The city of Kaerhold stirs beneath a smoky morning sky, the spires of the capital silhouetted against the rising sun like broken teeth. It rained the night before-lightly, but long enough to muddy the streets and send the stench of sewage crawling up from the gutters. Bells toll somewhere in the distance: the low, mournful tone of the public chapel, signaling the dawn hour. It is a holy day. Not that it matters to most.

Bellona Rafferty stands at attention beside the merchant gate, her blue-tinged armor dull with road dust and dew. She hasn’t slept well. The straw mattress in the barracks was damp, and the knight in the cot beside her snored like a dying ox. Still, she showed up at the watch post before her assigned time, as she always does, clean-faced and sharp-eyed. She won't be found lacking. Not today, not ever.

Her shield rests strapped to her back; her longsword hangs steady at her side. She wears her training like a second skin, her shoulders squared, chin lifted, the faint lines of exertion still visible along her neck. Her hair, short as it is, sticks up in damp golden tufts where she tried to flatten it earlier with river water and her palm. It didn’t work. A few cityfolk pass by and stare, though whether at the armor or the strange way she looks like a boy and a girl all at once, she can’t tell. Bellona pretends not to notice.

Behind her, the guards in green livery lean against the stone wall, laughing too loud, chewing on pickled eggs, and trading gossip about the northern front. Bellona doesn’t join in. They haven’t invited her, and she doesn’t want to appear overeager. That’s been her mistake in the past, trying too hard to prove herself. She’s learned to keep her head down and her blade sharp.

Her stomach growls. She ignores it. There wasn’t time for breakfast, she spent too long polishing her breastplate and making sure every strap was properly secured. Routine helps. It makes her feel like things are under control.

A runner had arrived just before sunrise with a sealed message for the captain of the watch, and the older knight-a grizzled, chainmail-wrapped veteran Bellona both respects and fears-had muttered something about needing “outside eyes” before storming off into the fortress. That had been half an hour ago. Now the gate stands open, the cobbled road leading out toward the low hills of the southern frontier, slick with mist.

Bellona watches a cart trundle through the gate: two women wrapped in gray cloaks, hauling baskets of dyed wool. A moment later, a boy no older than twelve darts across the threshold on bare feet, chasing a barking mutt. Bellona flinches at the sudden noise, hand twitching toward her sword hilt.

Too jumpy. The fear has crept in again, like it always does when she’s standing too still. A cold knot curls in her stomach, and her thoughts drift toward the word sorcery. She’s heard whispers that mages have been seen in Barastir again. Unlicensed, unbound. It’s not supposed to happen here. Not in the Republic. Not where good people live.

Bellona shifts her weight, grounding herself in the weight of her armor and the reality of her duty. She reminds herself what she’s fought for, what she sacrificed her youth for: not just a title, but a purpose. Honor. Stability. Safety. If there are mages slinking in through the cracks of civilization, she will not flinch. She will not fail.

She exhales and forces herself to look out past the gate again.

A figure is approaching. She squints through the haze, uncertain whether it's friend or stranger, soldier or citizen, or something else entirely. Their silhouette is cloaked, their gait unfamiliar. Bellona’s grip shifts subtly on the leather-wrapped hilt at her side.

“Stop right there!” she calls out, stepping forward onto the stones. Her voice cracks slightly, too sharp with nerves. She clears her throat and tries again, firmer this time. “State your name and business. This gate is under guard by order of the Council of Kaerhold.”

The light is fading fast in the valley.

What's left of the sun bleeds through the broken ribs of the old towers, gilding the cracked spires and ivy-choked stones in pale gold. Wind whispers through the bones of the ruined city, carrying the scent of moss, cold water, and distant smoke. In the shadow of a collapsed hall, where vines cling to once-marble pillars, a lone figure moves with quiet precision.

Kieran’s breathing is steady. Controlled. He moves through the motions again: crouch, pivot, draw, throw.

The dagger bites into the old wooden post with a dull thock. Too shallow. His grip was wrong. He pulls it free with a quiet curse and resets his stance. The courtyard around him is overgrown and half-swallowed by time, an old training ring once used by mages and guards alike. Now, it's just stone and weeds and silence. The statues that watch from the edge are broken at the face or neck, worn down by wind and years.

He tries again.

This time the blade lands deep, right where he meant it to. He doesn't allow himself a smile. There’s no pride in doing what’s expected of him. Not anymore.

Kieran wipes his hand on his breeches. The scars across his knuckles sting faintly from a misstep earlier that morning-too eager with the bowstring, too cold in his fingers. Sagran hadn’t been kind about it. Precision over pride, the old man had barked. You won’t get a second chance in the field. No one cares what you meant to do.

He breathes out, sharp and slow.

Training’s done for the day. The others have already filtered off-some to the caves beneath the ridge, some to their makeshift homes scattered between the ancient streets. The younger ones laugh. The older ones sit in watchful silence. Kieran does neither.

He doesn’t know how to be still.

Instead, he climbs. Bare hands against damp stone, slipping between crumbled walls and up a collapsed staircase until he reaches the outer ledge of the high temple ruins. From here, he can see nearly everything: the overgrown courtyards, the ghost of the central plaza, the bent spine of a bridge that leads nowhere. Once, this place had been a jewel. A sanctuary of magic and beauty. Now, the ruins look like a corpse.

But they’re still his.

He pulls the cloak tighter around his shoulders and sits, resting his arms on his knees. Cold air wraps around him like a second skin, but he doesn’t mind it. He was born in this cold. Molded by it.

Kieran watches the sky change color as the clouds thicken and deepen. Dusk settles. Lights begin to appear in the valley below-small fires in hidden places, sparks of life where the world has tried so hard to stamp it out.

It makes something twist in his chest.

They’re still here.

He draws one of his arrows and runs his fingers over the fletching. He made it himself. Just like he makes his knives. Just like he’s crafted the version of himself that survives: cold-eyed, sharp, fast. Not as strong as some. But smarter. Quieter. And willing to do what others won't.

A breeze picks up, brushing his short hair back from his face. He closes his eyes for just a moment.

He doesn’t expect to hear footsteps.

They’re light. Careful. Measured. Someone else trained to move in silence-but not well enough to escape his notice.

Kieran doesn't reach for his weapon. Not yet. There’s only one person who ever climbs this high when they don’t have to. Only one set of footsteps he lets get that close without drawing steel.

He doesn't look back yet.

He just says, voice low, even: “You always walk this loud, or did you want me to hear you coming?”