Morning light spilled gently through the slats in the shutters, painting soft golden stripes across the floor of Mira’s workshop.
The air held the quiet hush of peace—warm, herbal, faintly smoky from the hearth’s lingering scent.
Glass jars lining the shelves caught the sun like prisms, their contents—dried petals, powdered minerals, tiny pressed herbs—glimmering as if lit from within.
A kettle rested by the embers, still faintly warm from the night before.
By the window, a folded blanket lay forgotten beside a wicker basket, where a half-used roll of bandages peeked out—a quiet testament to the long evening past.
It wasn’t silence that filled the space now, but something gentler. A stillness that listened.
Lucien sat on the bench with his boots off and sleeves rolled, already awake.
He said little—his eyes following Mira’s quiet rhythm as she moved through the room with practiced grace, setting breakfast on the table.
Her humming was soft, almost inaudible, weaving itself into the golden shafts of sunlight and the rising steam from fresh tea.
Cassian leaned against the doorway, one shoulder to the frame, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
Every shift drew a small wince—his ribs still healing beneath his shirt—but he bore it with dry muttering and a steaming mug in hand.
“Finally. Real coffee,” he grumbled into the cup.
On the worktable, Mira placed down a plate of still-warm bread, a jar of dark berry jam, and a neatly folded cloth bundle that revealed slices of cheese, eggs, and crisp green apple.
The scent alone could have lulled a soldier back to sleep.
“This is too nice,” Cassian said, eyeing the spread like it might vanish. “Yesterday feels like a fever dream.”
“It wasn’t,” Mira replied, setting a second mug in front of Lucien. “The jail still has five very real assassins in it.”
Lucien arched a brow. “And how did you defeat five A-class assassins again?”
Mira only smiled, reaching for a knife to slice the bread with the same quiet confidence she wore like armor.
“They weren’t as good as they thought,” she said simply.
Cassian gave a grunt—half laugh, half groan—and eased into a chair. The way he moved made it clear his bruises were still loud, but he didn’t complain.
Lucien followed with quieter grace, settling opposite him and reaching for a slice of bread. He paused, watching Mira as she turned back to the kettle.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said, voice low and rough with sleep.
“I can’t exactly let a prince starve,” she answered without looking back. “Can I?”
That earned a faint smile from Lucien. “You made these?”
“Just the jam,” Mira said as she finally took her seat beside them, “and the tea. The bread was from the bakery.”
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For a while, they ate.
No blades, no shadows in the trees—just warm bread, sweet jam, and steam curling into the beams of dawn.
Cassian was the one to break the calm.
“So…” he said, “are we going to talk about those mercenaries you tied up?”
Mira’s spoon paused mid-stir.
“What do you suggest we do with them?” she asked mildly, setting the spoon down. “They didn’t actually break any laws. They just took a job, like any other adventurers would.”
Cassian leaned back in his chair, mug in hand, his expression tilting somewhere between amusement and annoyance.
Lucien took a sip of coffee and said, “Maybe we should talk to the leader.”
Mira nodded slowly, then reached for a slice of bread and began to spread jam on it—her movements unhurried.
“I was thinking the same thing,” she said. “That’s why I left them out there.”
“Speaking of which,” Cassian muttered, “should we go and check on them? I hope they didn’t become dinner for some wild beast.”
Mira didn’t look up. She finished with the jam, folded the slice of bread in half, and took a quiet bite.
“They’re not going anywhere,” she said after a moment, chewing thoughtfully. “And there are no predators on this hill. I made sure of that many years ago.”
Lucien raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You made sure?”
Mira swallowed her bite, then took a sip of tea before answering. “Warding glyphs. A full perimeter, drawn into the bedrock beneath the soil. Keeps out beasts—natural and otherwise.”
Cassian blinked. “Wait, you warded the whole hill?”
“I like my sleep,” she said simply, reaching for another slice of bread. “And I don’t like surprises.”
Lucien gave a low whistle. “No wonder you’re so calm. I thought it was just the tea.”
“Tea helps.” Mira smirked faintly.
“By the way,” she added, “their employer, Count Elmhurst—that name sounds familiar. I think there’s an abandoned mansion not far away under that name.”
Lucien leaned forward, setting his mug down with a quiet thud. “Elmhurst’s no ordinary noble. He’s one of the empire’s highest-ranking military leaders.
It’s not uncommon for men like him to own manors in every province they oversee—but I didn’t know he had one this far south.”
“The townsfolk say it’s haunted,” Mira replied. “Nobody goes near it anymore.”
“Haunted?” Cassian lifted an eyebrow. “What are we talking about here? Ghosts? Banshees? You ever been?”
Mira shook her head. “No. My parents wouldn’t let me anywhere near it.”
Lucien leaned back in his chair, arms folded, eyes catching the light filtering through the shutters. “Garron and Elia were right. No sense walking into trouble just because the door’s unlocked.”
Mira gave a small shrug, brushing crumbs from her skirt. “That’s what they always said: ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’ And in this town, we don’t see a lot of cats.”
Cassian snorted. “Charming little proverb. Makes me feel real safe about heading into the woods.”
Lucien smiled faintly. “Let’s finish eating. I want a word with those mercenaries before the day slips away.”
Meanwhile, somewhere in the bushes—
“Ah-choo!”
Rook sneezed, loud and graceless, then sniffled with theatrical misery. “Ugh. This is the worst. Why is it always cold and wet in the woods? I feel like I’ve been sleeping in a frog’s pocket.”
“We’ve been tied to trees all night,” Leila said without looking at him, her voice flat. Dew clung to her hair in damp strands. “Be grateful we’re breathing.”
“I’d be more grateful if I were breathing somewhere dry,” Rook grumbled.
He shifted against the trunk with a wince. “Do you think she forgot about us? I mean, she just left us here. What kind of ‘saintess’ does that?”
“The kind who lets you live,” Grey said quietly. He sat cross-legged nearby, his wrists still bound—but just barely. Anyone paying close attention would notice the rope had slackened. Likely his doing.
“Yeah, right. Tell that to my spine,” Rook muttered.
“Quit whining,” Leila said. “And stop fidgeting. Where the hell is Kael? He should’ve been back by now.”
Grey’s head lifted slightly. His eyes scanned the foggy treeline, where morning light was just beginning to filter through the mist, gilding leaves and moss with faint gold.
The birds had returned in cautious bursts, their calls tentative in the hush that still lingered after last night’s clash.
“No sign of him,” Grey said after a pause. “He might’ve run into trouble.”
Rook groaned dramatically. “Or maybe he ran into comfort. I bet he’s tucked into a warm bed right now—with a window view prettier than us.”
Leila gave him a look. “Don’t tempt me to gag you again.”
Rook huffed. “Like you can do that with your hands tied.”
Then—came the sound of footsteps beyond the bushes.
Grey’s head turned first, sharp and alert. Leila straightened slightly against the tree.
Rook, of course, was mid-complaint.
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He froze as shadows moved through the thinning mist.
From the treeline, three figures emerged.
Mira walked at the front, a wicker basket swinging lightly at her side, her expression fresh with sleep and brighter than the morning sun.
Her braid bounced with each step, and a faint hum slipped from her lips—like she was on her way to a garden stroll rather than checking on prisoners.
Lucien came beside her, coat half-buttoned, sleeves casually rolled, a quiet smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.
He looked far more rested than the night before, but his eyes moved with quiet precision, scanning the clearing like a chessboard.
Cassian trailed a few steps behind, hands tucked behind his back, posture easy but alert. His gaze swept over the mercenaries, sharp and assessing.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said dryly. “Still breathing, I see. Shame.”
“Told you the wards were working,” Mira said brightly.
She stopped in front of Rook and crouched, studying his rumpled hair and puffy-eyed glare. “Morning. Sleep well?”
Rook blinked at her with a flat expression. “Yeah, like a corpse.”
Mira smiled, undeterred. “Lovely.”
Leila gave a soft huff. “What now? We’ve already told you everything we know.”
Mira didn’t answer right away. She only tilted her head toward Lucien and stepped aside.
“Not my turn,” she said with a faint smile. “It’s his.”
Lucien stepped forward and crouched, bringing himself to their eye level. His voice was calm—measured, but edged with steel.
“Do you know who I am?”
Grey met his gaze without blinking, then gave a small, deliberate nod.
Rook swallowed but said nothing, his bravado suddenly nowhere to be found.
Leila didn’t speak, but the tension in her shoulders—and the way her eyes narrowed—spoke volumes.
Lucien’s brow rose a fraction. “Good,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
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