The night cracked open beneath hooves and breath.
Butterscotch ran as though the ground itself had insulted her, muscles rolling in powerful waves beneath her coat. Oscar leaned low against her neck, the wind tearing at his hair and burning his eyes, each breath tasting of iron and urgency.
The walls of San Cordellion rose ahead, massive and pale, their lanterns strung like captured stars along stone battlements. For a heartbeat, the city looked calm—beautiful, even—then the check gate rushed toward them, iron and law and consequence.
"Stop—!"
The shout was swallowed by thunder.
Butterscotch surged through the gate's mouth, hooves striking brick with a sound like breaking knuckles. Guards scattered in instinctive terror. One dove sideways, rolling hard; another yanked his companion back just as horse and rider tore past, the wind of their passing snapping cloaks and rattling spears.
Whistles shrieked. Orders fractured the air.
Oscar did not look back.
He knew the statute by heart. Everyone did. Illegal entry without clearance earned thirty days in a cell that smelled of damp stone and old sweat—or a thirty-day ban if the magistrate was feeling charitable. The law existed to teach lessons. To remind people where they stood.
Oscar smiled grimly into the wind.
After tonight, the city could keep its lessons.
Butterscotch's hooves clacked and sparked against brick streets as San Cordellion swallowed them whole. Lanternlight streaked past in gold and white, faces blurring into startled ovals as pedestrians leapt aside. Oscar's heart hammered, not with panic alone but with a fierce, coiled anticipation that made his hands tremble where they twisted into the horse's mane.
Fear lived in his chest, yes—but it shared space with resolve.
Above the rooftops, the palace burned bright, stone and gold stacked in impossible confidence. Towers pierced the sky, daring the stars to blink first. Oscar locked his gaze on it, every beat of his heart ticking closer to the point of no return.
High above the city's pulse, beneath chandeliers heavy with light, Princess Stephanie finished another dance.
She smiled because she had been taught to smile.
Her posture was flawless, every step measured and precise, skirts whispering across polished marble. Years of etiquette guided her body even as her thoughts drifted far from the music, far from the hands that held hers.
Lord Caelum Empyrion spoke as they moved.
He always spoke.
His voice carried the weight of names that had never known refusal. Titles unfolded like banners—ancient houses, sacred bloodlines, influence measured in centuries rather than coin. He spoke of family bonds as if they were contracts, of power as if it were inheritance rather than burden.
Stephanie nodded when expected. Laughed softly at the correct moments. Inside, she counted beats and wondered—again—if Oscar was already caught.
Or worse.
Her fingers tightened imperceptibly in Caelum's grasp. He did not notice continuing speil about entitlement.
After awhile the music slowed. They bowed concluding the dance.
Applause rippled through the hall, polite and reverent, nobles clapping as if they had witnessed something intimate and ordained.
Caelum released her hand and smiled—a small, cold curve sharpened by certainty.
"I will speak with your parents," he said lightly. "Future affairs require my attention."
Of course they did, she thought resisting to urge to roll her eyes. Stephanie inclined her head. "Of course, my lord."
He turned away, his attention already settling on important things elsewhere.
The moment his back was to her, her shoulders loosened a fraction. She drew a careful breath—
—and laughter closed in.
Soft steps. Perfume layered over perfume. Silk brushing silk.
The wives approached like a living constellation, color and presence hemming her in before she could retreat. Each of them was beautiful in a different way, polished by privilege and raised without limits, their confidence worn like jewelry.
Seraphine Arcanveil stepped forward first.
Her hair burned a rich, fiery orange, glossy and perfectly arranged, catching chandelier light like flame. Her eyes were sharp but warm, and her smile carried the easy authority of someone long accustomed to leading others.
"Sister," Seraphine said, taking Stephanie's hands. Her grip was firm, reassuring. "It is so good to finally meet you."
Stephanie blinked, startled. "Sister?"
Elowen laughed softly, stepping closer. Her violet hair was cropped short, blue streaks flashing when she turned her head. There was a modern sharpness to her beauty, a confidence that felt practiced rather than inherited.
"Yes," Elowen said. "We are all Lord Caelum's wives. Soon, you will be as well. That makes us sisters."
The word settled heavily in Stephanie's chest.
Nyssara all but bounced into view, green hair threaded with lighter streaks that shimmered as she moved. Her eyes sparkled with unrestrained excitement as she seized Stephanie's hands, fingers warm and eager.
"I'm so excited for the wedding," Nyssara said in a rush. "The venues, the vows, the romance—you have to let me help design it.
I have ideas. So many ideas."
"Nyssara," Calienne cut in gently.
She stood just behind them, pitch-black hair falling like a curtain around a calm, unreadable face. Her gaze was steady, measuring, the sort that missed nothing.
"Remember what you did at my wedding."
Nyssara waved her off with a grin. "Hey—no one died. That's a win in my book ,okay."
For the briefest moment, Calienne thought she heard distant screams echo in the back of her mind from that day.
Virelle and Isolde stepped forward together, voices chiming in perfect harmony. One wore hair the color of embers, the other a cool cascade of blue. Their expressions were serene, hands resting lightly over their stomachs.
"We can't wait for the day Lord Caelum to come of age," they said. "So we may bear his children."
"Honestly I'm more excited for the procress." Virelle added with a giggle.
Stephanie's smile did not falter.
Something inside her twisted painfully, like a ribbon pulled too tight.
Maerwyn, with soft pink hair, and Lysa, silver-haired and radiant, offered compliments on her gown, her composure, the elegance with which she had endured the evening.
Mirren lingered at the edge of the circle, white hair framing a shy, gentle face. When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper.
"You look very beautiful tonight," Mirren said, sincerity softening her eyes.
"Thank you," Stephanie replied, sincerely.
They talked as the night wore on. The women asked questions—about her favorite gardens, her hobbies, her tastes. Stephanie answered carefully, choosing words like stepping stones across a river. Laughter rose and fell around them. Nobles danced. Music flowed.
Across the hall, the king leaned toward advisors, his eyes glinting as numbers and futures were murmured into being. Greed slid easily into his expression, woven into every promise he made.
The queen watched in silence, hands folded, her gaze lingering on her daughter just a moment too long.
Downtown, in the market district of ,San Cordellion breathed differently.
Oscar stepped out of the walking out of the door a small bell chime overhead. General Advance store, meanly get its business by selling basic items adventurers travelers alike.
The clerk wished him a good night without looking twice, unaware of the tension threading the streets. Oscar carried two plastic bags, their contents clinking softly—supplies meant for travelers and adventurers, for people who expected trouble and prepared accordingly.
He paused under a lantern, chest rising and falling, and looked toward the palace.
It shone like a beacon.
A soft neigh sounded beside him.
Oscar turned.
Butterscotch stood there, calm and patient, lanternlight gilding her coat. She flicked an ear, watching him with steady, unjudging eyes, as if she understood the weight pressing on his shoulders.
He smiled, something tight and grateful pulling at his mouth.
"Thanks for the ride," he murmured, patting her neck. He pressed his forehead briefly to hers, grounding himself in her warmth and steadiness.
Then he stepped back.
The city seemed to hold its breath.
"It's now or never," Oscar said quietly.
Above them, the palace lights burned on—unaware, unyielding—while beneath its gardens, stone waited, remembering secrets older than crowns.