CHAPTER 22
The road to Raventhorn lay cloaked in dust and silence, save for the soft clatter of hooves upon stone and the quiet murmurs of five riders approaching the gate. Prince Alistair led the company, his cloak bearing the faint marks of travel, yet his bearing lost none of its princely grace. Beside him rode Lady Jasmine, head high, eyes sharp beneath her hood. Sir Elias followed close behind, and flanking them were three seasoned knights—Sir Rick, Sir Radcliffe, and young Sir Caven.
The gates of Raventhorn loomed, guarded by rough men with slouched postures and hungry eyes. One among them stepped forth, palm half-extended in silent demand. Words were few, for gold speaks clearer than tongues. A pouch changed hands—bribe enough to still their questions. Yet before they passed, one guard, emboldened by drink or foolishness, dared to grin at Lady Jasmine and murmured, "A fine flower blooms among warriors."
Jasmine halted her steed and turned to him, her voice cold as northern frost. "Pluck a petal, and you'll find thorns deep enough to bleed you dry."
The guard's mirth faded, and the others behind him laughed loud, slapping his back as if he were a jester in motley. With no further hindrance, the company entered Raventhorn.
They sought no finery, only rest and shadows. A modest tavern was chosen near the market square—an inn of cracked beams and low whispers. There, rooms were booked, and the scent of mead and smoke drifted through worn hallways.
The following days were filled with quiet steps and keener minds. Alistair's purpose was no feast nor hunt, but investigation, for whispers had led him to this den of rogues. Jasmine, unwilling to be left idle, pressed him to let her aid him.
"I would prove more than ornament," she said. "Let me be of use."
Alistair did not turn her away. Side by side, they walked the narrow alleys and lingered in secret corners, gathering tales woven in the dark. And in time, closeness grew—by choice or circumstance, Elias could not say.
One evening, as they spoke over parchment and candlelight, Jasmine laid her hand gently upon Alistair's lap, her voice steady as she spoke of the names they'd uncovered. Alistair neither flinched nor shifted away. He listened, lips pressed in thought, and let her hand remain.
From a table in the far end of the chamber, Elias watched. His eyes fell upon her fingers resting bold upon the Prince. He waited—sure Alistair would distance himself as he often did before. But he did not.
A hand touched Elias' shoulder.
Sir Rick.
"Lovely couple, aren't they?" the knight said, his voice like gravel softened with age.
Elias did not answer.
Sir Rick sighed. "Sometimes, lad, you've got to let things go. Some things are not within reach, no matter how far ye stretch."
Elias turned to him, brow furrowed.
"I see how ye look at Lady Jasmine," Rick said, not unkindly. "You're like a son to me, boy, and that's why I speak. Let not the heart chase shadows."
"It is not as you think," Elias answered, voice low. "I've no such thoughts for the lady."
Rick raised a brow. "If you say so, lad." With a quiet pat to the shoulder, he left.
Elias turned back, and there—he saw Jasmine lean in, lips close to Alistair's ear, whispering something that drew a faint smile from the Prince.
Something sharp twisted in Elias' chest.
Jealousy, and something darker yet.
Without another word, he rose and walked away from the flickering light.
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Prince Hosea rode through the winding paths beyond Aethelgar's borders, his cloak billowing behind him as his horse galloped through the misty forest. His shadow guard rode beside him in silence, ever-watchful, their presence a reminder of the secrecy of this mission. No one could know he had left the palace. Not yet.
As they rode deeper into the woods, the air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and pine. The only sound was the rhythmic pounding of hooves against the ground. Hosea's grip on the reins tightened as his thoughts swirled. He had spent years searching, following every whisper, every rumor, hoping for proof that his sister was alive. And now, he finally had it. Mia's magic had confirmed it-Hera was out there somewhere, not dead, but hidden. The question was: who had taken her?
The answer, he suspected, lay in Raventhorn.
As they neared their destination, Hosea glanced at his shadow guard, a man who had served him faithfully, bound to his command alone. "We'll meet the contact at the Black Serpent's Den," Hosea said, his voice low but firm. "They claim to have information, but they won't give it freely."
The guard gave a slight nod. "Everything in Raventhorn comes at a price, my prince."
Hosea exhaled sharply. "I know."
Raventhorn was a place where loyalties shifted like the wind, a den of mercenaries, exiled lords, and those who thrived in the shadows. But Hosea was not afraid. He had spent his life learning to navigate court politics, and this was no different-except here, betrayal came with a blade rather than a whisper.
As the city's looming walls came into view, Hosea's expression hardened. He had waited too long for this moment. He would find whoever had taken his sister. And when he did, he would ensure they regretted it.
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Raventhorn
The air in Raventhorn was thick with smoke, sweat, and the ever-present stench of lawlessness. Fires burned in open pits along the narrow streets, casting flickering shadows over the faces of men who lived and died by the sword. Drunken mercenaries staggered from brothels, while hooded figures bartered in hushed tones at makeshift stalls.
Prince Alistair moved through the filth with measured steps, his posture composed despite the volatile energy surrounding him. He wore no sigil, no visible sign of his status-only simple armor, worn boots, and a cloak dusted with travel. A prince of Valla held no weight here, but a man who carried himself with quiet confidence and steel at his hip could still command a wary sort of respect.
Elias walked beside him, gaze sharp beneath his hood. Two other knights trailed just behind, hands resting near their weapons but making no aggressive movements. They had learned quickly that in Raventhorn, strength was best displayed through presence rather than open hostility.
Jasmine had insisted on coming. She had refused to rest despite Alistair's urging, claiming she could help. She had been surprisingly useful, blending into conversations with mercenaries and merchants, picking up whispers that would have otherwise gone unheard.
Now, they sat in a dimly lit tavern, a rough establishment known as The Broken Crown. Alistair listened as a former mercenary-now a self-proclaimed "lord" of a ragtag faction-boasted about his growing influence.
"The lords of the great kingdoms think they can ignore Raventhorn," the man sneered, swirling his cup of ale. "But we are growing. Gold flows in from hidden hands, and soon, it will not be only your merchants that should fear us."
Alistair leaned back in his chair, feigning amusement. "Hidden hands?" he mused. "And here I thought Raventhorn belonged to its own men."
The mercenary laughed, but there was unease in his expression. "Gold is gold, my friend. Does it matter where it comes from?"
Alistair's fingers drummed lightly against the table. He needed to know who was funding these factions-who sought to turn Raventhorn into a greater threat. But pressing too hard would make him a target.
As the conversation continued, a flicker of movement near the tavern entrance caught his eye. A hooded figure slipped through the door, silent as a shadow.
Alistair's breath stilled for half a second.
The man was young, his posture graceful yet commanding. And though his face was partially obscured by the dim lighting and the hood, there was something unsettlingly familiar about him. He had had an opportunity to meet Tommen when he was younger and could never forget his striking face, but this person looks younger.
The way he moved. The sharpness of his jawline.
Hosea?
Alistair forced himself to look away, his heart steadying. It can't be.
But doubt lingered. He hadn't seen the prince of Aethelgar in years, only heard whispers of his cold and calculating nature. Had he imagined the resemblance? Was it paranoia, or had he just brushed past something vital?
He shook the thought away. He had more pressing matters to attend to.
Across from him, Jasmine watched him closely, her gaze unreadable. Elias, too, seemed to sense the shift in his demeanor but said nothing.
The night was only beginning, and the true dangers of Raventhorn had yet to unfold.
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The ruined chapel smelled of damp stone and melted wax, its air thick with secrets. Hosea stood before the hooded man, his shadow guard stationed by the entrance, watchful but silent.
The Whisperer sat hunched over, fingers tracing idle patterns in the dust-covered bench before him. He had not spoken since Hosea entered, nor had he acknowledged the pouch of gold placed between them. Instead, he let the silence stretch, as if waiting for Hosea to break first.
Hosea did not.
At last, the man exhaled a slow chuckle and reached for the pouch, his movements deliberate. He lifted it slightly, weighing it in his hands as though listening to the gold inside.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he spoke.
"A flower does not bloom in a tomb, yet the roots still breathe."
Hosea's eyes narrowed. "She's alive."
The Whisperer only tilted his head, tracing a slow, deliberate circle in the dust.
"A star sleeps beneath the trees, untouched by night or dawn."
A forest. Somewhere hidden.
Hosea clenched his jaw. "Where?"
The Whisperer merely tapped his fingers against the pouch of gold, as though the conversation was over.
The shadow guard moved without hesitation, snatching the pouch from the man's grasp. The Whisperer did not flinch, did not react-only turned his head slightly, as if amused.
Hosea lifted a hand, stopping his guard. "Let him have it."
The guard hesitated but obeyed, releasing the gold. The Whisperer's fingers closed around it once more, his satisfaction evident in the faint curl of his lips.
Hosea stepped forward. "Can you help me further?"
The Whisperer finally met his gaze. His eyes gleamed from beneath the hood-dark, unreadable. He leaned in, voice a breath carried by the wind.
"The caged bird does not seek an open door, for she knows when to fly."
Hosea frowned, trying to make sense of his words.
"Go home, little prince. The storm will come whether you run toward it or not."
Something about the way he said it made unease coil in Hosea's gut. His sister was alive, but there was something more-something the Whisperer would not say outright.
Hosea stood there for a moment longer, watching the man as he leaned back into the shadows, his presence fading into the stillness of the chapel.
A heavy silence settled between them.
Then, without another word, Hosea turned and walked away.