Chapter 5 - Consequences

Zarif's hands moved before his mind finished processing what they were doing.

Reaching forward. Toward the altar. Toward the tiny body lying on cold stone, covered in blood that wasn't its own. His fingers—still slick with Nicholas's blood, still trembling from adrenaline—touched impossibly soft skin.

The infant was so small.

That thought hit him with force that had nothing to do with the violence he'd just committed and everything to do with the fragile weight now resting against his palms. Smaller than seemed possible. Smaller than seemed like it could survive. A few pounds of flesh and bone wrapped in skin so delicate it looked translucent.

He picked the baby up. Carefully. Deliberately. His hands—hands that had just killed four men, that had slit throats and driven spears and ended lives—now moved with gentleness that bordered on reverence. Lifting the infant from the altar. Cradling it against his chest. Supporting the head the way some deep instinct told him he needed to.

The baby mewled. Not crying—too young for proper crying. Just weak sounds. Protest or discomfort or simple confusion at being moved. The sound was barely louder than breathing. Barely noticeable over the forest sounds returning now that the chanting had stopped.

Blood covered the infant completely. Nicholas's blood. Arterial spray that had crossed the space between the altar and the man Zarif had killed. Red coating pale skin, soaking into the baby in ways that would probably never wash out completely. Not the blood itself—that could be cleaned. But the knowledge. The understanding that this child's first moments of saved life had been marked by violence.

Zarif held the baby against his chest. One arm supporting the small body, the other hand cradling the head. The infant's weight barely registered. Light enough that he could hold it for hours without strain. Light enough that it felt less real than the spear he'd been carrying earlier.

Four bodies lay around him. The guard with the spear through his neck. The runner with his throat opened. The last defender bleeding out from a stomach wound—still breathing shallowly, still dying, maybe minutes from gone. And Nicholas. The man who'd been about to sacrifice this infant. The man whose blood now covered the child Zarif was holding.

He needed to move.

The thought cut through everything else. Through the shock and the adrenaline crash trying to happen and the part of his brain that wanted to shut down and process what he'd just done. None of that mattered. What mattered was distance. Space. Getting away from this clearing before someone else arrived. Before whoever these men had been serving or working with came looking for them.

Zarif turned away from the bodies.

The movement was sharp. Decisive. His legs pivoting, his torso rotating, his whole body reorienting away from the carnage and toward the forest. Away from the altar and the blood and the evidence of what had just happened.

Then he ran.

Not a jog or careful navigation. A sprint. Full speed. Legs pumping hard, feet finding purchase on forest floor, body moving with the kind of desperate velocity that came from survival instinct overriding everything else.

But his upper body stayed locked. Stable. Even as his legs drove him forward with jarring force, even as he crashed through undergrowth and dodged around trees, his chest and arms remained steady. The infant pressed against him didn't bounce or jostle. His hands held it secure, absorbing the impact of his running so the fragile body he was carrying didn't have to.

Branches whipped past. Leaves slapped his face. Roots tried to catch his feet. He ignored all of it. Just ran. Distance was the only thing that mattered. Meters becoming tens of meters becoming hundreds. Away from the clearing. Away from the bodies. Away from what he'd done.

The baby continued its weak mewling. The sound small and almost lost under the noise of Zarif's running—his harsh breathing, his feet hitting ground, branches breaking as he forced through them. But he could feel it. Could feel the vibration of those tiny sounds against his chest. Could feel the small body moving slightly as it made noise.

Alive. Still alive. That was what mattered. That was why he'd killed four men. Why Nicholas lay dead in a clearing with his throat opened. Why Zarif was now running through a forest with no destination in mind.

He had no plan. No idea what came next. No strategy beyond the immediate imperative of distance. His mind wasn't working that far ahead. Couldn't work that far ahead. The part of him that made plans and thought about consequences and calculated future moves had been temporarily shut down by the violence and the adrenaline and the tiny life he was now responsible for.

Just movement. Just running. Just the desperate animal need to be away from danger, away from evidence, away from the place where everything had changed.

The forest accepted him. Swallowed him into its depths. His running took him deeper into territory he knew, into the parts of the woods where he'd spent six years learning every path and hiding spot. Instinct guided him even though conscious thought wasn't operating. His body knew where to go. Knew how to disappear.

Behind him, the clearing fell away. The bodies remained where they'd fallen. The altar stood empty. The ritual that should have ended with a sacrifice ended instead with massacre.

And Zarif ran, holding an infant covered in blood, with no idea what he was going to do next.

Just knowing he couldn't stop.

Not yet.

Morning light filtered through the forest canopy in pale shafts that caught dust and insects floating in the air.

Hours had passed since the violence. The sun had risen. The forest had moved through its dawn routines—birds calling, nocturnal creatures returning to dens, the temperature slowly climbing as daylight spread. The clearing where four men had died looked almost peaceful in the soft morning illumination.

Almost.

Corvain approached through the trees with the confidence of someone who'd walked this path many times before. His robes—dark blue, covered in symbols similar to those the dead men wore—barely whispered as he moved. His pace was unhurried. Calm. He was expecting to find a completed ritual. Expecting to see the altar occupied, the sacrifice made, the work finished as it should have been hours ago.

He stepped into the clearing and stopped.

Four bodies.

The assessment was immediate. Professional. His eyes swept the scene with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd seen death before and knew how to read it. Not shock—shock was for amateurs, for people who hadn't done the kind of work Corvain had done for decades. Just cold cataloging of information.

The guard lay near the tree line. Face down. Spear protruding from his neck, the shaft at an angle that suggested it had been thrown from distance. Good throw. Professional. The kind of accuracy that required either extensive training or extensive practice. Pool of dried blood beneath the body, already going dark and sticky in the morning air.

Another body closer to the altar. Throat opened. The cut deep and efficient—straight across, severing everything that needed severing to end life quickly. More blood here. A lot more. Arterial spray patterns on the ground showing where the man had fallen and bled out.

A third body near the opposite edge of the clearing. Stomach wound. Had taken longer to die than the others—the blood pool was larger, spread over more area, suggesting the man had moved or writhed before expiring. Messy kill. But still effective.

And the fourth body beside the altar itself.

Corvain moved closer. Stepped around the dried blood. His eyes took in the position—man lying on his back, head tilted at an unnatural angle because of the throat wound. The cut here was identical to the second body. Same technique. Same efficiency. Whoever had done this knew how to kill and had done it multiple times in quick succession.

Then Corvain saw the face and his professional detachment cracked slightly.

Nicholas.

Not just any mage. Not just another member of their order. Nicholas. The tournament champion. The celebrated warrior. The man who was supposed to marry Princess Althea in two weeks. The empire's golden example of merit rewarded, of skill elevated, of excellence recognized regardless of birth.

Dead in a forest clearing with his throat opened and blood soaking into dirt.

Corvain's mind worked through implications with the speed of long practice. This wasn't just a failed ritual. This wasn't just four deaths that could be concealed or explained away. This was political catastrophe. Nicholas's death would be noticed immediately. Would be investigated. Would bring attention and scrutiny and questions that their order couldn't afford.

The marriage wouldn't happen. The public spectacle of the empire's favorite warrior wedding a princess—gone. Replaced with mourning and rage and the kind of grief that demanded justice. Demanded answers. Demanded someone to punish.

His eyes moved to the altar. Empty. No sacrifice. No infant body lying where it should have been. The stone was covered in blood—splatter patterns suggesting someone had died or been injured directly above it—but no small corpse remained.

The ritual had failed. Completely. Not just interrupted but destroyed. Four men dead and nothing to show for it except political disaster and the certainty of investigation.

Corvain pulled his hood back slightly, allowing more morning light to reach his face. His expression was thoughtful. Calculating. Not panicked—panic was useless. But definitely concerned. This required immediate action. Required damage control. Required getting ahead of the narrative before it spiraled into something worse.

He needed to report to the king. Now. Before someone else found the bodies. Before word spread uncontrolled. Before whatever investigation was inevitably coming started asking questions without guidance.

King Drago needed to know. Needed to know that Nicholas was dead. Needed to know the circumstances—or at least a version of circumstances that served their purposes. Needed to understand that this required careful management.

Corvain turned away from the bodies. His mind was already working through what he would say. How he would frame the discovery. What details to emphasize and what details to minimize. The truth—insofar as he knew it—was that someone had interrupted the ritual and killed four trained mages. Someone skilled. Someone dangerous. Someone who'd taken the sacrifice and disappeared.

But truth was flexible. Truth could be shaped. Truth could serve purposes beyond simple accuracy.

He began walking. Not back the way he'd come but toward a different path. One that would take him out of the forest faster. One that led more directly toward the roads that connected to the capital. Speed mattered now. Every hour that passed before he reported was an hour where control over the narrative slipped further from their grasp.

His pace quickened. The calm, unhurried approach he'd used to enter the clearing replaced with purpose. With urgency. With the understanding that political disasters required immediate response.

Behind him, the clearing fell silent again. The bodies remained where they'd fallen. The empty altar stood as mute testimony to failure. And somewhere, whoever had done this was running with a child that should have been sacrificed.

But that problem could be addressed later. First, the king needed to know that his daughter's wedding was cancelled and the empire's favorite warrior was dead.

Everything else could wait.

_____________________________________

The throne room echoed with the sound of sobbing.

Althea was on the floor. Hands pressed against Nicholas's chest. Face buried against him. Body shaking so violently it looked like she might come apart. Sobs tearing from her throat in waves—raw sounds that had no dignity, no control, no concern for who might be watching or what they might think.

Just grief. Pure and absolute.

Four bodies lay on the stone floor of the throne room. Arranged in a row. Covered partially by dark cloth that someone had draped over them in a gesture toward respect or decency. But Nicholas's cloth had been pulled back. Pushed aside by Althea's trembling hands. Exposing what lay beneath.

His throat.

The wound was terrible. Not a clean cut but something deep and vicious. The blade—whatever blade had been used—had opened him from one side to the other. Severed everything. Flesh and muscle and the vital structures that kept a human alive. The cut was so deep his head tilted at an angle that wasn't natural. That suggested his spine might have been nicked or his neck was only barely connected.

Dried blood covered everything. His throat. His chest where it had run down. His face where spray had reached during the killing. Dark brown now instead of red. Crusted and stiff. Making his skin look alien. Making him look less like Nicholas and more like something that had once been Nicholas but was now just empty meat wearing his face.

His skin was pale. Grey-white. The color of things that had been drained. That had lost the warmth and blood and life that made them human. Cold to the touch—Althea's hands knew this because they were touching him, fingers pressing against his chest, trying to find warmth that wasn't there. Trying to find a heartbeat that had stopped hours ago.

His face was empty. That was what broke her more than anything else. The emptiness. Eyes closed but somehow obviously vacant. Mouth slightly open. Features slack in a way they never were when he was alive. The absence of everything that made him him—the expressions, the awareness, the life behind his eyes that meant someone was home.

Gone. All of it gone. Just a shell remaining. Just flesh that looked like Nicholas but wasn't Nicholas because Nicholas was the person inside and that person had left and wasn't coming back.

Althea's hands trembled against his chest. Violent shaking she couldn't control. Her fingers pressed harder, trying to stop the trembling through force, but it didn't work. The shaking just intensified. Spread from her hands up her arms. Into her shoulders. Through her whole torso.

Her entire body was convulsing with sobs. Chest heaving. Back arching. Shoulders hunching forward then pulling back. Movement that was involuntary, that came from somewhere deeper than conscious control. Her body trying to process grief that was too large for a human nervous system to contain.

She couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stop crying. Couldn't stop the sounds escaping from her throat—animal sounds, wordless keening that had nothing to do with language and everything to do with loss that had no words adequate to express it.

Her face was pressed against his chest. The place where his heart should have been beating. Where she'd rested her head so many times before when he was alive and warm and able to hold her back. Now there was nothing. No heartbeat. No rise and fall of breathing. No warmth seeping through fabric. Just cold and stillness and the terrible absence of life.

She lifted her head. Looked at his face again. At the wound. At the evidence of violence that had been done to him. At the brutal reality of how he'd died.

Horror crashed over her fresh. As if seeing it for the first time even though she'd been looking at it for minutes. The wound was so deep. So vicious. Someone had done this to him. Someone had held a blade and pulled it across his throat and watched him die. Someone had killed the man she was supposed to marry in two weeks.

The sobs tore harder. Louder. Her whole frame shook with such violence she couldn't support herself properly. She collapsed further against him. One hand sliding down his chest. The other coming up to touch his face—fingers brushing against cold skin, against dried blood, against the emptiness that used to be the person she loved.

"Nicholas," she whispered. The first word she'd spoken. His name barely audible through the crying. "Nicholas, please…"

Please what? Please come back? Please be alive? Please let this be a nightmare she could wake from?

There was no end to that sentence. No completion that made sense. Just the desperate need to say his name. To address him as if he could still hear. As if speaking to him might somehow call him back.

Her hands were still trembling. Worse now. Shaking so hard she could barely keep them pressed against him. Her arms weak. Her whole body weak from grief that felt like physical illness. Like something that was breaking her from the inside out.

King Drago sat on his throne above. Twenty feet away. Elevated. Watching his daughter break apart on the floor of his throne room. His face was impassive. Cold. Showing nothing that might be mistaken for comfort or sympathy. Just observation. Assessment. The same expression he might wear while watching a report on grain yields or military deployments.

His daughter's grief was a political problem. A complication in his plans. The marriage that should have strengthened alliances and displayed the empire's values—gone. Replaced with this. With mourning and rage and investigation. With questions that needed answering and justice that needed delivering.

But comfort was not something Drago offered. Not even to his daughter. Not even in moments like this. He remained on his throne. Distant. Removed. Watching her cry over a corpse in the same room where he conducted state business.

Althea's body shook harder. Fresh sobs breaking through. She bent forward until her forehead touched Nicholas's chest. Until she was curled over him. Small and broken and alone despite being surrounded by guards and servants and her father watching from his throne.

Alone with her grief. Alone with the body of the man she'd been supposed to marry. Alone with the horror of seeing what had been done to him. Alone with the understanding that her future—the one she'd been planning, the one she'd been looking forward to—was as dead as he was.

The throne room was cold. Stone floors and high ceilings that didn't hold warmth well. Althea's body shook on that cold floor. Her hands trembling. Her whole frame convulsing with sobs that showed no signs of stopping.

And above her, on his throne, her father watched.

Waiting for the grief to finish so practical matters could be addressed.

Waiting for his daughter to be done breaking so the business of finding whoever did this could begin.

Corvain stood near the throne room's entrance. Ten paces from where Althea knelt over Nicholas's body. Close enough to hear every sob. Close enough to see the trembling in her hands. Far enough to maintain respectful distance from royal grief.

He'd been watching her break apart for several minutes now. Watching with the same professional detachment he'd brought to examining the bodies in the clearing. Not uncomfortable exactly—he'd seen grief before, had witnessed breakdowns and mourning and all the messy ways humans processed loss. But not moved either. Not feeling the pull toward comfort or sympathy that normal people might feel watching a young woman cry over her murdered fiancé.

Just observing. Calculating. Waiting for the moment when she'd be coherent enough to answer questions or provide information that might be useful.

Althea's head lifted.

The movement was slow. Unsteady. Like it took enormous effort to pull herself away from Nicholas's body. Like gravity was working harder on her than it should. Her face came up—eyes red and swollen, cheeks wet, makeup smeared into patterns that made her look younger and more vulnerable than she probably wanted.

Her gaze found Corvain. Locked onto him with sudden focus. Recognition dawning through the grief—this was the man who'd found the bodies. This was the one who'd reported to her father. This was someone who might have answers.

Words formed on her lips. Struggled to emerge through the sobs that were still wracking her body. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"Did you…" Her voice broke. Cracked completely. The sound that came out was barely recognizable as speech. Raw and damaged. Like her vocal cords had been scraped raw from crying.

She tried again. Forcing the words through grief that didn't want to let them pass.

"Did you see…" Another break. Another moment where speech failed and only a sob came out. Her hands clenched against Nicholas's chest. Her whole body trembling with the effort of staying upright and speaking at the same time.

"Who did this?"

Four words. Each one landing with weight. With the force of rage trying to break through pain. With anger that was searching desperately for a target but didn't know where to aim yet.

Her voice was angry. Not loud—she didn't have the strength for loud, didn't have the breath for shouting. But the rage was there underneath. Threading through every syllable. Making the question sound less like a request for information and more like a demand. Like an accusation that someone should have prevented this. That someone should have stopped this. That someone needed to pay for this.

But the anger was wrapped in hurt. In pain that made her voice shake on every word. That made the question wobble and break and sound like it might dissolve back into sobs at any second. Hurt that was so profound it colored everything. That made even her rage sound wounded.

And broken. That was the word that fit best. Her voice was broken. Sounded like something that had shattered and was trying to function despite being in pieces. Like vocal cords that had been damaged not by physical injury but by emotional trauma so intense it had affected her body's ability to produce normal speech.

The question hung in the air between them. "Did you see who did this?"

Her face was a mess. Tears still streaming down—not stopping, not even slowing, just continuing in steady flow that had soaked her cheeks and run down her neck. Her eyes were swollen nearly shut from crying. Red and puffy and barely able to focus. Her makeup—which had probably been perfect this morning, which had probably been applied with care and precision befitting a princess—was destroyed. Smeared across her face in dark streaks. Mixed with tears and snot and grief into patterns that bore no resemblance to the elegant appearance she usually maintained.

Stained. That was what she looked like. Stained with grief. With tears that wouldn't stop. With the physical evidence of emotional devastation that couldn't be hidden or controlled or managed into something more appropriate for a throne room.

But despite all that—despite the tears and the swelling and the destroyed makeup and the trembling that wouldn't stop—her eyes were focused. Locked onto Corvain with desperate intensity. With need that cut through everything else. Need to know. Need to understand. Need to have someone to direct this rage toward.

"Did you see who did this to him?" she repeated. Louder this time. Still broken. Still hurt. Still angry. But with more force behind it. With the absolute requirement of an answer.

Tell me who to destroy. Tell me who killed him. Tell me where to aim this grief that's tearing me apart.

Give me a target.

Corvain's answer was immediate. Matter-of-fact. No hesitation or apology in his tone.

"No, Your Highness. Whoever did this was gone when I arrived."

The words landed flat. Simple statement of fact. Not cruel—he wasn't trying to hurt her. Not dismissive—he understood what she was asking and why. Just truthful. He hadn't seen anyone. The clearing had been empty except for bodies when he'd arrived at dawn. Whoever had killed four mages and taken the sacrifice had disappeared hours before.

Althea's face crumpled.

Fresh sobs broke through. Louder than before. More desperate. The sound of someone whose last hope had just been cut away. She'd needed a target. Needed a name or a face or even a description. Needed something to focus the rage that was churning inside her alongside the grief. Needed somewhere to direct the violence she was feeling toward whoever had done this.

And she'd gotten nothing. Just "no." Just the confirmation that her fiancé's killer was unknown. Faceless. Could be anyone. Could be anywhere. Could be someone she'd never find or identify or make pay for what they'd done.

Her hands pressed harder against Nicholas's chest. Fingers curling into fists. Gripping his bloodstained clothing like she wanted to tear it. Like she wanted to rip something apart because she couldn't rip apart the person who'd actually hurt him.

Frustration. Helplessness. Rage with nowhere to go. All of it mixing with the grief into something that made her shake harder. Made her cry louder. Made her feel like she was drowning in emotions too large and too violent for her body to contain.

From the throne, King Drago's voice cut through the crying.

"Find whoever did this."

The words came from above. From his elevated position. Cold. Flat. Absolute authority wrapped in three simple words. Not addressing his daughter—hadn't spoken to her once since she'd collapsed over Nicholas's body. Not offering comfort or sympathy or even acknowledgment of her pain.

Just command. Just the exercise of power. Just the king issuing an order that would be obeyed because disobedience wasn't an option.

His voice didn't waver. Didn't soften. Didn't show any recognition that his daughter was ten paces away breaking apart on the floor of his throne room. Didn't acknowledge that she was crying so hard she could barely breathe. Didn't seem to notice or care that she was experiencing the worst moment of her life while he sat watching.

Just: "Find whoever did this."

Command. Pure and simple. The way he might order troops deployed or taxes collected or any other piece of state business that required attention. His daughter's murdered fiancé was a problem that needed solving. An issue that required investigation and resolution. Nothing more personal than that.

No "I'm sorry for your loss." No "we'll get justice for Nicholas." No acknowledgment that Althea was a person experiencing grief and not just a complication in his political calculations.

Just the order. Flat. Final. Absolute.

Corvain bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Professional. Efficient. Acknowledging the command and accepting the responsibility. He straightened and turned toward the throne room doors. His robes whispered as he moved. His pace measured—not running but not lingering either. He had work to do. A manhunt to organize. Resources to mobilize. An investigation to launch that would hopefully find whoever had done this before more questions started being asked.

His footsteps echoed as he crossed the stone floor. Growing fainter. More distant. The sound gradually fading as he reached the doors and passed through them. Gone to do what the king had ordered. Gone to begin the search that might eventually lead to answers Althea desperately needed.

Leaving her alone.

On the floor. Over Nicholas's body. Still crying. Still shaking. Still broken by grief that showed no signs of stopping.

Her father remained on his throne. Twenty feet away and elevated. Watching but not moving. Not descending to offer comfort. Not speaking to her. Not doing anything that might suggest he viewed her as his daughter in this moment rather than just another piece of the political landscape he needed to manage.

Unmoved. That was the word for his expression. Completely unmoved by her grief. By her tears. By her breaking apart in front of him over the body of the man she was supposed to marry.

Althea sobbed harder. Fresh waves of crying that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her lungs. That shook her entire frame. That made her curl smaller over Nicholas's corpse. That left her alone with her grief in a cold throne room while her father sat on his throne and issued orders like she wasn't there.

Like her pain didn't matter.

Like the only thing that mattered was finding whoever had done this and making them pay.

Justice without comfort. Investigation without sympathy. Authority without love.

Drago sat on his throne.

Althea cried on his floor.

And the distance between them—twenty feet that might as well have been miles—remained absolute.

The news moved through the palace like fire through dry grass.

Servants whispered in hallways. Passing information in hushed voices while carrying linens or delivering meals or performing the thousand small tasks that kept a royal household functioning. One maid told another. That maid told a cook. The cook told a stable hand. Within an hour, everyone who worked in the palace knew that Nicholas was dead. Murdered. Found in a forest clearing with his throat cut.

The guards heard next. Spreading the information through their ranks with the efficiency of military communication. One soldier told his squad. The squad told other squads. Officers heard from their men and passed it up the chain of command. By midday, every guard in the capital knew. The tournament champion was dead. The princess's betrothed had been killed by someone unknown. The wedding scheduled for two weeks away wasn't going to happen.

From the palace, the news reached the streets.

Market vendors heard it from guards who bought bread. Customers heard it from vendors. People carried the information home to their families. Families told neighbors. Neighbors told other neighbors. The story spread outward in expanding circles—through the wealthy districts where nobles lived in large houses, through the middle quarters where merchants and craftsmen worked, through the poor sections where laborers and beggars struggled to survive.

By evening, the entire capital knew. Nicholas was dead.

The reaction was immediate and visceral.

Disbelief came first. Nicholas couldn't be dead. Nicholas was the best. The greatest young swordsman the empire had produced in a generation. Three tournament championships without losing a single match. Skill that bordered on supernatural. Reflexes that made other fighters look slow. He was supposed to be invincible. Untouchable. The kind of warrior that normal people aspired to become but knew they never would.

How could someone like that die? How could anyone kill him? It didn't make sense. It violated the natural order. Men like Nicholas didn't get murdered. Didn't get found dead in forests. Didn't have their throats cut like common victims.

But the news kept coming. More details. More confirmation. Guards who'd seen the body. Palace servants who'd watched Princess Althea crying over his corpse in the throne room. Official announcements being prepared. This wasn't rumor or mistake. This was real.

Disbelief gave way to horror.

Someone had killed Nicholas. The empire's symbol of excellence. The proof that merit mattered and skill could elevate you regardless of birth. The man who represented everything the common people hoped for—that talent would be recognized, that hard work would be rewarded, that you could become something greater than what you were born as.

Gone. Murdered. Dead in a forest doing… what? No one seemed to know. The circumstances were unclear. Mysterious. Just that he'd been found with others, all killed, in some kind of ritual or ceremony that hadn't been explained yet.

Horror mixed with fear.

If Nicholas could die, anyone could die. If the greatest warrior in the empire could be killed, what protection did normal people have? If someone capable enough to murder Nicholas walked free, what hope did regular citizens have of surviving encounter with them?

Fear spread through the capital like a disease. People looked at strangers differently. Locked doors more carefully. Wondered if the person passing them on the street might be the killer. Might be someone dangerous enough to have ended the life of the empire's best fighter.

In the wealthier districts, servants were already taking down decorations.

The wedding had been planned for two weeks away. Preparations had been ongoing for months. Flowers ordered. Musicians hired. Venues decorated. The celebration was supposed to be massive—a public spectacle showing the empire's strength and values. Princess Althea marrying the tournament champion. Royalty choosing merit over bloodline. The kind of symbolic union that carried political weight beyond just two people joining lives.

Streamers that had been hung across buildings came down. Flowers that had been arranged in public squares were removed. Banners proclaiming the upcoming celebration were rolled up and stored away. The wedding that should have happened—that everyone had been looking forward to, that had been discussed and anticipated and celebrated in advance—would never occur.

Because the groom was dead.

Because someone had killed him.

Because Princess Althea was in the palace crying over his corpse instead of preparing to marry him.

The future that had been planned—that had seemed certain, that had felt inevitable—was simply gone. Erased by violence. Replaced with mourning and investigation and unanswered questions.

The question echoed through every conversation in the capital.

"Who could kill Nicholas?"

Spoken in taverns where workers gathered after shifts. Whispered in markets where people bought food and supplies. Discussed in homes where families tried to make sense of impossibility. Asked by guards who were supposed to protect people but hadn't protected him. Repeated by nobles who'd attended tournaments and watched him fight and thought they understood what he represented.

Who could kill Nicholas? Who was skilled enough? Dangerous enough? Crazy enough to murder the empire's greatest warrior?

No one had answers. Just speculation. Just theories that made no sense. Just growing fear that whoever had done this was still out there. Still free. Still capable of killing others if they chose.

The news continued spreading. Beyond the capital. Into surrounding towns. Along trade routes where merchants carried information as readily as goods. To distant provinces where people who'd heard Nicholas's name but never seen him fight learned that he was dead.

Wildfire. That's what it moved like. Consuming everything in its path. Leaving shock and fear and questions in its wake. Spreading so fast that by nightfall, half the kingdom knew that one of the greatest young talents in sword dueling had been killed by someone.

And Althea's marriage—the wedding that should have united princess and champion, that should have symbolized the empire's values, that should have been cause for celebration—would never occur.

Because Nicholas was dead.

And no one knew who'd killed him.

_____________________________________________

The orphanage smelled like old wood and too many bodies packed into too little space.

Zarif stood outside the door. Morning sun climbing higher behind him. The infant still cradled against his chest—quiet now from exhaustion, too tired from mewling through the night to make much noise anymore. His arms ached from holding it for hours. His legs trembled from running and walking and never stopping since he'd fled the clearing.

The baby was still covered in blood. Nicholas's blood. Dried and crusted and dark brown now. Making the tiny body look like something that had been injured even though the blood wasn't its own. Making it impossible to see the infant's natural skin color under the coating of violence.

Zarif knocked. Three sharp raps against wood that needed repainting. Waited. Heard shuffling inside. Footsteps approaching.

The door opened. A woman appeared—middle-aged, worn-looking, the kind of exhaustion that came from years of caring for too many children with too few resources. She started to speak, then saw the infant. Saw the blood. Her eyes went wide.

"Found it in the forest," Zarif said. Fast. Clipped. Not waiting for questions. "Alone. Don't know where it came from. Can't keep it."

He held the baby out. Practically shoved it toward her. The woman's hands came up automatically—catching the infant, cradling it, maternal instinct overriding confusion. She opened her mouth to ask something. To demand more information or question his story or—

Zarif was already turning away. Already moving. Not running yet but walking fast. Putting distance between himself and the orphanage before she could recover enough to call after him or insist he stay or involve authorities or any of the dozen things that might happen if he lingered.

"Wait—" the woman called behind him.

He didn't wait. Just kept walking. Faster now. Breaking into a jog. Then a run. Away from the orphanage. Away from the infant he'd saved. Away from the last responsibility tying him to what had happened in that clearing.

The baby was safe. That's what mattered. Someone would care for it. Feed it. Clean the blood off. Raise it without knowing it had been seconds from sacrifice. Without understanding what violence had saved its life.

Safe. That had to be enough. Because Zarif couldn't do more. Couldn't stay. Couldn't take responsibility for an infant when he was about to have the entire empire hunting him.

He ran down the street. Early morning. Not many people out yet. A few vendors setting up stalls. Some workers heading to jobs. No one paying attention to one more young man moving quickly through the city. No one caring or noticing or remembering his face.

Three blocks from the orphanage, reality hit him.

Not gradually. Not as a slow dawning. All at once. Like running into a wall he hadn't seen.

He'd killed Nicholas.

The thought stopped him mid-stride. Made his legs falter. Made him stumble and catch himself against a building wall. Hand pressed against stone. Breathing hard. Not just from running but from understanding crashing down with weight that made his chest tight.

Nicholas. THE Nicholas. Not just some random mage. Not just one of four hooded figures conducting a ritual. Nicholas. The tournament champion. The greatest swordsman in the empire. The man everyone knew. The man whose name was spoken with respect and admiration. The man who'd won three championships without losing a match.

The man who was supposed to marry Princess Althea in two weeks.

Dead. Throat opened. Body left in a forest clearing. Killed by Zarif's hand using his own ceremonial knife.

"Oh God," Zarif whispered. His hand pressed harder against the wall. His legs felt weak. His stomach churned with nausea that had nothing to do with physical illness and everything to do with consequences assembling themselves in his mind with horrible clarity.

They were going to hunt him. Not just investigate the deaths. Not just look for whoever had done it. They were going to mobilize everything. Every soldier. Every guard. Every resource the empire had. Because this wasn't just murder. This was political catastrophe. This was the death of someone important. Someone beloved. Someone whose murder couldn't be ignored or forgiven or handled quietly.

Princess Althea's betrothed. The empire's symbol of merit and excellence. The proof that skill mattered more than birth. Gone. Murdered by someone they'd eventually identify. Someone they'd eventually find.

Someone who was Zarif.

He pushed away from the wall. Started walking again. Faster. His mind racing through implications. Through what would happen next. Through the inevitable chain of events he'd just triggered.

They'd find the bodies soon if they hadn't already. Would recognize Nicholas. Would understand the magnitude. Would start investigating immediately. Would question anyone who lived near that forest. Would find witnesses who'd seen a young man running out of the woods holding something.

Would create posters. Would offer rewards. Would spread his description across the kingdom. Would put a price on his head that would make every bounty hunter and opportunist and desperate person start looking.

Would eventually learn his name. Someone would recognize his face from the description. Would remember him from the marketplace or the forest edge or anywhere he'd been seen. Would sell that information for gold. Would give them identity to attach to the wanted notices.

Zarif. That's what they'd write. Wanted for the murder of Nicholas. Wanted for killing the princess's betrothed. Wanted for destroying the empire's favorite warrior.

Dead or alive. Probably preferably alive so they could execute him publicly. Make an example. Show everyone what happened when you killed someone important.

Deep trouble. That's what he was in. The deepest trouble possible. The kind that didn't have solutions or escapes or ways out. The kind that meant his life as he'd known it was over. The kind that meant he could never come back. Could never return to the forest or the city or anywhere in this kingdom.

Run. That's all that was left. Run and hope he could get far enough away before they found him. Hope he could leave the kingdom entirely. Hope that distance and borders and foreign lands would put space between him and the consequences of saving one infant.

Zarif's pace increased. Walking became jogging. Jogging became running. Through early morning streets. Toward the docks. Toward ships that left for other places. Toward the only possible escape route.

Behind him, in an orphanage, a woman held a blood-covered infant and wondered what had happened.

Behind him, in a forest clearing, bodies lay waiting to be discovered.

Behind him, his old life ended and something else began.

Something that involved running. Hiding. Never stopping. Never returning.

Because he'd killed Nicholas.

And the empire would never forgive that.

The barracks smelled like sweat and leather and the oil used to maintain weapons.

Kael sat on his bunk. Seventeen years old. Fresh-faced in the way that new recruits were—skin not yet weathered by campaigns, body not yet marked by scars, eyes still holding the brightness that came from youth and idealism. Three months into his service. Still learning. Still proving himself. Still at the bottom of the ranks where new soldiers started.

Around him, older soldiers were talking. Voices low but urgent. Passing information that had just reached the barracks from officers who'd heard from palace guards who'd seen it firsthand.

"Nicholas is dead."

The words cut through other conversations. Made everyone stop and listen. Made heads turn toward the speaker—a veteran with ten years service and multiple campaign ribbons on his uniform.

"What?" someone asked. Disbelief obvious in his tone.

"Dead. Murdered. Found in a forest this morning with his throat cut."

Silence fell over the barracks. Twenty soldiers processing information that didn't make sense. Nicholas couldn't be dead. Nicholas was… Nicholas. The tournament champion. The best. The man half these soldiers had watched fight and wished they could be like.

"Who killed him?" another voice asked.

"Don't know. That's what we're supposed to find out. Orders are coming down. Full mobilization. Every unit searching. Whoever did this is going to wish they'd never been born."

The conversation exploded. Questions and theories and shock mixing together. Soldiers trying to understand how someone could kill Nicholas. What kind of warrior would be capable. Whether this was political or personal or something else entirely.

Kael stopped listening to the words. His mind was racing in a different direction. Moving faster than the conversation around him. Connecting pieces that others weren't seeing yet.

This was it. This was his chance.

His eyes lit up. Actually lit up—brightness appearing that hadn't been there a moment before. The kind of illumination that came from opportunity recognized. From understanding that the universe had just handed him exactly what he needed.

Catch Nicholas's killer. Bring them in dead or alive. Be the one who solved this. Be the recruit who succeeded where veterans would fail. Make a name for himself in one action that would erase the disadvantage of being new and young and untested.

Instant fame. Instant recognition. Instant promotion through ranks that normally took years to climb. From recruit to someone important. From nobody to somebody. From the bottom to… not the top, not immediately, but high enough that the path forward would be clear.

This was how careers were made. How legends started. How young soldiers became generals.

Kael's dream had always been clear. Since before he'd enlisted. Since childhood when he'd watched parades and heard stories and decided what he wanted to become.

High-ranking general. Not just officer. Not just captain or commander. General. The kind that led armies. The kind that made strategic decisions affecting thousands. The kind that had real power. Real authority. Real ability to change things.

And not just for glory. Not just for rank and status and wealth. But to do something that mattered. To hunt down the people who hurt others. The warlords who controlled coastal territories through fear and violence. The slavers who took people and sold them. The pirates who raided ships and towns. All the human predators who made the world worse and needed someone to stop them.

That's what generals did. The good ones. The ones Kael admired. They didn't just command armies—they used those armies to protect people. To save people. To stand between innocent civilians and the monsters who'd hurt them given the chance.

That's what Kael wanted to be. A soldier who saved people. Who made the world safer. Who stopped evil when he saw it instead of just watching or ignoring or pretending it wasn't his problem.

Nicholas had been that kind of person. Not a general—he'd been a warrior, a duelist, someone who fought in tournaments. But he'd represented the same ideal. Excellence used for good. Skill deployed in service of something larger than personal gain. Merit elevated because it deserved elevation.

Nicholas had been proof that the system worked. That talent could rise. That you didn't need noble birth or connections or wealth to become important. Just skill and dedication and the willingness to work harder than everyone else.

And now he was dead. Murdered by someone who'd taken that symbol and destroyed it. Someone who'd killed not just a man but everything Nicholas represented. Hope. Merit. The possibility that people like Kael—common-born, unremarkable except for their ambition—could become something greater.

Rage mixed with Kael's excitement. Not cold rage. Hot. Personal. Nicholas had been his ideal. The example he was trying to follow. The proof that his dreams weren't foolish. And someone had killed him. Someone had taken that away. Someone needed to pay for it.

Justice. That's what this was. Not just opportunity. Not just career advancement. Justice for Nicholas. Justice for everyone who'd believed in what he represented. Justice that would show whoever did this that you couldn't murder the empire's heroes and walk away unpunished.

Kael stood from his bunk. The movement sharp. Decisive. While other soldiers kept talking and theorizing and processing shock, he was already thinking ahead. Already planning. Already deciding.

He would catch this killer. Would be the one to find them. Would be the one to bring them to justice and make them answer for what they'd done. Would be the one who avenged Nicholas and proved himself worthy of the dream he'd been chasing since childhood.

The other soldiers barely noticed him standing. Too absorbed in their own conversations. Too focused on shock and disbelief. Not seeing what Kael saw—that this tragedy was also opportunity. That this investigation was a path forward for someone smart enough and fast enough and determined enough to take it.

Kael's hands clenched at his sides. His jaw set. His eyes focused on something beyond the barracks walls. Beyond the capital. Toward wherever this killer was running. Toward the future where he caught them and everything changed.

He would find them. Would hunt them down. Would bring them in and show everyone what he was capable of.

This was his chance. His moment. His opportunity to become the soldier he'd always wanted to be.

And he wasn't going to waste it.

The forest-edge village was small. Maybe twenty houses clustered where the trees met cleared farmland. The kind of settlement that existed because someone had to live near the forest to harvest its resources—lumber, game, medicinal plants—even though everyone knew the forest was dangerous.

Four soldiers stood in the village center. Imperial uniforms marking them as investigators. Not local guards but sent from the capital. Sent because this investigation mattered. Because finding Nicholas's killer was priority that superseded normal procedures and jurisdictions.

Villagers gathered around them. Nervous. People who lived this close to wilderness knew that imperial attention usually meant trouble. Meant questions they might not want to answer. Meant getting involved in things that could come back to hurt them later.

But refusing to cooperate with imperial soldiers was worse than cooperating. So they stood. Waited. Answered when asked.

"Yesterday evening," one soldier said. His voice carrying authority that came from years of service. "Did anyone see anything unusual? Anyone entering or leaving the forest?"

Silence for a moment. Villagers looking at each other. Wondering who would speak first. Whether speaking would bring problems.

An older man stepped forward. Weathered face. Hands rough from farming. "There was a group," he said. "Five of them. Hooded. Wearing robes with patterns on them."

The soldier's attention sharpened. "When?"

"Sunset. Maybe hour before dark. They came from the road. Walked straight into the forest without hesitating."

"Did you recognize them?"

The old man shook his head. "No. But we see people like that sometimes. Rich men from the city. They hunt in the forest for sport. Go after wolves and bears. Risk their lives for pelts and trophies." He shrugged. "We don't question it. Not our business what wealthy people do with their time."

The soldier made notes. "These five. You saw them enter. Did you see them leave?"

"No." The old man paused. Glanced at a woman standing nearby. She nodded slightly, encouraging him to continue. "But we saw someone else. Maybe an hour later. Different man. Running out of the forest."

Every soldier's attention locked on him now. "Describe him."

"Young. Maybe twenty. Maybe younger. Moving fast. Not walking—running. Like he was being chased or needed to be somewhere urgent."

"Was he one of the five?"

"No. Different. No robes. Just regular clothes. And he was alone. Separate from the group that went in."

"What was he doing?"

"Holding something." The woman who'd nodded earlier spoke now. Her voice clearer. More certain. "In his arms. Wrapped up or protected somehow. We couldn't see what it was. But he was careful with it. Keeping it stable while he ran."

"Which direction did he go?"

The old man pointed. "That way. Past our houses. Toward the main road. Moving fast the whole time. We watched until he was out of sight."

The soldier finished writing. Looked up. "Did anyone else see this?"

Three other villagers nodded. Confirmed the story. Five hooded figures entering at sunset. One young man emerging an hour later, running, carrying something. All details matching.

"Can you describe his features?" the soldier asked. "This young man who came out. What did he look like?"

The woman answered first. "Young like we said. Late teens or early twenties. Lean build but looked strong. Not skinny—more like someone who works physically. Moves a lot."

"His face?"

"Sharp features. Angular. Dark hair—moved when he ran. Clean-shaven. His skin… hard to say. White, but not like a sick man's. More like stone when it catches moonlight—shining, but cold. Looked almost carved…like marble."

The old man added, "Intense eyes. That's what I remember. The way he looked around while running. Alert. Watching for threats. Not panicked exactly but… aware."

The soldier kept writing. Building a description that could be sketched. That could be distributed. "Did you recognize him?"

Silence for a moment. Then the woman spoke again. "We know him."

The soldier's head snapped up. "You know him?"

"Not personally. Don't know his name or where he's from originally. But we've seen him before. Multiple times over the past months. Years maybe."

"Where?"

She pointed toward the deeper forest. The parts where trees grew thick and wilderness took over. "He lives in there. Built some kind of shelter. We see him sometimes when he comes near the edge. Hunting mostly. Sometimes just moving through."

"Someone lives in that forest?" The soldier's voice carried disbelief. "That's not possible. The predators alone—"

"We know," the old man cut in. "That's why we say he's crazy. Who lives in a forest like that? Wolves. Bears. Bandits when they're passing through. It's deadly. But he's been there for months at least. Maybe longer. We've seen him with kills. Deer. Wild boar. Once we saw him dragging a dead wolf. He survives somehow."

"He talks to anyone?"

"Never. Not to us. We've tried approaching him a few times. Offering food or shelter. He just avoids us. Disappears back into the trees. Like he doesn't want company. Doesn't want to be known."

The woman added, "He's good at moving through that forest though. Really good. Like he owns it. Confident. Fast. Knows where he's going. That's not normal. Most people who go in there get lost or hurt or worse. He moves like it's his territory."

The soldier finished writing. Looked at his notes. Looked at the villagers. "This man who lives in the forest. He ran past your houses yesterday evening carrying something. Came from the same forest where five hooded men entered. And you haven't seen those five men leave?"

"No," the old man confirmed. "Just him."

The soldier's expression hardened. Understanding forming. This wasn't just a witness. This was a suspect. Maybe the suspect. Young man living alone in deadly forest. Skilled at survival and hunting. Emerging right after five men entered. Running with something in his arms.

"He's crazy," the woman said again. "Absolutely crazy. Living where he lives. Doing what he does. Normal people don't survive in that forest. Don't build homes there. Don't thrive there like he seems to."

But the soldier was already thinking ahead. Already planning. This was the lead they needed. Description. Location. Pattern of behavior. Someone who could be tracked. Who could be found.

Someone who might have killed Nicholas and four other men in a forest clearing.

Someone who was about to have the entire empire hunting him.

The artist worked fast. Charcoal moving across paper with practiced strokes. Building a face from descriptions given by forest-edge villagers. Sharp features. Angular jaw. Intense eyes.

Young man. Late teens or early twenties. The kind of face that balanced soft and rugged—handsome in a way that was immediately striking, memorable.

Except this face was about to become the most wanted in the empire.

The artist added final details. Shading to give depth. Lines around the eyes to show intensity. The suggestion of alertness in the expression. Not a perfect likeness—he'd never seen the subject, only heard descriptions—but close enough. Recognizable enough. The kind of sketch that would make people look twice.

He held it up. Showed it to the soldier who'd interviewed the villagers. "This match?"

The soldier studied it. Compared it mentally to the descriptions. Nodded slowly, then let out a low whistle.

"You did a good job," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "Made him look handsome."

He turned the sketch toward the other investigators standing nearby, still smiling.

"Now people will be dead set on killing him even more—out of pure envy."

The other soldiers chuckled. One of them shook his head, muttering something about pretty criminals getting what they deserve.

The artist didn't look up from where he was already cleaning his charcoal-stained fingers with a rag. His voice came out flat, bored.

"I just went off the descriptions you gave me," he said. "My job doesn't pay me enough to add extra details."

He tossed the rag aside and gestured at the sketch dismissively.

"You want him prettier or uglier, get a better budget."

The soldier's grin widened, but he didn't argue. He took the sketch and nodded to the messenger waiting nearby. "Get it to the printers."

The sketch moved through imperial channels. From artist to messenger to the printing operation that served official government communications. The old press that normally produced tax notices and royal decrees and military orders.

Now producing wanted posters.

Hundreds of copies first. The press churning out identical images. Black ink on cheap paper. The face repeated over and over. Each poster bearing the same sketch, the same text:

WANTED FOR MURDER

Underneath, space left for a name when they had one. For now, just the description. The features. The crimes.

REWARD: 50,000 GOLD PIECES

The bounty amount had been set by King Drago himself. Not the usual reward for murder. This was special. This was Nicholas's killer. This was someone who'd destroyed a symbol and disrupted imperial plans and caused political catastrophe. The amount needed to be high enough that everyone would look. High enough that professional bounty hunters would drop other contracts. High enough that normal people would be motivated to report anything suspicious.

fifty thousand gold pieces was life-changing wealth. Enough to retire on. Enough to buy land and property and security for multiple generations. Enough that people who normally minded their own business would suddenly become very interested in examining the faces of strangers.

Hundreds of copies became thousands. The press running continuously. Ink-stained workers producing identical sheets. Stacking them. Preparing them for distribution.

Soldiers spread through the kingdom. Taking stacks of posters. Heading to the biggest towns and cities. Places where people congregated. Where travelers passed through. Where information flowed and strangers appeared and someone might recognize the face or see someone matching the description.

Hammers drove nails through paper into wood. The sound echoing in marketplaces and town squares. Soldiers posting the wanted notices on every available surface. Walls. Posts. The sides of buildings. Anywhere that would hold paper and be visible to passersby.

WANTED FOR MURDER. The sketch. The massive bounty.

Within a day, the face was everywhere. Impossible to miss. Impossible to ignore. People gathered around the posters. Staring at the sketch. Reading the reward amount. Discussing among themselves who this might be and whether they'd seen anyone matching the description.

Then someone recognized him.

A merchant. Middle-aged man who owned a stall in the capital's marketplace. He'd been walking past one of the posters. Had glanced at it without much interest—just another wanted notice, another criminal, nothing to do with him.

Then he'd looked closer. Stopped walking. Stared at the sketch.

He knew that face.

Not well. Not intimately. But he'd seen it before. Several months ago. A young man who'd approached his stall. Who'd tried to threaten him. Who'd made some clumsy attempt at extortion or robbery—the details were fuzzy, the encounter hadn't seemed important at the time.

But he remembered the face. Sharp features. Intense eyes. Young. Lean. Exactly like the sketch.

And he remembered the name. The other merchants had talked about it afterward. Laughed about the incompetent criminal who couldn't even rob people properly. Shared stories of similar encounters.

Zarif. That's what they'd called him.

The merchant went directly to the nearest imperial office. Walked past the line of people waiting for normal business. Told the guard at the door he had information about the wanted poster. Was admitted immediately.

"I know him," the merchant said to the officer who interviewed him. "The man in the poster. I've seen him before."

"Where?"

"Marketplace. Months ago. He tried to rob me. Or threaten me. It didn't work—he was terrible at it. But I remember his face. That's definitely him."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely certain. Same features. Same age. Same build. That's him."

"Do you know his name?"

The merchant nodded. "Zarif. The other merchants told me after. Apparently he's done this before. Tried to rob multiple people. Never succeeds. We thought he was just some desperate kid. Harmless."

The officer wrote everything down. Looked up. "You'll be compensated for this information."

Gold coins. A lot of them. Not the full fifty thousand—that was reserved for actually capturing the suspect—but enough that the merchant walked out significantly wealthier than he'd walked in. Enough that he immediately started telling other merchants about it. About how he'd recognized the face and gotten paid for providing a name.

Word spread.

Other people came forward. A baker who remembered Zarif stealing bread. A stall owner who'd seen him and another kid running through the marketplace after some petty theft. A woman who'd watched him fumble a knife throw during an attempted robbery. More names, more stories, all confirming the same identity.

Zarif. Young man. Late teens. Known for failed robberies and desperate survival in the city before he'd disappeared into the forest. Multiple witnesses. Multiple confirmations.

The name was added to the posters. Soldiers went back out with updated versions. Hammering new notices over old ones.

WANTED FOR MURDER ZARIF REWARD: 50,000 GOLD PIECES

Anonymous no longer. Not just a sketch of a face but a person with identity. Someone who could be tracked by name. Someone whose history could be investigated. Someone who'd left enough trace in the world that people remembered him and could tell stories and provide information.

The manhunt had a target now. Not just a description but a name. Not just what he looked like but who he was.

Zarif.

Wanted for the murder of Nicholas and four others. Wanted by the empire. Wanted by bounty hunters. Wanted by anyone who needed fifty thousand gold pieces badly enough to hunt a man who could kill five trained fighters.

His face covered walls across the kingdom. His name spoken in every tavern and marketplace. His capture now the focus of imperial resources and private ambition.

Running was his only option. Hiding his only chance. Distance his only hope.

Because everyone was looking now. And everyone knew his name.

____________________________________

The marketplace was quiet that afternoon.

Hayat stood behind her stall, arranging clay jars of sweets that didn't need arranging. The colored candies caught afternoon light—reds and yellows and oranges that should have looked cheerful but somehow didn't today. Business had been slow. A few customers in the morning. Nothing since noon.

She didn't mind the quiet normally. Gave her time to think. To remember. To hold conversations in her head with people who weren't there anymore.

But today the quiet felt wrong. Heavy. Like the air before a storm.

Then she heard the commotion.

Voices rising from the far end of the marketplace. Not the normal sounds of haggling or merchant calls. Something different. Urgent. Multiple people talking at once. The kind of noise that meant something had happened. Something important.

Hayat looked up from her jars.

A crowd was gathering near the main square. Twenty people. Thirty. More joining every moment. All pressing toward something she couldn't see from her stall. All focused on the same spot with the kind of attention that meant whatever they were looking at mattered.

Soldiers were there too. Imperial uniforms visible above the crowd. They were posting something. Hammering paper to wood. The sharp sound of metal striking metal carrying across the marketplace even through the voices.

Another poster. Another announcement. The empire had been putting them up everywhere lately—tax notices, recruitment calls, royal decrees. Normal business.

But the crowd's reaction wasn't normal. This was different.

Hayat stepped out from behind her stall. Moved toward the gathering. Not running—she never ran in public, her modest clothing made that difficult—but walking quickly. Curiosity pulling her forward. And something else. Some instinct she couldn't name that said this mattered. That said she needed to see whatever everyone else was seeing.

She reached the edge of the crowd. Tried to see over shoulders and between bodies. Couldn't. Too many people. Too much pressing forward. Everyone trying to get closer to whatever the soldiers had posted.

"Excuse me," she said quietly. Too quietly. No one heard. No one moved.

She tried again. Louder. "Please. May I—"

A gap opened. Just for a moment. Just enough. Someone shifted left. Someone else stepped back. And through that gap, Hayat saw the poster.

A face. Drawn in black ink on cheap paper. Sharp features. Intense eyes. Young. Handsome in a way that made the sketch striking even rendered in charcoal.

She knew that face.

Recognition hit like a physical blow. Made her breath catch. Made her hand come up automatically—fingers pressing against her mouth through the veil. Made the world narrow to just that image. Just those features she'd memorized years ago. Just the face she'd spent six years remembering.

Zarif.

The word screamed in her mind even though her lips didn't move. Even though no sound came out except a sharp inhalation that no one heard over the crowd noise.

Zarif. On a poster. Why was Zarif on a poster?

Her eyes moved down. Below the sketch. To the words printed in bold text.

WANTED FOR MURDER

The letters seemed to grow larger as she read them. Seemed to pulse with each heartbeat. Seemed to press against her vision until they were all she could see.

Murder. Zarif. Wanted.

More words below. Her eyes tracked down automatically even though part of her brain was screaming not to look. Not to read. Not to know what came next.

ZARIF

SUSPECTED IN THE MURDER OF NICHOLAS AND FOUR OTHERS

Nicholas. The name hit harder than the word "murder" had. Nicholas. The tournament champion. The man everyone in the empire knew. The man who was supposed to marry Princess Althea. The man whose death had been spreading through the kingdom like fire for the past day.

Dead. Murdered. And they thought Zarif had done it.

REWARD: 50,000 GOLD PIECES

The number should have meant something. Should have registered as enormous. As life-changing wealth. As the kind of bounty that would make everyone look. But Hayat barely processed it. Her mind was stuck three lines up. Stuck on the impossible connection.

Zarif. Murder. Nicholas.

No. That couldn't be right. Zarif couldn't have—wouldn't have—

But the poster was there. Imperial seal at the bottom. Official. Not rumor or mistake. This was real. This was what the empire believed. What they were telling everyone. What they were paying fifty thousand gold pieces to prove.

Her hand pressed harder against her mouth. Her whole body had gone rigid. Locked in place while the crowd continued moving around her. While people pointed and discussed and theorized about who this Zarif was and whether anyone had seen him.

She'd seen him. Every day for eight years when they'd lived together. When he'd worked beside her father. When he'd been part of their family. Before Nikandros died and Zarif disappeared. Six years of nothing. Six years of wondering if he was even alive. Not knowing where he'd gone or what had happened to him.

And then yesterday. Right here in this marketplace. When he'd tried to rob her and she'd shown him the card he'd made. When he'd smacked her hand and run. When she'd thought maybe—maybe—seeing her had affected him. That the past wasn't as dead as he wanted it to be.

And now this. Wanted. Murder. The empire's greatest warrior. Dead by his hand.

Horror crashed over her in waves. Not disbelief—she'd learned years ago that the world was cruel in ways that didn't make sense. Not denial—the poster was too official, too real to deny. Just horror. Pure and absolute. At what Zarif had apparently done. At what he'd become. At how far he'd fallen from the boy who'd worked beside her father.

Her vision blurred. Tears forming behind her eyes. She blinked them back furiously—couldn't cry here, not in public, not where people would see and ask questions. But they kept coming anyway. Pressure building until she couldn't stop them.

One tear escaped. Then another. Running down her cheeks behind the veil where no one could see. Where the fabric absorbed them before they could fall.

Zarif. What did you do?

The question had no answer. Just the poster. Just the face she'd loved staring back at her from cheap paper. Just the words WANTED FOR MURDER making everything she'd remembered feel like lies.

The crowd pressed closer. Someone jostled her. She stumbled back. Away from the poster. Away from the soldiers. Away from the face that couldn't be guilty but apparently was.

Her hand finally dropped from her mouth. Hung at her side. Trembling. Her whole body trembling now. Shaking with shock that had nowhere to go except through her muscles and bones and the tears that wouldn't stop coming.

She turned away. Walked back toward her stall. Not seeing where she was going. Not caring. Just moving because staying meant looking at that poster. Meant seeing his face. Meant reading those words over and over until they destroyed something inside her that was already breaking.

Behind her, the crowd continued growing. More people arriving. More voices discussing the handsome criminal and the massive bounty and whether anyone knew where he might be.

Hayat reached her stall. Braced her hands against the wooden counter. Bent forward slightly. Let the tears fall where no one could see them. Where they hit wood and sweets and the normal life she'd been trying to maintain.

Zarif was wanted for murder. The empire was hunting him. Everyone was looking for him.

Fifty thousand gold pieces. That's what they'd pay for information leading to his capture.

Her hands clenched against the wood. Her body shook harder. Fresh tears falling.

She said nothing. Did nothing. Just stood there behind her stall while the world continued around her.

While Zarif's face hung on posters across the kingdom.

While everyone hunted the boy she'd once known.

______________________________________________

The search parties spread across the kingdom like a net being cast.

Imperial soldiers deployed in units of four. Veteran investigators leading fresh recruits. Each group assigned a sector—towns along major roads, villages near forests, settlements around rivers and coastlines. Anywhere a fugitive might run. Anywhere someone might hide.

They carried stacks of wanted posters. Showed Zarif's face to innkeepers and stable masters and ship captains. Asked questions. Took notes. Moved on to the next location. Systematic. Thorough. The kind of organized search that the empire excelled at when it decided someone needed to be found.

But the soldiers weren't alone.

Bounty hunters arrived within hours of the posters going up. Professional trackers who made their living finding people who didn't want to be found. Mercenaries who'd fought in wars and knew how to hunt humans. Former soldiers who'd left military service but still had the skills. All of them seeing fifty thousand gold pieces and deciding this was worth dropping everything else.

They moved faster than the imperial search parties. Less concerned with procedure or jurisdiction. More willing to take risks. More motivated by the enormous reward. Some worked alone. Others formed groups—pooling resources and skills to increase their chances.

The search intensified with each passing hour. More soldiers deploying. More bounty hunters arriving. More people checking faces against the sketch. More eyes watching roads and docks and forest paths.

Towns locked down. Guards at gates questioning travelers. Innkeepers examining guests more carefully. Ship captains reviewing passenger lists and crew rosters. Everyone suddenly very interested in young men traveling alone. Everyone remembering that fifty thousand gold pieces could change a life.

The net was tightening. Every hour that passed meant more searchers in the field. More locations covered. More escape routes blocked. The kingdom wasn't infinite. There were only so many places to hide. Only so many ways to flee.

And all of them were being watched now.

Somewhere in that expanding search net, Zarif was running. Moving through early morning streets toward the docks. Toward ships that sailed to other kingdoms. Toward the only escape route that might work—getting out of imperial territory entirely before someone recognized his face.

The sea was his only chance. His only hope of putting enough distance between himself and the consequences of saving one infant.

But the hunters were coming. From every direction. Closing in with military precision and mercenary determination.

And time was running out.

The docks smelled like salt water and fish and tar used to seal wooden hulls.

Ships lined the harbor in crowded rows—merchant vessels loading cargo, fishing boats unloading their catch, passenger ships preparing for departure. Masts rose against the morning sky like a forest of bare trees. Ropes creaked. Wood groaned. Waves slapped against hulls in rhythmic patterns that never stopped.

People were everywhere. Sailors hauling crates. Merchants negotiating prices. Passengers boarding with luggage. Dockworkers moving between ships with the efficient chaos of men who did this every day. A few harbor guards stationed at intervals—local security earning basic wages, watching for smugglers or thieves or drunken brawls. The usual dock protection. Nothing special.

The imperial search hadn't reached here yet. No soldiers checking faces against wanted posters. No increased patrols. No heightened security. Just another normal morning at a working harbor. The news of Nicholas's murder had spread through the capital and beyond, but information moved slower than fear. Slower than the manhunt organizing in other parts of the kingdom.

Here, for now, no one was looking for Zarif.

Noise filled the air—shouted orders, haggling voices, the constant background sound of a working harbor. Gulls cried overhead. Metal clanged against metal. Wheels rolled across wooden planks. The kind of cacophony that made individual sounds disappear into general din.

Through this chaos moved a figure in a long cloak.

Dark fabric that fell nearly to his ankles. Hood pulled up and forward, creating shadow that concealed most of his face. The cloak wasn't unusual—plenty of travelers wore them, protection against wind and spray on sea voyages. Nothing that would draw particular attention in a place where people came and went constantly.

But this one moved differently than the others.

Zarif kept his head down. Not obviously hiding—that would draw exactly the attention he was trying to avoid. Just moving with the careful awareness of someone who didn't want to be noticed. Who needed to blend into the crowd without standing out. Who understood that survival meant becoming invisible.

Only his eyes were visible beneath the hood. Dark eyes that moved constantly, tracking everything. Watching the harbor guards stationed along the docks—but they weren't looking for anyone, just doing their normal rounds. Noting which ships were preparing to leave. Scanning faces for anyone who might be looking back too closely.

He didn't know yet that the posters hadn't reached here. Didn't know that his face wasn't hanging on dock walls. Didn't know that he had more time than he thought. Just moved with the same hypervigilant caution he'd been using since leaving the forest.

His hands stayed inside the cloak. Hidden. Not because they were distinctive but because visible hands meant visible tension. Meant people might notice the way his fingers wanted to clench. The way his body was wound tight with adrenaline that had nowhere to go except into careful, controlled movement.

He moved through the crowd like water flowing around obstacles. Never forcing. Never pushing. Just finding gaps and filling them. Adjusting his path when the dock guards came near—not because they were looking for him, but because getting too close to any authority was dangerous. Pausing when groups blocked his way instead of trying to squeeze through. Patient. Deliberate. Nothing that would make anyone look twice.

But his awareness was absolute. Hyperalert to everything around him. To conversations happening nearby—were people discussing murders or wanted men? To sudden movements in his peripheral vision—was someone pointing? To guards turning their heads—were they looking at him?

Every sense pushed to maximum. Every instinct screaming danger even though nothing had happened yet. Even though the harbor was operating normally. Even though no one here knew his face or his name or what he'd done. The feeling of being hunted didn't care about reality. Just kept his body tense and ready to run.

He needed a ship. That was the goal. The only goal that mattered. Find a captain willing to take passengers. Buy passage to somewhere—anywhere—outside imperial territory. Get on a vessel and get away from this kingdom before the search reached this harbor.

His eyes tracked the ships. Looking for ones that seemed ready to depart soon. That had crew loading supplies or passengers boarding. That looked like they'd leave within hours instead of days. Because even though the imperial soldiers hadn't arrived yet, they would. Eventually. And every moment he stayed in this harbor was another moment closer to that arrival.

A merchant ship was loading cargo three berths away. Crew moving with the urgency of an imminent departure. That one. That was his chance.

Zarif adjusted his path. Moving toward it. Still careful. Still controlled. Still just another cloaked traveler in a harbor full of them.

But underneath the cloak, his heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. His body was screaming at him to run, to get on that ship now, to stop being careful and just escape.

He forced himself to stay calm. To keep moving at normal speed. To be invisible.

Because even though no one was hunting him here yet, that could change. At any moment. A rider could arrive with posters. Soldiers could appear. Someone from the capital could recognize him.

The window was open. But it wouldn't stay open long.

And he needed to be gone before it closed.

Kael reached the docks while other soldiers were still checking inns and searching forest roads.

His thinking had been simple. Direct. The kind of logic that seemed obvious once you stated it but that most people missed because they were too focused on procedure or following orders exactly as given.

A fugitive wanted for killing Nicholas wouldn't hide in the kingdom. Too dangerous. Too many people looking. Too much attention. Every town would have posters soon. Every inn would be checking faces. Every road would have patrols.

No—a smart fugitive would run. Leave imperial territory entirely. Put borders and distance between himself and the consequences. Go somewhere the empire's reach didn't extend or at least weakened enough to create safety.

And there was only one way to leave the kingdom quickly.

By sea.

Kael had made the connection in the barracks while other recruits were still processing the news. Had grabbed his gear and left before his squad leader could assign him to a regular search party. Had moved through the city at double-time, heading directly for the harbor while others spread out in a dozen different directions.

Quick thinking. That's what this was. The kind of tactical decision-making that separated good soldiers from mediocre ones. The kind of initiative that got noticed. That got rewarded. That started careers moving upward instead of staying stagnant.

Now he stood at the entrance to the dock district. Early morning light reflecting off water. Ships visible in rows. Crowds moving through their normal routines. Everything looking ordinary. Normal. Like any other day at a working harbor.

But somewhere in this chaos was a murderer.

Kael's eyes scanned the crowd. Methodical. Systematic. Not panicking. Not rushing. Just looking. Taking in faces, body language, movement patterns. Searching for anything that didn't fit. Anyone moving wrong. Anyone trying too hard not to be noticed.

The wanted poster was burned into his memory. Sharp features. Intense eyes. Young. Lean build. Handsome in a way that made the sketch distinctive. He'd studied it for ten minutes before leaving the barracks. Memorized every line and shadow. Made sure he'd recognize the face even in a crowd. Even at distance. Even if the suspect was trying to hide.

His hand rested on his sword hilt. Not gripping it—that would signal aggression, would make people nervous. Just resting there. Ready. A reminder that he was armed. That he was capable. That if he found his target, he could act.

Confidence settled into his chest. Warm and solid. He'd made the right call coming here. While other soldiers wasted time searching places the fugitive had already left, Kael had thought ahead. Had anticipated. Had positioned himself exactly where his target would eventually need to be.

Now it was just a matter of spotting him.

The docks were large. Hundreds of people moving through at any given time. Sailors, merchants, passengers, workers. All of them potential cover for someone trying to blend in. All of them obstacles between Kael and his target.

But fugitives made mistakes. Got nervous. Moved wrong. Did something that gave them away. Kael just needed to be patient. To watch. To wait for that moment when the suspect revealed himself.

His eyes continued scanning. Row by row. Ship by ship. Face by face.

Somewhere here, a murderer was trying to escape. Trying to board a ship and flee to safety. Trying to get away with killing Nicholas and four others.

But Kael had arrived first. Had beaten the fugitive to the one escape route that mattered. Had put himself between the suspect and freedom.

Now it was just a matter of time.

The young recruit who'd thought faster than veterans. Who'd anticipated instead of reacting. Who was about to catch the empire's most wanted criminal.

His first real accomplishment. His first step toward the future he'd been dreaming about since childhood.

Kael's grip tightened slightly on his sword hilt. His eyes sharpened. His focus absolute.

Find him. Catch him. Bring him in.

Make history.

The hunt had begun.

Kael's eyes caught on a figure three berths away.

A man in a long cloak. Hood pulled up despite the morning not being cold enough to warrant it. Moving through the crowd with careful precision—not rushing, but not casual either. The kind of controlled movement that came from someone trying very hard to look normal.

Too controlled. That was what drew Kael's attention. Everyone else at the docks moved with purpose or distraction or the relaxed gait of people who belonged there. This man moved like he was thinking about every step. Like he was monitoring his own body language. Like he was performing normalcy instead of living it.

Kael's focus sharpened. His body went still. Watching.

The cloaked figure approached a sailor loading cargo onto a merchant vessel. Spoke briefly—too quiet for Kael to hear over the dock noise, but clearly a conversation. The sailor nodded. Gestured toward the ship.

Then the cloaked man reached into his cloak. Pulled out coins. Held them out.

Payment. Booking passage. Trying to get on a ship that would take him out of the kingdom.

Kael's heart rate increased. His breathing stayed controlled but his pulse was hammering now. This could be nothing. Could be just another traveler. Plenty of people wore cloaks. Plenty of people paid for passage. Nothing inherently suspicious about it.

Except the way he moved. The way he kept his head down. The way his eyes—barely visible beneath the hood—kept scanning the area. Alert. Watching for threats. Behavior that screamed fugitive even if nothing else did.

The man's hood shifted slightly as he turned to take the coins back after the sailor counted them. Just a moment. Just a fraction of adjustment as fabric moved.

Kael saw his face.

Not fully. Not clearly. Just a glimpse. Sharp cheekbone. Angular jaw. Dark eyes that moved with intensity even in that brief exposure. Young features weathered by outdoor living.

The poster flashed through Kael's mind. The sketch he'd memorized. Sharp features. Intense eyes. Lean build. Young.

This was him.

Intuition struck like lightning. Not certainty—Kael hadn't seen enough to be absolutely sure. But gut instinct screaming that this was the target. This was Nicholas's killer. This was the fugitive the entire empire was hunting. Right here. Three berths away. About to board a ship and escape.

Kael's hand tightened on his sword hilt. Every muscle in his body tensed. Ready to move. Ready to act. Ready to—

No.

The thought cut through instinct. Cold tactical calculation overriding emotion.

If he drew his sword now, if he shouted for the harbor guards, if he made a scene—what would happen? Chaos. Crowd panicking. People running in every direction. The docks were packed with bodies. Dozens of ships. Hundreds of places to hide. Countless ways to disappear into confusion.

And the cloaked man was close to that ship. Close enough to board in seconds if he ran. Close enough to get lost among crew and cargo and passengers if alarm was raised. Close enough to escape in the chaos that a confrontation would create.

Kael would lose him. Would watch his target vanish into the crowd or onto a vessel or into some gap between ships. Would have been right—would have found Nicholas's killer—but would fail to catch him because he'd acted too soon. Too loud. Too obvious.

No. Better to stay quiet. Better to follow. Better to shadow him until the moment was right. Until there was no escape route. Until Kael could act without risk of losing his target in crowd chaos.

The cloaked man took his coins back. Turned away from the sailor. Began moving toward the merchant ship's boarding plank.

Kael started following.

Not obviously. Not in a straight line. Just adjusting his own path through the crowd. Keeping distance—twenty yards, enough that he wouldn't be noticed but close enough that he wouldn't lose sight. Moving when the target moved. Stopping when he stopped. Matching pace without matching pattern.

Professional pursuit. The kind taught to scouts and investigators. Stay invisible. Stay patient. Wait for the right moment.

His breathing stayed controlled. His expression neutral. To anyone watching, he was just another soldier walking through the docks on patrol. Nothing urgent. Nothing suspicious. Just normal security presence.

But underneath that calm exterior, his mind was racing. His heart pounding. His body flooded with adrenaline that demanded action but was being held in check by tactical discipline.

This was him. Had to be him. The way he moved. The glimpse of features. The suspicious behavior. Everything aligned. Everything fit.

Nicholas's killer. Right there. Trying to board a ship. Trying to escape.

And Kael was the only one who knew. The only one close enough to stop it. The only soldier who'd been smart enough to come to the docks first.

The cloaked man reached the boarding plank. Paused. Looked around one more time—checking for threats, for anyone paying too much attention.

Kael's eyes were locked on him but his body language stayed casual. Just another guard. Just another face in the crowd. Nothing worth noticing.

The man started up the plank. Boarding the ship. One step. Two steps. Moving toward the deck where he'd disappear among rigging and cargo and other passengers.

Kael followed. Closer now. The moment approaching. The distance closing. The window for action narrowing.

His hand stayed on his sword hilt. Ready. Waiting. Calculating the exact moment when he could act without risk. When the target would be isolated enough. When there'd be no escape route left.

Almost.

The cloaked figure reached the top of the plank. Stepped onto the deck. Turned slightly—

And for just a moment, his hood fell back.

Kael saw his face clearly. Sharp features. Intense dark eyes. Young. Handsome in that striking, memorable way. Exactly like the sketch. Exactly like the description.

No doubt now. No question. No room for uncertainty.

That was Zarif. That was Nicholas's killer. That was the man worth fifty thousand gold pieces.

And Kael was ten yards behind him, about to make the arrest that would change everything.

The young recruit who'd thought faster than everyone else. Who'd anticipated instead of reacted. Who'd found the empire's most wanted criminal when veteran soldiers were still searching in the wrong places.

Kael's grip tightened on his sword. His eyes locked onto his target. His breath steady despite his hammering heart.

The hunt was over.

Now came the capture.