The council dispersed with the sound of rustling silk and shuffling boots, but the decision hung heavier than any banner.
A delegation. To Bylon. Led by him.
Red didn't return to his chambers right away. He remained in the emptying hall, watching as nobles lingered to whisper, heads bent like crows feeding on scraps. Baram left with measured steps, his armor whispering against stone. Lady Corna swept past without sparing him a glance, though her fan snapped open with a sharp crack. Cerana drifted by last, her eyes lingering just a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed, smile unreadable.
When the chamber was finally still, Red exhaled slowly. The first battle was won. The war was only beginning.
The next morning, sunlight spilled across the palace training yards.
Red stood at the edge of the drill grounds, a roster in his hand. Lines of young knights drilled in formation, boots pounding in rhythm, spears flashing bright in the dawn light. Some moved with precision; others with hesitation that would bleed them on a real battlefield.
He watched, eyes narrowing. A spy didn't see soldiers—he saw liabilities, weak links, cracks waiting to be exploited.
Baram had offered him the Radiant Knights' elite for escort. Red refused. He didn't want loyalty bought by gold or bound by oath. He wanted sharp minds, steady hands, and people he could read.
"Lumiaris," he said finally.
The priestess stiffened, startled, then placed a hand on her chest. "Me? But—"
"You'll come," Red cut in, voice flat. "Bylon's priests weave incense with their politics. I need eyes that can read both."
Her lips parted as if to argue, then closed. She bowed her head. "As you command, Prince Alzein."
He turned to the others. "Brayl. Glade. You, too."
Brayl inclined her head, aquamarine eyes cool. "I expected no less."
Glade crossed his arms. "I'm not a bodyguard."
"No," Red said. "You're worse. You're honest. I'll need that where we're going."
Glade's jaw tightened, but he nodded once.
[Party Formed]Escort: Lumiaris, Brayl, GladeObjective: Bylon Delegation
The rosters of available knights lay spread before him in the war room. Red's eyes flicked down the lists, crossing names with efficient strokes. He eliminated the ones with debts—too easily bribed. The ones with divided loyalties—families in trade with Bylon, or uncles in rival noble houses. Even the strongest fighters meant nothing if their tongues wagged in the wrong direction.
By the time he finished, more than half the parchment was struck through.
A nervous scribe swallowed hard nearby. "But, Your Highness… this leaves so few—"
"Then those few will suffice," Red said. "A lean escort travels faster. And tighter lips keep us alive."
He let the scribe gather the marked parchment. Already, he could see the shape of the mission forming. Not soldiers. A cover. Not blades clashing in the open, but shadows moving beneath curtains of silk.
The stables reeked of straw, sweat, and oiled leather.
Red moved between the mounts, eyes sharp. He inspected hooves, brushed manes, even checked the stitching of saddles. A loose strap on the road could kill as surely as a dagger in the dark.
Stablehands rushed to steady the beasts as he passed. One boy stammered, "Th-the finest chargers, Prince—"
"Too fine," Red interrupted, gripping a horse's reins. The beast snorted, muscles tense under its coat. "We're not parading. We're crossing hostile borders."
He chose three smaller destriers, built for endurance, not show. Their coats weren't glossy, but their legs were steady, their breaths even. He patted one's flank, watching the ears flick forward and settle.
"These," he said. "No gilded saddles. Strip the ornaments. If Bylon sees us coming, let them see travelers—not trophies."
The stablehands exchanged nervous looks, but they bowed quickly.
That night, Red stood over a table scattered with scrolls. Maps of rivers and valleys, borders marked in ink. Trade routes winding like veins. And beside them, star charts inked in precise lines.
Lumiaris entered hesitantly. "You asked for me?"
He gestured to the charts. "You'll study these."
Her brow furrowed. "Stars? For a delegation?"
"Bylon charts its caravans by the night sky," Red said. "Merchants, smugglers, even their war bands. If we lose our way or if they mislead us, I want someone who can read the heavens better than they do."
She stepped closer, fingertips brushing the parchment. The lamplight caught in her pale hair, silver strands glowing like the constellations themselves.
For a moment, she forgot her words. "You trust me with this?"
"I need someone reliable," Red said simply.
But the way her eyes lifted, wide and searching, made it sound like more than strategy.
He looked away first, returning to the charts. Spies knew how to kill silence; here, he let it stretch.
Lumiaris lowered her gaze, but her hand lingered over the star map, resting just close enough to his that a shift of breath would have bridged the gap.
"I'll learn them," she said softly. "I won't let you down."
Red gave a single nod, though inside he felt the strange ache of something unfamiliar. A mission was easier than this—this quiet, uncertain thread pulling taut between them.
[Quest Accepted: Infiltrate Bylon]Primary Objective: Gather Proof of Bylon's HandFailure = WarReward = Survival + Hidden Truths
Red leaned back, crimson eyes dim under the torchlight. His ribs still ached from the duel, but this new weight pressed deeper. A mission into enemy land, carrying the Light Spear's echo on his shoulders, while half the council sharpened their smiles to see him fall.
He gathered the scrolls, snuffed the lamp, and stood in the silent chamber.
For a spy, this was familiar ground.
Not war. Not peace.
The space between.
And in that space, truth lived—waiting to be pulled out of shadows and into the light.