The Winter Palace felt colder than ever.
Luenor hadn't moved in hours. He stared at the now-dark mana orb, the last image of his father still etched into his mind. The silent crowd. The defiant cry. The rope tightening.
He clenched his fists.
"Luenor," Hera said softly, sitting beside him, "we have to leave."
Luenor's voice was hollow. "Why?"
Hera hesitated. "Because they'll come. For us. Just like they came for him."
Richard, the knight guarding the palace, entered. His armor was scratched, his face weary. "They've breached the first perimeter. The palace is next. We must go—now."
Luenor rose slowly. "We're not running."
Richard blinked. "Young Lord?"
Luenor turned to face him. His eyes were not those of a child anymore.
"We're not running," he repeated. "We're surviving."
He walked to the chest beside his bed and opened it. Inside lay a sword—still dull from lack of use, gifted to him on his seventh birthday. He gripped it, then looked up at Richard.
"Where is Hunter?"
Richard paused. "No word. But he's alive. If anyone could survive… it's him."
Luenor nodded. "Then we find him. We regroup. We reclaim what's ours."
Outside, the sounds of shouting grew louder. Footsteps. The clash of steel.
Richard opened a hidden passage behind a bookshelf. "Through here. It'll lead us to the old snow tunnels. We escape into the forest."
Luenor turned to Hera, who now held their mother's necklace tightly in her fist.
"I'll get us out," Luenor whispered. "I promise."
She nodded.
And with one last look at the Winter Palace, they slipped into the shadows.