The city gates of Valara loomed like iron teeth biting into the sky.
Aeryn stood in their shadow, her cloak heavy with dust and sweat, her chest tight with the weight of what she was about to do. Her pack held only the barest essentials now—her blade, a waterskin, and the forged parchment she had paid three silver for at a caravan stop. It named her Aeron of Blackhollow, a farmer's orphan from the southern borderlands.
She had practiced her new name until it felt real on her tongue.
The guards at the gates barely glanced at her parchment. One muttered something about farmhands seeking work, and waved her through without a second thought.
She was in.
Valara.
The capital city of Tharion rose around her in uneven layers of noise and stone. Buildings towered like watching giants, their balconies covered in silk-draped railings and eyes peering down. The scent of the city hit her full in the chest—baked bread, mud, coal smoke, perfume, and too many bodies moving too fast.
Aeryn kept her head down and her cloak pulled close, weaving her way through crowds that paid her no mind. She didn't head straight for the palace district. That would be too reckless. Instead, she followed the slope of the southern street until she found a crooked sign swinging in the wind that read: The Gray Tankard.
The inn was dimly lit, smelled faintly of old ale and burnt stew, and was run by a tired-looking woman with no questions in her eyes.
"One night," Aeryn said, placing a few copper coins on the counter.
"Room in the loft. Bread comes with the bed," the innkeeper replied. "Bath's down the hall."
The room was small, the bed sagged, and the straw mattress crackled when she shifted—but it was safety. Temporary. Enough.
That evening, she made her way back down to the common room, where merchants, guards off-duty, and a few hopefuls gathered over mugs of ale. She sat at the far end, near the hearth, hood low. She listened.
A trio of men at the next table leaned close over their drinks.
"They say the Crown Prince hasn't taken a bride because he's cursed," one muttered.
"No, no," another said, waving him off. "He's picky. Or maybe he's already got one hidden somewhere. A noble girl. Or a witch."
The third man snorted. "You lot believe too much tavern gossip. I heard from a guard in the palace that he sneaks out at night. Has a disguise. Walks among the commoners like he's one of us."
"Rubbish."
"Swear on my boots. Said he goes by another name. Helps orphans, listens to complaints. Real vigilante type."
"So he plays hero while we starve? Typical."
They laughed, but Aeryn didn't.
She tucked that detail away.
A prince who wandered at night? A name not his own? It could be myth. Or it could be the most useful truth she'd heard yet.
Later, while eating a bowl of bland porridge, she overheard a pair of women by the stairs.
"The palace guard's open trials are this week. My cousin's boy is applying."
"Foolish. They say only ten out of a hundred make it. And only if you impress Captain Rhyn himself."
Aeryn stirred her spoon slowly. The time hadn't come to step forward. Not yet.
But soon.
As she finished the last of her meal, a cheerful voice broke her thoughts.
"You eat like someone's chasing you. First day in Valara too?"
She turned to see a boy—around twenty-two—plop onto the bench across from her with a crooked smile and a bowl of stew in his hands.
His hair was a tousled brown mess, and freckles dotted his sun-worn face. He had a chipped tooth and wore boots two sizes too big.
Aeryn hesitated. "Yes."
"I'm Fen," he said through a mouthful. "Fenric, technically, but no one calls me that unless they're mad. You got a name, stranger?"
"Aeron," she replied.
"You applying too? For the palace guard? I figured you might be. You've got the look—quiet, tense, like you're already rehearsing sword drills in your head."
She blinked. "And you?"
"Tomorrow morning! Been training with my uncle's militia since I was fifteen. I'm not the best, but I'm quick. Got kicked by a horse once and didn't cry, so that counts for something."
Aeryn allowed a small smile.
"What about you? You got people in the city?"
She shook her head. "No. Just me."
"Same. Parents passed. Grew up working in wheat fields. Figured I'd either join the guard or starve trying."
He didn't seem to notice her silence as a cue to stop talking. In fact, he kept going—about the food being terrible, the innkeeper being kind, and how he once saw a man eat a pigeon raw in the lower market.
Aeryn didn't say much, but she didn't move either.
When Fen finally yawned and stretched, he grinned. "See you at the tryouts, Aeron. I'll try not to trip over my own boots in front of Captain Rhyn."
She watched him head upstairs, humming off-key.
Aeryn sat back and exhaled.
Tomorrow, she'd start asking around. She'd walk the outer training grounds and study their routine.
She had made it to Valara.
Now, she would learn its rules.
And when the time came , she'd be ready to break them.