The palace was quiet when Gwi left Siera’s chambers. The air felt colder now, as if the very walls of the kingdom were closing in on him, tightening around his chest with every step he took. He walked the dim corridors, the sound of his boots a dull echo in the empty halls. The weight of his last conversation with Siera still lingered, heavy like a stone lodged in his throat.
His mind wasn’t with the palace anymore. It wasn’t even with Siera. The letter that had arrived moments after his painful departure from her side was all that consumed him now.
The messenger had come in the dead of night, his face masked in shadows, his hands trembling as he handed over the sealed parchment. The moment the wax cracked under his thumb, Gwi’s stomach twisted in anticipation.
He hadn’t needed to read the words to know what they meant. But as his eyes scanned the dark ink, the cruel words burned through him like acid.
"The storm you've delayed is already brewing. Another attack comes, and this time, it will not be selective. We know of the child. We know of her. Come, or watch her fall with the kingdom you failed to shield."
The letter was signed with Lycaon’s unmistakable mark—black, jagged, and unmistakable. The words felt like a lash across his chest. They knew. They knew about Siera, about the child she carried, about everything he had been trying to protect, to hide, to keep buried.
And now, Lycaon was giving him a choice. A cruel, bitter choice. Come to him, or watch the kingdom crumble under the weight of his own failure.
His breath caught in his throat, and the bitterness of what he had become threatened to choke him. The walls seemed to close in tighter, and for a moment, Gwi could hardly breathe.
The child.
His child.
Gwi stood there, frozen, as if the floor beneath him had been ripped away. His breath hitched. Not from the threat—it was expected, even welcomed in some grim way—but from the impossible certainty buried within it.
They know about the child...
But how?
He’d only just learned of it himself—Siera had only just told him. Her voice still echoed in his mind. There had been no public announcement. No whispers beyond their private circle. His jaw clenched.
Someone told them...
Who?
His thoughts circled. Not Siera—never. Not Catelyn or Key. Not the council. Most wouldn’t even dare to dream such a thing.
Then, a flicker in his mind. A name.
Lyn.
He shut his eyes. The thought felt like betrayal... but it had appeared anyway. She was close to him. She had her own secrets, a past still cloaked in shadows. And she had spoken to him of Lycaon before.
Could it be...?
“No,” he whispered aloud, shaking his head as if to banish the thought.
It didn’t matter. Not now.
He folded the letter, slow and deliberate, slipping it into his coat. Answers could wait. What could not wait was the reality staring him in the face: if Lycaon knew, then he would strike again—and he would not stop until Siera was on her knees, until the child was ash in his hands.
There was no time.
He turned and strode through the halls of the palace like a ghost. Not toward the stables. Not yet.
Toward her.
Lyn’s Chambers
The door to her chambers was slightly ajar. Light spilled through the gap, and inside, Lyn sat on the edge of a chair, the very same letter in her hand.
Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were not. The moment Gwi stepped in, her gaze lifted—and she knew.
Lyn looked up, startled only for a heartbeat. Her fingers hovered above the letter on her desk, its black seal cracked open—the mark of Lycaon staring up like an omen.
Their eyes met.
She said nothing.
Gwi stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The silence between them grew taut.
“You got one too,” he said, his voice low.
Lyn nodded, folding the letter. “So did you.”
He glanced at the flickering flame from the candle beside her cast long, flickering shadows along the walls—stretching them into strange shapes neither of them acknowledged.
“Are you going to go to him?” she asked, her voice lower now.
“I have no other choice.”
She stood slowly, tucking the letter into her cloak. Her movements were calm—measured.
“You’ll need me to lead you there.”
Gwi didn’t answer, but his gaze didn’t waver. She turned to him.
“I will take you.”
She moved to gather her things—her coat, her blade—and paused at the door. “Always,” she said softly, then turned halfway back to him with a faint, practiced smile. “For the kingdom.”
Her smile was faint. Controlled.
Too controlled.
She turned too quickly—just enough for the flicker to register.
Gwi’s eyes narrowed. A small twitch in her fingers as she pulled the cloak tighter around her frame. The way her jaw tensed ever so slightly. The moment was brief, expertly masked—but not perfect.
He’d seen too many liars.
He stared a moment too long.
Lyn turned back, catching his gaze. Her eyes were clear, her voice neutral.
A strange stillness followed her words. She turned away again—but too fast.
Just for a moment, his eyes lingered on the way her hand curled too tightly around the cloak’s edge, the flicker in her expression that didn’t quite match the loyalty her voice carried. It was subtle. Anyone else would’ve missed it.
But Gwi had fought wars, lived in shadows, and trusted too easily before.
He didn’t speak the suspicion blooming in his chest, but it settled there like a thorn. His jaw clenched.
Lyn felt his eyes on her and turned back with a composed face. “Something wrong?”
“…No,” Gwi said.
A lie.
But he let it sit.
There were more pressing fires to extinguish. The truth could wait. The kingdom could not.
He was already retreating into himself. The thought whispered again—How did Lycaon know about the child?
He swallowed it. There was no time now. No certainty.
“Let’s go,” he said.
She nodded once and led the way into the night, her back straight, footsteps confident.
Gwi walked behind her—silent, alert. He didn’t trust his suspicions yet. But he didn’t forget them either.