For weeks, the roads to Runeheart had been crowded with envoys, mercenaries, and nobles scheming beneath veils of courtesy. But on this day, as dusk painted the sky, only one carriage approached the alabaster walls. Above the gate, carved into the smooth stone, the words gleamed:
**ABBEL – The Heart of Runeheart – West**
The carriage rolled toward the gate, its frame as black as midnight, its two horses gaunt and slick with sweat. No banners adorned its frame, no sigils hinted at its master. To the guards, it was just another shadow in a kingdom filled with many—until the driver extended a gloved hand, offering a sealed envelope. A rune shimmered on its surface, confirming its authenticity.
"Pass," the guard barked.
The gate groaned open. A corridor of cobblestones stretched ahead, lined by rows of guards. Their armors clanked like anvils as they snapped to attention. Their right hands hovered near sword hilts, and visors concealed watchful eyes.
The horses moved forward, hooves striking stone. The driver stared ahead, unflinching, as though the guards were statues.
The carriage passed into the city, leaving the cold sterility of the gate behind. Colors and noise exploded in its path.
Golden lanterns swung overhead. Red and blue ribbons snapped in the breeze. Cobblestones glowed like butter beneath pooled light. The streets roared with life—lutes strummed, laughter rang out, and flames hissed as a fire-eater entertained the crowd. But the true assault was the noise of sizzling lamb fat hitting hot coals.
Food stalls lined the avenues. Spiced hare skewers glistened beside honey-drenched figs. Dough spun and bloomed on spits as chimney cakes took shape.
A juggler bobbed past, apples circling his head, while a troupe of dancers twirled in feathered masks—their bells jingling in time with the strum of the lute.
Children raced between stalls, their mouths sticky with spun sugar. "Fresh sweets!" bellowed a vendor, though his tray sat nearly empty.
The black carriage advanced like a funeral procession through this carnival, its driver steering clear of drunk nobles and pickpockets alike. Behind its tinted windows, the city pulsed—a heartbeat at odds with the silent figure within.
A window flew open. A girl's head popped out, her braids whipping in the wind. "Look at all this!" she cried, leaning halfway out. Her tongue darted over her lips at the sight of a honey-glazed pheasant spinning on a rotisserie spit. "Stop!"
The horses skidded, hooves sparking against the cobblestone. Before the wheels could settle, the girl had vaulted out, sprinting to the nearest stall.
What followed was less a meal and more a siege.
She ravaged searing pheasant and skewers of charred lamb, gnawed bones clean, and demolished flaky pastries in three bites, leaving behind a comet's tail of crumbs and stunned vendors. "Mmf—this one's got fire pepper in it!" she crowed, cheeks bulging with spiced rice.
"Hey! You forgot to pay!" a sausage vendor hollered.
The butler materialized behind her, lips pressed into a bloodless line. A coin purse snapped open. Silver flashed through the air—one arc per stall—ping! Each landing neatly into the palms of the vendors.
The girl, oblivious, licked caramel from her fingers. "Try this!" she yelled, thrusting a half-eaten pie toward the butler.
He sidestepped, flipping two more coins.
She staggered back to the carriage, arms overflowing with half-eaten delicacies. Grease smeared the window as she waved a skewer at the shadowed interior. "Master! Taste this! It's like a pig roasted in heaven!"
The butler swooped in, snatching the skewer before drips hit the door. "One more bite," he hissed, "and we'll scrape your guts off the street." He flicked a crumb from her sleeve as if it offended him personally.
"Psssh! A lady needs sustenance to bloom!" She struck a haughty pose, scattering crumbs. "I'm investing in my royal figure!"
"Your 'royal figure' hasn't bloomed since the last century, old hag," he sniffed, brushing powdered sugar from his cuff. "Unless we're counting horizontal expansion."
"OLD?!" Her screech startled pigeons. "I'm younger than your dusty ledgers, you walking funeral dirge!" A honeyed fig smacked his shoulder—Splat.
"Those saffron buns cost more than your dignity; you shriveled harpy!" he snarled, deflecting a plum.
A pickled onion bounced off his temple. A skewer. A bread roll. A pickled egg—their squabble escalated until the carriage door burst open—SKEEEE! Hinges screamed.
Silence.
The girl paused mid-turnip throw. Frosting dripped from the butler's nose while a stray meatball rolled into a puddle.
A cane struck out—and the earth itself bowed. Soil and stone surged upward, twisting into a staircase as smooth as glass. A small, slim figure emerged from the carriage, leaning heavily on the cane. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if every step cost him dearly.
Pale skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Black hair, straight and jagged, grazed his neck. The black metal mask covering the right portion of his face gleamed dully—its edge curved sharply along the corner of his mouth, leaving his lips parted in a permanent half-sneer.
He wore a finely tailored black suit with a crisp white undershirt, the fabric pristine despite his sickly frame. A white glove, spotless and stiff, sheathed his left hand, while a black glove encased his right, blending into the suit's sleeve.
The cane in his right hand drew every eye. Its shaft, polished black marble veined with silver, ended in a silver ring that clinked against the stairs. At the top, a ruby the size of a duck's egg glowed like congealed blood, casting crimson prisms across his mask.
He paused at the stairs' apex. For a heartbeat, the festival's clamor stilled as if the air itself feared to disturb him.
Then he descended, step by step. Tock-thud... Tock-scrape... Tock-thud... Tock-scrape. The cane struck rhythmically. His right leg dragged like dead weight, but his grip never faltered.
"We've wasted enough time," he said softly. "The inheritance is about to take place. Let's get going."
The butler bowed, grease sliding from his hair. "I apologize, Master—Plope!" A sausage chunk hit his polished shoe.
"Pff—" The girl clamped her mouth shut, stifling laughter under the boy's icy glare. "I'll grab the bags!" She darted to the carriage, reappearing with two suitcases.
They moved into the crowd. The boy cut through the revelry like a shadow, and the butler and girl trailed behind.
Behind them, the carriage shuddered. Its horses dissolved first, limbs liquefying into oily rivulets. Then the wheels, the frame, the lacquered wood—all collapsed inward, swallowed by a pool of darkness that evaporated with a hiss, leaving only scorched cobblestones behind.