The silver brooch lay in her palm like a cold flame. Elara had spent the entire night seated at the study table, the innocent object before her like the central piece of a puzzle that defied logic. It was real. The metal was worn in the same familiar places—on the tip of the right wing, where she used to touch it nervously, and on the small clasp, slightly bent from a fall on the East Tower parapet.
It was hers. But how was it here, two hundred years in the past, in Kaelen's possession?
The only explanation was as unbearable as it was inevitable: in the first timeline, in the life where she had died, he had kept it. A physical reminder of the promise he had made. And now, in this altered reality, he carried it with him. An artifact from a future that technically never happened, existing in the past. It was tangible proof of their connection, and he had dropped it. Accident? Purpose? A test?
By dawn, her eyes burning from sleeplessness, Elara hid the brooch inside a secret compartment in her bedframe. It was too dangerous to carry. Her mind, however, could not hide it. Every thought was interrupted by the image of the silver falcon falling into the archive dust.
It was in this state of vulnerability that the invitation arrived—or the order. An inspection of the royal troops on the Field of Mars, on the city's eastern fringe. A show of strength for the minor lords and a routine check. A necessary public appearance, the sort of event where Anya shone.
The Field of Mars was a flat expanse of packed earth, ringed by simple wooden stands for the nobility and striped tents for the officers. The air smelled of horse sweat, oiled leather, and the metallic tension of sharpened weapons. The sky was a low, dull grey that promised a fine rain, cooling the day and making the colours of the banners—royal purple, house greens and reds—more sombre.
Elara arrived on horseback, riding a high-stepping grey mare. Her attire was a riding dress that functioned as subtle armour: black leather trousers beneath a tunic of slate-grey velvet, a short wool cloak of purple fastened at the shoulder by a larger solar falcon brooch. It was the image of the accessible, yet unattainable, sovereign.
Kaelen met her at the field gate, his posture rigid, his face the perfect professional mask. No sign of the confused man from the archives. He presented the Commander-General, a man with a grizzled moustache and cold eyes, and then fell back to her side, his role today more security than command.
The inspection began. Row upon row of soldiers, their armour glinting dully under the flat light. She passed before them, asking pointed questions about provisioning and training, her voice projecting clear and authoritative. She felt the weight of the stares—from the soldiers, full of reverent awe; from the lords, full of political assessment; and from him, carrying a silent scrutiny that burned her profile.
It was during the demonstration by the archer units that she saw him. Among a group of contracted mercenaries, men in mismatched armour and cynical expressions, one man stood out. Not by his height or gear, but by his observation. While the others watched the ranks or the lords, his eyes were fixed on her.
Soren.
He was younger, but the features were unmistakable. The untidy brown hair, the easy smile that didn't reach shrewd green eyes. He wore the emblem of a minor mercenary company, but his eyes scanned the field with a strategist's precision, not a sellsword's greed.
He stared at her for a moment too long to be casual. His green eyes met hers across the distance, and he gave a slight, almost-nod, a gesture of intimate recognition that didn't match his station. He was identifying her. Appraising.
She looked away, her heart beating a little faster. The leader of the Magicless resistance, here, in disguise. Taking a risk. Why? Espionage, of course. But something told her there was more. The resistance was not an organized threat yet, in this time. He might just be building his network. Or witnessing the legend in formation.
The demonstration progressed to siege units, and finally to a display of bladed, close-quarters combat. The noise was deafening: the clash of metal, the shouts of trainers, the sporadic roar from the crowd.
Elara was led to a covered stand for a better view, Kaelen a step behind and to her right, his eye constantly sweeping the crowd.
It was then that one of the sparring matches grew overly vigorous. The man with a practice war-hammer, attempting a wide swing, lost his footing. The blunted weapon, still a heavy mass of wood and metal, flew from his hands.
It did not fly toward the crowd. It flew in a high, dangerously precise arc, spinning, straight toward the covered stand. Straight for Elara's head.
Time slowed. She saw the hammer spinning against the grey sky, heard a muffled shout, saw the panic in the Commander-General's eyes beside her. Her own body froze, not from Anya, but from Elara, the princess never trained for combat.
Then, a force enveloped her. Not violent, but decisive and irresistible. An arm around her waist, pulling her back and to the side. A body solid as a rampart interposing itself between her and the weapon's path.
Kaelen.
He pulled her into the corner of the stand, his own back turned to the danger. The hammer passed by them, grazing the awning's edge with a sinister tearing sound before hitting the ground with a thud that made the wood tremble.
Silence. Then, a tumult of voices.
Elara was crushed against him. Her face pressed against the hard wool of his uniform tunic. She could feel the rapid rhythm of his heart beating strong under the leather and wool. She could feel the heat of his body, his scent flooding her senses. Her own hands, by pure instinct, gripped his arms, feeling the tense muscles under the cloth.
For one second, just one, there was no empire, no past or future, no lies. There was only the shock of the near-miss, the dizzying relief of being alive, and the overwhelming reality of being in his arms. Her own heart raced, a tumult of emotion that had no name.
He held her for a moment longer than necessary, his breath coming fast against her hair. Then, with visible restraint, he released her, stepping back. His grey eyes were dark and fixed on hers.
"Are you hurt?"
His voice came out rougher than normal.
She shook her head, unable to speak, adjusting her cloak with hands that trembled slightly.
The Commander-General was shouting, men swarming the hapless soldier. Kaelen took another step back, reassuming his mask of professionalism, but his fist was clenched at his side.
And on the steps of the stand, Soren watched the entire scene with an intense, calculated interest, his green eyes flicking from her to Kaelen and back, as if he had just learned something very valuable.
The investigation of the "accident" was quick and superficial. The terrified soldier swore it was a genuine mistake. He was detained, and public order was restored. The inspection ended on a somber note. Elara departed in her carriage, the image of the spinning hammer and the feel of Kaelen's arms around her replaying in her mind.
That night, in her chambers, it was Lyra who brought the fragments of truth. The lady-in-waiting entered to clear the dinner tray, her face a study in discretion.
"A terrible thing, Your Highness, what happened today," she commented, her voice smooth as silk.
"Accidents happen in training," Elara replied, distracted.
"Yes, Your Highness. But… sometimes, accidents are encouraged."
Lyra lowered her voice.
"The maid who serves the west wing chambers… she overheard something. From the young Lady Vivel. She was speaking with her brother, that captain of the city guard. She said that… the Empress seemed 'unsteady' lately. That perhaps a small scare, a demonstration of how even the strongest can be vulnerable… might be a useful reminder. For everyone."
Elara looked up slowly, her blood cooling. Vivel. The future Queen-Mother, the architect of her sacrifice. Here, now, just an ambitious young lady-in-waiting. And it was beginning. Not with poison or a dagger, but with insinuation and a conveniently orchestrated "accident." She was sowing the narrative of instability. Creating her own enemy, exactly as she knew it would happen.
"Where is Lady Vivel now?" Elara asked, her voice icy.
"On leave, Your Highness. Headaches, they say. She will return in a few days."
Of course. Distancing herself from the scene.
After Lyra left, Elara was alone. The promised fine rain had begun, tapping softly against the windowpanes. The day's incident, Kaelen's touch, the revelation about Vivel—it was all too much. The weight of the disguise, the mission, the constant vigilance, pressed on her shoulders.
She went to the window, looking out at the curtain of rain hiding the gardens. She needed air. A moment without eyes upon her. She opened the window just a crack, enough for the clean smell of wet earth to enter.
It was then that she saw it.
On the desk, perfectly centered on a blank parchment where it had not been before, was a feather.
Not a common feather. It was long, of a deep, iridescent black, with a blue-green sheen under the candlelight, like oil on water. The feather of a raven. Or of something larger.
She approached, did not touch it. There was not enough wind to have blown it in through the window. Someone had placed it there. While she was at the Field of Mars? While she was at dinner?
The meaning was as clear as a shout in the silence.
The Ravenant.
They were not merely observing from distant rooftops.They were inside the palace. They had access to the Empress's chambers. The feather was a message, an elegant and threatening reminder: We saw it. We see everything. And we can reach you whenever we wish.
Elara stood motionless, the rain tapping on the glass the only sound, her eyes fixed on the black feather gleaming like an eye against the pale parchment. The accident had not been the day's only threat. And Kaelen's safeguard was not the only vigilance upon her.
The game had multiple levels, and on one of them, in the wet shadows of the night, creatures with dark, almond-shaped eyes made their notations, and a black feather was left as the calling card of a hunter who had not yet decided if it was predator or ally.