The red-roofed cottage stood quietly on the hill, framed by rustling trees and the soft hum of bees drifting lazily through the flowerbeds.
From the open window, the faint whistle of a kettle rose into the breeze, mingling with the scent of steeping herbs and sun-warmed wood.
Lucien climbed the final stretch of the path, boots crunching softly over worn stone. He didn’t hesitate. He rapped his knuckles twice against the wooden door.
A moment passed.
Then it opened.
Elia stood in the threshold, wiping her hands on a linen towel. Her auburn hair was tied back, her sleeves rolled up, a light dusting of flour on her apron.
She blinked in mild surprise, her smile touched with unease. “Lu... Lucien-sama. What brings you here?”
“Mrs. d’Ark,” Lucien said, slightly out of breath. “Is Mira home? I need to speak with her.”
The smile faded from Elia’s face. She stepped aside and gestured him in. “She went to the town. Would you like to come in and wait?”
Lucien nodded, offering a faint smile—but Elia had already caught the tension in his eyes.
She closed the door behind him and led him into the kitchen, where the kettle had just begun to rattle gently on the stove.
The room was warm and inviting, filled with the scent of herbs, fresh bread cooling on the counter, and the subtle spice of dried lavender hanging above the window.
“You look troubled, Lucien-sama,” Elia said, pouring him tea with steady hands. “What’s wrong?”
Lucien accepted the cup, though he didn’t drink. His voice was low and measured.
“There are strangers in town. Four of them. Definitely not from around here.”
Elia’s hand paused mid-reach toward a second cup.
“They were asking questions,” Lucien continued. “At every shop, every inn. Even down at the docks. I saw them myself—and spoke to them.”
He looked up, meeting her eyes.
“They’re looking for Mira.”
The silence that followed felt long and heavy.
Elia set the untouched mug back down. Her voice was calm, but her eyes had sharpened.
“We knew this day would come eventually,” she murmured. “Mira… she’s just too gifted.”
Lucien nodded. “Yes. She is.”
Elia’s tone stayed even. “What did you tell them?”
“What I wanted them to hear,” he said. “Which wasn’t much. But they’re sharp. The kind who smile through half-truths and recognize the rest.”
Elia folded the towel in her hands slowly, carefully, placing it on the counter. Her composure remained, but there was a tension in her posture.
Lucien hesitated, then asked, “Have you ever considered… Mira going to the capital?”
Elia turned to him. “You mean as a guest? Or under protection?”
“Both,” he admitted. “With her power, her talent, she could be granted nobility within weeks. And under the Crown’s aegis, no one would dare approach her. She could study at the Academy. Even train with the greatest talents on the continent.”
Elia gave a short, quiet laugh—but it held no humor.
“You think she’d be safe in the capital?”
Lucien lowered his eyes. “To tell you the truth—no. Not truly. But there are walls. Guards. Resources. Things I can’t offer her here.”
He paused, voice softer now. “Maybe you all should go. You, your husband, Mira. If these people keep sniffing around, Peace won’t last much longer."
Elia turned to the window. The fields beyond swayed gently in the afternoon breeze. A sparrow flitted across the garden. The curtains stirred.
“We’ve thought about it,” she said at last. “We even spoke with Mira several times. But she…”
“She doesn’t want it,” Lucien finished.
Elia nodded. “She wants to live quietly. To help people without expecting anything in return. She believes her gifts were meant for this. For Mermaid's Cove.”
There was a long pause.
Then Elia asked, “Do you think she’d be happy in the capital?”
Lucien was silent for a moment. He took a sip of the tea—it had gone lukewarm.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know I wouldn’t be happy if something happened to her out here.”
Elia studied him, her gaze soft but steady. “You care for her.”
“Yes,” Lucien said without hesitation.
“And if it came to it…” she asked quietly, “would you take her away?”
He met her gaze. “Only if she asked me to.”
Elia nodded once, then walked across the room and finally sat.
The kettle began to whistle in earnest behind them.
Suddenly, a flutter of wings outside. The sound of birds flapping in alarm.
They both turned toward the window.
Just beyond the tree line, a shimmer of movement—a cloak, vanishing behind the bushes.
Elia stood slowly.
Lucien was already at the door.
He stepped out onto the porch, boots thudding softly against the wood. His gaze swept the trees. Nothing.
Then he spotted the axe leaning against the wall. He grabbed it without a word.
“Show yourself,” he called into the wind.
No reply. Just the rustling of branches.
The kettle inside shrieked—high and unbroken.
Behind him, Elia’s voice came, calm but low. “Lucien-sama… you should come back inside.”
Lucien didn’t answer.
His golden eyes stayed fixed on the tree line. Because he had a really bad feeling about this...
Meanwhile—somewhere in the lower quarter of Mermaid’s Cove…
Cassian adjusted the brim of his hood and ducked behind a slanted rain barrel, his breath slow and controlled.
He’d been trailing a group of travelers for fifteen minutes now.
At first glance, they looked ordinary—dust-streaked boots, muted cloaks, nothing flashy.
But they didn’t speak. They didn’t haggle. And they didn’t look at the town like outsiders should.
No curiosity. No awe. No badges. Nothing on the surface to identify them.
But something about these six made the hairs on Cassian's neck stand.
He slid from barrel to stack of crates, keeping his distance.
His fingers brushed the grip of the dagger sheathed at his hip, and his eyes never left the group's trailing figure.
Then it happened.
The last cloaked figure—broad-shouldered, slowest of the six—stopped.
Cassian froze.
A moment passed.
Then, slowly, the figure tilted its head. Not all the way—just enough.
Cassian’s chest tightened. Did he make me? He thought.
The rest of the group continued on down the lane, but this one… stepped into a narrow side street, almost casually.
Cassian hesitated.
Then swore under his breath and followed.
The alley narrowed quickly. A dead end ahead, framed by the crumbling brick of an old fishery wall.
The figure was standing there.
Waiting.
Cassian stepped in, blades drawn.
“You’ve got ten seconds to explain who you’re working for,” he growled, voice low.
The figure didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Cassian took another step forward, daggers gleaming.
“I said—”
The sound behind him was too fast to react.
Boots on stone. A flutter of cloaks.
He spun—
But too late.
A boot struck his shoulder from behind, slamming him into the wall. The wind knocked from his lungs.
Three more cloaked figures emerged from the shadows—surrounding him.
Cassian stumbled back, blades raised, blood roaring in his ears.
“Who are you?” he spat.
The figures didn’t answer.
They didn’t need to.
Because in the dim alley light, one of them reached up—slowly—and pulled back their hood.
Cassian’s eyes widened.
Not at the face—
But at the mark burned across their throat.
Old. Twisting. A brand feared by any kingdom.
“Crimson Crow. You’re assassins,” Cassian's eyes narrowed.
The branded one smiled.
“Yes, we are,” he said. “And you’re about to die.”
Then they moved...
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