Anne Valloren sat in her garden, a porcelain cup balanced delicately between her fingers. She wore only a thick, bushy bathrobe, the folds draped loosely as she sank into a cushioned armchair. The fabric smelled faintly of lavender, still warm from the drying line, clinging to her skin like a familiar weight. She lifted the cup with practiced grace, taking a slow, measured sip, eyes drifting over the flowerpots arranged around her. Roses, lilacs, and creeping vines painted the courtyard in a hundred shades, their mingled scents sweetening the warm air.
A breeze stirred. Her striking red hair caught it, curling across her face. She brushed it aside with a sigh. For a moment, a grimace flickered over her lips—an unwelcome memory pressing at the edges of her calm. She forced it down, smoothing her features back into the serenity she wore like armor.
Not for long.
"Big sister Anne! Hey, Anne! I've brought the most entertaining news. Do you want to hear it?"
The voice rang out before the girl appeared—a bubbling sound full of mischief. A small figure dashed through the archway, hair in disarray, cheeks flushed from running. She nearly tumbled on the cobbles but caught herself at the last moment, still grinning ear to ear.
"Slow down, Mimi, you'll trip," Anne said, soft laughter threading through her voice. She shifted in her chair, patting her lap. "Come here, then. Tell me slowly."
The little devil needed no further invitation. She launched herself at Anne, all elbows and excitement. Anne caught her effortlessly, setting her down with the ease of long practice. She pressed a loud kiss to the girl's cheek, making Mimi squeal and wriggle with laughter.
"Now," Anne said, still smiling, "what's this big news that has you so excited?"
Monnike drew a breath so deep her small chest puffed like a bellows. Then, unable to contain herself, she blurted:
"Do you remember the man you told me to watch for at the Hunter Guild? The good brother who gave me money for sweets?"
"Oh, him?" Anne tilted her head, feigning indifference. "Yes, what about it?"
"He started a war."
Anne froze. The porcelain cup nearly slipped from her fingers. Her smile faltered, eyes hardening like shards of glass.
The boy… reckless, always dragging storms behind him. Could he be any more like his mother? Years of careful weaving undone in an instant. Rearranging those threads would take weeks, perhaps months.
"Slow down," Anne said, her voice tight now, clipped. "Tell me everything."
The garden, once a haven of warmth and fragrance, felt suddenly small, the scents of lavender and flowers nothing but a sharp reminder of the approaching chaos.
---
Dust hung in the air of a dim little shop, drifting like a veil. Shelves sagged under jars of dried herbs and bottles of forgotten tinctures, their faded labels curling at the edges. Shadows pooled in the corners, and the faint perfume of old leaves clung stubbornly to the walls.
Two women stood in tense silence. At first glance they could have been mother and daughter, but the resemblance was sharper, uncanny—sisters, or mirrors divided by years.
The elder held a letter, eyes scanning its words with slow precision. Her lips pressed into a thin line, brow furrowed.
"Maria," she said at last, voice sharp as a blade. "Do we have any confirmation that it's him?"
The younger woman blinked, caught off guard. "You know very well we don't, Eli. Why? Has something happened?"
Elizabeth exhaled heavily, lowering the letter to the counter. For a moment, her gaze softened—almost weary—but the flicker vanished like a candle's flame.
"Well… he could die. His recklessness—it's too familiar. Too much like that wretched girl."
Maria's eyes widened. Her hand hovered uncertainly, fingers trembling before gripping the counter. "Die? That's… catastrophic. If it really is him, our lord would never allow even the mercy of death."
She fumbled for pen and parchment, dipping the nib hastily, ink splattering across the page as she scrawled her words with frantic precision.
"I'll send a message to Glover," she said, voice tight. "Tell him to hold back. Not yet. If he values avoiding conflict, he'll listen. That should be enough… for now."
Candlelight flickered, shadows twitching across the shelves like anxious witnesses to their plotting.
---
Inside a mansion of obscene wealth, marble floors gleamed even in the dim light, gilded frames catching faint reflections. Then came the crash—glass and porcelain shattering across a rug worth more than most homes.
Aston Glover was in one of his fits. The study, once a shrine to refinement, lay in ruin—shelves overturned, priceless books shredded, the carved desk scarred by fists. For a long moment, silence hung, broken only by ragged breathing. Then another roar tore free as a chair skidded across the floor, splintered legs bouncing with violent finality.
"Those bastards—those bitches—think they can order me around? I'll show them all!"
At the center of the wreckage stood a single man: tall, iron-haired, dressed in an immaculate suit. The butler's posture was perfect, eyes steady, calm deliberate—a counterweight to the master's fury.
"Sir," he said evenly, "you must calm yourself. We cannot afford conflict with so many at once."
Glover's chest heaved, veins standing out on his crimson face. For a heartbeat it seemed his rage would consume him. Then, reluctantly chained, his shoulders sagged, and he drew a long, shuddering breath.
"Fine, Sebastian," he growled. "Send word to the gangs in the city. Tell them to lend their hands, help those imbeciles deal with these pests. That will do… for now."
Sebastian inclined his head once. Only his eyes betrayed thought, cold and calculating, already mapping the next move while the master raged.
---
Outside the city walls, the grass plains stretched wide and silent, rolling beneath the fading sun. The horizon shimmered with heat, a wavering promise of distance, and the only sound was the crunch of tired, uneven footsteps.
The group moved painfully slow, each breath ragged, bodies heavy with fatigue. Charles did not yet see the storm trailing behind them, the fires kindling in their wake.
"We're almost there," he urged, voice strained. "Keep it together."
Traveling with so many wounded and unprepared souls was near impossible. Supplies were pitiful—barely enough food, no spare clothing worth speaking of. Horses stumbled under the constant swapping of riders, forced to change every twenty minutes before collapsing entirely.
A child whimpered and was hushed quickly. Someone stumbled and had to be half-carried, their groans swallowed by the dry wind.
The air smelled faintly of sweat, dust, and blood—a bitter perfume of desperation. Hope clung to them like a fragile thread. Someone muttered, almost a prayer, "Let's hope the village can deal with them."
The words drifted into the wind, brittle as dry reeds. No one replied.
All they could do was march forward, step by step, toward the faint blur of rooftops on the horizon—their last fragile promise of safety.