The sun had barely risen over the white plains when Ryn decided to become someone else.
Gone was the wandering thief with frost at his fingertips and trouble in his wake. What stood in his place — or what he was trying to create — was something far more dangerous: a gentleman.
He stood behind the carriage, adjusting his cuffs with an expression of grim determination. His usual travel clothes lay folded in a heap beside him, replaced by a regal set of attire far too fine for the road — silver and midnight-blue layers embroidered with threads that shimmered like frost.
Lysandra crossed her arms and tilted her head. "You look… like someone pretending to be royalty."
He turned, the cloak swishing dramatically. "That's the idea. What do you think?"
"Like a peacock who lost a bet with a snowstorm."
He sighed. "I'll take it."
The fabric glimmered faintly in the light — enchanted silk that caught every breeze. He didn't tell her where he got it, but the grin behind his mask gave him away.
"Don't tell me…" Lysandra began.
He raised a finger. "Before you accuse me — yes, I stole it. But in my defense, it was already mine."
Lysandra blinked. "What?"
He smirked. "Remember the palace in Eldara? Ilyndra had this made for me. Said it was a gift for her future 'consort.'"
Her eyes widened. "You stole your own engagement outfit?"
"I prefer to call it reclaiming property," he said with a shrug.
Lysandra shook her head, laughing under her breath. "You're unbelievable."
"I know. It's exhausting."
He fastened the last clasp, adjusted his mask, and looked into the small mirror mounted inside the carriage door. The reflection staring back at him looked nothing like a thief. The mask was simpler now — white and silver, carved with faint filigree lines. He looked… almost royal.
Almost.
The little elf peeked out from behind the seat, eyes wide. "Father looks pretty."
Ryn froze. "I— what? No, no, not pretty, maybe… imposing. Handsome. Mysterious."
"Pretty," she insisted, nodding seriously.
Lysandra snorted. "You're not winning this one."
He sighed in defeat. "Fine. Pretty it is."
Before they left, Ryn knelt beside the Hawk, who was sharpening her blades with precise, emotionless focus. "You'll stay here," he said. "Keep the kid safe until I get back."
The Hawk didn't look up. "You really think the palace will let you waltz in?"
"I won't waltz," he said. "I'll stroll. Casually."
"Same difference."
He chuckled. "Relax, featherhead. I know what I'm doing."
Her gold eyes flicked up at him, unamused. "That's what every dead man says."
Ryn smirked beneath the mask. "Good thing I'm not most men."
He turned back to the carriage. Lysandra had already taken the reins, the little elf seated beside her, wrapped in a small fur cloak. The road ahead shimmered like a river of snow, winding through the highlands of Lumeria.
The journey was long — two days across frozen hills and silver forests where the wind whispered through branches like old songs. The air grew colder as they neared the capital, the horizon filling with white spires that reached toward the sky like blades of light.
Snowmuncher trudged through the final slope, snorting clouds of mist. The sun caught the city's towers — crystalline, radiant, and coldly beautiful.
Lysandra leaned forward, eyes softening. "Home," she whispered.
Ryn followed her gaze. The Palace of Lumeria sat at the heart of the city — a fortress of glass and marble, ringed with frozen gardens that glittered like jewels. Its gates were tall and silver, carved with the sigil of the moon and flame.
As they approached, the guards at the outer road stiffened, spears crossing. The princess' return was supposed to be impossible — a fairy tale turned scandal. And yet here she was, alive, sitting beside a masked man dressed like a prince from the frostlands.
Ryn exhaled slowly, letting the cold air fill his lungs. "All right," he murmured. "Let's make a good first impression. No jokes. No sarcasm. Just pure, refined grace."
Lysandra looked at him sideways. "You lasted three sentences before making a joke about not joking."
He smiled beneath the mask. "Progress."
The carriage slowed before the gates. The guards shouted, recognizing the royal crest on Lysandra's pendant.
Trumpets sounded from within the walls. The gates began to open, groaning with age and ceremony.
Ryn stood straight, cloak sweeping behind him, every inch the noble consort he pretended to be.
And as the city of Lumeria opened its arms to receive its lost princess — and her very peculiar companion — a cold wind whispered through the frost-covered banners.
Somewhere far behind them, the Hawk looked toward the distant palace walls, her eyes sharp as the wind she once belonged to.
The game was changing.