The sun had not yet risen when Arine knocked twice against the back door of the tanner's house.
Kaelar opened it without a word.
She slipped inside, cloaked and gloved, eyes scanning the corners before she spoke. "You're being followed."
He closed the door. "By whom?"
"Someone with money. Or desperation. A boy in courier boots—stopped too often to 'tie' them, never bought anything from the stalls. Lost you twice, but kept looping the square. He left once I glared hard enough."
Kaelar didn't smile, but the corners of his mouth pulled taut. "Amateur."
"For now."
She pulled back her hood and leaned against the cracked table in the center of the room. The place was a slaughterhouse in disguise—blood still clung to the wooden trough in the far corner. Kaelar had chosen it for that reason. The smell masked too much for dogs to trace.
"You're going to draw too much attention if you keep showing your face in town," she said.
"Then help me change it."
She gave him a long look. "You want a new identity?"
"No. I want an old one. Forgotten. Noble enough to cross the upper gates. Low enough to have been erased."
"I might know one. But it comes with debt."
"I've paid more for less."
She pushed off the table. "You don't understand, Kael. This isn't about gold. The nobles you want to walk among—the ones who stripped you of your name—they didn't just erase your title. They rewrote the past."
He said nothing.
She stepped closer. "There's a man in the capital. Keeps the records beneath the Tribunal Library. He doesn't know your name. He knows the truth of it."
Kaelar's voice was low. "Still alive?"
"For now."
"Then I'll find him."
"You won't get in alone."
"I never planned to."
He turned from her, moving to the trunk beside the fireplace. Inside were two coats, freshly sewn by hands that owed him favors. He took the longer one—black wool, silver lining, hood deep enough to bury his face—and began to dress.
Arine watched him from across the room.
"You really came back," she said softly.
He didn't turn.
"They all said you were dead. And part of me believed it. Part of me hoped."
"You're not the first to say that."
"I don't mean it the way they did. I meant I hoped you died clean. Quick. Before they… dragged it out."
"They did."
She swallowed. "And the thing that crawled out of the pyre…"
Kaelar met her gaze. "Still learning what he is."
She didn't look away.
Neither did he.
They left Ternstead at dusk.
Arine had procured two mounts from a stable she used for smuggling routes—old horses, but fast. They rode east, cutting through the lesser roads, avoiding patrols. The terrain grew colder, hills rising into gray cliffs. The moon watched them in slivers, hiding behind cloud cover whenever Kaelar glanced upward.
By the second night, they reached a ruined watchtower, long abandoned. They made camp inside.
Kaelar did not sleep.
The dreams came harder now. Faces wreathed in smoke. Eyes melting. Prayers turned to screams. A voice he didn't know whispering in a tongue that made his ears ring. He would wake cold, trembling—but calm. As if the fear had never belonged to him.
He stopped counting how many nights this had happened.
On the fourth day, the capital rose on the horizon.
Halren.
It sat like a jewel hammered into the hills, its spires carved from ivory stone, draped in banners too proud to acknowledge their rot. From this distance, the city looked holy. Untouched. Perfect.
Arine spat into the grass.
"I remember the last time I stood here," she said. "You were beside me. Sun behind you. And I thought… maybe the realm was finally in good hands."
Kaelar's eyes didn't leave the city. "Now you know the truth."
"I always did. I just ignored it."
He pulled the hood lower over his face. "Where's the record keeper?"
"Name's Verran. Lives beneath the Tribunal Library. Off-hours. Private stairwell."
"Protected?"
Arine nodded. "Three scribes and a knight-baron under contract. The kind of man who'd strangle a priest for coin."
"Does he know I'm coming?"
"I sent no word. You said you wanted him unprepared."
Kaelar's hand drifted to the length of cord he'd tied around his waist—his only weapon. For now.
"Then tonight," he said.
They slipped into the city with a caravan at dusk.
Kaelar walked beside a cart of salt barrels, head down, hood low. Arine posed as a merchant's clerk, all ink-stained fingers and passive scowls. The guards barely looked twice. The gate captain glanced at Kaelar once—then at the cart's forged documents—and waved them through.
Halren swallowed them.
Streets crowded with color and noise. Men in velvet. Women in jewels. Street performers juggling knives. Beggars choking on gutter runoff. Nobles whispering behind silk fans.
Kaelar hated all of it.
He followed Arine through the side alleys, cutting away from the main road. Past the academy, past the low-god shrines, past the bathhouses where senators drank wine and forgot their own decrees.
The Tribunal Library rose ahead—three stories of black stone, no banners, no windows. It had no doors on the front. Only arches and torchlight, and two guards who didn't look old enough to hold a sword steady.
Arine whispered, "Back entrance. Keep close."
They entered through the north wall. A rusted lock. A stairwell carved directly into the foundation. Arine led with a lantern. The passage spiraled down twice, into silence.
Kaelar could feel the air change.
Something stirred here—deep beneath the city. Not magic, exactly. But memory. The weight of things meant to be forgotten.
They reached the door.
Wood. Old. Reinforced with iron bands.
Kaelar stepped forward and knocked once.
Then twice.
Then kicked the door open.
It crashed against the wall. Verran scrambled from behind his desk, eyes wide, ink-stained fingers twitching.
Kaelar stepped in without speaking.
The scribes drew back. One tried to run.
Kaelar caught him by the collar, slammed him into the wall, and let him crumple.
Verran backed away, stammering, "I—I don't—please, if it's gold—"
Kaelar raised his hand.
The air pulsed.
The light dimmed.
And for one brief moment, Verran looked into his face—and saw something that should not have survived.
He went pale.
"...Kaelar."
"Still remembered, then."
"I—" The man dropped to his knees. "They said—your name was struck—records were sealed—I didn't—"
Kaelar crouched beside him.
Softly: "You rewrote my legacy."
"No. I preserved it. I swear. I— I kept the original records, locked—deep vault—"
"Show me."
The vault door took three keys and a blood seal.
Inside were parchments, scrolls, tablets. Names long buried. Proofs of titles stripped and deeds undone.
Kaelar found his own ledger.
He opened it.
Inside: his birthname. His bloodline. His service. His miracles. His crimes.
The fire flickered strangely across the page, and for a moment, the ink bled. Just slightly. Just enough to make Verran tremble.
Kaelar closed the book.
And spoke.
"You will release this to the court."
"They'll kill me."
"You'll do it anyway."
Verran nodded, slowly.
Then Kaelar stood.
Turned.
And whispered to Arine:
"This is where we begin."