Читать онлайн The Royal Beads: The Bead of the Outlander

Chapter 1

"Miss," a man in a lavender robe approached me with a confident stride. "Could you tell me how to get upstairs?"

The second scoop of ice cream, barely fitting in the paper cup, finally fell out. I jumped back to keep it from landing on my new shoes. It was heartbreaking. Would they ever leave me alone? Even in a foreign city! I had specifically come to the square in the middle of the workday when the capital’s residents were too busy for leisurely strolls.

"What did you say?" I didn’t immediately grasp his simple yet absurd question.

The man grimaced.

"I said, how do I get up there?" He nodded toward the royal palace. "Are you deaf or something?"

Maybe I am, but you’re just plain rude!

And rather foolish, too, because everyone knew the answer:

"Getting up there is impossible," I replied, unable to tear my gaze away from his strange attire.

The bright lavender fabric reminded me of the smooth, shimmering silks sold at the fair for a fortune. Who in their right mind would waste such expensive material on sewing an entire ridiculous robe, and—

"Now, listen," the eccentric fashionista exhaled nervously, his voice suddenly even. "Some people do get up there."

Some people! I laughed—who wouldn’t? What a maniac!

The noonday sun above our heads was blinding. Squinting, I tilted my head higher and higher. I had to practically rest the back of my skull against my spine to see the highest tower rising above the many spires of the royal palace, silhouetted against the sky at an impossible height.

I blinked and glanced at my companion—he, too, was studying the palace, the grand structure of bluish stone.

"And who, exactly, do you think gets up there?" I sighed, taking a sip of my already-melting ice cream. "Besides His Majesty and a couple of trusted figures?"

"And how do they get up there?"

"Good question."

Honestly, I’d never thought about it before. But curse it, I had come to Asilota to take a break from duty and enjoy the capital’s offerings, not to unravel yet another mystery of this kingdom. Why did he come to me with this? Why did the lost, the deceived, the frightened always choose me? As if I had a sign on my back saying, How can I help you?

"You see, sir, I’m in a hurry, and I—" I tossed my ruined ice cream into the trash—unforgivable! "That’s it! Leave me alone! I’m not interested."

But my fury didn’t drive him away. Quite the opposite—his eyes gleamed with admiration, as if I had just performed a death-defying circus act. He raised an eyebrow, looked me over from head to toe, and then… did he just blush? At the very least, he averted his gaze.

"Forgive me. I’ve been a bit out of sorts since this morning."

"Not my problem," I said, stepping back, my thoughts whirling with just one word—"madman."

"If only," he sighed shortly before grabbing my elbow and pulling me toward him.

It was so unexpected that I didn’t even manage to cry out before he whispered:

"If you help me, I’ll pay you whatever you ask."

Oh, I see. So, his interest in the castle isn’t just tourist curiosity. Planning to visit the king’s chambers, are we? But for an assassin, he’s far too conspicuous. An adventurer, then? A rather cautious one, if so.

"Sounds like a matter of state importance," I murmured in response.

"But you’re an outlander," he said with a slight shrug.

Ah, I see. Now it makes sense why he picked me. He was wrong. Yes, I may be an outlander, but I serve the Dragon Armada! And that means I cannot simply stand by while some stranger plans to waltz into the king’s chambers in that absurd robe.

"I can see from your eyes—you have an idea."

I yanked my elbow free.

"Sir, would you mind waiting here? I’ll be back in a moment."

"Of course," he nodded, "but bear in mind—I will find you."

Naturally, he followed me with great caution through the bustling streets of the capital. I glanced back at every turn, feeling like a traveling performer leading an exotic pet on a leash. Workers stole glances at him, guards froze in place, turning their helmeted heads, merchants peeked from behind their stalls, coachmen reined in their horses. Even the horses themselves watched us with long, bewildered stares.

A passing baker carrying a tray bumped into the door of his own bakery and fell, showered with round, golden loaves.

The stranger in the peculiar robe was already shaping up to be the event of the week, something people would discuss in clubs and markets for days. That walk of his—hips swaying, chin held high, shoulder blades drawn back—was a sight to behold!

I was relieved to leave the crowded part of the city and turn into the old park. A few whispering children trailed after us but quickly fell behind as we weaved through back alleys and abandoned homes blackened by past fires. This district had a sinister reputation.

The remnants of charred buildings, scorched trees, and ransacked stalls could stir the imagination of even the dullest mind. But that wasn’t why people claimed to see undead and ghosts here. I knew that for certain.

Pushing through a vine-covered grove, I reached a fence twice my height. The rustling of branches behind me confirmed my companion was still there. Brave man—but he wouldn’t get any farther.

I approached the gate, whispered the necessary words, and slipped through the narrow opening that instantly sealed shut behind me.

Two guards lunged at me. Hardly anyone would mistake them for living people—awkward movements, vacant stares. The undead. With a practiced motion, I raised a protective barrier. I had no interest in attacking mindless slaves.

Through the overgrown garden—more a wild thicket—I made my way to the leaning four-story manor. Remnants of past grandeur—statues, ornate carvings—bared their teeth from the walls. Empty dark windows gazed sorrowfully at unwelcome guests. But was I unwelcome?

Climbing the porch, I pushed open a surprisingly new and sturdy door.

A horned butler met me in the dimly lit hallway. I ignored his ominous glare and turned toward the staircase leading to the second-floor library.

Gredevar stood at the large central table, reading as usual, hunched over. His long black hair was tied back with a band, the way teenagers wore them—but Gredevar looked nothing like a teenager. Broad-shouldered, imposing.

He raised his head, a smile lighting up his face, though his eyes still seemed to flit across invisible lines of text.

"Back again? Business or pleasure?"

"Looks like business," I sighed.

"‘Looks like’?"

I told him about the strange man who wanted to reach the top.

"Really?" Gredevar perked up. "And did he offer a good price? Because I’d pay plenty myself to see… the monarchy toppled."

His last remark didn’t faze me. As long as I’d known Gredevar, he’d always been ready to overthrow everything—returning the world to some tribal state. Honestly, it was a miracle he was still tolerated at court.

"He doesn’t seem like an assassin," I muttered.

"Excellent. That means he’s a professional. Otherwise, he’d be worth no more than a copper coin."

"That’s not the point! Just… take a look yourself. By the fence."

"How intriguing!" Gredevar walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. "That one, in the robe?" His question was clearly rhetorical.

He reached for a pair of binoculars on the bookshelf and peered through them. What followed was a long phrase in a language I didn’t recognize. I knew it was a curse, but its meaning remained a mystery.

For another minute, he clicked his tongue and shook his head before finally looking at me, his green eyes alight with excitement.

"So, this guy told you he wants to go up there and he’d pay you?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"Well, he’s definitely not going to kill the king." Gredevar lowered the binoculars and let out a breath. "Because he is the king."

I would have sat down—if there had been an empty chair. But the only one nearby was stacked high with books.

"Gredevar… this isn't funny."

"I'm being serious," he replied, turning back to the window. He raised the binoculars to his eyes once more and immediately burst into laughter. "I mean, I am laughing, but not at you. The situation is just hilarious!"

I stepped closer to the table, which was finally touched by daylight. The library had five windows, yet every single one was covered by thick curtains. Gredevar, to put it mildly, despised sunlight and always read in the dark. I glanced at the strange, tiny symbols covering the pages of the heavy tome, trying to occupy myself while he got his amusement out of his system. I, for one, was not in the mood for jokes.

"My dear girl, I am serious. There is a king standing under my fence!"

"Then let him in! That doesn’t happen twice in a lifetime!" I muttered, my eyes still fixed on the incomprehensible script.

Gredevar snorted mockingly, shaking his head.

"No, thank you."

Of course, I understood just how absurd my suggestion was—inviting anyone into his hermit’s mansion of horrors, which doubled as a laboratory for forbidden arts…

"By the way," Gredevar continued, "if he asks whose house this is, tell him the owner left long ago. Went off to… where was it you’re from again?"

"Taprikan," I grumbled. As if people with dark skin could have any other homeland.

"Right. Tell him the owner went off to Taprikan and left you here in his place! And may he forget the way back!"

Strange. Isn’t he being a little too dramatic?

"I'm almost ready to believe this really is the king."

Gredevar met my gaze and placed a hand over his heart.

"I swear by the One Creator of all things, living and dead. May these books burn, may my magic fail me for seven years if he is not the king."

Curse it! Gredevar never swore in vain. The king, wandering the streets of the city? That was the scandal of the century! And yet, of course, I had to get involved.

I stepped to the window, and Gredevar shrugged before handing me the binoculars. The man who had led me here stood in the shadow of the trees near the grove, craning his neck to look up.

"I still don’t know what the king looks like," I said, returning the binoculars to the shelf. "No one does."

"That’s true. Almost no one. But the seven members of the Council should know, and as far as you’re aware…"

"…you're one of them."

"Exactly."

"But Gredevar, how is this possible? Why is he here? The king? Alone, without guards, lurking in the shadows and asking for help? Did he fall out of a window?"

"No idea. Ask him—he chose you as his savior."

"And how exactly am I supposed to help him?"

Gredevar shrugged.

"Take him back up, obviously."

"I thought you said you were ready to pay anyone who overthrew the monarchy."

Gredevar thoughtfully scratched his chin.

"And? Could you?"

"Of course not! I don’t understand you at all. He’s a good ruler. A good man."

"Really?" Gredevar cast a sideways glance at the window. "So you’re not going to abandon him to his fate?"

"What does this have to do with me? I already brought him to you. You’re his advisor, and—"

"And?"

"And you know how all this works!"

"Exactly. And did you notice that he didn’t turn to his advisors?"

"Well," I looked at him from under my brows, "for starters, one of them is actively hiding his whereabouts."

"Ehh, irrelevant," Gredevar sighed. "In any case, as a Council member, I am ordering you to ensure His Majesty’s safety."

I nearly choked.

"You haven't been my mentor for a long time, Gredevar!"

"I said, as a Councilor."

"And since when do I take orders from the Council?"

He sank into his armchair, the prelude to a lecture.

"Yes, yes, of course. The Dragon Armada is an independent mercenary force. But a warrior who achieves the rank of knight swears an oath of loyalty to the king. Or did you not swear?"

"I did."

"Exactly. That’s the first thing. The second—" he leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach, "—the Dragon Armada is currently led by Orne the One-Eyed, Count of Opdor. And the Count of Opdor is a Council member. A Council I lead. Meaning, I have every right to issue orders to the Armada’s knights in matters of state—so long as they do not contradict the orders of the king or Count Opdor."

It always amazed me how quickly he could shift from a wild hermit-mage to a cold-blooded politician. The only thing I could muster in response was:

"Curse this damned bureaucracy!"

"Yes, well, it’s an art in itself. You won’t last long in the Council without it. Now, off you go, my hero. And remember, this is a completely secret matter. No one must suspect that the king isn’t up there. I’ll figure out how to get him back unnoticed."

I had no idea what to say. “I have other plans”? “I couldn’t care less about your kingdom”? I had no plans. And even if I didn’t care about this kingdom, it clearly needed me.

And wasn’t that the whole reason I came to Serenid, became a hero, swore my oath? To find meaning in all this?

Meaning. Meaning. When will I finally find it?

Didn’t you, Gredevar, say that through the study of magic, purpose would come? And what now? All I do is deal with matters of state. One after another. I only just thought I’d have time to breathe, to finally take in the capital, and now—

"Gredevar!" I gasped in sheer exasperation. When will this involuntary heroism finally end?!

I wished I could set him on fire with my glare. In my mind’s eye, his robes and hair went up in flames, and he tumbled backward onto his bookshelf with a shriek—and that was where the real horror began. The books caught fire. Now that would wound him. Himself, he could easily restore. But the books…

Gredevar held my gaze and smirked.

"Oh? Did I make you mad? And what will you do with the king, then? If anything, remember—my offer still stands." He winked.

…And in my imagination, the flames licked the spines of his books. The paper blackened, crumbling into helpless ash. Slowly but surely, the fire crept higher, to the most precious, most beloved tomes…

Wait, what did he just say?

"You hope I'll kill him?!"

"Not at all," Gredevar shook his head. "I merely allow for the possibility." He waved a hand dismissively. "I’m not like that—you know me. Besides, I’ll do what I can. Come back in three days."

"Three days?!"

"At least," he cast a long look over the rows of books. "I don't even know where to start looking. Kings don’t just fall out of windows every day."

At the door, I turned back.

"From now on, I won’t be sticking my nose into other people’s business. No matter how strange it seems!"

"I always do," Gredevar smirked.

Chapter 2

There was no need to rush. The undead paid no attention to departing guests, merely lurking clumsily among the overgrown ruins of the garden. I watched the hero of my day through the one-way transparent gates, considering my next move. Should I tell him I knew who he was? That would immediately raise questions of rank and etiquette, and I was not prepared for that. Neither in my native tribe nor among the mercenary ranks was I ever taught proper courtly manners.

And what if he isn’t the king after all? Of course, Gredevar wouldn’t lie—he wasn’t even capable of it—but leaving things unsaid? Now that was his specialty. So what if… what if… what if what? What if there were simply other men who looked like him? Gredevar was only human; he could be mistaken. Besides, reading in the dark was bad for the eyes.

The thought was absurd, but somehow, it gave me confidence.

I pushed the gate open slightly. The sun had long since passed its zenith, yet the heat was still unbearable. Hardly the typical weather for the beginning of Serenid’s autumn.

"Hotter every year," I recalled bitterly. "And the more freedom the king grants them, the more Serenid turns into that pathetic colony."

Poisoned words I had heard recently in an inn. Words that had boiled my blood so fiercely, I had lost control. Words that had cost me my position—at least for now.

Again, after all the pain, the losses, the sacrifices. Again, after the downfall, the rehabilitation, the rescue. As if none of it had happened. As if neither side had learned a damn thing.

Was it any wonder that I lost my temper at those words? Who wouldn’t have? And I didn’t just disgrace myself—I disgraced the entire Dragon Armada.

The only thing that saved me was my reputation as a hero and the codes His Majesty had put in place to protect us: the Taprikans and the Retanians. Former slaves. Former!

"You are free people, under the protection of a sovereign state…" – the king’s words. The king…

And only by his grace, by the laws he had written, was I not standing before a tribunal but merely placed on temporary leave—something I hadn’t dared to tell Gredevar.

And just when I thought this was my chance. A chance to live an ordinary life, to see old friends, to remember who I had been before my service… this very king comes falling from the sky.

A cursed cycle. Beyond all reason.

I stepped outside, and he turned toward me.

On the portraits, all Serenid’s rulers looked the same—an elongated sour face, a long nose, a small mouth, large eyes. So I studied the true appearance of the king with great interest. From a distance, he was tall and lean, with short, dark brown hair.

I stepped closer. As for his expression—the portraits had not lied. Sour. Absolutely, categorically sour. It was impossible to imagine a smile on that face. There were no laugh lines at the corners of his mouth or eyes, but a deep crease sat between his brows.

He was younger than he seemed at first glance—perhaps thirty. The only thing that aged him was his gloomy expression and the silver at his temples. A king burdened with joyless affairs high above the clouds.

In any case, he was no leech upon the honest folk. No heartless tyrant.

So what was it about him that unsettled Gredevar?

The king’s brown eyes studied me intently.

"Well? What have you found out?" he asked, barely parting his lips.

The i of a just and noble protector vanished from my mind, soaring up toward his distant tower. I stiffened. Oh, so that’s how it is? Straight to orders, straight to demands? And which one of us needs help here?

And for that matter, I didn’t recall making any promises.

"What are you talking about?" I blinked, feigning ignorance.

"Our business," he said, his expression unchanged.

"I’m waiting for information. You know, it’s not every day that strangers break into the royal palace."

"How long?"

There was no way I could answer that calmly, so I simply held up three fingers.

I can’t believe it myself—three days to get the king back to his palace! What kind of madness is this?!

"That’s too long. We can’t just sit around. We’re going to the palace."

Looks like this won’t be boring.

"The lower level is open to visitors," I said. "What good will that do?"

"We’re going. Now."

He truly seemed to believe he could speak to me exclusively in orders.

I turned sharply and strode off along the soft ground by the fence, only to realize—somehow—he was already standing in my path.

"What’s your name?"

"Keita." It caught me so off guard that I answered without hesitation.

He snorted—if I really strained my imagination, it might have passed for a smirk.

"Do all Taprikan girls have the same name? What’s the point of names, then?"

I should have ignored that with dignified silence. But I had a response ready.

"Says a subject of a country whose king is named Bernard the Twenty-Fourth? What’s the point of letters, then, if only the numbers change?"

I shouldn’t have said that. His face twisted in displeasure.

"An outlander. What else could I expect?" He exhaled sharply. "For your information, Bernard is a throne name. Every heir to the crown takes it at their coronation, honoring the greatest of rulers—Bernard the First, a sage and a warrior. The king’s true name is something else entirely."

Total defeat. My words dried up like rivers under the scorching sun.

Nothing left but to get on with it. I turned again.

"So. To the royal palace, you say?"

We walked back in silence. The wind stirred through the alleys, swirling dust and ash as we passed through the abandoned district. By the time we reached the bustling streets, where the workday was coming to an end, his lavender robe had turned a dull gray, like that of any common beggar. He no longer attracted as many stares—a welcome change.

We were nearing the city center. The place where we had met was now unrecognizable. In the late afternoon, when the sun dipped behind the palace and cast its magnanimous shadow over part of the city, the square filled with people eager to unwind after a hard day’s labor. Merchants squeezed into every available space, orators took their stands to explain the laws and latest court rulings to the common folk, guards kept a watchful eye, and wanderers of all kinds drifted through the crowd.

The gates to the palace’s lower level stood open as always, pouring out an unnecessary yet alluring glow from hundreds of burning lamps. Ahead of us lay forty long minutes of weaving through market stalls, carts, beggars, and idle onlookers before we could reach them.

Had I been free, I would have simply joined the crowd—strolling at a leisurely pace, listening to news and gossip, scanning the square for familiar faces, admiring the palace lights, and indulging in… mmm… waffles!

The scent hit me mid-step, making me freeze for a heartbeat.

Unbelievable! Here I was, finally in the capital, and I hadn’t even had fresh, crispy waffles!

I have to work.

…But maybe His Majesty would take pity on me? Allow me a short break for a snack? After all, he needs to eat too, doesn’t he?

His sudden exclamation jolted me from my thoughts.

"What do you think you’re doing?!"

To the left, beyond the market stalls, four guards were beating a raggedly dressed boy.

"What do you think you’re doing?!" His Majesty repeated. "Stop!"

The guards paid him no mind. They likely didn’t even realize he was addressing them.

"Stoooop!" The king bellowed, his voice booming across the square.

The guards froze. People stumbled into one another, turning to see who had dared to shatter the usual order.

"What’s your problem, huh?" The guard in the golden helmet gawked at him.

"Captain, what crime has this young man committed?"

"What’s it to you?" the guard rasped. "Get lost! We’ll deal with you soon enough."

The other three chuckled eagerly.

"So you don’t even know," the king said, raising his chin even higher and crossing his arms over his chest.

"You think you’ve got an army behind you or something?" The captain spat on the ground.

A heavy silence fell over the square, so thick that even the ragged boy’s breathing became audible.

Bernard the Twenty-Fourth stepped fully into his role.

"By law, you have the right only to arrest him," he declared, his voice strong and unwavering. Each precisely enunciated syllable rang through the square, echoing in my chest—and in everyone else’s. Even the orators fell silent.

"And only in the case of armed resistance, posing a threat to the life of one or more subjects, are you permitted to use force…"

A few people in the crowd hummed in approval, a quick murmur spreading through the square.

For a moment, even the guards stood there, mouths slightly agape—until one of them pulled a face and sneered:

"Well, aren’t you a clever one?"

And then, as if lifted by an invisible hand, the battered boy sprang to his feet. He doubled over in pain, wincing—but then bolted forward, his bare heels flashing as he darted away. His silhouette vanished into the crowd so swiftly that the captain could do nothing but throw up his hands in frustration.

There were a few chuckles, but they died instantly when the captain reached for his sword, his snarl turning feral.

Clearly, no one had ever looked at the king that way before.

Yet he carried on as if nothing had happened.

"There. Now you won’t find him," he said, his tone almost casual. "Because the first thing you should have done was check his papers. But I’m quite certain you…"

Rage twisted the captain’s face like a warped mirror.

"Come here, you wretch," he snarled. "I’ll gut you where you stand."

He drew his sword, and the other guards followed suit.

With a cry, the onlookers scattered in all directions, leaving only the four armed brutes—and us.

And only then did the king truly grasp the situation.

His face paled. His hand flew to his left hip—only to find nothing. No weapon.

I lunged forward, stepping between him and the guards.

Using magic or drawing steel would be a mistake.

That left me with only one option—drawing their attention to myself.

What to do next… well, only the God knew.

But another step, and Gredevar would finally have someone to pay.

And then, suddenly, the king flung up his hands.

I faltered mid-step, caught in the surge of energy radiating from him. And even as my thoughts screamed Impossible!, even as my mind reminded me that rulers were never born with magical genes for political reasons—a flash of light burst from his fingertips.

A whirlwind of dust spiraled around us, and all four guards froze in place, like snarling wax figures.

The captain, still mid-step with his sword raised, swayed—and crashed to the ground with a heavy thud. The impact sent a flock of birds scattering from the fountain.

"Run!" I shouted, grabbing the king’s hand.

We plunged into the retreating crowd at full speed. Pushing forward with little resistance, we broke through the throng and sprinted down the streets, weaving through alleys and twisting corners.

Only when our lungs burned for air did we finally stop—in the courtyard of some old, forgotten quarter.

I dropped onto the edge of a crooked well.

The king leaned against the trunk of a tree nearby, catching his breath.

"I can’t believe it," he spat. "I just broke the law—I used magic against the city guard!"

"You’ve lost your mind!" I blurted out, still catching my breath.

"What was I supposed to do? Let them kill me?"

I jerked so hard I nearly slid off the well’s edge.

That’s what he thought was the real problem here? The only thing he considered wrong was using magic?

"What?! This is the end, do you understand? The end! They’ll turn the city upside down, scour the streets—they will find you! No one… No one…" Words failed me. "No one is allowed to lay a hand on the keepers of order! You should have just followed me, gone about your business like any normal person. Instead, you staged a spectacle for the entire capital! You publicly called their honor into question, interfered with their duty, and then threw a Paralysis spell at them!"

"You—" He pushed away from the tree, stepping toward me, his face torn between anger and disbelief.

"You were there!" he snapped. "Did you see nothing?! Honor? Duty?"

"And what of it?"

"What?!" His voice shot up. "You’re an outlander—why should you even care what happens in this country? Four armed men kicking a half-naked, defenseless boy into the dirt, and you truly believe that’s none of your concern?!"

"None of my concern…"

My voice rasped, cracking just in time to keep me from shouting.

He says that to me?

To me, a fighter for freedom and equality?!

To me, the hero of his kingdom?!

To me, a knight of the Dragon Armada’s combat division?!

To me—who was ready to throw myself into the fray to defend him, even at the cost of losing my position forever?!

Of course, he knew none of this.

I exhaled, forcing down the fire in my chest, and spoke as calmly as my emotions allowed:

"Then know this, oh great patriot—this happens in your kingdom ten times a day."

"Rubbish! If that were true, I—people wouldn’t stay silent!"

"And who exactly are they supposed to tell?" I shot back. "Should they stand in the middle of the square and shout, like you? Brilliant plan! The guards catch lawbreakers and punish them as they see fit. Yes, sometimes they exceed their authority—but what sane person would step in to defend a criminal?"

The king clenched his fists.

"This slave mentality infuriates me!" he hissed through gritted teeth. "It has poisoned the minds of my own people—they’ve stopped fighting for their rights. Just like you!"

"We?!" My throat tightened, cutting off my breath. I swallowed hard.

No. No, I must have misheard him.

But then, with the same simmering anger, he spat:

"Taprikan!"

"What the hell do you know about it?!" My hands shook, a familiar heat surging through my veins.

He merely snorted, mocking.

"I know. Enough. You made excellent slaves. And I know why."

I couldn’t hold back any longer.

"You bastard!" I snapped. "So that’s how it is?! Well, guess what? I know plenty too. I know exactly who you are! The king of this whole damn circus—one that makes your own hair stand on end! You can’t even keep your own guards in line! And yet Taprikans are the ones to blame? What, did you let us stay just so you’d have someone to pin it all on?!"

"You know who I am…!" he shouted so fiercely he nearly choked on his own words.

Oh, how anger suited him—his eyes ablaze, his cheeks flushed—he was born for it. So this was the true face of the ruler.

"You know who I am, and you dare speak to me like this?! You ignorant, uncivilized savage!"

"And you’re a thick-headed, arrogant boor!" I inhaled sharply, tilting my head back, but my eyes stung. Hopefully, he didn’t notice.

"You think you deserve better? You, who bear full responsibility for everything happening in your own kingdom, yet refuse to acknowledge it? All you do is rant and blame outlanders! I can’t believe I ever—"

"Insolent brat! How dare you?!" He practically spat the words, his jaw clenched so tight his muscles twitched, his fists so rigid his knuckles turned white.

"With your level of education, you wouldn’t be fit to run a roadside tavern! What could you possibly understand about state affairs?!"

"Then go ahead, Your Majesty! Go rule your brilliantly governed nation! Try surviving just one night on the streets of your own damn country!"

"I’ll manage without masks and totems!"

"Monster!"

"Cannibal!"

"To hell with you!" I spun on my heel and stormed off.

Where? I had no idea.

I just knew I couldn’t stand another second near this thick-skulled idiot.

"That’s right!" he roared after me. "Get out of my sight!"

No. This is too much.

I had imagined the king as a bold challenger of a rotting system, a visionary with a clear mind, a just ruler.

But he was nothing more than a fanatical nationalist with a damn inferiority complex.

Breaking old delusions while his own head was swarming with new ones!

I had no desire to deal with a narrow-minded egotist. And I sure as hell didn’t want his blood on my hands.

Let them sort things out themselves—with their Twenty-Fourth Jumping King.

With that thought, I made my way toward Gredevar’s house.

Whatever the case, I had to tell him—I was done with this mission.

Chapter 3

I approached the fence of Gredevar’s villa, spoke the password, and waited. But when the gates cracked open, a horned demon peeked out instead.

"Master is not home," he said, his voice like the wail of the wind.

From experience, I knew—checking was pointless.

"When will he return?"

"Not before tomorrow evening."

There was nothing to do but wait. Leaving the city was out of the question at this hour.

The shadows stretched long, the wind shifted—but my mood remained the same, simmering with resentment.

I took the short route, keeping to the city’s outskirts. Passing lines of drying laundry and darting chickens, I cut through several courtyards and slipped over a fence onto a familiar narrow alley.

Keeping low, I dashed beneath open windows—I had no desire to run into old acquaintances in this state of mind.

Deliberately cutting a corner, I rushed through an old workshop with two doors, ignoring the carpenter’s outraged shout of, "We’re not a tunnel!"

Squeezing between buildings, I soon reached the tavern Marette-Russard.

Few strangers ever wandered here by chance—the thick canopy of trees hid the old two-story building from prying eyes.

I pushed open the door. The bells above the entrance jingled a welcome, yet inside, silence reigned.

The hearth lay cold, the tables untouched, the bar counter empty. If not for the undeniable sense of order—even in the dim light—the place could have easily passed for abandoned.

The living quarters were underground, nestled among armories, laboratories, and many other things best left unmentioned upon first acquaintance.

"Oh, my dear!" came a rich, velvety voice. "Why do you visit so rarely? You promised you’d only be away for a little while!"

The tavern’s full-figured owner was descending from the attic, wrapped in a peasant dress so old-fashioned it had become stylish again. Her white apron bounced in rhythm with her steps.

"Marrette, I always feel at home here, thanks to you!" I recited the usual phrase.

To be honest, I had planned to stop by—just not in this mood.

"I certainly hope so," she said, stirring the embers in the hearth before reaching for a jug on the shelf. With a practiced hand, she poured a shimmering liquid over the coals.

The bar was well stocked by alchemists, and it showed. The moment the liquid touched the half-burnt logs, they flared to life, filling the room with warm, golden light.

Marrette turned, lowering her voice a half step and winking with her only eye—the other always covered by a patch.

"So then," she purred, "a room for two?"

I actually turned to check if someone was standing behind me.

"I'm alone, Marrette."

"Oh, of course, of course!" Marrette pressed a fist to her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter. "We’ve already heard, dear. There may not be many of us, but we’re quick—what we don’t see, we overhear."

"Marrette, I have no idea what you’re talking about."

I’ve had enough strangeness for one day, heaven help me.

"Oh, come now! You were seen on the square with a handsome, daring man. And now you’re staying in the city overnight? What’s there to be shy about? It’s not like I’m a priest."

I had to lean against the wall. Words simply would not come.

"There it is," Marrette’s smile widened. "I knew it was you."

"No— I mean, yes, it was me, but I was just running an errand for Gredevar. That’s all."

"That’s all?" She wrinkled her nose. "How dull! So, you’re back with Gredevar?"

"Something like that."

"Alright, alright." She turned and strode toward the bar. "If you don’t want to talk, I won’t pry."

Marrette pulled a sack of violet powder from beneath the counter and sprinkled a bit into a glass.

"But just so you know…" she murmured, reaching for a jug.

She poured in water, and with a sharp hiss, a bright pink foam bubbled over the rim.

"Alchemy!"

"Yeah, my throat still feels raw after that little exchange. I’m even feeling a bit nauseous."

"Listen to those turban-heads more, why don’t you?" I waved vaguely in the direction of the underground chambers. "They wander the city all day—bored out of their minds. They’ll make up anything just to pass the time."

"Alright, alright." Marrette slid a glass toward me. "I don’t know what kind of errand you’re running, but you’ll need your strength. You should keep an eye on that one—he’s not quite right in the head. First, he picks a fight with the guards, and now he’s marched off to the lake in the dead of night. What rock did he even crawl out from under? I’ve never heard of savages that wild."

"He’s not a— Wait!"

I had just taken the glass, already halfway to settling into my seat—when it hit me like a bucket of cold water.

"He went where?!"

"To the lake. Erun was asking about him about an hour ago."

"And he didn’t tell him that—"

"Oh, he told him. But your boy only seemed thrilled about it."

So the king just marched off to his death.

My hand jerked, and pink foam sloshed over the rim, spilling onto the table.

I set the glass down and bolted for the door.

"Tell him that’s not the way out!" Marrette called after me. "If it’s trouble with the guard, you know what to do."

"Room for one," I threw over my shoulder before rushing outside.

"Well, I’m betting he survives!" she shot back.

I ran at full speed, cursing myself the entire way for my stupid, misplaced emotions.

Some knight I am! No wonder they put me on leave! I must have lost my damn mind—leaving the king alone like that!

As if it even mattered whether I liked his views or not. This was a matter of state. And what did I do? Turned it into a melodrama, like some spoiled child.

The city gates were already in sight, and not far beyond them, in the open field, lay the coachmen’s camp.

Grizzled, scruffy old men who lived year-round in their wagons, bundled up in layers of blankets. They usually spent their days sleeping, only rousing at the sight of a paying customer.

"To Lake Erald," I gasped, still catching my breath in the cool evening air.

"Uh… nope." The coachman who had started to rise simply flopped back down.

I stepped closer, pulling a few silver coins from my pocket and holding them up for him to see.

He smirked from beneath the wagon’s canopy.

"That’s not the issue, miss," he said. "You’re not from around here, are you? Must not know. This time of year, the western roads are crawling with brigands. It’s brigand season. So keep your silver—your hide’s worth more."

"Then at least take me as far as the forest!"

He shook his head.

"I’m not heading west. Not for anything. You know what happened to the last brave soul who tried?"

"You mean Hudap?" A muffled voice came from the next wagon, where a bearded face peeked out from beneath a blanket. "That fool got what he deserved. God punished him for his greed. Someone paid him extra, so off he went—like a simpleton."

"Exactly," came a voice from a third wagon. "We don’t go there anymore, and we don’t charge much. Find something else to do, sweetheart. Go in winter—the lake is even prettier then!"

What choice did I have?

Only to call upon the old Taprikan tradition: help your own, no matter the cost.

I sprinted through a few more blocks, vaulted over a fence, and landed in the middle of a sprawling vegetable garden—large enough to be a field. Beyond the trees in the distance, a small house sat nestled in the greenery.

It hadn’t always been a house.

Once, it was merely a shed, standing beside a grand estate. But during the war, the manor burned to the ground, its owners perished, and the land passed to a former loyal slave—Yiyi.

He loved farming and had no need for a mansion.

It took some effort to spot him, but there he was—an elderly Taprikan, focused entirely on tilling the soil with some long-handled tool.

"Yiyi, it’s me, Keita!" I called louder as I ran toward him. The old man was hard of hearing and half-blind.

"Keita?" He spread his arms in confusion.

"Yeah, the one who used to give Bertun rides."

"Keita!" The old man smiled.

"It’s urgent, Yiyi—I need a horse. Please, lend me one."

His shoulders slumped. He lowered his head, then slowly turned toward the stable.

"My Dovey? Well…" He glanced at me again.

I was shamelessly taking advantage of his loyalty to tradition—and his lingering gratitude for favors long past.

But I saw no other choice.

"Take her, of course, if it’s urgent," he said at last.

He fell silent for a moment, then simply waved a hand and bent back down to his work.

Riding through the open land, I couldn’t help but admire the famous beauty of Serenid.

Before me stretched an emerald valley, speckled with blue and red flowers. Beyond it, on the horizon, began the autumn forest. Like nobles gathered at a grand assembly, the trees flaunted their crimson, gold, green, and orange robes.

Against the backdrop of the azure sky, jagged gray cliffs jutted out here and there like silent sentries—junior comrades of the Great White Plateau upon which the capital stood.

I turned into a gorge between two of these sentries, their pale gray stone matching the plateau itself—not white.

Serenidians disliked gray. Just as they disliked calling things by their true names.

Ahead lay a three-way fork in the road. I would need to take the western path, toward the forest.

I kept my eyes open—there was a chance the king hadn’t gone far yet.

A shadow stirred beneath an oak at the crossroads, but no, it didn’t belong to a man.

A girl, no older than eight, sat curled up at the base of the tree, arms wrapped around her knees.

At the sound of approaching hoofbeats, she flinched and lifted her gaze in fright.

"Hey there. What are you doing out here?" I asked.

"I lost my papa," the child’s voice trembled.

"What happened?"

"We went to the forest to pick mushrooms, but there weren’t any." She nodded toward the trees. "We kept walking and walking, but we couldn’t find any. Then… some people came out of the bushes and told Papa to give them money."

Her head dropped, and she sniffled.

"We didn’t have any money. When they realized that, they took out their weapons…"

She let out a shaky breath.

"I was in the bushes, catching a big toad, so they didn’t see me… Then Papa—Papa screamed so loud, I got scared and ran. I ran and ran…"

She hiccupped, pressing a hand to her eyes.

"I ran for so long!"

"How long ago did this happen?"

"I don’t know exactly… maybe an hour ago."

"Damn!"

"Do you remember where in the forest it was?"

"I know the forest very well!" Her tear-filled eyes lit up with hope.

I pulled her up in front of me, and we galloped west, chasing the setting sun.

"You shouldn’t wander the forest this time of year," I said.

"Easy for you to say, madam," the girl muttered.

Madam? What gave her that idea—the sword?

"The rich don’t have to worry about it. But in the caves, the forest is the only thing keeping us fed. Do you even know that mushrooms grow in autumn?"

It was awful, but people like her were poorer than temple mice.

The caves were a last refuge for those who had lost everything—those whose final hope was simply to die quietly.

And now even they were being robbed?

At a great moss-covered cliff, we turned onto a forest trail. Shadows thickened between the trees, the air grew heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine resin, and beneath Dovey’s hooves, dry leaves whispered in the evening hush.

I listened to every rustle, every whisper of the forest—but the girl spoke up again.

"Mama told him not to go," she continued. "But he didn’t want us eating boot soup again."

"Boot soup?" My focus wavered.

"Yes. My father used to serve in the Armada. But he lost his right arm in battle and couldn’t hold a sword anymore. He had real leather boots left from his service. Sometimes Mama boils them…"

"But the Armada doesn’t abandon its heroes. And they only issue chainmail and—"

"This is the place, madam!" she interrupted, nodding toward a clearing on the right.

A sea of multicolored leaves stretched out before us, blanketing the ground and weaving through the branches overhead—a single, endless tapestry of autumn.

The perfect place to hide this time of year.

I rode to the center of the clearing.

I never even saw them move.

Suddenly, three massive men stood before me.

"You’d best hand over your money, weapons, and that horse," said the one in the middle.

His face was smeared with grime, as if he’d washed himself with wet clay.

"You’re the horse, you bastard—this is Dovey!"

"Oh! Got yourself a sharp tongue, huh?" he sneered—and let out an ear-splitting whistle.

The trees rustled.

A dozen cutthroats emerged from the foliage.

I drew my weapon.

"Not bad!" Grime-Face let out a low whistle of his own. "So that’s what my new sword looks like!"

And then—

The girl in front of me suddenly twisted around. Something gleamed in her hand.

A heartbeat later, sharp pain tore through my chest.

I swayed, and before I could react, a brutal blow from the side sent me crashing from the saddle.

The next thing I knew, I was staring at the sky.

Three faces loomed over me.

Two swords and a spear pressed against my chest.

"Where’s my sword? When the hell did they take it?"

I lifted my head, and a dull roar filled my ears.

Grime-Face was turning my blade in his hands, his mouth curling into a triumphant grin.

"Stay down!" my three new overseers barked.

"Oh no—watch out! Behind you!"

I shrieked, eyes wild, staring past them into the empty space beyond.

This trick never failed—all three bandits turned to look.

Only for a fraction of a second.

But that was all I needed.

Murmuring the Steel Grasp spell twice, I pushed myself up and seized two of them by the knees.

Their screams tore through the forest as they collapsed, all thoughts drowned out by searing pain.

Springing to my feet, I dodged the third one—he swung wildly, completely off balance.

I caught his wrist, and in the next instant, his sword was already in my hands.

The rest of them shrank back toward the trees.

I lunged at Grime-Face.

Our blades clashed.

He was heavier, far stronger—but the spell in my hands made me the greater force.

Under my assault, the bandit staggered—his grip faltered—

And his weapon slipped from his grasp.

"Fall back! Retreat!" he finally shouted, before turning and bolting after his gang.

The girl—the one who had dragged me into this mess, cost me precious time—ran right alongside them.

I snatched my sword from the ground and rushed to Dovey.

My movements felt sluggish, unnatural.

My limbs were leaden.

A hazy blur wavered before my eyes.

That’s not right. The fight hadn’t been that exhausting.

Blood bloomed across my shirt, but the wound didn’t seem too serious. Still, I’d have to see a healer once I made it back to the city.

Shadows thickened in the forest.

The sky bled into deep purples and reds.

Evening was closing in.

I urged Dovey forward, dodging low-hanging branches as I sped toward the road—

Then, suddenly—

A violent cough wracked my chest.

A metallic tang flooded my mouth.

Scarlet droplets speckled Dovey’s mane.

Blood in my cough? What the hell?

And this fog…

I’ve been poisoned. The knife, maybe…

The road should have been close by, but I could barely tell ground from sky.

My thoughts tangled.

My eyes felt too heavy.

Sensing my uncertainty, Dovey faltered—whinnying, veering off course.

Then, from the depths of the forest, came the sound of snapping branches.

And hoofbeats.

I dug my heels into Dovey’s sides.

"Come on, girl, don’t fail me now!"

She surged forward, racing through the trees. The world blurred into streaks of burning color.

I could only pray we would reach the road.

Another fit of coughing doubled me over. I yanked the reins.

The crashing behind me didn’t stop.

Voices rose through the clamor:

"…she can’t have gotten far!"

"Careful! She’s stronger than she looks—she killed Gril and Tregan!"

"Both of you, shut up!"

I pulled Dovey to a stop, turned, and hurled a volley of ice shards toward the voices.

Fire and lightning were too dangerous in the woods.

But ice—

Ice was useless against a Serenidian—Water Resistance saw to that. Their horses, though? That was another matter.

A frantic whinny rang out, followed by a heavy crash.

A riderless stallion burst from the trees at full gallop, its saddle hanging askew.

I patted Dovey’s neck in reassurance.

Shouts and curses echoed from the thicket:

"Curse it! This is all because of that whelp!"

"Watch where the hell you’re going!"

"I said shut up."

"I… I can’t get up!"

"Then stay down!"

My fingers barely obeyed me, numb and sluggish, but I managed to grasp the hilt of my sword.

I ripped the blade free from its sheath—just as two dark figures emerged from the trees.

Their faces swam before me in the mist, warped into grotesque caricatures.

"Hey, you!" The voice of the man who had ordered silence rang out over the forest. "You’ve messed with the wrong people."

A metallic clang followed—swords being drawn.

From their silhouettes, I could just make out their weapons.

Long, dark blades—the kind forged in the northern lands.

Blades that cleaved heavier than an axe and sliced cleaner than a razor.

But they were nothing compared to mine.

Not that it mattered—

Not when my own fingers trembled weakly around the hilt.

Dizziness churned through me, locking my limbs in place.

I lowered my head, barely keeping myself from slipping from the saddle.

A hoarse laugh sounded far too close.

I clenched my teeth.

Any second now, cold steel would kiss my throat…

Time stretched, slow and agonizing.

The enemy… was waiting?

Or had he decided to spare me?

I lifted my head.

Both riders—and their horses—stood frozen in place, as if turned to ice.

The sword poised above me never fell.

A rider on a black warhorse pulled up beside me, clad in chainmail and a closed helm.

My thoughts blurred, my only focus not slipping from the saddle, fingers digging into its edge.

The rider moved forward.

A sword flashed.

I saw the bandits collapse.

Their horses reared and bolted with panicked whinnies.

Then—a sharp whistle above.

An arrow?

Another whistle.

Dovey neighed and reared violently beneath me.

And just like that, I was on the ground.

I caught one last glimpse of my savior vanishing into the undergrowth.

A cry rang out—

Then cut off, abruptly.

And then he was back, dismounting, his boots stopping right in front of me.

"Keita, what’s wrong?"

I turned my head.

He lifted his visor.

I couldn’t make out his features—but the voice, the tone—

Familiar.

"Your Majesty," I murmured, or maybe thought.

Glad you’re safe…

And then the fog swallowed the last of the light.