The House of Tides, Whitebridge, Southern SeyuunDawn, High Summer – Year of the Hollow Crown
The scent of sea brine and saffron lingered in the dawn haze as Whitebridge stirred awake. Boats creaked in their moorings. A merchant's bell rang across the canal. Pigeons scattered from tiled eaves, their wings catching gold in the morning light. Somewhere far off, a street player tuned a harp with more nerve than talent.
Aeron stood alone in the chamber of blown-glass windows, watching the haze crawl over the rooftops. Behind him, the wind stirred linen drapes like ghosts seeking warmth. He had slept little—there had been too much to think on, and none of it easy.
The names on Mirelle's parchment still echoed behind his eyes. Some were forgotten cousins, old allies from before the purge. Others, long silent. A few, enemies of his father who had knelt too late and lived too long. All marked now for "quiet disappearance." The Crown no longer hung traitors—it erased them.
And yet it was her name he kept circling back to. Mirelle Caerwyn. He had not said it aloud in years, and now it burned his throat like wine poured on an old wound.
The chamber door creaked open.
"I thought I'd find you brooding by some window," Harwin grunted. The old knight entered with his usual limp, hair damp from a basin scrub, one eye still puffy from the ride.
"You never liked cities," Aeron said.
"I like cities fine. I just don't like dying in them."
Aeron managed a half-smile. "Then don't die."
"Not part of the plan." Harwin stepped beside him, arms crossed as he watched the canals below. "Elric's making noise with the street sellers. Seeing who knows what. Tarn's off chasing a courtesan in a scholar's robe. Lyse is—well, she's up before the sun and still refuses to eat from anyone's hand."
"She's right not to trust the bread here."
"And you?" Harwin asked. "Do you trust the woman who gave you it?"
Aeron didn't answer.
Instead, he looked down at the harbor gate, where river barges passed under archways gilded in old Seyuunese silver. "She gave us a warning. That's more than most have done."
"She gave you a target."
Aeron nodded. "She did."
They stood in silence a moment longer before Harwin muttered, "I hope your sword's as sharp as your memory, lad. Because this game you've stepped into—it's not being played in blood. It's played in promises. And those don't break clean."
Aeron turned from the window. "Then we don't play by their rules."
Later – A Courtyard of Lanterns
The courtyard was built in concentric rings, its mosaic tiles cracked but still radiant under flickering lanterns. Here, in the private halls of the House of Tides, Aeron met Mirelle again. This time, she wore court robes dyed in ash and silver, her face painted with ceremonial calm. Two guards flanked the inner doors, but neither looked at her directly.
"You came," she said.
"I had questions."
She gestured toward a stone bench. "Then ask."
He remained standing. "You said your father must die."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because he'll never let you live."
"You said you had no power."
"I don't. But I have access. He trusts me still. He still thinks I'm the girl he sent south with a bowed head and a silenced name."
Aeron studied her carefully. "And what does he gain from all this? The Crown's favor? Or your silence?"
"Both. He's already promised me to the Duke of Serrenhall—some half-lunged widower with seven heirs and a fortress built on salt."
Aeron's mouth tightened. "You never liked salt."
"I like being free less."
She stood then, and walked toward a flowering sycamore in the courtyard's heart. "You asked why I warned you," she said. "The truth is, I don't know. Perhaps I'm foolish. Or desperate. Or simply tired of watching men rule badly."
He joined her there, his voice quieter. "You said you'd give me a name."
"I already did," she said, looking back at him. "But if you mean a starting blow—there's a gathering tomorrow night. Not far. The Hollow Citadel. Noble houses. Merchant lords. Even some foreign envoys. All under the guise of art and wine."
Aeron arched a brow. "A masquerade?"
"A council in all but name," Mirelle replied. "And Lord Caerwyn will be there. With his guards. And his secrets."
Aeron took a breath. "Then so will I."
That Night – The Rooftop Again
The stars were clearer above Whitebridge than they had any right to be. Aeron leaned on the roof's stone lip, watching the moonlight shimmer on the canals below. The city breathed with the rhythm of distant lute strings and occasional shouts—lovers, drunkards, merchants counting wrong.
Lyse appeared beside him without a word, wrapped in her grey shawl, eyes darker than the sky.
"You heard?" he asked.
"Enough," she said. "You're walking into a feast with knives under every plate."
He nodded. "Then I'll bring one of my own."
"You sure about her?" Lyse asked. "This… Lady Mirelle?"
"No."
Lyse's eyes never left the river. "People wear masks for so long, they forget what's underneath."
Aeron didn't reply. Not immediately.
"She was there," he said at last. "When the banners fell. When my father knelt and my name was buried. And she remembered me."
"That's not the same as standing with you."
He looked up at the stars, remembering the weight of the half-coins still hidden in his satchel.
"No," he said quietly. "But it's a start."