The forest north of Eira's cottage was older than memory. Trees stretched like cathedral pillars, their trunks twisted by time and shadow. Moss blanketed everything—rocks, branches, even the air itself. Sunlight pierced the canopy in fractured shafts, but it didn't warm. Not here.
Eira's legs ached from two days of travel, but she kept pace with Cassian. He moved like a man born to the wild, his steps silent, senses alert. The moment they passed the Queen's patrol perimeter, he'd relaxed—slightly—but she knew it wouldn't last.
They weren't just fleeing. They were being hunted.
"Valeharrow is close," he said, eyes scanning ahead. "We'll reach the ruins by nightfall."
She tightened the strap of her satchel. "And this place—it's safe?"
"As safe as anything gets these days. Rebels use it as a contact point. There's someone there we can trust."
Eira didn't ask who. Not yet.
Instead, she studied Cassian's posture, the way his hand always hovered near his belt, where a blade sat concealed. There was something practiced about him. Something trained.
"You're not just a messenger," she said suddenly.
He slowed. "Excuse me?"
"You know how to fight. You track like a hunter. You don't speak like a commoner, but you pretend you do." She arched a brow. "You're hiding something."
Cassian stopped walking.
The silence stretched between them like drawn wire.
And then, with a sigh, he reached up and pulled something from beneath his collar.
A silver pendant, engraved with a crescent moon crossed by a star.
Eira gasped.
"You're noble," she whispered. "That's a royal insignia."
Cassian nodded. "Cassian Talveran. Second son of the late Duke of Halewyn. Raised in the court, trained as a strategist. But I left the palace the day the Queen began executing children for having 'tainted' blood."
"You were supposed to be her ally."
"I was supposed to be her pawn," he said darkly. "I chose otherwise."
She looked away, heart thudding. "And now you're with the rebellion."
"They need someone who understands the Crown's inner circle. I had the knowledge. I had the rage."
"And now you've found me."
"Yes," he said. "And I need to take you to someone who can protect you."
Eira stiffened. "I don't need protection."
Cassian smiled faintly. "Then maybe he'll just want to meet you."
"He?"
Cassian hesitated. "You'll see."
---
By dusk, the ruins came into view—jagged towers clawing at the sky, vines wrapping their ancient stones like desperate lovers. Once a stronghold of magic, Valeharrow had been destroyed during the Great Culling. Now it lay in ruins, a graveyard of power.
Yet someone had lit a fire inside one of the stone chambers. Smoke drifted upward, and the faint smell of stew hung in the air.
Cassian approached first, giving a sharp whistle that echoed once across the valley.
A rustle.
Then a figure stepped from the shadows.
Tall, cloaked in midnight-blue robes, and wearing a porcelain mask etched with gold filigree.
A mask that covered the entire face.
Eira's pulse quickened.
The stranger bowed slightly. "Welcome home, Prince."
Cassian grimaced. "Don't call me that."
"As you wish," the masked figure said smoothly. Then turned to Eira. "And who might this be?"
Cassian stepped closer to her. "This is Eira. She's Moonbound."
The masked man tilted his head. "Is she now?"
Eira narrowed her eyes. "And you are?"
He removed the hood—but not the mask. "You may call me Corren."
"That's not your name."
"No. But it's the one I've earned."
There was something eerie about him, something that made her magic itch beneath her skin. Like he was wrapped in illusion—or worse, built from it.
"Why the mask?" she asked.
"To protect myself. And to hide what others fear."
Cassian stepped between them. "He's our ally. I trust him."
Eira crossed her arms. "That's nice. I don't."
Corren chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Good. You're not naive. You'll need that if you plan to survive the Queen."
---
They camped in a half-fallen tower, lit by the flickering flames of a small firepit. Corren brewed something that smelled like cinnamon and bitter roots while Cassian cleaned his weapons in silence.
Eira sat with her back against the wall, watching both men closely.
Eventually, Corren broke the quiet.
"I felt your power as you approached. Even cloaked, it sang."
Eira stiffened. "I wasn't using magic."
"No. But it's part of you. That kind of strength leaves a trail. That's how the Queen's Seekers find you."
She frowned. "Then how do you hide yours?"
Corren turned the mask slightly toward her. "Because I don't leave a trail."
Cassian glanced up. "Corren's a Veilwalker. He can fold shadows. Slip between magical detection."
"Only a few could do that during the old wars," Eira said. "It was considered—"
"Impossible," Corren finished. "Which is why I'm still alive."
Eira narrowed her eyes. "You're hiding more than your face."
He didn't deny it. Instead, he gestured at her satchel. "I'd like to see the spell you used to heal Cassian. The one with the dual incantation. It's not common."
Eira hesitated. "And if I say no?"
"Then I wait until you're asleep," Corren said pleasantly, "and read it myself."
Cassian rolled his eyes. "Ignore him. He's dramatic."
"I'm careful," Corren corrected.
Eira finally drew out the page and passed it over. Corren scanned it silently, nodding once.
"Where did you get this?" he asked.
"My mother taught it to me."
He looked up. "Then your mother was no hedge witch. This is pure Moondust script. Ancient and forgotten."
"I've always suspected as much."
Corren leaned forward. "And what else did she teach you?"
"Nothing I'm willing to share tonight."
That made him smile.
Cassian cleared his throat. "Corren will take us to the next safe zone in three days. After that, we meet with the Rebellion's inner ring. There's someone there who's been waiting to meet you, Eira."
"Why?"
Cassian and Corren exchanged a glance.
"Because he thinks you're the answer to a war we're losing," Cassian said.
Eira's blood went cold. "I'm not a savior."
"No," Corren agreed. "You're something rarer. You're a survivor."
That night, she dreamed of fire.
Of her mother screaming. Of masked soldiers tearing their home apart. Of a silver moon cracking in half.
And standing at the edge of it all—a figure in a golden mask.
Watching.