The stables smelled of hay and iron, but tonight they reeked of blood. Darian's hands shook as he clutched the sealed letter, its wax crest catching the torchlight. Sir Rowan's body lay still at his feet, eyes already clouding with the emptiness of death.
"You can't be serious…" Darian whispered, as if the knight could answer. "I'm no courier. I'm nothing."
The horses stirred restlessly, sensing the unease. Beyond the stable walls, voices echoed in the night—harsh, clipped orders carried on the wind. Darian's stomach knotted. Someone was searching.
He crouched, half-hidden in the shadows, and for the first time dared to trace the seal on the letter. The wax bore the sigil of a rising sun—an emblem forbidden outside the old Emberborn banners. His breath caught. Why would a knight carry such a mark? Why give it to him?
Boots crunched on gravel. Torches flared just beyond the stable doors.
"Search everywhere!" barked a man's voice. "The traitor knight couldn't have gone far."
Panic flooded him. He glanced at Sir Rowan's body, then at the letter, and his choices closed in like the stable walls themselves. Stay, and be caught with a dead knight. Run, and carry a burden he didn't understand.
The torches grew brighter. A shadow slipped beneath the doorframe. Darian's pulse thundered in his ears.
He tightened his grip on the letter, shoved it beneath his tunic, and whispered to the horses, "Forgive me." Then he slipped out the back into the night, the smell of smoke on the wind.
---
Valebright after sundown was no place for an errand boy, much less one hunted. The moonlight spilled weakly across crooked rooftops and broken gutters, turning the alleys into jagged mouths waiting to swallow him whole. Darian darted from shadow to shadow, his breath ragged, his mind screaming at him to throw the letter away and disappear.
But his fingers wouldn't let go. The knight's blood still stained them, hot in his memory. That dying grip, that desperate command—it bound him tighter than any chain.
A dog barked somewhere to his left. Doors slammed as soldiers shouted for the people to stay inside. The city wasn't merely restless; it was locked in fear.
Darian ducked into a narrow lane, pressed himself against the damp stone, and tried to slow his breathing. He thought of his small cot in the hayloft, the simple safety of sweeping stables and feeding horses. He longed for it now. But there was no going back.
He forced himself forward—only to stumble headlong into another figure.
"Watch yourself," the stranger hissed, clutching a wicker basket close to her chest. The hood slipped just enough for him to see a flash of eyes—bright, sharp, commanding.
"I—sorry," Darian stammered, moving to push past.
But the stranger caught his arm. Her grip was firm, surprising for someone so slight. "You're running from someone."
The words weren't a question. Her gaze flicked to the bulge beneath his tunic where the letter lay hidden. Darian's blood turned cold.
"I don't know what you're—"
"Hush." She tugged him deeper into the alley just as a squad of soldiers marched past the street's mouth. Torches flared, their light licking across the walls, painting them in fire. Darian held his breath. The stranger didn't so much as blink until the boots and shouts faded into the distance.
Only then did she turn back to him, her face partially illuminated. Pale skin, a noble's bearing hidden beneath the common cloak. "If you want to live, you'll follow me."
Darian stared at her. Every instinct screamed run the other way. But she clearly knew more than he wanted anyone to know. "Who are you?" he whispered.
The hood fell back slightly, enough for the torchlight to reveal her features—young, regal, with a fierceness in her gaze that could burn through stone. He recognized her from murals in the castle's great hall. His throat went dry.
"Serenya," she said, and the name landed heavy in the air. "But for tonight, call me no one." Her voice lowered, urgent. "And pray those men never find what you're carrying."
Darian stepped back, clutching the letter through his tunic. "You—you shouldn't even know about this."
Her eyes hardened. "I know more than you think. Rowan was supposed to reach me. Instead, you stand in his place. That makes you part of this now, whether you like it or not."
The words struck him like a blow. Rowan had been seeking her? This stranger—no, this princess—was entwined in the same shadow that had dragged him out of his quiet stable life.
"I don't—" His voice cracked. "I'm not meant for this. I fix saddles. I feed horses. I—"
"Quiet," she snapped, though not unkindly. "Doubt won't keep you alive. Decisions will."
Footsteps echoed again, closer this time. Darian's heart seized. Serenya drew her hood tight and moved swiftly, tugging him by the sleeve.
"Come," she whispered. "Stay, and you'll die with that letter still in your hands."
Darian hesitated one last time, torn between the comfort of cowardice and the terror of the unknown. But when the soldiers' torches flared against the corner, he chose.
He followed her into the twisting dark.