——Embers in Moonlight, Shadows in Woods——
Their first night together was spent in the forest's outer ring, in the hamlet of Glinmere—a place where the cottages leaned into one another as if whispering secrets, and the fences sagged not from age, but from reluctance. The air there smelled faintly of sap and old rain, but beneath it lay another scent, harder to name. Something metallic. Something watching.
The decree had been made at sunset:
They would travel to Fort Dawnrise together.
No chains, no bloodshed.
Just the word of a goddess-sworn paladin… and the sly, unblinking assent of something older than gods or men, dressed in the shape of a golden-haired traveler.
Aethon, all dark hair and sharper smile, had mockingly offered to carry his own shackles—turning the notion over in his hands as if weighing it for entertainment rather than restraint.
"Well," he had said, glancing toward Arkeia with a half-bow that mocked as much as it greeted, "if we're to play prisoner and escort, I insist on at least a proper chain. Silver, perhaps? Gold if you can spare it. It would suit me better than iron."
When she did not answer, he leaned back on his heels and added, "Or do you mean to tie me with something more personal? Rope from your own tent, perhaps?"
The golden man beside him had only smiled—
Not warmly. Not coldly.
The sort of smile that fit any occasion, and yet belonged to none.
The villagers of Glinmere were simple folk—sturdy-handed and sun-lined, their lives measured in seasons, harvests, and the slow tolling of the chapel bell. They were easily moved by a gentle word or a gleaming smile, especially when those words seemed to settle into their ears with uncanny precision, as though tailored to the contours of their private thoughts. Now and then, after such an exchange, a man or woman might pause mid-task, troubled by a faint suspicion that the words had not been said to them at all, but placed in them—like seeds tucked into soil without their knowing. Yet when they tried to recall the exact phrasing, the memory slipped away, leaving only the warmth of the moment and the inexplicable sense that they had been understood perfectly.
It was in this quiet web of ease that the golden man's presence unfurled. He did not announce himself, yet the villagers seemed to notice him before they saw him, their gazes drawn as if by the weight of an unspoken introduction.
A young boy emerged from behind the low fence of his family's garden, curiosity pulling him forward with the unthinking courage of the unscarred. His small fingers worried at the wood before he stepped out onto the road, eyes locked on the stranger's golden hair.
He tugged at the man's sleeve, and when the golden man looked down at him, the air between them seemed to pause.
"Are you a prince, mister?" The lad asked, his voice full of the kind of wonder that could make kingdoms.
The golden man knelt, lowering himself to meet the boy's gaze, his smile unfolding like something remembered rather than newly given. "No, little one," he said, his tone warm enough to soften the world's edges, "but once, I dreamed I was."
The boy laughed, quick and bright, and somewhere in the branches above, the crows shifted but did not caw.
His mother approached from her property, drawn as much by the boy's voice as by something in golden man's gaze.
"Edwin, let's not trouble the kind gentleman," she said, her tone soft, though her eyes did not leave the stranger.
"No trouble at all, madam," the man assured, his voice as smooth as poured honey over a blade. "Kindness is a rare coin these days—best to spend it freely when we find it."
"He's so nice, mama," Edwin said, gripping the hem of her dress and half-hiding behind it, though his wide eyes never left the gilded stranger. "Like in the stories."
The man's smile deepened, his gaze softening as if the boy's words were a compliment of great worth. "Ah, but in stories, my young friend, it's the listener who makes the hero, not the teller. You've already made me better than I am."
The mother gave a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh at the remark.
A few steps away, Arkeia watched—her silver gaze unreadable, caught somewhere between admiration for the stranger's grace and distaste for how easily it seemed to work on those around him.
"That's the mark of a young gentleman in the making. I suspect"—his eyes slid toward the mother, lingering just long enough to feel deliberate—"the result of refined guidance."
"Oh, you're too kind," she replied, her cheeks coloring faintly. "Are you sure you're not a prince?"
From the tree line, Aethon leaned lazily against the bark, his smirk curling like smoke rising from a brazier.
"Much too kind indeed, brother," he drawled, his tone balancing somewhere between praise and mockery. "You flatter as if you were born to it."
His golden gaze returned to the woman, the corners of his mouth lifting further.
"Perhaps lost nobility, then?" he mused, voice soft enough to make her lean in as if she might miss it. "You certainly carry the grace of such lineage—poise like yours doesn't simply happen."
She laughed lightly, flustered, glancing aside as though unused to such attention. "My grace pales beside yours."
"Ah," he said with a conspiratorial glint in his eye, "but a candle is no less lovely for standing beside the sun."
Before the woman could answer, Arkeia stepped forward, her voice brisk and precise, cutting through the warmth like steel through silk. "Excuse me, madam. The night grows long—may we have your leave to set camp?"
The woman nodded automatically, though her gaze still clung to the golden man. "Of course. There's a clearing just past the fence—take what timber you need."
Then came a pause—brief, but weighted. A faint blink, as if she'd just remembered something she had not meant to recall. And before her lips fully shaped the words, the offer was already spilling out:
"Would you… and your companions… join us for dinner?"
Arkeia's eyes narrowed—not at the kindness, but at the way the thought seemed to have taken root in the woman's mouth before she chose to speak it
Edwin's face lit up as if the thought had burst into him all at once. "Mister prince shouldn't have to sleep outside! We have room—lots of room!" His words tumbled over each other in his eagerness, his small hands already tugging at his mother's sleeve as if pulling her toward agreement.
"Of course, of course," the mother said brightly, her tone taking on a sudden cheer that seemed to surprise even herself. "You'd be welcome to the guest cottage—it's been waiting for visitors."
Arkeia exhaled slowly through her nose, a quiet sound that carried both disapproval and resignation.
"I wouldn't wish to impose," the man said with that careful softness of his, each syllable landing as though it had been chosen days before. "What does the man of the house say?"
"He's away on trade," she replied without hesitation, then smiled faintly. "But I'm certain he'd agree with Edwin. My husband has a generous heart."
"She twists your arm, brother," Aethon remarked, leaning lazily against the fence post as if watching a familiar play unfold.
The gilded stranger placed a hand lightly to his chest, eyes warm, voice pitched low in mock surrender. "Then I yield, my fair lady, and humbly accept your offer. It would be ungracious to deny such graciousness."
"Yes!" Edwin clapped so hard it startled a nearby chicken. "Will you tell us a story, mister prince?
Galeel groaned softly. "Please, don't."
"But of course, lad," the man said in a rich, hearty tone, glancing sidelong at Galeel. "One from my younger and more reckless years…"
Galeel let out a low groan—the unmistakable sound of a man who already knew this story involved him and didn't end well.
Aethon grinned. "Yes, do grace our ears, brother. It's not as if we tire of them."
The man's golden eyes glimmered. "A sea gone mad beneath a sky scorned—clouds dark as a widow's heart. We were three men against the tide—although Galeel here doesn't recall it quite as well—he spent most of it clutching the deck for dear life while our helmsman, a fisherman half-taken by the moon, steered us straight toward doom."
Edwin's eyes went wide. "Did you die?"
"Nearly," the gilded man said with a conspirator's grin. "And the moment I thought I might live… that was when the real danger began."
He gestured with a storyteller's ease, and for a heartbeat the air around him shimmered—like the scene itself was bleeding through from somewhere else. The crows shifted on their branches, restless, their eyes reflecting too much light for the hour.
His voice faded as the mother ushered him toward her home, Edwin clinging to his arm.
While Arkeia's men busied themselves with the quiet labor of making camp—the muted clink of armor, the low rasp of canvas against stakes—her gaze wandered elsewhere. It lingered on the cottage's threshold, following the golden man as he crossed into its shadowed interior, as though the house had been holding its breath for his arrival, its timbers steeped in a long, patient anticipation.
In the nearby boughs, a cluster of crows shifted, feathers rustling like dark silk in a restless hand. They made no sound, but their stillness was weighted, their watch not upon the village, but upon him.
As the hour deepened and the night settled heavy upon the camp, Arkeia sat with her Crusaders around a fire that refused to feel like home. They were fed, their limbs rested, yet no laughter rose among them. The trees seemed to lean inward, their silhouettes crowding the edges of the clearing. The fire burned too clean, its flames almost deliberate in their shape. Above, the stars turned in a rhythm that felt wrong to the marrow, and the forest itself creaked with unspoken things, the groans of age carrying no wind to excuse them. Time seemed stretched thin, like a skin drawn too tight, and the flames—though bright—gave no smoke. The silence pressed in from all sides, thick and breathing with memory.
The Rex name still smoldered in her chest—an ember lodged too deep to dislodge, searing with each breath. Rex… the house that had cursed her bloodline, poisoned her family's fortunes, and turned prayer into ash.
Her grandmother's voice returned to her, as it always did, not as memory but as presence—thin and sharp as wine poured from an old, cracked chalice:
"The birth of the thirteenth heir… that was when our suffering began. He was touched, child—not by the gods, no… by something older. Something the temples would not name."
The words lingered, thick with the weight of a tale told too many times to be doubted.
"They say the boy had a twin."
A pause. The creak of old bones settling in their chair.
"The brother died in mystery… no body, no pyre, no prayer. And after that…" her grandmother's breath had trembled here, not from age, but from the chill that comes with memory—"the village went silent for a year."
Arkeia had not known what she expected to find in that gilded stranger, but whatever it was, it had not been this. What she saw was no mere man.
And yet—he smiled as though he were.
Behind her, Thalos gripped his sword with more force than the moment required, the leather of his gauntlet creaking under the strain. Edmun paced at the edge of the firelight, eyes darting toward the treeline, his lips shaping prayers that belonged to no scripture she had ever heard. Another Crusader stirred the stew with slow, mechanical strokes, the ladle's motion steady yet uneasy, the surface of the broth shivering in ways the wind alone could not explain.
From the skeletal branches above, a clutch of crows shifted, their black forms little more than serrated silhouettes against the dim stars. Their eyes caught the fire's glow in brief, ember-red glints, each turn of their heads too precise, too in unison. They watched without sound, as though awaiting a signal only they would recognize.
Further off, where the cottage's shadow bled into the curling treeline, Galeel stood apart—silent, motionless, and facing west. In his arms, Elissa lay cradled, her breath a faint, steady rhythm against the quiet. He was less sentinel than statue, a figure carved from shadow and waiting dusk.
His wings, folded tightly against his back, gave a single, shivering tremor. From somewhere beyond the veil, a scent drifted—iron, ash, and the memory of storms. Something ancient had shifted. Not a presence… but a memory, roused from the deep. And though he could not yet grasp its shape, he remembered forgetting it.
A moth descended from the dark, too large, too silent. It settled on Elissa's shoulder without stirring her. Its wings bore symbols that had no rightful place in the world, lines that bent the eye and teased the mind. Galeel did not swat it away.
Then, without warning—
"Salutations."
The Crusaders jolted as one, steel rasping free in flashes of firelight.
And then he was there.
Not emerging from the trees.
Not stepping out of the mist.
Not crossing the ground at all.
He had not walked—he had arrived.
No one had heard a step, no rustle of leaves, no breath of wind to carry him. One heartbeat he was absent, the next he occupied the space, as though the night had decided to remember him all at once.
"Forgive the intrusion," he said, his voice warm enough to almost hide the impossibility of his entrance. "I find silence… terribly lonely."
Arkeia was the first to see him—just before the firelight reached his face. He stood at its edge like a thought made visible, the dark reluctant to release him into sight.
She rose smoothly, her sword still sheathed but angled toward the light, her posture more warning than welcome. Her men glanced to her for command, the tension humming between them.
She lifted one hand in a sharp, precise gesture—wait.
"Peace," she said, her voice steady even as she stepped forward.
The golden man's voice was calm, unhurried. "I've brought no weapon. Only questions."
"You were not invited," she said flatly.
"True," he admitted with a small nod, then smiled as if the fact pleased him. "But it was either this or sit through another one of Aethon's stories. He's convinced he once seduced a river."
Edmun, the Crusader with the stern, stone-cut expression, let the corner of his mouth twitch—his first sign of amusement that day. "Did he?"
"Only halfway," Balfazar replied with a conspiratorial wink. "The river agreed to dinner, but apparently she had… reservations."
A few of the men chuckled. Edmun, against his better judgment, pressed further. "And the ferry?"
"Ah, yes." Balfazar's expression turned grave in mock sincerity. "It cost us our ferry. The boatman refused to row us after Aethon declared he was 'in a complicated relationship with the current.' Something about mixed signals… and mixed tides."
The men laughed harder now, the firelight catching in their grins. Even the most disciplined among them allowed the tension to loosen, if only by a notch. Arkeia did not join them. Her gaze remained steady on the stranger, weighing each word as if measuring the space between humor and manipulation.
Behind them, Thalos kept his post, eyes scanning the treeline as though the trees themselves might step forward. His brow furrowed—there was no breeze, no whisper of wind through leaf or branch. The forest seemed to be holding its breath.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," the golden man said, a smirk tugging at his lips as if the answer didn't matter.
He stepped forward, the fabric of his cloak whispering like a memory too near the surface.
"Balfazar Rex the Thirteenth," he said, bowing with the easy grace of someone who had been introduced to royalty and ruin in equal measure. "At your pleasure."
His tone was charming, teasing—a prince of theatre, not kingdom.
"You startled us," Arkeia said sharply.
"Only because I wanted to," Balfazar replied without missing a beat.
He bowed again, this time just enough to be mocking without quite crossing into offense. "Might I sit?"
Arkeia gestured cautiously toward the fire. "You're already here."
Balfazar lowered himself into the circle with the comfort of someone returning to a hearth he had known all his life. And yet—he gave no warmth. The flames did not recoil, but leaned toward him, their tips curling as if curious, like animals scenting something they could not name.
"You came to talk," Arkeia said at last. "Speak."
"I noticed your silence," Balfazar said, his tone light but carrying the faint weight of a statement rather than mere observation. "I thought you might appreciate company."
She studied him, the firelight catching in her eyes. "You don't strike me as someone who just notices."
He pressed a hand to his chest in feigned injury. "A dagger, straight to my heart. I'll have you know I'm often praised for my powers of observation—especially when the one being observed is kind enough not to look away."
Her Crusaders laughed, a ripple of sound that moved through them like the loosening of a tightened cord. Yet the shift in the air did not reach her. Arkeia's shoulders remained rigid, her spine drawn taut as a bowstring.
Across the circle, one Crusader scratched absently at his wrist, where the faint trace of a scar—once a burned sigil—rested like a secret he wished forgotten. Another, seated close to the flames, crossed themselves three times in three different directions, each motion belonging to a different creed, none of them the rites of Mar'aya.
In the distance, Elissa shifted faintly in Galeel's arms, her voice breaking the night with the soft, unbidden murmur of dream-speech.
"Ancients sleep on time-woven dreams… stars fear what they refused to recall."
Galeel glanced down at her, his expression unreadable, then turned toward the cottage. He moved with the unhurried tread of a man sidestepping a storm he had once weathered and had no wish to endure again. As he crossed the threshold, his voice drifted just loud enough for the night to carry it:
"There he goes again… with his 'fun.'"
High above, the stars shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible, yet enough to make the constellations seem caught mid-step.
Balfazar sat watching the fire, his gaze lingering on the embers as though reading something written in their brief glow. Then, with a slow lift of his head, his eyes found hers.
"Say," he began, his voice warm but threaded with a glint of amusement, "we never did answer your question 'plainly', did we? You hurled your assumptions like spears before I'd even formed a proper reply." His smile curved, equal parts mischief and invitation. "Tell me—do you truly believe one of us to be in league with that vile fiend, or…"—he leaned forward, just enough to catch her reflection in his gaze—"dare I say, under suspicion of being the Promised One?"
Her eyes narrowed, sharp as a loosed arrow, though she couldn't yet tell which way his words were aimed.
"Your brother," she said at last, the steel in her tone unsoftened, "he's the one I watch."
Balfazar tilted his head in mock surprise. "Aethon? Oh, he's mostly harmless. Playful. Insufferably theatrical. The kind of man who can turn an afternoon stroll into a three-act tragedy, complete with monologue."
Unseen, Aethon lounged in the cottage window, the flame of a solitary candle casting his silhouette in molten gold. He lifted a silver cup in a silent toast, lips shaping the words, "Well played, brother," before taking a long, unhurried sip, satisfaction curling at the edges of his smile.
"He's hiding something," Arkeia pressed. "A gaze like his doesn't come from innocence."
"My sweet brother?" Balfazar's tone carried the easy fondness of a man describing a favorite vice. "He hides nothing but smirks and sarcasm."
"He reeks of manipulation," Arkeia countered, "and moral filth."
"True," Balfazar admitted without hesitation, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "But if he were the Promised One, would he flirt so poorly?"
From the cottage window, unseen by either of them, Aethon sputtered into his drink, coughing once before muttering, "Oh, you piece of—" He cut himself short, glaring at the firelight as though it had personally insulted him.
Arkeia's laugh came once, sharp and cutting. "And what about you? You flirt like a man with a knife behind his back."
Balfazar tilted his head as though weighing the accusation. "Or perhaps," he said smoothly, "just a rose."
"No," she replied without missing a breath. "A rose doesn't warp the air around it. It doesn't make insects veer away from its shadow as if they'd touched poison."
The fire cracked softly between them, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the night. The silence that followed was not empty—it was weighted, alive, and waiting.
"Oh, my, my, my," he said at last, the words curling in amusement. "Does your gaze linger on me often, Lady Arkeia? Should I be flattered?"
She regarded him coolly, her expression a steady blade. "I still suspect your brother."
"And why is that?" he asked, the question light on his tongue, yet carrying an undercurrent of interest.
"He speaks like a man who wants to be caught. His charm is a costume too well-fitted. He lies with the ease of someone who's worn it all his life."
"And I?" Balfazar leaned forward just enough for the firelight to deepen the gold in his eyes. "What do I seem?"
Her brow furrowed. "Strange. Unsettling. You're hiding something."
"Aren't we all?" he replied gently, as though the truth could be a kindness. "You carry grief. I carry riddles. Galeel carries Elissa… and Aethon carries wine—badly."
That won him a round of laughter from the Crusaders, the sound loosening the air. Even grim-faced Thalos allowed a short, rough chuckle.
But Arkeia's eyes never left his. She watched him as one might watch the waves—knowing it could either recede quietly or drown her without warning.
"I've seen the shadows curl around you," she said. "The birds go silent. The trees bend ever so slightly toward your path. Nature recognizes you."
Arkeia prodded the burning logs, sending a spray of embers spiraling upward. The flames bent toward him—not in the way fire leans into wind, but as though flickering in time with some private rhythm only he knew.
"You wear that form too well," she said, her tone deliberate, a quiet accusation wrapped in observation.
He tilted his head, the motion slow and feline. "What form would that be?"
"You act mortal," she replied, her gaze steady. "But I see through it."
"Do you?" His smile brightened, though the warmth in it was no more human than the heatless glow of distant starlight.
"No one heard your approach."
"I walk lightly," he said with a soft chuckle. "An old habit… and one I've found useful in the company of armed strangers."
"You watched us from the shadows."
"I'm curious," he said, as though confessing to a harmless vice. "Another old habit… though I admit that one's harder to break."
"You speak as if you've never felt fear."
"Fear?" His smile widened, just enough to suggest both humor and truth. "That one, I've not yet had the pleasure to pick up. Perhaps you'll teach me?"
"You're patient," she said after a beat. "Too patient."
Balfazar's eyes glimmered like molten gold catching the firelight. "Ah… so you think patience is dangerous?"
"I think it's the favored weapon of gods and monsters," she answered, her voice low, but steady.
Behind them, Caelinda lingered in the doorway of the cottage, her form half-claimed by veil and shadow. She spoke no word, yet her presence carried weight, like incense in a still chapel. Her head tilted ever so slightly, a ghost of amusement playing at the corner of her lips. She watched the two of them as a priestess might observe a sacred duel—patient, reverent… and unmistakably possessive.
"A prince made of honey… and a sword made of guilt.
The fire won't burn what already dreams."
The words slid into the clearing and seemed to linger, clinging to the air like smoke. Whether anyone else heard them was uncertain—no one spoke, no one turned.
Balfazar tilted his head, as though he alone had caught the meaning, and with a timing too perfect to be coincidence, said,
"Would you like to hear a joke?"
Arkeia's eyes narrowed, but she gave no answer.
He smiled anyway—a slow, knowing curve of the lips that carried the weight of someone who might tell the joke… or might be it.
"A prophet walks into a bar," Balfazar began, leaning back slightly, his voice slipping into the smooth cadence of a man who knows his audience will either laugh or dream about it later. "He sits down, looks the barkeep dead in the eye, and says, 'I'll have what I'm going to have tomorrow.'"
A pause—just long enough for the Crusaders to exchange puzzled glances.
"The barkeep stares at him for a moment," Balfazar continued, "then slowly disappears into the back. When he returns, he sets down nothing but an empty glass. 'We stopped serving futures,' he says, 'after the last one exploded.'"
A faint curl of amusement played at the edge of Balfazar's mouth as he went on. "Apparently, the stains never came out. And you wouldn't believe the paperwork. Try explaining to the magistrate how a patron's destiny caught fire halfway through happy hour."
He let the silence stretch, the fire popping once between them. "The prophet didn't tip," he added finally, with a shrug. "Said he'd already done it in a past life."
The Crusaders burst into laughter, half from relief, half from actual amusement. One clapped Balfazar on the back. Another offered him a wineskin. A third muttered, "I'll remember that one."
She studied him through the firelight. "You're too still. Too… welcoming."
"Is that such a crime?" he asked, his tone as smooth as the smile that followed.
"It's unnatural."
He grinned, leaning forward just enough for the shadows to shift across his face. "If you think my charm is unnatural, you should meet Aethon when he's flirting. That's a true act of divine punishment."
From the cottage window, unseen, Aethon flung his chalice against the sill with a muted clink, muttering something deeply unfit for polite company.
A ripple of laughter passed among a few of the Crusaders, their unease eased for a heartbeat.
Balfazar leaned back into the shadows again, the smile never leaving his lips. "But perhaps you're right," he said, his voice softening without losing its edge. "Perhaps we are not what we seem. Perhaps…"—his gaze swept the circle—"…none of us are."
The fire gave a sudden pop, sending a thin spray of sparks into the night. None drifted toward him.
Her gaze sharpened, a measured strike rather than a glance. "Your cloak moves without wind. The stars change behind your head. The fire avoids your breath."
He grinned, slow and unhurried. "And you notice. That's what makes you special."
His smile seemed to loosen half the camp. Edmun, still gripping his sword, let the tip dip toward the earth, muttering under his breath, "He's not even sweating…"
Arkeia's face remained unmoved. "You move without sound," she said.
"Sound moves," he replied, "when I permit it."
"Your presence bends reality," she pressed, her tone like a blade testing armor. "You wear the world like a costume."
"And yet you still speak with me," he said, leaning just slightly forward. "Brave girl."
Her patience began to fray, the edge in her gaze sharpening.
"You smile too easily," she muttered.
"Because I like the game," he answered, the corners of his mouth curving further—as if to prove her right.
She raised her voice, each word carrying the weight of a verdict. "Whatever you truly are—I see past the veil. Your cloak isn't illusion—it's warped perception. Whenever you're near, nothing seems to be right. The air bends. The world missteps."
"You do see too much," he said, his smile brightening, though the warmth in it was as measured as a blade's edge. "That's why I like you."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, holding back the retort that burned there. "What are you?"
"A man," he said easily, as though listing titles. "A memory. A promise."
"I can feel what you are," she said, her tone carrying both challenge and unease.
His eyes glimmered, and the smile returned—slower this time, more deliberate. "And yet you resist. I find that… intoxicating."
The firelight wavered between them, shadows gathering at their backs as though leaning closer to listen.
"I should be off," Balfazar said at last, rising with the easy grace of a man who had already decided the moment of departure before he'd ever sat down. "I have—let's say—other matters to attend to." The words curved into a smile, casual on the surface, but leaving behind the faint taste of a private joke.
Arkeia held his gaze in silence, her eyes sharp as drawn steel. Around the fire, the Crusaders seemed to breathe less, their attention caught between her and the man in gold.
He turned from the firelight, walking toward the cottage with unhurried steps. At its threshold, Caelinda was waiting—still and poised, as if she had been expecting only him.
Arkeia watched as he crossed into the shadowed doorway, and Caelinda seemed to glide past him—not walking, not entirely touching the ground—her motion more drift than step.
She turned at the doorway to face the clearing, her eyes sweeping over the Crusaders without pause. The door closed behind her without a hand to move it, the latch clicking in perfect time with her stillness.
From the black lattice of branches above, the crows erupted into sudden flight—dozens at once—shattering the quiet with their ragged caws.
Arkeia could have sworn one of them, as it passed low over the fire, croaked a single word: "ROSE."
Balfazar's smile lingered in her mind—not merely an expression, but a vow, the kind of promise that waits in the dark for its moment to be kept.