The noise of Veyrahn hit them like a wave.
Spices burned the air, merchants shouted in five languages, and every corner glittered with color — brass lamps, silk banners, glass charms that caught sunlight like tiny flames. The smell of roasted fruit, smoke, and sea salt mixed into something dizzying but strangely alive.
Ryn walked a step ahead, hands in his pockets, trying not to look impressed.
It wasn't working.
"This place smells like ten kingdoms got drunk and started trading," he muttered.
Lysandra smiled. "It's called culture."
"It's called chaos with better lighting."
They passed stalls filled with trinkets, fabrics, and food. Ryn paused at one — a display of masks carved from polished stone and wood, painted with metallic inks. His hand brushed over a silver-and-blue one that shimmered faintly when touched.
"New mask?" Lysandra asked, watching him.
He tilted it toward the light. "It's beautiful."
"Beautiful doesn't mean practical."
"Neither do you, and you're still here."
She rolled her eyes. "We'll come back for it."
He grinned — then froze. Literally.
A crowd had gathered around a street wall covered in papers. His eyes locked on one.
It was him.
Or rather, the idea of him — a bounty sketch so well done it might as well have been painted by a royal artist. The strokes were sharp, elegant, capturing the angle of his mask and the faint smirk beneath it with unsettling perfection.
Across the bottom, bold letters read:
"The Ice Fox — Traitor of Solvane, Kidnapper of Princess Lysandra of Lumeria."
Ryn stared at it in silence. Then, softly: "They made me handsome."
Lysandra groaned. "Ryn, that's your wanted poster."
"I know. But look at the shading! The drama! The hair— I mean, they even got the smirk right."
"Stop admiring your bounty!"
He folded the poster neatly and tucked it under his arm. "Souvenir."
She grabbed his wrist and dragged him away before someone recognized them. "You're impossible."
"Still my best quality," he said, dodging a fruit cart as they hurried through the crowd.
By the time they reached the inner market, Lysandra's irritation had softened. They stopped at a small stall where a baker sold steaming bread and something that looked suspiciously like spiced honeyfruit. Ryn bought three.
Then came supplies — rope, tools, and, inevitably, the new masks. Four of them. Each one painted differently: one plain, one black with silver streaks, one grinning like a fox, and one carved with faint blue frost patterns.
Lysandra eyed the last one. "That looks cursed."
Ryn turned it in his hands, watching how the light shimmered across the surface. "Perfect, then."
As the sun dipped lower, the city grew louder. Musicians played in the streets, laughter echoed from taverns, and the smell of roasted meat filled the air. Ryn and Lysandra slipped into one of the larger inns near the square — a wide, noisy place called The Laughing Kraken.
Inside, warmth and noise swallowed them whole. Adventurers, traders, thieves — everyone mingled. Someone strummed a lute in the corner, and two dwarves argued about taxes that probably didn't exist.
They found a small table by the window. Ryn ordered something that hissed when poured, and for the first time in days, they could breathe.
Until he heard it.
A voice — half-drunken, half-dramatic — rose from a nearby table.
"—and then he snatched the princess right in front of the altar! Poor Prince Caelum didn't even have time to finish his vows!"
Laughter followed.
Ryn's fingers froze around his cup. Lysandra went still.
Another man leaned forward, grinning. "They say he vanished in a storm of frost! The whole church froze solid!"
"Bah," someone else said. "The Ice Fox is a myth. No man could steal a bride from five kingdoms and live."
"Oh, he lived," the first voice said. "Word is, he's somewhere near the southern roads. Masked, charming, dangerous—"
A serving girl passed their table and glanced at Ryn. Her cheeks turned pink. "You've got the eyes of that Ice Fox fellow," she said with a laugh. "Better hide before the guards start swooning too."
Lysandra bit her lip to keep from laughing. Ryn leaned back in his chair, smirk hidden beneath his new mask. "Guess I should start charging for autographs."
"Ryn," Lysandra hissed. "Don't."
He raised his cup in mock salute toward the loudest table. "To legends, may they never run out of bad ideas."
The drinkers laughed, thinking he was just another traveler making a joke.
Outside, the night deepened. The city of trades hummed on — unaware that the very man from their stories sat among them, laughing quietly at his own myth.
And somewhere on the road outside Veyrahn, an elven scout galloped toward the north — carrying news that would spread faster than rumor.
The Ice Fox has crossed Eldara. The princess of Lumeria is with him.
And somewhere in Solvane's royal court, Prince Caelum's wine glass shattered in his hand.