The road north stretches like a wound through the land. Each hoofbeat is a memory — the sound of home reduced to echo. The rivers you cross bear the color of ash, and even the forests seem to bow beneath invisible weight. You ride without rest, the cold gnawing through cloak and bone alike. When you close your eyes, you see flames — the ruin of your house, the charred stones of your birthright, your parents’ faces swallowed by the dark. And through it all, Margaret’s eyes linger like an unanswered question.
By the time you reach the northern coast, the world has changed. The air is colder, the light thinner, as if the sun itself dares not look upon you. From the cliff’s edge, you watch the gray sea churn, gulls crying above like lost spirits. There is no message from Aldebryn, no sign that Margaret knows you live. Yet some instinct — love, or something that mocks it — drives you onward.
You barter for passage aboard a merchant ship bound for the Swedish coast. The crew asks no questions; coin buys silence more easily than loyalty. For days the wind lashes the sails, and you stand alone on deck, watching the endless water heave beneath the stars. You think of Moravice sinking behind you, a drowned kingdom swallowed by the horizon.
When at last the towers of Aldebryn pierce the mist, your heart clenches. The city rises from the sea like something half-remembered — wooden spires, copper roofs, banners snapping in the wind. The harbor is alive with movement: ships docking, sailors shouting, merchants haggling in a dozen tongues. You dismount on the pier, the smell of tar and salt thick in your lungs.
She finds you before you can send word. Margaret.
She stands at the end of the pier, her cloak drawn tight, eyes wide with disbelief. When she steps forward, you see that she has grown thinner; grief has hollowed her cheeks, but her gaze is the same — sharp, steady, unyielding. You dismount and approach her, unsure whether to kneel or speak. She closes the distance for you, throwing her arms around your neck, her body trembling.
“I thought you were dead,” she whispers.
“I nearly was.”
When she pulls back, her eyes glisten. “What happened?”
You cannot speak of the ruins, the ashes, the truth of her silence. Not yet. “Moravice has fallen,” you say instead. “There is nothing left to claim.”
That night she takes you to her house — a tall timber hall overlooking the sea, its windows aglow with candlelight. The servants withdraw, and the two of you sit before the fire. The silence stretches until it becomes unbearable.
“I knew,” she says finally, her voice breaking. “About your parents. I wanted to tell you, but I thought—”
“That it would spare me?”
She flinches. “Yes. I thought it would save what was left of you.”
You look into the flames, unable to answer. The warmth feels like mockery. You want to believe her. You want to forgive her. But the crow in your chest stirs, whispering of deceit, of pity disguised as love.
Days turn to weeks. You remain in Aldebryn, but you are not at peace. The house is comfortable — tapestries, polished wood, the scent of salt and smoke — yet everything feels fragile, borrowed, unreal. You walk the markets with Margaret, listen to the sea against the walls, and try to breathe as if the world were still whole.
Then the first rumor reaches you.
A merchant, pale and shaken, brings word from the south: Emperor Claudius has issued a decree recognizing Hyacint Drevanyn as rightful ruler of Moravice. The words are formal, but their weight is mortal. You read the notice yourself in the tavern square — the seal unmistakable, the signature that once named you heir now naming you exile.
For a long time, you stand there among the townsfolk, unreadable. Margaret reaches for your hand, but you do not move. The wind snaps the parchment against the post, the Emperor’s insignia gleaming like a wound.
That night, the fear returns.
You feel it first in the stillness of the corridors, the echo of your own steps. You imagine eyes behind every shutter, voices whispering your name in foreign tongues. Claudius has chosen Hyacint — but will he rest knowing the last heir still breathes? You recall the Emperor’s patience, his quiet cruelty, the way he smiled when he called mercy a political act.
Margaret notices.
“You don’t sleep,” she says one night, her voice low. “You keep watch as if ghosts might walk through the door.”
“Perhaps they will.”
“Claudius has no reason to send assassins here.”
You look at her, the candlelight flickering in her eyes. “No reason? I am a living claim. A reminder of what he destroyed.”
She steps closer, cupping your face in her hands. “And if he cared to kill you, he would have done so long ago. You torment yourself with shadows.”
But the shadows feel real. Some nights you wake to the cry of gulls and reach for your dagger, half-certain you’ve heard footsteps beyond the door. Other nights you wander the balcony until dawn, your breath frosting in the cold air, your thoughts looping in endless circles. You begin to avoid the city’s harbor, the inns, the markets — any place where strangers might look too long or ask too much.
Margaret endures it with grace at first. She soothes your silences, fills the halls with music and laughter. Yet fear has a way of staining everything it touches. You find yourself snapping at small things — a misplaced letter, a servant’s glance, a door left ajar. When she reaches for you, you sometimes recoil, ashamed but unable to stop yourself.
One evening she confronts you by the fire.
“I love you,” she says, “but I cannot live beside a ghost. You look at me and see an enemy. You listen to the sea and hear executioners. Tell me, what do you want me to do?”
You turn away. The words knot in your throat. “I want to keep you safe.”
“From what? From me? From a world that might never even remember our names?” Her voice trembles now. “You think Claudius lies awake plotting your death? You think Hyacint scours the earth for you? No, my love. They have already forgotten you. Only you keep the war alive.”
Her words strike deep. Forgotten. The thought chills you more than death itself. To die would be one thing; to be erased is another.
For days afterward you speak little. You ride beyond the city walls, through forests still rimed with frost, and think of what must be done. If you leave Aldebryn, Margaret will be safe. Without you, there will be no reason for the Emperor to look north. Yet the thought of her alone — exposed, vulnerable — gnaws at you. What if Claudius’s reach extends farther than you imagine? What if your presence here, your silence, is the only thing keeping her alive?
Nights blur into restless vigil. The sound of the sea becomes the beat of your own heart — steady, relentless, inescapable. You lie awake beside her, listening to her breathing, wondering whether she dreams of peace or of escape.
One morning, unable to bear the stillness, you climb to the tower above the harbor. From there you can see the ships departing, their sails white against the gray horizon. Each one could be freedom. Each one could be doom.
You remain there until dusk, watching the tide draw out, until you realize there is no refuge left in any direction. Moravice is ash. Aldebryn is shadow. And Margaret — she is light, yes, but light that burns the longer you stare.
When you return to the house, she meets you in silence. Her eyes search yours for an answer you cannot give. You touch her cheek, your thumb brushing the line of a tear before it falls.
“I want you to live,” you whisper.
“Then live with me,” she replies. “Not in fear. Not in memory. Here. Now.”
The firelight flickers between you. The sea pounds below. The crow inside you beats its wings once more, neither warning nor command — only the rhythm of choice.
You draw a breath, heavy as judgment. The night waits.
……
You decide to abandon Aldebryn and Margaret, to spare her life from your misery.
…..
You stay, and choose to bear the fear — to guard her from every shadow, even those that rise from within.
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