The gilded cage of Marius's manor felt like invisible chains against Ragna's skin. Two days had passed since that strange rude etiquette woman ran away, her composure shattered by Thorvyn's relentless questions.

  Four days since the Princess had vanished into the silken web her uncle was weaving. Ragna missed the ambitious princess, but she hadn't seen her once.

  Not for meals, which were now silent affairs with Thorvyn brooding and planning. Not for training, which had become a solitary, pointless exercise. So much so that Thorvyn hadn’t even woken up in time today to train. Not even to share one of those fancy, fragrant teas Isolde seemed to like so much, the ones that tasted like flowers but somehow warmed you from the inside.

  Ragna paced the training yard, her bare feet leaving shallow impressions in the packed, lifeless earth. The silence here was wrong. It felt too clean and too controlled. It wasn't the living quiet of the forest before a hunt; it was the dead quiet of a tomb.

  Back home, the air always tasted of volcanic ash and salt, carried the distant roar of the ocean and the sounds of warriors laughing, their voices booming and real. It carried the sounds of children shrieking as they played with wooden swords, their mock battles filled with more life than anything in this entire city.

  Here, even the birds sang in careful and measured notes. Strangely enough. As if someone had taught them the proper way to chirp.

  She swung her club. The heavy metal was a familiar comfort in her hands.

  The impact sent a satisfying thud through the morning air. In this world of whispers, that was such an honest sound. The straw-filled target shuddered but didn't break. It absorbed the blow without complaint and without fighting back. These things weren't built for real warriors; they were built for peacocks who played at fighting, men who cared more for the shine on their armor than the edge on their blades.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Each strike landed harder than the last, her muscles coiling and releasing in a rhythm that should have brought peace. But the repetition brought no satisfaction, only a deep, frustrating ache in her arms. The wrong kind of burn.

  This wasn't training. Training meant every movement sharpened your instincts and hardened your body for the next real battle.

  This was just... hitting things because there was nothing else to do.

  How boring.

  Thorvyn had been strange lately, too. He’d grown quieter, his crimson eyes distant. She'd caught him staring at walls as if they held secrets only he could read, muttering about plans and battles and other words that felt slippery and dishonest.

  Even Borric, who used to be so simple and cheerful, had gone weird. He was constantly whispering about "terms" and "clauses," his eyes alight with a strange new fire that made her uneasy. He was plotting something, always plotting, like a merchant figuring out how to steal the last copper coin from a widow's purse.

  She felt like a wolf that had been brought indoors, given a velvet cushion, and told to act like a lapdog. She was beginning to forget the taste of the wind.

  "My, what primal beauty."

  The voice slithered across the yard like oil on water, smooth and unpleasant. Who the hell is it now? Ragna frowned and turned, her grip on the club instinctively tightening. A knight was watching her, leaning against a marble pillar as if he were part of the manor's decoration.

  Ragna disliked him from the very first glance. He was all polished steel and perfumed hair, his armor catching the morning light in pointless ways, the gleaming plates positioned to best display the gaudy family crest emblazoned across his chest.

  [3rd Ascension]

  Similar to Thorvyn’s [Dragon’s Eye], her [Dragon’s Gaze] could also see the threat level of individuals. This one wasn’t a threat.

  “What you want?”

  He circled her slowly, his gaze crawling over her body with the kind of lazy, possessive appreciation a man might reserve for prize horses or exotic animals in a cage. "Such fire in those eyes," he purred. "Like a wild mare that needs proper breaking."

  The air grew colder. Ragna’s knuckles went white around the smooth metal of her club. "You lost or something?"

  "My name is Sir Theo of House Vaelmont, show some respect," he announced, as if the name itself were a gift he was bestowing upon her. "I’m the first son of Count Vaelmont, champion of three tournaments, wielder of Moonwhisper."

  “Okay.”

  He drew his sword with a dramatic flourish, the blade singing a high, thin note as it left its sheath. It was a pretty thing, etched with silver runes that shimmered in the sun. "This blade is worth more than your entire island, savage."

  The word hit her like a slap. Not the ‘savage’ part, she was used to hearing that from the people of the continent, but the insult that his little blade was worth more than the Volcanic Islands.

  It wasn't just an insult to her. It was an insult to her mother, the Chieftain. To her tribe, who had slain dragons while his ancestors were probably learning which fork to use. To the sacred, smoking peaks where the bones of ancient beasts rested. To the very volcanic soil that birthed warriors who had never bowed to foreign steel.

  "No fucking way, is today my lucky day?" Ragna asked, her voice dropping to something dangerous. "You want to fight, skinny boy?"

  "A light exercise, perhaps." His smile revealed teeth too white, too perfect. He looked like a doll, not a man. "I'm curious if the savage woman has any real skill beneath all that... raw physicality."

  He made the last words sound dirty somehow, his eyes lingering on the defined muscles of her arms, the curve of her thigh where her simple training clothes had torn during yesterday's practice. He was looking at her body, but he wasn't seeing a warrior.

  He was seeing a piece of meat.

  And it pissed her off beyond measure.

  "Sure," Ragna said, planting her feet firmly in the dirt. "Light spar."

  They squared off in the center of the yard. Sir Theo moved with the practiced grace of someone who'd been taught by the finest masters gold could buy. His footwork traced elegant, pointless patterns across the dirt. His blade wove complex figures in the air, figures that probably had names in some dusty, leather-bound manual. To Ragna, he looked like he was dancing with an invisible partner.

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  She saw only openings. So many openings. His stance was too wide, his recovery after a feint too slow. He was performing, not fighting.

  A few months ago, Ragna would have destroyed him right there. But she’d learned restraint from Thorvyn. So when he lunged forward in a perfect, textbook thrust that would have scored high marks in any tournament, she didn't meet it with brute force.

  She didn't have to. She simply shifted her weight, angling her club just so. Spars like this weren't about power, it was all about angles. About knowing where another warrior's strength became their weakness.

  She met his "priceless" blade at exactly the wrong point for its delicate temper.

  The sword shattered like winter ice beneath a boot.

  CRACK!

  The sound echoed across the silent yard. It was followed by a brief, glittering rain of metal fragments that caught the morning light like falling stars. Sir Theo stood frozen, his mouth agape, holding a hilt attached to perhaps three inches of broken blade.

  "My... my Moonwhisper..." he stammered, staring at the useless remnant in his hand.

  "Guess it was more whisper than moon," Ragna observed flatly.

  His face twisted from shock to rage in the space of a heartbeat. With a snarl that belonged more to a spoiled child than a knight, he dropped the hilt and charged at her, his hands reaching for her throat. He was no longer performing. He was just a man, clumsy and furious.

  Ragna's backhand was almost gentle by her standards. She pulled the blow, using maybe a quarter of her strength. It was a dismissal, not an attack. Just enough to say, 'you're done,' without actually killing him.

  Sir Theo flew backward like a doll tossed by an angry child. He crashed into the decorative fountain with a sound that mixed the splash of water with the distinctive, sickening crack of breaking bone. The stone basin, carved with delicate scenes of peaceful swans, crumbled beneath his weight.

  He slumped there, half-in and half-out of the water, unconscious. Blood trickled from his perfect nose, staining the clear water red.

  Ragna blinked at the destruction. So fragile. Why do these soft people keep challenging warriors?

  Servants began screaming. Their shrill, panicked voices pierced the morning quiet, summoning more witnesses who gathered at a safe distance to point and whisper. Within moments, Captain Yasafina arrived, her lioness features set in a mask of cold fury.

  "What happened here?" The beastkin's voice carried the heavy weight of predetermined judgment.

  "He challenged me," Ragna said simply, resting her club on her shoulder. "I accepted."

  But her words were drowned beneath the rising tide of accusations. Captain Yasafina tried to contain the situation, but the whispers became shouts. They called her a beast, a brute, a savage who couldn't control herself. They fretted and worried over Sir Theo like he was made of spun glass, carefully extracting him from the fountain's wreckage while shooting venomous glares in her direction.

  Captain Yasafina looked frustrated at the crowd accusing Ragna, but as a Knight Captain, she couldn’t take Ragna’s side without knowing the full story.

  Ragna didn’t care. She rested on her club, knowing whatever she did was justified and her friends would take her side.

  The noise drew Thorvyn first. He appeared at the edge of the yard, his crimson eyes taking in the entire scene. The broken fountain, the unconscious knight, the shattered sword, and her. He didn’t say much, other than, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m all good.”

  Then came Isolde, followed soon by Marius a minute later. Isolde looked like she'd been kept in a special box and only brought out for display, her blue hair perfectly pinned, her dress immaculate. She looked confused, unsure what was going on.

  Marius's gray eyes swept the scene, his expression a perfect performance of theatrical concern. "Oh my. Such unfortunate violence." His hand found Isolde's elbow, his fingers spreading possessively. "This is what happens when we bring wild things into civilized spaces."

  The words cut deeper than any blade. They were meant to. Ragna's gaze flew to Isolde, waiting. Waiting for her to ask what happened. Waiting for her to stand by her side, to be the ally who had faced dragons with her.

  Instead, the Princess turned to the gathering crowd of nobles and Sir Theo's enraged family, who had appeared from nowhere like vultures scenting blood. Was it a Count Family? Ragna didn’t understand the ranking system, but they seemed important.

  “I heard rumors the Princess came to Veridian, so the news is true,” a middle-aged man who looked similar to Sir Theo said, and Ragna assumed that was Count Vaelmont. “I’m disappointed this is how our first meeting is going however!”

  Isolde’s face was pale, her expression somewhat worried. "I am so deeply sorry for my companion's... lack of restraint, she must not have understood how our sparring system works," she said, her voice clear and formal. "I will see that he is compensated."

  The words hit Ragna harder than any attack from the spineless knight. Her breath caught in her throat.

  Isolde hadn't defended her. She hadn't even asked. She'd just apologized for her, like Ragna was a misbehaving dog that had bitten someone.

  In Valtherian culture, your word was your honor. Your tribe stood with you or against you, but they always heard your side first. To be judged without being heard was the deepest shame. Isolde had just declared to everyone that Ragna's word meant nothing. That her honor was worthless.

  “I didn’t-” Ragna started. “He insulted my tribe! He insulted me too. Called me a beast. Was it wrong for me to defend my honor?!”

  Marius snapped his head at her. “And what is your proof that he did all that? Even if he did, how could you break his arm and his family sword?”

  Isolde just lowered her head, avoiding meeting Ragna's gaze.

  A cold, hollow feeling spread through Ragna's chest. She’d thought that since the future Queen was on her side, there was nothing to worry about. But now… all the glares, whispers, and accusations began to feel like shrapnel against her skin.

  Desperate, her eyes found Thorvyn's across the courtyard, silently pleading for him to understand, to see the truth of what this meant. Thorvyn Valteria wasn’t looking at her, though. Ragna began to feel more helpless. The shame, the–

  "Ragna Valteria is many things," Thorvyn said suddenly, his voice cutting through the courtyard's noise like a blade through silk. Ragna’s hair stood. "But a liar is not one of them."

  He gently turned his full attention to Isolde, and something in his expression made the Princess's face drain of color. "I would trust my life to her, Isolde. It saddens me to see you won't even trust her to tell the truth."

  "Thorvyn, you know that's not what I meant!" Isolde's voice cracked with a mixture of confusion and panic. Against the goodwill of a count and the hurt feelings of an important companion, her mind rushed. "You're misunderstanding me!"

  Marius seized the opening like a snake striking at exposed flesh. His hand moved from her elbow to her shoulder, and this time even Ragna noticed. "My dear, your friend is overwrought. This barbarian," he gestured dismissively at Thorvyn, "clearly doesn't understand the nuances of diplomacy. An apology was the only appropriate response."

  He turned to Thorvyn, and Ragna saw something pass between the two men. A cold, silent understanding, like a lion and a tiger recognizing each other across a clearing. Ragna didn’t miss the subtle smirk in Marius’ expression.

  "Perhaps your kind are not suited for the complexities of court life," Marius continued, his voice silk wrapped around steel. "It may be best if you take your reward and continue your pilgrimage elsewhere."

  Ragna's heart sank toward her stomach. This was getting worse. She'd never wanted to cause problems between Thorvyn and Isolde. She just wanted to train, to grow stronger, to protect her friends.

  Thorvyn's eyes locked with Marius's, and the temperature in the courtyard seemed to drop ten degrees despite the morning sun.

  "Perhaps you are right, Marquis," Thorvyn said, his tone so agreeable it made Ragna's skin crawl. He turned to Isolde. "I think it's time we change this quest a little, Princess. Since you have found your place here, I don't think there's any reason for barbarians to continue buzzing around your majesty. These savages will take their coins and leave."

  "Thorvyn...!" Isolde looked utterly lost, trapped between her uncle's supportive grip and Thorvyn's arctic withdrawal. The confident Princess who'd fought beside them against ember guardians and frost titans had vanished, replaced by someone who looked very young and very alone. “Come on…”

  Panicked by the disintegrating situation she'd inadvertently caused, Ragna tugged on the hem of Thorvyn's tunic. He turned his head and looked at her, and what she saw in his crimson eyes wasn't the anger she'd expected.

  It was calculation. Cold, precise, and utterly focused.

  She'd seen that look before. On the best hunters in her tribe, right before they sprang a trap they'd been setting for days. On her mother's face, in the moment of calm before she brought down the Volcanic Dragon of Golden Ashes.

  Thorvyn Valteria wasn't angry. He wasn't even upset.

  Thorvyn Valteria had a plan.

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