Dragonbane makes everything quieter—not just magic, but instinct and strength.
The gods were distant, muffled behind layers of absence, but my awareness remained sharp. The stone floor was cold beneath me. The torches burned evenly. Nothing changed.
Until footsteps approached just outside my chamber.
A guard change. Every three hours.
They must have thought I was asleep.
Their voices dropped. Careless.
"…I'm telling you, that's what I heard," the first guard whispered. "The king was furious. The Lightning Prince threatened him in the throne room. She's got one week."
Of course he did.
"Lower your voice," the second hissed. "That's not what I heard."
A pause. The faint scrape of boots shifting.
"What do you mean?"
"There's a rumor," the second guard said quietly. "That the Earth King's having her executed tonight. No spectacle. No council. Just… done. Before the prince can interfere."
My chest tightened.
"That's madness," the first muttered. "She's the Primal—"
"I know," the second replied. "And I don't agree with it. But when has our opinion ever mattered?"
Silence stretched between them.
Then—movement. Too fast. Too sudden.
A sharp sound cut the air.
A body hitting stone.
Another thud.
Then nothing.
No voices.
No footsteps retreating.
Just silence so complete it pressed against my ears.
My pulse spiked.
I pressed myself back against the wall, muscles coiling despite the dragonbane's bite. Every instinct screamed move, but I stayed still, breath shallow, listening.
Something shifted.
Not footsteps.
Stone.
The wall to my left fractured with a soft, unnatural sound—not crumbling, but melting. A thin line of light split the rock, widening as the stone peeled back like a curtain drawn aside.
I raised my arms instinctively, heart hammering.
A figure stepped through.
Black from head to toe. Cloaked. Light armor. Silent.
And wearing a mask.
Blue.
Not bright—deep, muted, almost matte, like still water at night. It covered their entire face, smooth and unbroken except for faint white-lined markings etched across its surface. Subtle. Deliberate. Curving in a way that suggested a face rather than replicated one—eyes, cheekbones, a mouth that wasn't quite there.
It caught the torchlight only at certain angles, the markings briefly gleaming before vanishing again.
Old.
Intentional.
Two silver swords gleamed in their hands.
My breath caught.
"Stop," I said hoarsely. "Who are you?"
They didn't answer.
They walked toward me instead.
I lifted my bound arms in a futile attempt to protect my throat. Dragonbane hummed, draining what little strength I had left.
The figure stopped inches from me.
Then—without hesitation—one blade flashed.
I flinched.
The rope snapped apart.
Another precise cut.
The dragonbane coils fell away from my wrists, clattering softly against the stone.
Warmth surged back into my arms—too fast, too sharp—pain blooming as sensation flooded in all at once. My breath hitched. I swayed.
Somewhere beyond my skin, the gods cried out—my name ringing with relief.
I gasped, barely managing to stay upright.
The figure stepped back, sheathing one sword and gesturing sharply toward the opening in the wall.
"Wait," I whispered. "You—"
They were already moving.
I followed.
The passage beyond was narrow, sloping upward, carved hastily through rock. The masked figure moved with quiet certainty, every step deliberate—signaling when to duck, when to stop, when to move.
I staggered as the floor shifted beneath my boots.
Dragonbane still clung to me like a sickness in my blood—no longer burning at my wrists, but embedded deeper now, leeched into muscle and marrow. My power felt distant. Dulled.
A hand caught my elbow before my knees hit stone.
Firm. Certain.
The masked figure.
Two swords rested easily in his hands.
He never spoke.
And yet—
I felt… safe.
Not calm. Not relaxed.
Guarded.
Like someone was watching every shadow so I didn't have to.
We emerged into a lower corridor just as shouts echoed distantly through the palace.
Alarms.
"They've found the guards," I breathed.
The masked figure nodded once and broke into a run.
So did I.
We sprinted through winding tunnels and staircases carved deep into the mountain. Above us, the city roared to life—boots pounding, horns blaring, weapons clanging in response to shouted orders.
They were looking for me.
We reached the final ascent—an exit ramp leading to the open terraces above—
And stopped.
A figure stood at the threshold.
Princess Willow.
She was already in position, stone braced behind her, hands glowing faintly with power. Her gaze flicked from the masked stranger—
To me.
Recognition hit her like a blow.
"Primal," she said softly.
Behind us, shouts drew closer.
The masked figure stepped forward, swords lifting slightly.
Willow inhaled sharply.
"…You," she whispered. Understanding dawned too late.
Her shoulders squared, chin lifted, but her jaw was tight with restraint.
"Hurry," she said quietly.
The masked figure didn't hesitate. He tugged me into the opening. I followed, boots scraping stone as the passage angled downward.
Behind us, Willow lifted one hand.
The corridor sealed.
Earth knitting itself shut as if we had never passed through.
As if we had never existed.
For several heartbeats, there was only the sound of movement and my own breathing—too loud in the narrow space.
I pressed my palm to the wall, steadying myself.
Cold. Unfeeling.
Stone didn't care who you were.
"Why?" I rasped.
Willow didn't answer immediately.
The masked figure didn't answer at all.
He just moved faster—like he knew exactly how little time we had.
Then Willow spoke, voice tight. "My father ordered your execution. And I will not let my people be the ones to carry it out."
My chest tightened.
"And Revik?" I asked.
Her steps faltered—just a fraction.
"Revik is not your concern right now," she said.
Not an answer.
A warning.
Live now. Save later.
The tunnel was engineered—smooth turns, measured slopes, wide enough for soldiers. A king's escape route.
Footsteps echoed ahead.
Not ours.
The masked figure lifted two fingers.
Stop.
I froze instantly.
Willow pressed her palm to the stone, eyes closing. "A patrol. Six guards at most. We can sneak past."
The masked figure shifted subtly in front of me—not shielding, just positioning.
The silhouette was—
Familiar.
No.
I shoved the thought away.
Willow pressed harder.
Stone rippled—just inches. Enough to warp sound. Enough to mislead.
The patrol passed without seeing us.
"That won't work again," Willow whispered.
The masked figure nodded and moved again.
Faster.
We ran.
Silent. Direct.
Like a blade sliding between ribs.
Dragonbane drained my strength, but it couldn't steal what years of surviving had carved into me.
My lungs burned.
My legs shook.
But I kept going.
Metal snapped ahead.
Voices.
Closer this time.
"They've sealed the outer routes," Willow murmured. "They're sweeping the tunnels."
The masked figure tugged me left into a maintenance corridor barely wide enough to crouch.
We dropped into shadow.
Six soldiers rounded the corner, lantern light crawling over stone.
"The Earth King wants her dead." one said
My stomach turned.
The masked figure's shoulder tightened.
Willow looked away.
Then—
Darkness.
A blade struck the lantern chain.
Light shattered.
Chaos followed.
The masked figure moved like something honed for this—redirecting, disarming, never overcommitting.
Willow raised her hands.
Stone shifted—just enough.
Restraint.
She could have crushed them.
She didn't.
So I ran.
Through.
I ducked under a spear, shoved a soldier aside, slid past.
Pain flared.
The masked figure yanked me upright and shoved me forward.
No words.
Only movement.
One soldier lunged for Willow.
I saw her freeze.
Hesitation.
I slammed into him, throwing his blade off course.
Willow's eyes locked with mine.
Choice snapped into place.
She raised both hands.
Stone surged between us and the patrol—not crushing, not killing.
Blocking.
Buying time.
"Go," she said fiercely.
We ran.
Torchlight split the tunnel.
We burst out beyond the capital's ridge.
Behind us, Willow sealed the stone.
Final.
She sagged—then straightened.
"Go, I'll distract then," she said hoarsely.
"What about you?" I argued.
"I'll catch up." She answered with a weak smile.
I didn't want to leave her here but,
We did.
We stopped only when our lungs demanded it.
I turned and looked at him.
Really looked at him.
Black clothes. Blue mask.
Two swords.
And—
A scar.
Thin. Faint. Familiar.
My stomach dropped.
I stepped closer.
He didn't move.
Didn't run.
Slowly, I lifted my hand.
My fingers brushed the scar at his throat.
Warm. Real.
He should have pulled away.
He didn't.
If anything, he leaned into the touch—barely.
A breath.
A memory.
"Why?" I demanded, voice rough. "Why would you help me escape?"
Silence.
"Doesn't Mortimer want me dead?" I pressed. "Doesn't your father?"
My voice broke.
"Don't you?"
Moonlight caught the blue enamel of his mask.
He said nothing.
But he didn't walk away.
And that was answer enough to break my heart all over again.