The forest swallowed him whole.
Kaelen kept to the narrow deer path winding away from Briar's Hollow, the wet earth muffling his boots. Above, the branches locked together, turning moonlight into pale threads that slipped through the leaves. Each breath of wind stirred the shadows — his shadows.
He didn't stop moving until the shouts of the Valmyr soldiers faded into the distance.
Only then did he crouch beneath an ancient oak and pull the scroll from his cloak. The silver clasp was cool now, as if the earlier heat had never happened. But the faint outline of the sigil still marked his palm, no matter how hard he rubbed.
Kaelen studied the clasp — a crown-shaped knot of metal, delicate yet unyielding. He slid a dagger from his boot and tried to pry it open. Sparks danced along the blade's edge before the dagger flew from his hand, clattering into the undergrowth.
Magic.
And not the simple kind.
"This is trouble," he muttered.
"You have no idea," said a voice behind him.
Kaelen spun.
A figure stood in the path, dressed in black from throat to boot, face hidden behind a half-mask of polished bone. The stranger's stance was relaxed, but the way their gloved fingers rested on the hilt of a thin, curved blade told Kaelen they could strike faster than he could think.
"Give me the scroll," the masked figure said. The voice was smooth, and Kaelen couldn't tell if it belonged to a man or woman.
"Not in the mood," Kaelen replied.
"You don't have a choice."
The blade sang free of its sheath. Kaelen's shadows coiled instinctively around his arms, dark tendrils curling like smoke. The masked figure tilted their head.
"So the rumors are true," they murmured. "The Nyssari prince still lives."
Kaelen's stomach tightened. "You've got the wrong man."
A soft chuckle. "Deny it all you like. But the Crown will not wait for liars."
The attack came without warning — a blur of steel and motion. Kaelen barely managed to twist aside as the blade sliced past his ribs, catching only cloak. He lashed out with shadow magic, the tendrils snapping forward like whips, but the stranger moved like water, slipping between strikes.
The forest echoed with the ring of steel and the whisper of shadows.
Kaelen tried to break the rhythm, feinting left and then ducking low, aiming a sweeping kick. The stranger caught his leg mid-swing, yanked him forward, and pressed the curve of their blade against his throat.
"This could have been easy," they said.
Something flickered in the corner of Kaelen's vision — movement, fast and low. A shape burst from the trees, slamming into the masked attacker. They stumbled back, cursing, as an arrow hissed into the trunk beside them.
The newcomer was a woman with long dark braids and the weathered leathers of an Orrath huntress. She nocked another arrow, eyes locked on the masked figure.
"Run, prince," she growled.
The masked stranger's gaze lingered on Kaelen for a heartbeat, then they melted into the trees as if they'd never been there.
Kaelen exhaled, lowering his hands. "I didn't need saving."
The huntress gave him a flat look. "You're welcome." She stepped closer, bow still ready. "Now tell me why an Orrath messenger died in your arms tonight… and why you're holding the map to the Crown of Ashes."
Kaelen's grip tightened on the scroll. "And if I don't?"
She smiled without humor. "Then I put this next arrow through your leg and take it myself."