The morning sun had already climbed its way above the roofs of the village when Grace departed from the Greenery Shop, Gilbert's humble store, where the air was ever laced with the fragrance of herbs and the sweetness of warm bread and pastries. She carried a parcel of brownies and cookies, delicacies that had long been Celestine's favourites. Yet beyond this simple reason lay a heavier truth — within her basket rested a letter from the North, intended for the Empress herself.
With gentle courtesy she had taken leave of Melody and Ana, bidding them remain behind as she set her feet upon the cobbled road. The stillness of her walk was broken only by the sound of her own steps until a sudden cry rang out behind her.
"Grace! You left your order!"
It was Melody, her cheeks flushed scarlet, her breath ragged from running. She clutched the parcel in her hand as she hastened forward, the distance Grace had already walked forcing her into a desperate sprint. Grace turned, lips softening into a faint smile, and reached to accept the cookies from her friend.
But ere her hand could close upon the parcel, a shadow fell across them. From behind Melody, as though drawn from the very darkness itself, a man emerged. His hair glimmered with the unnatural hue of deep violet, and his eyes, sharp and cold as storm-tossed seas, fixed themselves upon Grace. In his hand a blade gleamed cruelly, pressed against Melody's slender neck.
Both women froze, terror rooting them to the ground. Grace's heart clenched as recognition struck — this was no stranger. He was the very man who had once fought her in the tavern, and later again in Renia. The man she had longed to strike down, the one she had sworn never to let slip from her grasp.
"Utter no cry for help, or I shall slit her throat," the man hissed, his voice edged with venom.
Melody trembled violently, her hands gripping at his arm in vain, eyes wide with dread as the cold steel pressed closer to her skin.
Grace's gaze hardened, her posture shifting, the basket still in her grasp. Few souls lingered upon the street; fate had left only the three of them standing there.
"Lay down what you carry," the man commanded, his tone low and deadly, his eyes narrowing upon the basket in Grace's hands — not for what it contained, but to strip her of every means to resist him.
A storm of thought swept through Grace's mind. Should she surrender the basket, the letter would be imperilled; yet should she resist, Melody's life might well be lost. Her gaze hardened, for in her heart she knew — the man's true quarry was never the basket, nor the letter it concealed, but Grace herself.
"Release the girl, if it is coin you seek," Grace answered in a firm voice, her eyes burning with defiance.
The man laughed, a hollow sound, cruel and sharp. "Coin? Do you take me for some common thief?" His grip upon the blade tightened, pressing it closer still against Melody's trembling flesh.
"Grace, help me!" Melody's plea broke from her lips, choked with terror.
"What do you want from me?" Grace demanded, though in truth she already knew the answer, anger seething beneath her skin.
"You," the man replied, lips curling into a sinister smile.
Grace lifted her hands slowly, palms open in surrender. "Then let her go, and I shall yield myself to you."
The man's eyes narrowed. "And how am I to trust you, assassin? I know well the steel you keep hidden beneath your skirts. Cast aside your knives, else the girl's blood shall stain these stones."
Grace's jaw tightened, her teeth grinding as fury warred with helplessness. She knew the peril well, yet Melody's life hung by a thread, and she could not gamble with such a stake. Her hands moved slowly, reluctantly, as though each motion tore a piece from her pride. One by one, she withdrew the slender blades hidden beneath her garments, the cold steel catching the light before slipping from her fingers. The sound of each weapon striking the stones rang sharp in the silence, echoing her defeat. When the last of them lay scattered upon the ground, far beyond her grasp, she straightened, her shoulders rigid, her chest heaving with suppressed rage, her eyes locked upon the man with a glare that promised blood.
A vile grin split the man's face. At last, with a shove, he released Melody.
"Run, child!" Grace cried. "Take the basket and go home at once!"
Tears streaked Melody's cheeks as she clutched the basket close to her chest and fled, her steps trembling but swift, carrying her away from the nightmare.
Now alone, Grace and the stranger faced one another. A silence of pure tension hung in the air until Grace, with sudden swiftness, struck — her leg swept in a dragon's-tail kick, striking the man's knee and sending him sprawling. The blade flew from his hand, clattering across the stones. Grace darted forward to seize it, but the man caught her ankle and dragged her down, sending her sliding upon the ground. They grappled fiercely, blows exchanged with brutal force. He sought to crush her beneath his weight, striking out with a savage kick, yet Grace twisted aside and answered with a sharp strike of her own, her fist cracking against his jaw.
"Damn you… you fight like the devil himself," he spat, blood spilling from his lips.
Realising he could not best her, the man turned and fled, his figure vanishing into the narrow alleys. But Grace, her blood alight with fury, would not let him escape again. She pursued him, her breath ragged, her eyes locked upon his fleeing shadow.
Meanwhile, Melody fled with every ounce of strength she could summon, her small legs carrying her as though the very shadows pursued her. The basket was clutched tight against her breast, her fingers white from the strain, as if letting go would mean betraying the trust Grace had placed in her. The road ahead stretched cruelly long, each step heavy with dread, her breath ragged and uneven, the pounding of her heart louder than her footfalls. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision, yet she pressed on, whispering Grace's name beneath her breath as if it alone could steady her trembling limbs. She dared not falter; the weight she carried was more than bread and sweets — it was Grace's command, and perhaps Grace's very life.
But fate proved merciless. As she rounded a narrow corner at speed, her frail frame struck solidly against another. The impact stole the breath from her lips, sending her stumbling back. The basket slipped from her desperate grasp, spinning through the air before crashing upon the stones. Biscuits and brownies scattered in a pitiful trail, their sweetness broken upon the hard earth — much like the fragile courage that spilled from Melody's chest.
Before her stood a man unlike any she had known. His skin bore the rich bronze of sun and toil, his hair gleamed silver like tempered steel, and his eyes — cold and piercing — caught hers with a flicker of surprise. He towered above her small, trembling form, the world around them falling into a silence so sharp it made her feel as though time itself had paused to watch
"I–I beg your pardon, sir!" Melody stammered, her voice breaking as sobs seized her. She clutched at her skirts, tears spilling freely, the terror she carried finally spilling over.
Barron did not move at once; he regarded her quietly, his silver eyes steady as stone. Then, with a slow grace, he stooped down and began gathering the scattered cookies and brownies one by one. His hands were firm yet gentle, careful not to crush what had fallen. Without a word, he placed them back into the basket, as though the task deserved every measure of his attention.
Something in his calmness seeped into her. Each deliberate motion steadied the frantic beating of her heart, and the storm of her sobs began to subside. Watching him kneel to help her, Melody felt the edge of her fear soften, her trembling easing as if his quiet strength had lent her a moment's peace. Not until-
"Melody!"
Grace's voice cut through the narrow street, sharp and commanding as it echoed off the stone walls. Barron's head turned swiftly, his gaze settling on her — breathless, hair dishevelled, her eyes blazing with fear and desperation as they locked upon him, upon the basket he still held. A flicker of alarm swept across Grace's face; if Barron were to discover the hidden letter within, all would be undone.
With urgent strides she closed the distance, her hand seizing the basket from his grasp before he could react. She drew the trembling Melody hard against her side, shielding the girl as though from a mortal blow. Barron, momentarily struck by her abruptness, frowned in quiet bewilderment, his composure shaken by her vehemence.
"Forgive us, sir. We cannot tarry," Grace uttered, her voice tight with strain. She dipped her head in hurried courtesy, though her body trembled with both rage and fear, then pulled Melody away with fierce determination.
Her heart thundered as though it might break through her ribs. She had come within reach of the man she yearned to strike down, only to be denied once more. He slipped into the shadows of a nearby alley, but before she could give chase, a carriage roared past, its wheels screaming against the cobbles. Forced back by the threat of trampling hooves, she lost her chance — and when the dust settled, the villain was gone.
Frustration burned within her as she returned to Melody's side. Barron lingered in the shadows near the doorway, his presence silent yet weighty, his eyes narrowed as if he read every flicker of fear upon their faces. Not a word escaped him, yet his sharp gaze seemed to pierce through the room like the edge of a blade.
Grace clasped Melody's trembling hand and drew her swiftly back into the Greenery Shop. The girl broke down at once, falling into sobs, her cries muffled against Ana's embrace as her mother rushed forward. Ana's arms folded tightly around her daughter, rocking her gently though her own face was pale with confusion.
"What happened? Speak, Melody, what happened?" Ana asked in panic, though the child's tears drowned her words.
Gilbert, meanwhile, stood motionless, his brow furrowed as he watched Grace. He sensed something far darker than a mere fright, though he could not yet place its shape.
Grace did not answer. Her steps were quick, unsteady, almost fevered, as she crossed to the counter and dropped the basket she carried. Her hands, restless and unsteady, began rifling through its contents. The soft crinkle of wrapping paper and the sweet scent of cookies and brownies filled the air, a cruel mockery of the storm in her heart.
"Grace?" Gilbert's voice was careful, low, as though he feared her answer. "What is it you are searching for?"
But she did not speak. She tore through the baked goods with frantic fingers, her breath uneven, her lips pressed tight as if she fought against the rising tide of panic. Gilbert took a slow step forward, his chest tightening with unease.
The sound of her searching grew louder, sharper—until it ceased. Her hands stilled.
For a long, dreadful moment, the only sound was Melody's sobbing in her mother's arms.
Grace's fingers clung to the edge of the basket, knuckles pale, her shoulders trembling. Slowly, her head lifted. Her eyes, wide and shimmering with unshed tears, locked with Gilbert's across the room. That gaze alone told him more than any words could—something was terribly, irreversibly wrong.
"The letter…" she breathed at last, her voice shaking, her lips quivering as if the words themselves were too heavy to bear. "It's gone."
Gilbert's breath caught, and he staggered a step back as though struck. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs, his worst suspicion clawing into certainty. His hands curled into fists at his sides, and for a moment he looked at Grace with both terror and sorrow, as though the very ground beneath them had given way.
He drew in a long, ragged breath. The silence in the room pressed upon them like a shroud, broken only by the sound of Ana's soft cries to calm her daughter.
Then, with a voice weighed down by dread, Gilbert uttered the words that sealed their fear.
"We've been exposed."