Zorandor plucked a sheet of silk from the table, its sheen catching the torchlight as he rubbed it between thumb and finger.

  "This’ll do," he said, voice low, edged with a prince’s indifference. Three merchants stood before him, their wares spread across the hall like tribute. Mavron, Master of Coin, had handpicked them, yet he hovered at the side, his gaunt face twisting as he sneered at a bolt of linen.

  "Only fit for a king," he’d boasted earlier, though now his tongue lashed each thread as if it insulted him."A fine eye, my prince," Mavron said, snatching the silk and thrusting it at the merchant—a sweating, round-bellied man who flinched under the glare. "Twenty rolls. Quick now." Zorandor drifted to the next table, grey eyes scanning velvets and wools. A week past, he’d have scorned this chore—better to swing Reaper than haggle over cloth. But since the Throne Room, since the court’s gasps and the sword’s heft in his hand, every gaze weighed heavier. Not the idle stares of a prince’s birthright, but the kind that crowned a man without asking.He’d never be king, nor did he crave it. Power didn’t need a throne’s cold seat. His sister, though—she was a queen of rare make. He’d seen it when that southern wretch, all bones and desperation, begged aid for his blighted lands.

  She’d pressed gold into his trembling hands, her voice soft but iron: "Tell no one where it came from."

  The man had wept, kissing her feet until the guards dragged him off, his cries—"Gods, they don’t forge your like, my Grace!"—echoing down the stone.

  "Prince Zorandor, do they not please you?" Mavron’s sharp tone cut in. Zorandor glanced down—his finger had torn through a cloth, a ragged gash staring back. The merchant, a thin man with darting eyes, paled. Zorandor gave him a quick, crooked nod.

  "They’re fine. Testing the weave, is all. Take them—every one, torn or not." He flicked a glance at the third merchant, a bearded lump of a man, and snorted. "All of it, in fact."Mavron’s brows shot up, skepticism etched in his pinched face. Zorandor raised his voice, letting it ring. "My sister and I’ll pick what we want. The rest goes to those who need it." Cheers burst forth—servants clapped, knights thumped their chests. Mavron dipped his head, a tight gesture, his lips pressed thin. Zorandor stood still, letting the noise wash over him, a crown he’d never wear taking shape in their shouts.

  "All is well if you order it so, my prince," Mavron said, his voice a thin thread of deference laced with grit, "though I’ll need to pry more coin from the treasury’s grasp." Zorandor gave a curt nod, his thoughts already drifting as he turned on his heel. His boots struck the stone with purpose, knights trailing in lockstep behind him, their armor clinking like a dull hymn. Three servants shadowed them, silent as wraiths, ready to leap at his merest whim.

  "Selina," he called, beckoning the slight girl forward with a flick of his hand. She hastened to his side, her steps quick yet measured, a servant’s grace clinging to her like damp cloth. "What else demands me today?"She let out a small, nervous laugh, her dark eyes darting to his face and away.

  "Well, my prince, it seems you’ve tamed all your duties already."Zorandor halted, boots scuffing the floor. Confusion creased his brow. The sun still blazed through the high windows, painting the hall in gold.

  "Run me through it," he commanded, voice flat but firm.Selina dipped her head, eager to obey.

  "At dawn, you sat with the council till the noon bell. Then you sliced the ribbon for that new school in Aerakos’s Haven. After, we came here, my prince. The queen—she lingers over cloth and thread, picks at it like a raven at a corpse. You’re swifter, is all." He nodded slow, chewing her words.

  "I see," he murmured, then pressed on, strides long and sure. A prince idling was a sorry sight—surely there was some task to fill the void. Once, his days brimmed with lessons: the clash of steel with Ser Finik, the dry drone of history, the scratch of quill over sums. Now those hours gaped empty, and he felt adrift, a blade without a foe.

  "Thank you, Selina," he said, glancing back. She bobbed her head and melted into the line. "Ser Finik," he barked, summoning the knight with a sharp gesture.The old warrior stepped up, his grizzled face set in a patient mask as Zorandor led them through an archway into the central garden. Green unfurled around them, a quiet sea of leaves and blooms, the air thick with serenity no castle hall could match.

  "Yes, my prince?" Ser Finik asked, his voice rough as weathered stone.

  "You served my father, my kin before me," Zorandor said, slowing to match the garden’s calm. "Tell me—what did they do, my cousins, my uncles, when the day yawned empty? How did they spend themselves?" Ser Finik scratched at his beard, considering.

  "Well, my prince, they had their tastes, varied as the winds. Some took to books, though rare enough. Others holed up in the barracks, drinking with the men till they slumped under the table—pardon my tongue."

  "Excused," Zorandor said, flicking a finger. "Go on." The knight drew a breath, steadying himself.

  "Some—forgive me again—fancied the brothels. Lingered there, days sometimes, drowning in wine and women." Zorandor’s brow arched, a frown tugging his mouth.

  "You’re saying the Cragorian blood sought whores and debauchery?" The words tasted sour—he’d pictured his line as sterner stock, carved from duty, not sprawled in vice. Ser Finik wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, the heat pressing down like a smith’s hammer.

  "Aye, my prince, if memory holds true," he said, gruff but certain.Zorandor stopped in a clearing, his gaze snagging on a flower—petals pale and fierce, a lone relic of Cragorian lore. Aerakos the Forlorn had planted it, so the tales swore, millennia past, and it thrived still, unmatched in all the world. Around its roots, he’d bid the Garden of Eryndor rise, a living crown for that single bloom. Zorandor stared, its quiet strength mocking the drift of his own day.

  Zorandor had little taste for the dry rustle of books, their words too still against the pulse of life that quickened his blood. The training yard, though, had lost its lure since Ser Heur’s blade had kissed his flesh, leaving a dull ache and a mottled bruise to mark the lesson. Drink held even less appeal—he’d choked down a cup once, and it had turned his world to a staggering haze, his tongue a traitor, his deeds a blur. It was sickness and dreaming tangled as one, and the morning after had clawed at him, head pounding, gut sour. No, that was not for him. But the third path Ser Finik had spoken of—that sparked a ember, faint but insistent, in the shadowed corners of his mind.

  Intimacy had always lingered at the fringes of his thoughts, a specter he’d rather not face. In the long hours of study, it crept in—names of queens and concubines scratched into memory, a litany of past kings’ lusts. It had churned his stomach, set his jaw tight. To dwell on it, especially with his sister so near in his heart, felt like a betrayal. The notion of her—a queen of steel and mercy—pinned beneath some grasping fool, some lowborn cur unworthy of her shadow, made his lip curl and his spine stiffen. He’d see her reign alone, a solitary flame, before letting any man claim her. Heirs could spring from his own loins; she need never bend to such a fate.For himself, the act had never called loud. The thought of kin wallowing in brothels, their honor traded for cheap flesh, stirred no hunger—only a faint scorn. Yet since the Throne Room, since Reaper’s weight had settled in his grip and the court’s silence had crowned him anew, he felt a shift. Taller, harder, a man grown into his bones. The greatsword’s echo lingered, a whisper of power yet untapped.

  "I understand," he said, wrenching his eyes from the flower’s pale defiance. "I’ll to my quarters. You’re all free to go." The words fell sharp, and his retinue answered with murmured courtesies—Ser Finik’s gravelly

  "My prince," Selina’s soft "As you will"—before they peeled away. Zorandor turned, robes sweeping the stone like a dark tide, and climbed the castle’s steps. Guards snapped to attention as he passed, their salutes crisp, their greetings a low hum. He wouldn’t sully the Cragorian name in some stinking whorehouse, but another path might open—one cleaner, sharper.At the top, the corridor stretched silent, a realm for him and his sister alone. Her door stood to the right, his to the left—a choice she’d made years ago, when he’d bristled at too much distance between them. Tradition would’ve given her the king’s chamber, him the Hand’s, but she’d brushed it aside with a quiet word. Guards flanked the stairwell, visors glinting, while within, servants would be at their tasks, scrubbing and straightening. He pushed his door open, unannounced, and found them there—ten figures frozen mid-motion, brooms and rags stilled as they sank into deep bows.Zorandor stepped forward, heart thudding beneath his ribs, and stopped before a girl with copper hair and a nervous flush.

  "State your name and house," he said, voice low, testing.

  "My nam—name is Enya, my prince," she whispered, eyes darting like a hare’s. "I belong to no house. An orphan." He nodded, a flicker of dismissal in his gaze. Fair enough, with a soft curve to her cheek, but orphan blood was dust to him. He moved on, tilting his head at the next—a girl with dark hair pulled tight, her hands steady on a cloth.

  "My name is Briar, my prince," she said, voice even. "I belong to House Windmont." Zorandor’s eyes narrowed slightly. Windmont—a solid name, loyal, their banners snapping in Cragoria’s winds for generations. Respectable, if not grand. His gaze slid past her, snagging on the girl at the room’s far end. She stood apart, head bowed, refusing to meet his stare. He crossed to her, boots silent on the rug, and lifted her chin with a finger. Her face tilted up—blue eyes bright as glacier ice, hair a cascade of gold that gleamed like a coin fresh-minted. A breath caught in his throat.

  "And you? Your name?" he asked, holding her gaze.

  "My name is Juni, my prince," she said, her voice soft but clear, a thread of steel beneath it. "I belong to House Yalaen."His brow arched, surprise flickering across his face. Yalaen—wealth and power woven into Cragoria’s marrow, their seat promised eons ago. Practically rising with the Cragorians. Ser Braelon, their lord, sat high in court, though word had come he’d traveled to Turukhan days past, summoned by the Altans’ urgent call. Zorandor hadn’t known a daughter of that house scrubbed his floors. Juni’s eyes held his, unyielding now, a faint challenge in their depths. Her lips parted slightly, then pressed shut, as if guarding some unspoken thought.He released her chin, stepping back.

  "Yalaen," he murmured, tasting the name. The others watched, breath held, but he waved a hand. "Out. All of you." Zorandor grabbed Yalaen by the shoulder stopping her. “I want you to stay.” The rest filed away, a rustle of skirts and muted steps, leaving him alone with the echo of her voice. Juni of Yalaen. Not some alley wench, but a prize of lineage, a thread to tie power to power. Reaper’s shadow loomed in his mind, and he wondered if this, too, was a blade he might wield.

  “I… uh—” His voice cracked, and he cursed inwardly, straightening as if posture could salvage his dignity.

  “There’s something I’d ask of you.” He hesitated, eyes darting to the door, then back to her. “Something… private.” Juni crossed her arms tightly her eyes flickering towards him and then down, her cheeks red. He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a rough whisper, as if the walls might betray him. “I’ve not— That is, I’ve never…” He swallowed hard, the words tangling in his throat. “I’d have you… lie with me. Tonight. If you’d be willing.” His gaze flicked to hers, searching for refusal, then dropped to the floor. “No one can know. Not a soul. I’d—I’d see you cared for, after. Coin, or… whatever you need.”He shifted, awkward and tense, a flush creeping up his neck. “If it’s no trouble,” he added, almost an afterthought, as if he could soften the weight of his request. Then he waited, breath held, the silence stretching taut between them.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Juni’s cheeks flared crimson, a silent nod trembling from her lips. Relief crashed through Zorandor, her consent a key turning in a rusted lock. He seized her hands, tugging her close, but when he leaned to kiss her, their mouths missed—a clumsy clash of teeth and breath. He felt a fool, heat prickling his neck, and thought he might wither on the spot. Undeterred, he fumbled at her dress, fingers snagging the ties at her back until the fabric slid free. A splash of yellow caught his eye—a tattoo on her thigh, vivid as a flame, unlike any mark he’d seen. He blinked, curiosity tugging, but the awkwardness choked his voice.

  “It’s a birthmark,” Juni murmured, arms crossing to shield herself. Her shyness stoked something in him, a flicker of want he hadn’t expected. He brushed her hand aside, baring her fully, and guided her to the bed. She sank down without a word, pliant as a reed, her silence louder than any protest. Zorandor shed his robes, the air cool against his skin as they pooled at his feet. Juni flung an arm over her eyes, abandoning modesty below. He knew the mechanics—lessons and crude barracks talk had seen to that—but theory faltered in the flesh. He gripped himself, aimed, and missed, sliding uselessly against her. A second try yielded the same, and frustration gnawed at him. Her breath quickened, sweat beading on her brow, and with a grunt of resolve, he pressed harder.

  This time it took—slipping in, tight and slick, a jolt that stole his air.They gasped as one, his hand clamping her arm, fingers digging into soft flesh. She was a vise around him, warm and yielding, pleasure rippling from his core in shuddering waves. He groaned, low and raw, as she cried out beneath him, her voice a sharp echo. Blood streaked her thighs—her maidenhead, he realized, and tears glistened in her eyes. It didn’t stop him. He cupped her face, pressing his mouth to hers, then shoved her down, pace quickening until his rhythm broke. A blinding rush seized him, pulsing through, and he collapsed atop her, spilling with a ragged moan.

  “Ahh,” she breathed, a sigh of release as their heaving slowed. He pulled free, spent and shrinking, and watched his seed leak from her, a pale thread against her skin. Juni’s hand drifted low, pressing it back inside with a soft moan, lost in some reverie. Clarity struck Zorandor like a blade—disgust coiled in his gut, sour and heavy. He stumbled back, hitting the floor, as she rose, fingers still buried, that yellow mark seeming to flare brighter. A trick of the light, perhaps.

  “Thank you, my prince,” she said, stepping close to perch on his lap. “You’ve hastened my task.” A flash of searing light swallowed her, and she was gone—vanished, leaving him sprawled and gaping. A witch? The thought curdled his blood. Shaking, he lurched to his feet, bile rising. He needed water, soap, anything to scour this from his soul. Visions clawed at him—his sister, locked with some faceless man, her face Juni’s, twisted in bliss and agony as he stood powerless. No. Never again.“I swear it,” he rasped, voice trembling.

  “No wife, no bed, not for all my days.” A reckless vow, but it burned true. A sharp rap at the door jolted him, and he scrambled to cover himself, panic clawing his chest.

  “Who’s there?” Zorandor’s voice cracked, sharp with alarm.

  “Ser Keryl, my prince,” came the reply, steady through the oak. “The queen calls you to council. Urgent, she says. Lord Braelon’s returned.”A stone sank in Zorandor’s gut, heavy and cold. Braelon—back so soon after what he’d done with Juni. Shame gnawed at him, a sick twist in his belly, but he had no time to wallow.

  “I’ll come,” he called, forcing calm into the words. “Give me a moment to dress.” The knight’s boots retreated, and Zorandor staggered to the washroom. He scrubbed himself raw, water splashing over the basin, then yanked fresh robes from the wardrobe—black trimmed with silver, fit for a prince. He stepped into the hall, eyes darting. No guards. Good. His mind still reeled—Juni vanishing in a flash, a witch or worse. Tales of shape-shifters and reality-benders flickered in his memory, but none matched this. No one would believe him, not even with their own eyes.He took the stairs two at a time, breath short, and strode past the throne room to the council chamber. A nod to the queen’s guards, a rap on the door, and he entered. The room stirred—chairs scraped, figures rose—but his gaze fixed on Ser Braelon, broad and stern, standing opposite his seat. The man stood tallest among them, offering a hand. Zorandor froze, dread locking his limbs, until sense jolted him forward. He thrust out his own hand, and Braelon kissed it, a courtly brush of lips. The council followed suit, save his sister, Zorvaia, who gave a warm smile, and Lord Gaelan, who dipped his grizzled head.Zorandor sank into his chair at Zorvaia’s right, her presence a steady anchor.

  “We meet to hear Ser Braelon’s tidings from Altun,” she said, voice clear as a bell, cutting through the room’s hum. She inclined her head to Braelon. “Speak as you spoke to me.” Braelon drew a breath, his weathered face hardening. To Zorandor, he seemed ignorant of Juni—of what had passed in that cursed room. A small mercy, if true.

  “You all know the Altans summoned delegates from the great houses,” Braelon began, his tone measured. “I went, with others, in Lord Zilron’s stead.” He nodded to the thin man across the table, whose lips curved in a practiced smile.

  “No slight taken,” Zilron said, waving a bony hand. “The realm’s needs outweigh my pride.”

  Braelon pressed on. “I rode with men from Zoros and Fjord. At the Altan council, their bannermen stood arrayed—all but the Taygas, though I didn’t pry why. King Hajr spoke of a ship, sighted two weeks past, slipping by the Every-Eye Islands under Lord Akhan’s watch.” He scratched his jaw, eyes narrowing as if sifting memory.

  “Pirates?” Juramor leaned forward, his sharp nose twitching. “They’ve plagued us enough.”

  Mavron snorted, fingers drumming the table. “One pirate’s a myth. Where there’s one, a swarm follows.”

  “Aye,” Braelon said, “but this was no pirate. From a tower’s scope on the islands, they saw it clear. Not men as we know them—nor women, my queen,” he added with a deferential nod to Zorvaia. “Grey-skinned, larger than most. One bore red hair like fire, the rest blonde or dark.”Zorandor’s thoughts snagged—not on the ship, but on Juni’s vanishing, her glowing mark. Grey-skinned strangers felt less mad than that. He kept his face still, though his pulse hammered.

  Queen Zorvaia broke the stillness, her brow creased. “So they dragged you across the sea for whispers of… what, invaders from the stars?” Her tone dripped with disbelief. “I’d not thought the Altans so desperate to clutch at shadows.” A ripple of laughter passed around the table, dry and fleeting, but Ser Braelon’s face remained stone, unyielding.

  “Not so, Your Grace,” he said, voice low. “After the ship came something else—a host that darkened the sky.” He drew a sharp breath, eyes narrowing. “Dragons. Hundreds, by their reckoning.” The mirth died, replaced by tight jaws and wide stares, a thread of dread snaking through the room.

  “Dragons…” Zilron’s voice faded, thin as a wisp. “Tales for children, I’d thought. Old legends.”

  Braelon shook his head, slow and sure. “If the Altans speak true, they were no tales. But hear this—the Akhans sent men to track them to the Abandoned Isle. Along the way, the dragons melted into nothing. The team shadowed these strangers for days, deeming them no threat. They speak our tongue, rough as it is, and they’re not men as we know them.” He reached into his cloak, producing a scroll. With a flick, it unrolled—a sketch of a tall figure, broad-shouldered, hair long and dark, skin like ash, eyes black as pitch.Zorvaia lifted it, her fingers tense.

  “What are these?” Her voice sharpened, unease plain. “No man, no beast—something other.”

  Braelon gave a grim nod. “Aye, Your Grace.”

  Juramor leaned in, skepticism etched in his frown. “So the dragons were a trick? Some sorcery?”

  “Or they cloaked themselves,” Zilron countered, voice steady. “Hiding, waiting to strike.”

  “Enough guesses,” Lord Gaelan cut in, his gravelly tone breaking the chatter. He’d been silent till now, grey eyes hard. “What else did the Altans say?” Braelon cleared his throat.

  “They call all royal houses and their banners to Turukhan—a council to decide our course. The Akhan men report these grey ones peaceful enough, claiming they’ve returned to some ancient home.” Glances darted across the table, settling on Zorvaia. She sat still, lost in the maze of her thoughts.

  “The Fjords—will they come?” she asked, her words edged.

  Braelon hesitated. “Their envoy scoffed at it all. I’d wager they’ll not stir.”She nodded, slow, piecing it together.

  “And Lord Kadir?” Gaelan pressed, his face taut.

  “Same as ever,” Braelon said, a faint smirk tugging his lip. “Parroting King Hajr.” A chuckle rumbled through the room, even Zorandor joining, though it felt hollow.

  “And you, my prince?” Zilron tilted his head, curious. Every eye swung to Zorandor. His gut twisted, shame flaring hot under his skin. An hour ago, he might’ve spoken free—now Braelon’s steady gaze pinned him, and Zorvaia’s quiet trust burned worse. He swallowed, forcing words up.

  “Well,” Zorandor began, his throat tight as he avoided every gaze pinning him to his chair. “I say we ride to this council. Even if it’s a mummer’s farce, it binds us closer to the Altans and the great houses. And if it’s true—” He paused, forcing the words out. “—we’ll have a voice in shaping whatever kingdom rises from this strangeness.” Juramor gave a slow nod, weighing it like a merchant with a coin, while Lord Gaelan’s flinty eyes flicked with approval, a rare glint from the old bear.

  “I stand with my brother,” Queen Zorvaia said, her smile warm as summer, though her voice carried steel. “It’s the soundest path, and unless any here object, I’ll see it done.” No one stirred. The room held its breath.

  “Lord Gidran’s not here,” Mavron noted, his thin fingers tapping the table. Zorandor glanced at the empty seat—Gidran’s absence was a void he’d overlooked till now.Zorvaia sighed, a faint crease on her brow.

  “Likely off chasing stags or wenches,” Zilron said, propping his head on a hand, lips twitching with amusement.

  “One or the other, aye,” Ser Braelon agreed, clapping his hands together before catching himself. His head dipped quick toward the queen, cheeks flushing beneath his beard. “Beg pardon, Your Grace.”

  “He’ll hear of it soon enough,” Zorvaia said, her stern nod landing on Gaelan. “Lord Gaelan, you’ll track him down—hunting or whoring, I care not—and bring him to heel. Ser Braelon, when do the Altans expect us?”

  “By the next full moon, Your Grace,” Braelon replied, steady as stone.

  Mavron leaned forward, sharp eyes glinting. “Five days hence. That’s a hurried call.”

  “Urgent indeed,” Braelon said, meeting Zorvaia’s gaze.She rose, swift and final, cutting off any murmur.

  “The way’s set, then. Lord Gaelan, you’ll ready Gidran and our journey. Juramor—” She turned to the wiry man, whose brows shot up. “—you’ll hold the crown here while I’m gone. I’ll take Gaelan and Zorandor with me.” A ripple of surprise passed through the room. The queen and Hand rarely left the capital together, let alone the realm, and dragging her brother along spoke louder than words. “Is that clear?” No dissent met her. She cleared her throat. “Council’s done.” She swept out, her cloak whispering against the stone, Gaelan trailing with a curt bow. Juramor and Zilron followed, their steps brisk, leaving Zorandor alone with Mavron and Braelon. Their eyes bore into him—Braelon’s calm, Mavron’s sly—and he cursed himself for not rising sooner. Too late now.

  “Ser Braelon,” Mavron said, breaking the quiet with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “how fares your daughter these days?” Braelon’s face softened, a father’s pride breaking through.

  “Well, Lord Mavron, and I thank you for asking.” He turned to Zorandor, that same warmth lingering, though it sent ice down the prince’s spine. “I asked the queen to place her here, to learn the castle’s ways. He tilted his head, considering. “My prince, might she serve you? A Maid in Waiting, perhaps? She’d be honored to tend the royal line.”Zorandor’s gut lurched. The gods were surely laughing—mocking him with this twist. He forced a smile, lips stiff.

  “A fine thought. I’ve felt shorthanded of late—meant to speak to Conor, the steward, about it myself.”

  Braelon dipped his head, pleased. “Glad to serve you, my lord.”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Zorandor said, rising at last, legs unsteady. He reached the door, but a nagging itch stopped him cold. He turned back, voice tight. “Her name—it’s Juni, yes?” Braelon blinked, brow furrowing as if struck by a foreign tongue.

  “Juni? No, my lord. I’ve only Fia. No daughter by that name.” Zorandor’s breath caught. What sin had he wrought to earn this jest from above? He nodded dumbly, fleeing the room before more could unravel. The corridor stretched long and dim, guards snapping to attention as he passed, but their faces blurred. Fia, not Juni. Then who—or what—had he lain with? A witch, a phantom, a lie spun from shadow? His hands shook, the memory of her vanishing flash searing his mind. He needed Zorvaia—her clarity, her strength—but she’d be with Gaelan now, plotting their road to Turukhan.He paused at a window, staring at the dusk settling over Cragoria. Five days to the full moon. Five days to face dragons, grey strangers, and the gnawing rot of his own deed.

  “Fia,” he muttered, testing the name. It meant nothing to him. Juni’s face lingered—her blue eyes, her gold hair, her silence as he’d taken her. Had she been real at all? Or had the gods sent her to test him, to break him?

  “Brother?” Zorvaia’s voice cut through, soft but firm. He turned to find her at the hall’s end, her silver-threaded gown catching the torchlight. She approached, concern etching her face. “You look pale. What troubles you?”He opened his mouth, then shut it. Tell her of Juni—of the bed, the blood, the vanishing? No. She’d think him mad, or worse, weak.

  “The council,” he lied, voice rough. “Dragons and grey men. It’s… much to swallow.”She studied him, eyes keen as a hawk’s. “It is. But we’ll face it together, as always.” She touched his arm, a rare softness. “Rest. We ride soon.”He nodded, grateful for the reprieve, and watched her go. Alone again, he pressed a hand to the cold stone wall, steadying himself. Fia, not Juni. The truth—or its absence—clawed at him, a riddle with no answer yet.