The morning sun broke gently through a quilt of mist that clung to the rooftops of Varnok, spilling gold across the ancient cobblestones like spilled treasure. The city breathed around it—alive, hungry, and waiting.
Scents of spice, leather, and burning incense filled the air. Merchants bellowed prices over pyramids of fruit and bolts of silk. Laughter danced from alleyways where barefoot children chased each other between the legs of hurried strangers.
Varnok—once a fortress carved into the Northern Mountains—was now a beast cloaked in beauty. A city where power whispered, not roared. Where secrets thrived in silence and blood was often washed away before it dried.
Amidst the bustle, Adam moved like a ghost wrapped in flesh—cloaked in a brown robe that dulled the sharp lines of his form. Every step was purposeful, steady. He did not look like a man on a mission. He looked like a man born from it.
Beside him, Ryan and Jasmine blended with equal ease—young, alert, yet trained to read the world through the language of movement. Their eyes scanned, always. Their hands never far from steel.
"I don't trust this place," Ryan muttered, low and firm, brushing his fingers near the hidden dagger at his waist. "Too much noise. Too many eyes."
"Exactly," Adam said without slowing. "Noise is where silence hides best."
Maximus and the other two mares stood tethered near a trough at the edge of the square. The warhorse let out a quiet snort as Adam passed, sensing the tension that clung to the morning like fog.
Their hideout lay in the western quarter—behind a blacksmith's forge that never asked questions. It wasn't comfort they sought. It was obscurity. In Veridia, power came with ceremony. But in Varnok, it moved through shadow and struck when least expected.
"Bread, dried meat, two cloaks," Adam instructed. "Stick to the plan. No detours."
Jasmine nodded, keeping close. Her hood was low, but her amber eyes cut through the fabric like sunlight through smoke. Young, yes. But there was an edge in her gaze. Life had sharpened her early—and Adam had seen that same edge once in his own reflection.
They were turning toward a spice merchant when it happened.
A woman in royal-blue silk brushed past Adam. Her movement was deliberate, smooth, scented with jasmine and bitter orange. She didn't stop. But in the second their arms touched—she looked up.
And the world... paused.
Eyes met. His, deep and quiet like an ancient sea. Hers, wide and gold-flecked, stunned by something she couldn't name. Breath caught. The market kept moving, but time itself held still.
Then she dipped her head and disappeared into the crowd like a sigh. Graceful. Hurried. She did not look back.
But Adam remained still—heart slowing, not quickening. He'd fought wars. Killed kings. But her gaze had struck something buried deep. A memory? A warning? A dream he'd forgotten he once dreamed?
Across the square, behind a polished blade at a merchant's stall, he caught the glint of steel—and the shadow that wielded it.
He didn't turn.
Tarek.
Not close enough to strike. But close enough to watch.
Adam blinked once, then moved on.
---
Queen Zaphira walked in silence, her royal-blue veil fluttering behind her like a whispered rumor. She said nothing until they reached the private carriage waiting near the Eastern Gate.
Tarek moved beside her, silent as a blade in moonlight.
Then her voice, low and shaken: "Follow him. But first let's head back to the castle"
Tarek hesitated. "Your Majesty, if King Drokan finds out you're—"
"He won't. And if he does, I'll handle it."
Her eyes were not pleading. They were commanding.
"Discreet," she added. "No contact. I just want to know who he is."
Tarek bowed and vanished into the press of bodies.
Zaphira leaned back into her seat, staring out the carriage window as the city passed in blur.
That face.
It couldn't be.
But her heart… it hadn't reacted like this in years. Not since the fire. Not since the man they told her had died.
---
Back at the market, Ryan and Jasmine had split off. A boy no older than ten brushed past Ryan, quick as wind, slipping something into his hand.
Ryan stopped.
He glanced down—then closed his fist around the parchment.
A triangle pierced by a serpent's fang. Inked in black.
The mark of the Shadowsong.
His stomach turned.
Jasmine caught the flicker in his eyes. "Was that—?"
"Yes," Ryan said, voice tight. "We've been summoned."
Her face paled. "Do we tell Adam?"
"Not yet. Not until we know why."
But Adam had seen it all. He'd seen the boy, the handoff, the way Ryan's gait shifted. He knew the mark well.
The past never truly dies, he thought. It waits.
He said nothing. Let them carry their secrets. He'd carry his.
---
That night, Queen Zaphira stood at the highest window of her private chamber, the palace glistening with firelight. Below, the city throbbed like a living thing.
Tarek knelt behind her.
"Well?" she asked.
"He moves like a shadow that forgot how to vanish," Tarek said. "Not a soldier. A warrior. He sees everything. Feels everything. I've never seen anyone like him."
Zaphira's eyes misted. "And the children?"
"A boy and girl. I think… they might be his."
She closed her eyes. For a moment, the breath she drew was not that of a queen—but of a woman torn in half by time.
"Then it's true…" she whispered.
Tarek looked up. "Who is he?"
She turned, slow, deliberate.
"If I'm right," she said, voice trembling with something she'd buried for too long, "he is the man they told me died. The one they said was consumed by the fire. But I never believed it."
"And what now?"
"Now?" Zaphira whispered. "Now we wait. And watch."
She turned back to the window.
"I am still queen. King Drokan is still alive. But if that man is who I think he is... then nothing in this city will stay the same."