed.” Her fingers tightened on his arm. “But now, you must go.”

Kael shook his head, reality and vision blurring in his mind.

When—

Sudden as a flash, Nexus's form emerged from the swirling dust and debris, fainter than before. Now a ghost-like shimmer, it lunged at Kael with the last of its strength.

Without hesitating, Oona stepped into Nexus’s path. Their lights collided, illuminating each other, merging. Trapped. An unbearable convergence.

“Go,” Oona muttered, her voice electronic—more data than sound.

And then, in a final shockwave, Oona and Nexus disappeared in a blinding flash that sent shards of prismatic light scattering outward like fractured rainbows, caught in the dust. A massive section of ceiling collapsed onto the spot where they had been, crushing everything beneath its weight.

Kael stood frozen for only a heartbeat before he made for the exit, stumbling through the collapsing chamber.

He was… almost… there, reaching the door when—he spotted Riven.

The android was pinned to the floor, one foot trapped beneath a fallen slab, eye missing, arm dangling, sparks flying.

Kael glanced at the exit. Then back at Riven. He muttered under his breath, “Shit.”

He went back, dropping to his knees beside the trapped android. He positioned himself to lift the stone from Riven’s foot, muscles straining, teeth gritting.

It barely moved.

Riven looked at him with his one eye, the lens seeming to whir as it focused. “Crownsman,” he said, wonder glinting in that eye. “You came to help me—me, Riven.”

“Shut it,” Kael grunted, struggling once more with the stone. This time he managed to shift it just enough, freeing the android’s crushed foot, before dropping to the ground, chest heaving as he found his breath.

Around them, the tower was entering its final death throes, the entire structure groaning as it prepared to collapse inward.

“I’m not evil, Kael,” Riven said, propping himself up with his one functioning arm. “I’m a Candlemaker, always been.”

With jerky but precise movements, he reached into his tattered cloak and produced one last ware: a tome bound in ancient leather, its edges worn smooth.

“The Candlemakers’ Bible,” he said, extending it toward Kael. “Take it.”

Kael’s gaze shifted from the book to Riven. He got to his feet, ready to bolt, then snatched the tome just as the center of the tower collapsed in on itself with a deafening roar.

As he ran, exit in sight, the force sent him flying, book clutched to his chest—as a great cloud of dust erupted from the structure's heart.

Kael shot through the doorway like a stone from a sling, tumbling across snow and ice, gasping as the cold air filled his lungs.

Behind him, the crumbling turret folded in upon itself in a cloud of stone and dust.

Kael lay on his back in the snow, arms wrapped around the Candlemakers’ Bible, staring up at a suddenly clear sky.

Chapter 45

“You do not have to earn your soul, you only have to let it rise.”

Crunch. His boots left deep indents as he made fresh tracks, carving a new path down the hill.

Suddenly, a stabbing pain lanced through his whole body.

Kael froze, a sharp gasp slipping through his lips. As his knees buckled, he collapsed into the snow, the pristine white turning crimson beneath him.

Blood. His.

He managed one word when he saw the dark form towering over him in the afternoon sun.

“Ryn.”

The light cast her long shadow over him. There was no sign of Sorian, or anyone living; the tower was a crater. Charred beasts and carriages sent up tendrils of smoke in the distance.

His shaking hand reached over his shoulder, grabbing onto the dagger embedded deep in his back.

It wouldn’t budge.

Her expression was cold, her chest rising and falling heavily as she stood over him.

“The gold, Crownsman,” she said flatly. “Where is it?”

Kael motioned weakly toward the inside of his tattered jacket.

Without a shred of care, Ryn ripped the pouch free, her movements jerking his injured body.

He groaned.

“This is why you killed me?” he rasped. “Crown’s gold?”

Ryn sneered. “Only you would think that, Kael. Take another guess, and I might let you live.”

Kael’s bloodied brow furrowed. He shook his head faintly.

“No clue? Martha—” Her voice caught. “She was my mother.”

“And now Ward...and everything...is gone.” She sighed, then straightened.

“The moment you entered Threadneedle.”

Kael let out a long, trembling breath. His chest barely rose.

“And for that,” she continued, her tone hardening, “you will die. By my hand. The gold”—she held up the pouch with a bitter laugh—“that’s just a bounty.”

She went to her white horse. Steam rose from its nostrils in the icy air as it pawed impatiently at the snow. As Ryn mounted, one foot in the stirrup, she froze at the faint sound of his voice.

“Wait,” Kael choked out, barely audible.

She paused, her hand gripping the saddle’s edge. She glanced back at him. Dismounting, she walked over, her boots crunching softly in the snow.

Pulling the Candlemakers’ tome from his cloak, Kael stretched out his hand. “Take this, Ryn,” he whispered.

“And take the knife out of my back, for Crown’s sake.”

Ryn glanced down at the Bible, its bloodstained cover stark against the snow. Slowly, she kicked it aside, sending it skidding across the frozen ground.

Her hand moved to the dagger's hilt.

“Remember the Candlemakers, Ryn,” Kael gurgled, his words wet with blood.

Her fingers tightened around the cold, wet handle. She let her palm linger for a moment before letting the knife remain, pushing it deeper with her next word.

“I’ll remember Martha,” she said gently but stripped of warmth.

Ryn stood over him in silence, the wind tugging at her cloak. She pulled the sack of gold from her belt and tipped it over Kael’s bloodied chest. Coins scattered across his body, glinting in the late day’s light.

Without another word, she turned toward her horse and mounted, spurring it forward. Snow swirled in her wake as she disappeared into the distance, leaving Kael alone in the silence.

Kael blinked, his vision swimming as he tried to lift his head; he stared right into the sun, a ball of white plasma that burned his eyes.

A faint crunch broke the stillness, and a figure emerged, black against the sky. Her steps were light yet purposeful.

“Sarah?” he whispered.

She knelt beside him, steady despite the cold.

“Don’t move,” she said gently, bracing one hand on his shoulder. With the other, she yanked the knife from his back in a single, smooth motion.

Kael gasped, pain lighting up his nerves.

“You’ll be okay,” she said tenderly, already wrapping a thick bandage around the wound.

He felt her pour hot liquid across his back; it seared like a brand. Then her hands moved again, pressing a flask of warm, bitter fluid to his lips.

“Drink.”

Kael coughed, the liquid burning as it slid down his throat. Sarah pressed her hands firmly against his wound.

“This time, you never left,” she said.

Fini.