The room had gone still again.

  The two men lay unconscious on the floor—silent.

  Zafran crouched beside one of them, studying the man’s frame, his gear, the way his fingers curled inward even in unconsciousness.

  “These are ghosts of the nobles. Assassination job—no trace,” he said, picking up the dagger in the man’s hand.

  Karin crossed her arms. “Wonderful. So we knocked out a pair of ghosts.”

  “Would that be a problem for us?” Ysar asked.

  “Yes. We messed with the nobles,” Zafran answered.

  “Great. Not a day in the city, and we’ve already stepped on its tail.”

  Elsha moved to the window. Her eyes narrowed. “Movement outside.”

  Zafran stood quickly.

  Too late.

  There was a knock at the door. Not hurried. Not violent. Just firm. Then a second. The latch turned, and the door creaked open.

  Five officers stepped in—uniformed in dark gray, coats marked with the silver crest of Fyonar’s civil branch. No one drew a weapon.

  The man in front scanned the room, then glanced down at the bodies.

  His voice was dry, official. “This residence is under city investigation. You are all hereby detained for disturbance and unauthorized combat within city bounds.”

  Karin opened her mouth, but Zafran raised a hand. “Comply.”

  Elsha stepped forward. “They came at us first. No weapons were drawn until they—”

  “You may present your defense at the hearing,” the officer said, unmoved. “You’ll be held pending inspection and clearance. There are no formal charges yet.”

  Ysar sighed. “That’s never a good sentence.”

  Two more officers entered behind them—not hostile, just precise. They moved around the group, not to bind them—just to guide.

  Zafran exhaled slowly, giving the others a sign to follow.

  And so, without another word, they let themselves be taken.

  “This is a bad idea,” Karin whispered, walking beside him.

  “No. This is better. At least we’re under the officials—not dealt with by the nobles.”

  Out the narrow flat, down the crooked stair, and into a city that had already begun to look different.

  They passed no crowds—just the quiet tension of a city that didn’t blink. Lanterns watched from steel posts. Wires overhead hummed faintly, indifferent.

  At the holding station, they were led down a clean corridor lined with evenly spaced doors of iron-braced wood. No shouting. No threats. Only the methodical ticking of keys and boots.

  They were shown into a cell. Not dungeon-dark—just cold. Bare stone walls. Stone benches. Nothing else.

  The door clicked shut behind Karin last.

  She leaned against the wall, arms folded, and looked at no one in particular.

  “Let’s hope someone up there has a reason to want us walking out.”

  Time passed like fog in the cell—uncounted, heavy.

  Karin had paced a few times, circled the stone bench, muttered to herself, then sat again with a loud sigh. Ysar lay stretched along the wall, one arm draped over his eyes like he might fall asleep. Elsha hadn’t moved. And Zafran—Zafran hadn’t even blinked, as far as anyone could tell.

  The door finally opened. But it wasn’t a guard.

  A tall man stepped in, dressed in the dark coat of the city watch. His silver insignia was polished clean. No armor, no helmet. Just calm authority.

  He flipped open a small leather ledger as he entered, eyes scanning the room behind half-moon spectacles.

  “You four,” he said. “Where are you from?”

  Zafran leaned forward slightly. “Aren’t officers obliged to give their name first?”

  The man didn’t look up, but one brow rose.

  “Veylan. Head Captain of Fyonar’s city watch.”

  “Head Captain?” Zafran added, measured. “Investigating this in person?”

  Still no reply.

  Veylan turned a page. “Who threw the first blow?”

  Karin raised a brow. “That’s your first question?”

  “It’s the one on paper.”

  “They drew first,” Zafran said.

  “Did either of the two identify themselves?”

  “They didn’t speak,” Elsha answered. “No insignia. No warning.”

  “You know,” Veylan said, “fighting within city bounds without clearance is arrestable.”

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  Ysar let out a breath. “Yeah, we noticed.”

  Veylan’s eyes flicked to him—sharp, but not unkind. Then he shut the ledger and stepped closer.

  “You know why I had to come to this case myself?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer.

  “Those two? Nobles’ dogs. Quiet ones. You stepped on the wrong tail.”

  Ysar glanced between them. “Which means…?”

  “Which means,” Veylan said evenly, “you’re in trouble—whether you meant it or not. And when those dogs wake up and realize who kicked them, the people behind them won’t be quiet.”

  He let the words settle, then asked, tone firmer, “What were you doing there? That place?”

  Ysar opened his mouth, but Elsha nudged him lightly.

  Zafran then speak.

  “We were looking for someone.”

  Karin’s eyes widened, turning toward him. “Zafran…”

  He didn’t flinch. “You might know where he is.”

  Veylan raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. And those two were looking for the same man?”

  No answer.

  Veylan studied them for a moment longer—then stepped back.

  “I don’t know what game you’ve walked into. And I don’t want to. But I’ll say this—I’ve seen the kind of people the nobles keep in their pocket. Power-hungry, paranoid, willing to burn half the kingdom to keep the other half blind.”

  He paused.

  “And whatever it is you’re caught in… you don’t seem like them.”

  A knock interrupted the quiet.

  The door opened just slightly, and a younger officer leaned in.

  “Chief—The Prince is here.”

  Veylan’s jaw shifted slightly. He closed the ledger with a snap.

  “Of course he is.”

  The silence didn’t last long after Veylan left.

  Another set of footsteps followed—softer, slower, deliberate. There was no clatter of armor, no barked command. Just calm leather against stone, like someone who knew exactly how much noise to make.

  The cell door opened with a soft creak.

  He stepped inside alone.

  No escorts. No announcement. No crown. Just a man in a charcoal-gray coat, high-collared and finely made, but with no crest, no ornament. His boots were clean. His hands, gloved in thin black leather, were folded behind him.

  He looked young—perhaps too young—but carried himself with the kind of stillness only power could teach.

  Zafran stood as soon as he entered. Karin followed, more from instinct than formality. Elsha rose a second later. Ysar stayed seated, arms crossed, but watching closely.

  The man nodded to them, just once. Courteous. Not apologetic.

  “I’m sorry you were left waiting,” he said. His voice was smooth, but quiet—like someone used to speaking in rooms that were always listening.

  He looked around the cell—noticing everything, but commenting on nothing.

  “Forgive the lack of introduction. I should have spoken sooner.”

  He bowed his head slightly. “Lucian. King, by the council’s favor.”

  There was a pause.

  “Not everyone agrees on the title.”

  A long beat, Ysar stood up quickly.

  “A… king?”

  “Only when they allowed me to be”

  None of them replied. But something in the air shifted.

  “I’m told,” Lucian continued, “that you were found beside two unconscious men.”

  He glanced between them—not accusatory, not testing. Just confirming.

  “And those men were actually, send by Lord Rufinus. Which makes this situation… fragile.”

  Karin narrowed her eyes. “We didn’t know who they were.”

  “I believe you,” Lucian said calmly. “And from the reports, it seems you were defending yourselves.”

  He took a single step closer—not looming, just closing the space.

  “But you should understand what that means, here. Self-defense may absolve you by law. But the law does not always outrank influence. Especially not his.”

  Ysar gave a short, breathy laugh. “So we’re unlucky.”

  Lucian didn’t smile, but there was something almost sympathetic in his expression. “Unlucky, yes.”

  He paused again, gaze steady but not cold.

  “You’ll be released.”

  Zafran gave the smallest nod. “Just like that?”

  Lucian met his eyes. “You’re not guilty. I came only to ensure that fact remained intact—before others made it… more complicated.”

  Karin shifted, folding her arms. “Why bother?”

  Lucian glanced toward the door, then back at her. His reply came gently.

  “When the right thing is within your reach, won’t you do it?”

  For a moment, none of them spoke.

  Then Lucian turned, resting one hand lightly on the edge of the open door.

  “One last thing,” he said. “The train from the eastern town departs in three hours. If I were in your position… I wouldn’t miss it.”

  He knocked once on the frame.

  Two guards appeared, silent as ghosts.

  Lucian stepped out without another word.

  And the cell door opened.

  The cell door opened with a slow groan.

  No words. No weapons. Just two officers standing outside, heads slightly bowed, waiting.

  Karin stepped out first, cautiously. Zafran followed, then Elsha and Ysar.

  The hallway was quiet—eerily so. No other prisoners. No shouting. Just the steady sound of boots on polished stone, and the faint echo of distant wind against the tall outer walls.

  No one spoke.

  They were led back the way they’d come, through corridors that felt longer than before. The guards didn’t look at them, didn’t offer explanation. But there was no aggression in their steps—only precision.

  At the front gate, they were handed back their weapons. Cleaned. Sheathed. Even the scabbards had been wiped down.

  “This feels wrong,” Ysar muttered, strapping his blade to his back. “Wrong and very expensive.”

  “Quiet,” Elsha murmured.

  Outside, a single black carriage waited—unmarked, polished, with brass fittings dulled to avoid shine. A driver sat ready, reins in hand. The horses were still, already facing east.

  The officer behind them spoke—low, formal.

  “His Majesty arranged for your transport to the eastern station. The train departs within three hours.”

  Zafran nodded once and they climbed in.

  No escort. No fanfare. The door shut quietly behind them, and the carriage began to move.

  The carriage moved smoothly now, turning away from the dense quarters and toward broader avenues. Lamplight flickered through the windows as they passed shuttered shops and wire-strung posts. Fyonar was quiet again—indifferent to their exit.

  After a few minutes, Ysar leaned his head back against the frame and sighed. “We arrived this morning. Got jailed before lunch. And now we’re riding back to the station like nothing happened.”

  “At least you managed to cause some trouble,” Elsha said. “So yes.”

  “Still better than the last time,” Karin added. “At least no one threw cabbage.”

  “That wasn’t my fault,” Ysar muttered.

  Karin looked out the window, arms crossed. “We should count ourselves lucky. That wasn’t just a scuffle—we stepped on something deep.”

  Elsha glanced her way. “You think the king—Lucian—really went against that noble for us?”

  “I don’t think he played that move lightly,” Karin said. “He didn’t have to show up. But he did. That means something.”

  Zafran remained quiet.

  Ysar tilted his head. “Still thinking?”

  “I don’t know if we should trust him,” Zafran said at last. “Everything feels… too clean.”

  Karin tilted her head. “He helped us. That counts for something, clean or not.”

  Zafran’s gaze dropped. “Maybe. Or maybe this was just the easiest way to keep us out of sight.”

  Elsha leaned back slightly. “Does it matter? Either way, we’re out.”

  The carriage turned again, slipping into a narrower lane. The buildings pressed closer, stone and shadow shouldering in from either side. The wheels clicked louder on the cobbled turn.

  “So where’s this train even going?” Ysar asked.

  Karin looked at Elsha.

  She reached into her coat and pulled out a folded paper. “East Jadinthar.”

  Ysar raised a brow. “Seriously? That far?”

  Elsha murmured, “Why Jadinthar?”

  “Maybe it’s just the first outbound train,” Karin said. “Any direction works, as long as it’s away from here.”

  She glanced toward Zafran again. “We’ll be fine.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “You’re always like this after a narrow escape,” she added, softer now. “Suspicious. Brooding.”

  He looked out the window. “I just don’t believe in easy exits.”

  “This wasn’t easy,” Karin said.

  “It doesn’t seems normal.”

  “Define normal for me once.”

  Zafran let out a breath, barely a smirk. “Good point.”

  The carriage slowed.

  Outside, the familiar sprawl of the eastern station came into view—crowded, pulsing with motion, just as they’d left it.

  But something in the air had shifted.

  The train still waited on the far line, smoke curling up from its iron mouth, as if nothing had happened.

  Karin leaned forward slightly, watching the platform draw near.

  “So,” she said quietly, “into the forest.”