Vireth darted through the open window, wings glinting with traces of purple, and landed on the edge of Icarus's desk with a huff.
"I lost his presence near the southern border for a while," the little creature announced, tail twitching with frustration. "Then it returned—same place."
Icarus, who had already watched the entire scene unfold through Vireth's eyes, simply gave a nod. "Good. Keep tracking him. Don't lose focus."
Vireth puffed his chest but made no move to leave. He perched, tail swaying lazily, clearly lingering for another reason.
Icarus arched a brow. "What is it this time?"
Vireth's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Three more blueberries. Three times a day. Non-negotiable."
Icarus leaned back, arms folded. "That's too much."
"Then I'll just stay here. Much more comfortable than spying on that very boring mortal."
The corner of Icarus's mouth twitched. "You're getting spoiled."
"And you're stingy," Vireth sniffed.
With a quiet chuckle, Icarus reached into the small wooden box on his desk and plucked out a few blueberries. He placed them on the desk one by one. Vireth scooped up the first two with enthusiasm, wings fluttering in excitement.
As he reached for the third, Icarus teasingly pulled it back.
Vireth squawked. "Master! Give it. To. Me!"
He fluttered in place, flapping his wings like an indignant child.
"Alright, alright…" Icarus said, trying to suppress a grin. He held it out.
The moment the blueberry touched Vireth's tiny claws, the familiar gave a satisfied chirp and zoomed off, trailing sparks of amused annoyance in his wake.
Icarus shook his head and returned to his notes.
"Little menace," he murmured, but his eyes lingered on the window—already waiting for Vireth's next report.
Meanwhile, Abigel paced the length of his quarters, restlessness rolling off him in waves. The bracelet on Aria's wrist had flared last night—soft, but unmistakable. That aura. His aura.
His knuckles whitened.
Since Aria had left, his training had grown ruthless—almost violent. He couldn't understand why Duke Theodore had agreed to send her to Ashkalon. The only small comfort he clung to was that Crown Prince Liam was by her side.
Abigel pulled off his training tunic, trying to calm his storming thoughts, when a familiar voice drifted into the room.
"Looks like you're finally done being dramatic," Icarus said as he stepped in, eyes casually scanning the weapons mounted on the walls.
"I felt his presence near her," Abigel muttered through clenched teeth. "Last night. It wasn't faint. He was close."
Icarus's eyes sharpened slightly, though his tone remained composed. "So that's where he went."
"You were tracking him?" Abigel asked, tension flickering in his voice.
"Yes. Khalid has been lurking near the southern border for days. Last night, he vanished for just a moment… and then reappeared like nothing happened." Icarus folded his arms. "But that distance—he shouldn't have been able to move that fast."
Abigel narrowed his eyes. "Teleportation magic?"
"No trace of it," Icarus said.
A beat of silence passed between them.
"My father received a letter from the South," Abigel added. "A spy was caught—he was searching for the Silver Sword."
Icarus went still. Slowly, a calculating smile curved on his lips. "Now that… is interesting."
He closed his eyes. With a whisper of incantation, a glowing image shimmered into the air—a perfect projection of Khalid, cloaked, shadowed and the perfect mask he wore.
"Send this to the Duchy," Icarus said. "Compare it with the spy. If it matches—then Khalid's not just playing politics anymore."
Without waiting for a response, Icarus turned and vanished into the shadows.
The next morning, Aria received a formal invitation—a handwritten message sealed with the queen's insignia.
Her Majesty Mumtaz kindly requests Lady Aria Kaelen's presence for tea this afternoon, accompanied by her knight.
Though brief, the letter held a weight Aria couldn't ignore.
The tea party was held in a delicate sun-drenched courtyard. Cushions of desert silk were arranged around a low marble table adorned with golden trays of spiced dates and chilled fruit. Queen Mumtaz was graceful, her face veiled, but her eyes sharp and probing. The questions were simple—her stay, her health, her thoughts on Ashkalon—until…
BAM!
The door swung open with force, making Sylphira tense immediately.
A girl no older than eighteen barged in, eyes burning with emotion. She was striking—tan skin, raven-black hair, and tear-filled brown eyes that shimmered with fury.
"Is she the one?" she demanded; eyes locked on Aria.
Sylphira's jaw clenched.
"Zara, calm down, child," Mumtaz said, standing to intercept the storm.
Zara trembled. "But aunt, I was engaged to Khalid long before. He made promises… How can I forget him like that?" Her voice cracked.
Aria remained seated, posture graceful, but her blue eyes gleamed coldly.
She cleared her throat, cutting through the tension like a blade. "Has anyone asked me what I want?"
Zara froze.
"I will not marry Prince Khalid." Aria's voice was polite, but final. "And I would appreciate it if this matter is not brought up again."
Even Queen Mumtaz's eyes widened slightly beneath her veil. Zara looked as if the ground had been ripped from beneath her.
"If you'll excuse me," Aria said, rising. "I'd like to return to my chambers."
She left without waiting for permission, Sylphira shadowing her in silence.
"Is everyone here this intense?" Aria muttered once they were out of earshot.
Sylphira sighed. "Kind of."
That night, dinner passed in silence. Neither Queen Mumtaz nor King Raheem mentioned Khalid again—clearly, Mumtaz had passed on Aria's answer. The wine was light, the conversation shallow.
Aria barely touched her food. Something tasted… off.
Later, as she settled into bed, the world began to tilt. A strange heat crept beneath her skin. She was thirsty for something else. Her breath grew shallow. The sweet, smoky scent hanged in the air.
Her limbs refused to move. She tried to sit up—but her body betrayed her.
Her mind was awake, her heart racing in panic—but she couldn't even lift her hand.
Her vision blurred, but not enough to miss the figure slipping into the room.
A shadow moved toward her bed.