The woods surrounding Erl'twig exhaled silence after sundown. Crickets dared not sing. The wind curled only around the wrong trees. The stars blinked like watchers unsure whether to intervene.
Their first night was spent in the forest's outer ring, in the hamlet of Glinmere.
The decree had been made: they would travel to Fort Dawnrise together. No chains, no violence—just the word of a goddess-sworn paladin and the sly agreement of something more ancient than man.
Aethon had mockingly offered to carry his own shackles. Balfazar had only smiled.
The villagers of Glinmere were simple folk, easily moved by a gentle word or a gleaming smile. Mistress Yew gave her cottage over to the strangers without barter or protest. Her young son, Edwin, had approached the golden man with wide eyes, pulling at his sleeve with an innocence unmarred by history.
"Are you a prince?" he asked.
"No, little one," the man had replied, kneeling with a smile that bent truth, "but once, I dreamed I was."
The child laughed. The woman blushed. The invitation was made. The cottage was theirs.
Outside, Arkeia sat with her Crusaders around a campfire, uneasy. Though they were fed and rested, no one laughed. The trees watched. The fire burned too clean. The stars spun just wrong. The forest creaked with unvoiced things. Time stretched thin. The flame gave no smoke. The silence was thick with memory.
She hadn't spoken since the decree.
The Rex name still burned in her chest. Rex… the house that cursed her family line. Her grandmother's words echoed like blood in a chalice:
"The birth of the thirteenth heir was when our suffering began. The child was touched. Not by gods… but by something older.
They say the boy had a twin.
His brother died in mystery.
The village went silent for a year."
Arkeia didn't know what she expected to find in that gilded stranger, but what she saw wasn't human.
And yet—he smiled like one.
Behind her, Thalos gripped his sword tighter than needed. Edmun paced near the edge of the firelight, eyes flicking to the trees, muttering prayers not found in any scripture. Another Crusader stirred the stew with slow, anxious rhythm, the broth rippling with more than just wind.
Further off, where the shadow of the cottage met the curling tree line, Galeel stood apart—silent, still, and facing west.
His wings, folded tightly against his back, trembled once. The scent of iron and rot drifted faintly from beyond the veil. Something ancient had shifted. Not a presence… but a memory, stirred awake. And though he did not understand it fully, he remembered forgetting it.
A moth, too large and too silent, landed on his shoulder. Its wings bore symbols that should not exist. He did not swat it away.
Then, without warning:
"Good evening."
The Crusaders jumped. Blades flashed.
Then he stepped forward—from shadow, from nothing.
Not from behind trees. Not from mist. He had not walked—he had arrived.
No one had heard steps. No rustle. He had simply was.
"Forgive the intrusion," his voice warm enough to disguise the impossibility of his entrance. "I find silence… terribly lonely."
Only Arkeia saw him first—just before the firelight reached him. He stood at its edge like a thought made visible.
Arkeia stood, sword still sheathed but angled toward the firelight. Her men looked to her. She gestured—wait.
"Peace," Arkeia said, already rising.
The golden man's voice was calm. "I've brought no weapon. Only questions."
"You were not invited," she said flatly.
"True," he admitted, and smiled. "But it was either this or sit through another one of Aethon's stories. He's convinced he once seduced a river."
"Did he?" asked Edmun, a Crusader whose stern demeanor cracked for the first time that day.
"Only halfway," he said with a wink. "But it cost us our ferry."
The men chuckled. Arkeia did not. Behind them, Thalos watched the trees again, squinting.
The wind had stopped entirely.
"I hope I'm not interrupting,"the golden man smirked.
He stepped forward, cloak whispering like memory.
"Balfazar Rex the Thirteenth, at your pleasure."
His tone was charming, teasing. A prince of theatre, not kingdom.
"You startled us," Arkeia said sharply.
"Only because I wanted to," Balfazar replied.
He bowed faintly. "Might I sit?"
Arkeia gestured cautiously. "You're already here."
He took his place by the fire with the comfort of someone long acquainted with its warmth.
And yet—he gave no heat. The flames bent toward him as if curious.
"You came to talk," Arkeia said. "Speak."
"I noticed your silence," Balfazar replied. "I thought you might appreciate company."
She eyed him. "You don't strike me as someone who just notices."
He chuckled. "You wound me. I'm often told I'm quite observant. Especially when being observed."
Her Crusaders laughed lightly. The tension loosened—but not from Arkeia's spine. One Crusader scratched nervously at a wrist where a scar once marked a healed sigil. Another crossed themselves in three directions—none of which matched the rites of Mar'aya.
High above them, the stars shifted.
"Your brother," she said sharply, "he's the one I watch."
Balfazar tilted his head. "Aethon? He's mostly harmless. Playful. Insufferably theatrical."
Unseen, Aethon watched from the cottage window. A single candle lit his silhouette, smirking faintly. He toasted the air with a silver cup and mouthed, 'Well played.'
"He's hiding something," Arkeia said. "A gaze like his doesn't come from innocence."
"My brother? He hides nothing but smirks and sarcasm."
"He reeks of manipulation."
"True. But if he were the Promised One, would he flirt so poorly?"
Arkeia laughed once, sharp. "And what about you? You flirt like a man with a knife behind his back."
"Or perhaps just a rose."
"No," she said. "A rose doesn't warp the way insects avoid its shadow."
A silence followed.
She eyed him. "I still suspect your brother."
"And why is that?" he asked, amusement flickering in his voice.
"He speaks like someone trying to be caught. His charm is a costume too well-fitted. He lies with practiced ease."
"And I," Balfazar asked, leaning forward, "what do I seem?"
She frowned. "You're hiding something."
"Aren't we all?" he replied gently. "You carry grief. I carry riddles. And Aethon carries wine—badly."
That won him a round of laughter. Even grim-faced Thalos chuckled. But Arkeia's eyes remained locked.
"I've seen the shadows curl around you," she said. "The birds go silent. The trees bend ever so slightly toward your path. Nature recognizes you."
But Arkeia remained still.
The flames bent toward him, flickering in cadence to a rhythm only he knew.
"You wear that form too well," she said.
He tilted his head. "What form?"
"You act mortal. But I see through it."
"Do you?" He smiled brighter.
"No one heard your approach."
"I walk lightly," he said with a chuckle. "An old habit."
"You watched us from shadows."
"I'm curious. Another bad habit."
"You speak as if you've never felt fear."
"Fear?" he smiled. "That one I've not yet picked up."
"You're patient," she said. "Too patient."
Balfazar's smile deepened. "Ah. You think patience is dangerous?"
"I think it's the weapon of gods and monsters."
Their eyes locked. The fire popped between them.
Behind them, Caelinda stood in the doorway of the cottage, half-shrouded by veil and shadow. She said nothing. Her head tilted ever so slightly, as if amused. She watched the two of them like a priestess at a sacred duel—expectant… possessive.
And from somewhere just past the fire, where the mist gathered like listening ears, Vharn's voice floated—not sung, but said in the cadence of forgotten lullabies:
"A prince made of honey… and a sword made of guilt.
The fire won't burn what already dreams."
It was unclear if anyone else heard it.
Then, with perfect timing, Balfazar tilted his head and added,
"Would you like to hear a joke?"
Arkeia said nothing.
He smiled anyway.
"A prophet walks into a bar. He says, 'I'll have what I'm going to have tomorrow.' The barkeep replies, 'We stopped serving futures after the last one exploded.'"
The Crusaders burst into laughter, half from relief, half from actual amusement. One clapped Balfazar on the back. Another offered him a wineskin. A third muttered, "I'll remember that one."
She eyed him. "You're too still. Too… welcoming."
"Is that such a crime?"
"It's unnatural."
He grinned, leaning closer. "If you think my charm is unnatural, you should meet Aethon when he's flirting."
A few Crusaders laughed again. Balfazar leaned back.
"But perhaps you're right," he added. "Perhaps we are not what we seem. Perhaps none of us are."
She narrowed her eyes. "Your cloak moves without wind. The stars change behind your head. The fire avoids your breath."
He grinned. "And you notice. That's what makes you special."
His smile disarmed half the camp. Edmun lowered his blade reluctantly, muttering, "He's not even sweating…"
She didn't return his smile. "You move without sound," Arkeia said.
"Sound moves when I permit it."
"Your presence is bent reality. You wear the world like a costume."
"And yet you still speak with me. Brave girl."
Her patience thinned.
"You smile too easily," she muttered.
"Because I like the game."
She narrowed her eyes. "Whatever you truly are—I see past the veil. Your cloak is not illusion—it's warped perception. Reality twisted around mortal minds."
"You do see too much," he smiled brighter. "That's why I like you."
She bit back her retort. "What are you?"
"A man. A memory. A promise."
"I can feel what you are."
He smiled once more. "And yet you resist. I find that intoxicating."
The firelight danced. The shadows leaned in.
And Balfazar's smile lingered like a promise.