The first thing Ronell noticed was the draft.
It slipped beneath the windowsill and brushed against her toes, cold and steady like a fingertip trailing under a door. She blinked against the dim grey light filling the unfamiliar room — thinner and colder than it had ever been at Papa's Roost.
The bed beneath her creaked when she sat up. The frame was older, the mattress lower to the ground. The blanket smelled faintly of cedar and dust, and the walls bore no signs of the oil paintings she'd grown used to. Outside, morning bells rang through the mist, dull and slow. Somewhere down the lane, a cart rumbled over frost-bitten cobbles.
Leaves scraped against the inn's window like they were trying to get in.
Ronell stood and crossed the room quietly, pulling the curtain aside. It was still early. Fog pressed low over the rooftops, softening the city's sharper edges. The sky was pale and streaked with clouds, like old parchment water-warped from rain.
The scent of cider and chimney smoke filtered up from below — familiar, yet wrong. Papa's Roost had smelled like bread.
Behind her, May's bed was already empty. The blanket folded, the pillow barely touched.
A knock came at the door — one, then two.
Moore stepped inside without waiting. His boots were wet, his breath visible.
"They've got soup on downstairs," he said, pulling off his gloves. "It's… not the same."
Ronell didn't ask what he meant. She didn't have to.
They both knew this wasn't home.
Downstairs, the common room of The Weaver's Rest was colder than any inn had a right to be. The hearth fire cracked dutifully, but the warmth didn't reach the walls. The ceiling beams groaned with every gust outside, and the windows rattled in their frames like loose teeth.
The innkeeper — a wiry man with ink-stained sleeves — looked up as they came down.
"Ah," he said, nodding. "Morning."
Behind him, a pot of something thin and steaming stirred on the stove.
"Didn't think we'd still be in town?" Moore asked lightly, not unkind.
The man rubbed the back of his neck. "No offense meant. Just… I thought you were passin' through. Most adventurers don't stick past summer."
He looked at Ronell next. Then, finally, at May — who had appeared silently behind them.
Her eyes were unreadable.
"Papa said you'd taken it well," he added, softer now. "Said you'd understand."
Ronell managed a polite nod.
"We do."
Later, as they stepped out into the street, wind tugged at Ronell's sleeves. The mist was beginning to lift, but the air stayed cold — not the bright chill of new seasons, but the kind that clung to your bones.
Moore shoved his hands deep into his pockets.
"Miss the old place already," he muttered.
May didn't answer. Her gaze was fixed on the distant shape of the wall, rising higher than it had a week ago. Stone by stone, the city was being sealed shut.
They didn't speak as they walked. The crunch of leaves followed them, soft and steady.
Autumn had arrived.
And with it — something else.
Something colder.
---
The sun was pale and low by the time they reached the training yard — a soft amber orb trying its best to burn through the lingering fog. The stone tiles held the cold, and the air smelled faintly of metal, sweat, and fallen leaves.
Ronell stepped inside first.
She didn't hurry. Her boots scuffed softly across the ground as she made her way toward the practice ring. A few recruits were already there — stretching, sparring half-heartedly, chatting between drills. But like always, when she arrived, the yard felt quieter. Not in fear. Just… in curiosity.
Today, she didn't hesitate. She approached one of the standing dummies, rolled her shoulders once, and unslung her practice blade with quiet focus. Her fingers curled around the hilt with familiarity. Even ease.
May remained by the entrance, eyes half-lidded under her hood. She leaned against the railing — watching, but not interfering.
And across the ring, the princess stepped into view.
She didn't announce herself. She simply drifted closer, cloak trailing lightly behind her, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of her sheathed sword. Her eyes scanned Ronell's posture — not judging, but calculating.
Ronell struck.
The blow landed cleanly — not hard, but precise. She followed with another, then another — rotating her stance, adjusting her balance. Her footing was better than last week. Her arms didn't shake.
From the fence, Moore raised an eyebrow. "Huh."
Then came the voice — clipped, amused, exact:
"Elbows in. You're not holding a broom."
Ronell froze mid-swing.
She turned slightly — the princess was behind her now, close but not too close.
"Straighten your shoulders," the princess added, circling with the quiet air of command. "They see you before they hear you. Let them see someone worthy."
Ronell obeyed before she even realized it — spine straightening, stance firmer. Her heart knocked once in her ribs, not from effort, but something else.
Nerves.
The princess's hand brushed her braid.
"This keeps slipping," she murmured, and without asking, she retied it — firm, quick, neat. A soldier's knot.
Ronell blushed.
But she let her.
Across the fence, Moore leaned forward on his arms. His smirk was small, but it reached his eyes.
"You've got a fan," he said under his breath.
Ronell didn't hear.
But May did.
And her eyes flicked sideways — not at Moore, but at her. At the princess.
Who had stepped back now, hands behind her back, expression unreadable.
The recruits were watching, but they weren't laughing. Not this time.
Ronell lifted her sword again.
And when she struck, the sound echoed.
---
The sun had climbed just enough to warm the edges of the stone, but not enough to chase the wind from the courtyard.
Moore sat near the fence, arms draped over the railing, watching Ronell spar. He leaned on one elbow, casually, like he didn't care. But his eyes stayed fixed.
Her movements were sharper today. More fluid. The princess said something under her breath — corrected her stance, fixed her hair again. Ronell smiled. Moore's expression didn't change.
A recruit — barely older than him — nudged his shoulder with the hilt of a spare blade.
"You joining or just supervising?"
Moore looked at the blade like it had insulted his family.
"You think I'd last two minutes in there?"
The recruit grinned. "One and a half."
Moore waved him off, laughing with just his mouth. The blade clattered back into the rack.
---
The courtyard was empty now. The sun was low, slipping toward dusk, and the tiles still held the ghost of footsteps from earlier drills. Wind rustled dry leaves across the training ground — a few piled up by the edges, forgotten.
Moore stood in the center alone, facing a dummy.
He held the same blade the recruit had offered earlier. It was too polished. Too formal. It didn't hum like a knife. Didn't bite like the weight of something stolen.
Still, he swung.
The first strike was clumsy. He overstepped and nearly lost his balance. He cursed softly, tried again — and missed the mark entirely.
He dropped the blade.
It landed with a thud.
"Trying to prove something?"
The voice was soft, but close.
He turned. May stood near the edge of the yard, arms tucked inside her cloak, her shadow longer than her figure. She hadn't made a sound arriving.
Moore shrugged, eyes flicking to the blade.
"Trying not to fall behind."
May tilted her head, then stepped forward.
She picked up the blade, held it between them, and turned it in her hands.
"Too balanced for you," she said at last. "It's meant for rhythm. For defense. You're not supposed to dance with it.""You're supposed to run."
Moore raised an eyebrow. "That a compliment?"
May handed him the blade.
"You move like someone who's been chased before," she said quietly. "You survive. That counts."
He took the blade again — slower this time.
Didn't swing.
Just held it.
"Ronell fits here," he said after a moment, not looking at her. "I don't."
May didn't argue.
Instead, she looked past him — at the tower shadows stretching across the stone.
"Then stop trying to be like her," she said. "Be like you."
She turned before he could respond, the tails of her cloak catching in the breeze.
Moore watched her go.
Then, one last time, he raised the blade — and this time, he didn't try to look like a knight.
He just moved.
---
The day was soft with cloudlight when Ronell wandered alone toward the temple district.
A passerby had mentioned it — offhandedly, like a rumor not meant to linger.
"Old place near the ivy path. Doesn't lend books, doesn't close either."
She wasn't looking for anything in particular. But the weight in her chest — the one that had returned slowly since summer began to fade — told her to go anyway.
She found it tucked behind a half-collapsed archway, its entrance veiled in climbing vines and morning dew. The building leaned ever so slightly, like it was exhaling — tired from holding too many stories for too long.
The door creaked as she pushed it open.
Inside, the air shifted.
Dust floated in golden shafts of light from tall windows. Stacks of books rested in no particular order, on crooked shelves and slanted tables. Some looked untouched. Others, recently opened. There was no front desk, no signs, no rules.
Just rows upon rows of silence.
And then — a figure.
The caretaker sat in a high-backed chair, wrapped in a shawl that seemed too large and too soft for their frame. Their eyes didn't lift when she entered, but their voice reached her — as calm as the room itself.
"The books find who they need."
That was all.
Ronell wandered deeper.
The further she stepped, the less the noise of the city seemed real. Even her own breath felt softer here. She trailed her fingers along the edge of a worn table, her eyes catching on spines with no titles, symbols she didn't recognize, names she almost thought she knew.
She paused by a narrow shelf.
A thin volume with a fraying ribbon drew her hand. When she opened it, a pressed leaf slid gently into her palm — golden-red, brittle, and perfect.
She smiled faintly. Tucked it into her pouch.
Another book waited a few rows down — but this one was strange. Its pages were blank until she touched them.
Ink bled out under her fingertips, forming slow words she didn't recognize at first.
She flipped further — finding a scene of a girl who looked like her, standing by a city gate.
The drawing style matched her own.
Did I draw this?
She sat down cross-legged on the floor, the book resting across her knees.
Her fingers itched for charcoal. She pulled her sketchbook from her satchel — the pages still mostly empty since summer — and began to draw.
Lines came without thinking. A rooftop here. May's shadow there. The curve of the princess's wrist as she adjusted a braid. Moore's laugh when he missed a leaf.
She didn't look up for a long time.
When she did, the light through the high glass had changed. Dusk had started creeping in.
She flipped back through the book, wondering if the image had changed.
In the margin of one of the last pages, a small line waited — not part of the story, but scrawled like a note left behind by someone else:
"You were not meant to stay."
Ronell stared at it.
Her hand hovered for a moment — not sure whether to copy it or close the book.
Eventually, she did both.
---
The courtyard was cooling by the time they left the training grounds, shadows stretching long across the flagstones.
Ronell's tunic clung damp to her back, her braid slipping loose from sweat and movement. She clutched the towel the princess had tossed her earlier — still unsure whether it was a gift, a test, or both.
They walked the long road that curved down toward the artisan quarter — not speaking much, but not uncomfortably so. The princess kept a steady pace, her boots clicking against the stone, her hands clasped behind her back. Ronell trailed a step behind, gaze lowered but posture upright, still buzzing faintly with the aftershocks of training.
Then the princess stopped — abruptly — in a quieter side street where the wind carried the scent of forge smoke and cold iron.
She turned, one brow raised.
"You could pass for me," she said simply. "Almost."
Ronell blinked. "What?"
The princess didn't explain. She shrugged off her cloak — rich navy lined with silver stitching — and stepped forward without warning.
She swept it around Ronell's shoulders in one fluid motion.
"Try it," she said, adjusting the clasp. "Let's see."
Ronell flushed, half-laughing in confusion, but didn't resist. The fabric was heavier than she expected. Warm. Impossibly soft.
She shifted awkwardly, tugging the collar higher. "I'll look ridiculous—"
But the princess had already turned, eyes narrowed in appraisal.
"No," she said after a beat. "You don't."
They stood like that for a moment — mirrored in posture, braid to braid, one clothed in the other's name.
The street around them was quiet. Somewhere beyond the rooftops, a bell chimed the late hour. A crow startled from a chimney, cawed once, and vanished into the grey.
Ronell looked down at herself, fingers brushing the embroidery near the clasp. A symbol — one she'd seen before, stitched into royal guards' banners. The weight of it settled differently than her own traveling cloak ever had.
"…Why?" she asked softly.
The princess gave a faint, unreadable smile. "Consider it a lesson."
And then she turned, cloakless, walking once more toward the artisan quarter — her own shoulders bare to the wind.
Ronell followed — slowly, her steps echoing with hers.
From the rooftop above the alley's edge, May crouched in silence — still as shadow, half-shrouded by the brick lip.
She had followed the curve of the road when they left training. She hadn't intended to eavesdrop.
But now, her eyes narrowed slightly.
She didn't move. Didn't call out.
Just watched — as the girl she'd crossed worlds for walked two paces behind someone else, wearing someone else's colors.
She didn't speak of it later.
But she didn't forget it either.
---
They didn't notice when it changed.
Not at first.
May used to walk beside them — sometimes leading, sometimes lingering near Ronell's shoulder like a silent tether. But now, her boots fell behind theirs. Three paces back. Out of rhythm.
She didn't complain. She never did.
She was simply... quieter now.
She left earlier in the mornings, returning with wind-swept hair and dust on her gloves. She lingered at corners, rooftops, and alley mouths. Her eyes followed not just people, but shadows — watching how they moved when no one else did.
Ronell thought she was just tired. Moore didn't ask.
But May noticed things.
She noticed how the princess no longer barked orders, but made suggestions — always soft, always wrapped in charm.
She noticed how Ronell had started walking straighter, taller — how she met the princess's gaze longer before looking away.
She noticed when the braid — her braid — had been retied.
---
It was on the second morning of frost.
The courtyard was mostly empty. A few sparring recruits, the usual instructors, the distant clank of someone lifting shields onto racks.
Ronell stood still while the princess stepped behind her, fingers deftly working through her hair — smooth, practiced. May had done it like that once, long ago, before a market stroll, while Ronell spoke sleepily of stars.
Now the princess's fingers moved the same way.
It shouldn't have hurt.
But it did.
May didn't flinch. Just watched, one hand on the cool stone ledge beside her. When the princess stepped back to admire her work, Ronell smiled. Shy. Touched.
May turned away.
Later that day, she passed by a public garden near the eastern fountain — one they had visited in spring, when everything still felt new and full of wonder.
The flowerbeds were brittle now. Frost-bitten, slumped at the stems. All except for one bloom — pale, resilient, half-bowed but alive.
May crouched beside it. Touched its stem gently.
It trembled beneath her fingers.
She stayed there a while, crouched in the chill, eyes unfocused, lips pressed thin. She didn't speak.
Then she stood, cloak brushing the tips of the dead flowers, and walked on without a sound.
---
The temple was quiet that afternoon. A hush of footsteps over polished stone, incense curling from brass bowls, the faint murmur of prayer echoing beneath the high, domed ceiling.
Ronell stepped lightly, her eyes tracing the stained glass that dappled the floor in fractured color. She wasn't sure what had drawn her here — only that something had. A feeling. A weight behind the ribs.
An elderly priest noticed her hesitation and smiled. Not warmly, but gently — as if he'd been expecting her all the same.
"First time visiting the Hall of Origins?" he asked, gesturing for her to follow. "Come. The mural's been here longer than the walls themselves."
She trailed after him through an arched passage, boots whispering against the worn rug.
At the end of the corridor, a grand mural stretched across the back wall — faded but still vibrant in parts. Painted directly into the stone, it depicted the kingdom's founding: crowned figures with radiant eyes, a gathering of citizens, torches raised toward the horizon.
"It's said the founders stood upon that very hill," the priest said, voice hushed with reverence. "When the two nations first agreed to peace."
Ronell stepped closer.
She tilted her head.
The figures were stylized — idealized even — but something about them pulled at her. Her gaze lingered on a girl in the background. Not a queen. Not a warrior. Just a young girl, hand resting on the hilt of a blade too large for her. She wasn't looking forward like the others. She was looking... to the side. Watching something just beyond the edge of the frame.
Ronell blinked.
The girl's head had turned.
Just a fraction. Barely anything at all.
But it had moved.
The torch in the foreground sputtered — a flicker of red-orange against the painted stone. Not light catching it. Not sunlight. Fire.
Real fire.
Ronell stepped back.
She stared harder, heart picking up pace. The mural was still.
The torch flame was paint again — a smear of color on dry stone. The girl's head hadn't moved. Of course it hadn't. The figures stood frozen in history, as they always had.
The priest turned to her, oblivious.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said, folding his hands. "They say it's one of the few paintings that never faded — as if the past itself refuses to be forgotten."
Ronell nodded slowly.
She didn't say what she saw.
Didn't ask if anyone else had ever seen it shift.
She just stood there a moment longer, watching the girl with the oversized sword.
Then she turned — and left the temple without a word.
---
The sky was beginning to dim — not with drama, but with slow surrender. Light leeched from the clouds above, turning the city a soft shade of bruise. The kind of twilight that slipped between the cracks, unnoticed until the street lamps flickered on one by one.
The trio walked home in silence.
Their boots scuffed over fallen leaves, dry and curling, brittle underfoot. The wind tugged at their cloaks, slipping between seams and collars with the quiet mischief of something trying to be felt.
Moore kicked a stone ahead of him, then paused as a leaf spun down from a tree overhead. He reached up, half-playful — trying to catch it before it touched the ground. His fingers missed. It brushed past his wrist and landed in the gutter.
He laughed, a soft breath of sound. "Missed again," he muttered.
Ronell smiled faintly but didn't respond. Her gaze had drifted upward, following the swirl of clouds that hovered low and slow. The sunset was already fading — nothing brilliant tonight. Just a smudge of violet behind darker grey. Her hand rose absently to her collar, where the princess's cloak had rested earlier that day.
She touched the space like it still held warmth.
A few paces ahead, May walked alone.
She hadn't spoken in minutes. Her stride was even, but her head was slightly tilted — eyes fixed on the rising stone wall in the distance, where torchlight danced against scaffolding. It was taller now than it had been that morning. Taller than anyone expected so soon.
Stone by stone. Day by day.
A wall around the city — and perhaps, around something else too.
Ronell's voice came quietly, like a thought she wasn't sure was hers to speak aloud:
"It's a quiet night."
May didn't answer.
She kept walking — just slightly faster than before.
And the wind followed after them.