The pieces move

The lanterns lining the narrow street flickered, their flames dancing in the cool night breeze like half-blown wishes. Kenan stood beneath one such lamp, cloak drawn tight, his breath rising in wreaths as he addressed the small circle gathered at the inn's back courtyard. Leo, Liv, Zeno, and Lex formed a half-moon around him, Dorothy at the center, silent and still. Kenan's voice was low, urgent.

"I watched them," he said, head bowing slightly. "Five figures clad in black—one of them a man of the king's own council. I know his gait, his posture. They spoke of… debts, of a reckoning at the castle, and of a name: Eren."

Liv's eyes flared. "Eren? As in Prince Eren Bethel?" She exchanged a glance with Leo. "He's only seventeen."

Lex's heavy brows knit. "Seventeen-year-olds aren't usually the ones pulling strings. What debts? Who's collecting?"

Zeno's pale gaze was fixed on Kenan. "And the councilor—was he named?"

Kenan shook his head. "No. But he's a close adviser—possibly Captain Roland's superior. They spoke of 'the final tithe' and how soon the kingdom's pillars would fall."

A hush fell. Dorothy's hand brushed the hilt of her satchel, her lips narrowing. Only Leo stirred, shifting his weight. At last he shrugged.

"I'm a mercenary, not a spy," he said, voice flat. "This isn't our fight."

Liv's laugh was sharp, incredulous. "Not your fight? Annie—your sister—she's inside those walls. If they're plotting to elevate Eren… she could be caught in their crossfire."

Leo's eyes flicked to the inn's open door, where a single lantern glow hinted at Annie's distant silhouette, patrolling the courtyard's perimeter before her shift ended. He looked back at Liv, expression unreadable. "She can take care of herself," he said in a tone that dared anyone to challenge him. "Besides, we came for coin and for destiny, not palace intrigues."

Dorothy remained silent, her gaze distant. The lantern light gleamed off her rings, and she seemed ageless, as though she bore witness to more than mortal scheming. Leo caught her eye, and for the briefest heartbeat, suspicion flickered in his mind—is it fate, or folly, to turn away now? But the moment passed, and he looked away.

⸻

Inside the reclusive seer's chamber beneath Bethel Keep, candlelight quivered over racks of vials and shelves of dust-draped tomes. Princess Madison knelt on the cold stone floor across from Madame Frida, eyes bright with urgency. The seer's pale gaze drifted from the simmering crystal bowl to the young princess.

"You saw her," Frida said, voice soft as silk. "The woman in red."

Madison nodded, pressing her fingertips to her lips. "In the lists. She was watching Zeno and—" she caught herself, "—others too. She looked at me."

The seer's lips curved in something like a smile. "And what would you have me do, child?"

Madison's throat tightened. She knew the prophecy, the price of wrong choices, the weight of ancient covenants. Yet no command came to her lips—not to attack, not supplication. Only the tremor of fear. She said nothing.

Madame Frida's eyes flickered to the ornate portrait hanging behind Madison's head—a swooning likeness of the late Queen Isolde Bethel, her kindly features framed by auburn ringlets. Then Frida's gaze shifted to the door where Cynthia entered. She stood in the doorway, her snowy silk gown whispering over the stone.

The queen's eyes, cold and calculating, turned to the portrait with thinly veiled disdain. She drew a slow breath, speaking to the late queen's painted image as though it were flesh and blood. "I hope you enjoy your stay in your grave," she hissed. "You interfered with orders. You married John, my husband—mine by right—and you seduced him and left behind children whom I will see undone. No one will stand in the way of Prince Eren ascending the throne, he should have been the first and only son."

Madison jumped to her feet, face ashen. "Mother! You can't—"

Cynthia turned, venom in her pale eyes. "Don't mistake my displeasure for cruelty, darling. I love your father but he is weak. This kingdom needs strength, not sentiment. Eren will be the instrument of my design." She pointed a perfect white finger at the painting. "And you—" she whispered, eyes narrowing on Madison—"you will learn to bow to the will of the throne, or suffer the consequences."

The seer rose, her robes stirring like a foul wind. "Beware the red cloak," she warned Cynthia. "She is both harbinger and healer. Cross her path at your peril."

Cynthia's laugh was cold steel on stone. "I have crushed lesser witches."

With that, she swept out of the chamber, leaving Madison trembling and Frida frowning in the candlelight.

⸻

Under the shadow of the highest battlements, Annie Cole walked her nightly round with deliberate calm. The moon cast pale pools of light through crenellations, and her boots clicked against the granite. She paused before a heavy oak door marked by the royal crest and heard voices within—low and urgent.

One voice belonged to Lord Resol, the king's adviser whose features she had seen in council but knew only by reputation. His tone was harsh: "The princess's interference must be quelled. The debt must be paid soon since the tournament has ended—or the kingdom will crumble."

A softer voice—Colen, the captain of the guard—countered: "Your methods are extreme. A child on the throne will spur rebellion. We must maintain the façade of stability."

Lord Resol spat. "Fools. We bought loyalty with secrets and blood. Now we take our tithe. The seer's prophecy unwraps before us: blood for blood, life for life. The late queen's children must answer for their mother's sins, so says Queen Cynthia."

Annie's breath caught. Her heart hammered as she realized the full horror of the plot: they planned not only to elevate the innocent Eren, but to sacrifice the heirs of Queen Isolde—Mason and Madison—to fulfill an ancient debt. If word of this reached the king… yet Lord Resol would never allow that.

She pressed her back flat against the cool stone and closed her eyes, mind whirling. The consequences if she spoke out would be swift and savage: arrest, torture, death. But silence meant the twins—her blood—would walk to slaughter. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her concealed dagger. She would find Leo. She would warn him and ask his help. This time, she would not be a mere sentinel of the walls—she would be a shield for the family she has sworn to protect.

⸻

Late that night, beyond the castle's ramparts and hidden from prying eyes by the tavern's worn shutters, Leo Nerona climbed the creaking stairs to Dorothy's chamber. Candlelight spilled under the door's frame, and soft laughter drifted through. He paused, adjusting his cloak, the weight of the night's revelations pressing on him. But inside, the warmth of Dorothy's world awaited.

Dorothy opened the door, red cloak discarded, her hair tumbling in dark waves over pale shoulders. She wore a simple nightshift of silk—ever the witch, both wild and refined. Her eyes shone with relief when she saw him.

"You came," she whispered.

He crossed the room in two strides and took her hand, warm and trembling. "I needed to see you," he said, voice low. "I—" He faltered, the shadows of the courtyard, the conspirators' words, the seer's prophecy—all crowded his mind. "They're planning something at the castle. A debt, a sacrifice…"

Dorothy drew him in, pressing her palm to his chest. "Tell me everything."

So he did: Kenan's watch, the black-cloaked figures in the alley, the whispered phrase "final tithe," Annie's position in that deadly game. Her eyes never left his face, absorbing each word, like a scholar tracing runes in a new grimoire.

When he finished, she laid a hand on his cheek. "Why did you shrug it off?"

He bowed his head. "It's not our war," he said. "Our fight is the road—coin, contracts, fate. I can't wade into palace politics."

Dorothy's lips curved, sad and understanding. "Yet you stand at the crossroads of destiny. You cannot ignore it."

Leo shook his head, frustration boiling through his calm exterior. "I don't know what to do." He reached for her, voice roughening. "I'm tired of choice. I'm tired of prophecy. I want… I want something real."

She cupped his face, the candlelight glinting in her emerald eyes. "Then live in this moment." She pressed her lips to his, slow and demanding. The years of war and wandering fell away as Leo responded, his arms encircling her waist.

They sank onto the bed of furs, each breath a confession. Dorothy's silken nightshift pooled at her hips; Leo's tunic came loose under her hands. Fingers traced scars and tattoos—marks of battles fought and blood debts paid—while lips rediscovered warmth and life beyond steel and shadow.

They whispered promises neither fully believed, yet meant in that instant: Leo's vow to protect her, Dorothy's oath to stand by his side. The world outside—the conspiracies, the curse of the seer, the gambit of kings—receded. In the hush of linen and candle-dripped wax, two souls found refuge in each other's arms.

When dawn's first light crept under the shutters, Leo lay awake, her hair against his chest, the weight of the night's choices heavy on his mind. He traced her sleeping face, the woman who called him to a greater path, and for the first time, he understood that some debts could not be ignored, some destinies could not be denied.

Outside, the kingdom of Neros stirred to life, ignorant of the blood that would soon stain its halls. But within that small inn chamber, at least for one night, fate had softened its edge—and Leo Nerona had glimpsed the price of turning away from it.