Eighteen

Chapter eighteen:

Raphael

They don't see it.

Not the way I do.

The others—those clever little wolves in Cai's vault—they see her as a survivor. Something rare and sharpened by loss. A vessel of secrets.

But I remember her voice before it broke. I remember the way she once walked through the palace gardens barefoot, just to feel the wet moss between her toes. I remember when she spoke to servants by name.

I remember everything she was before she learned what betrayal tasted like.

And now… now they're watching her become something else.

And I'm standing here, pretending I didn't help her start.

It's late when I leave the compound. Moonlight slicks the stones with frost. Malton is quiet—too quiet. No shouting, no firelight gossip, just the sound of boots against wet gravel.

I walk to clear my head. But all I do is remember.

The throne room.

The garden.

The moment she looked at me and didn't ask if she should run—just how.

I was the one who said go.

I was the one who swung the blade when the first soldier came through the trees.

They call me loyal. Brave. Her sword.

She's changing.

Each day with them makes it clearer.

She doesn't ask for my opinion as much anymore. She doesn't look to me when things go quiet. She's started wearing that black cloak again—hood drawn up, like she's trying to disappear or become something harder than she is.

I don't blame her. I don't.

She has to survive.

But I wonder, how far will she go before she forgets who she was?

Before she forgets us?

Earlier today, I saw her in the northern corridor with Cai. He was speaking in that low voice he uses when he wants to sound like he's handing over a blade in velvet. She laughed—not loudly, but enough to make something in my chest pull taut.

She doesn't laugh often anymore.

But she did, with him.

And I hated how that felt.

The courtyard lamps flickered in the wind. I was on my way back when I saw her.

She stood alone beneath the withered cypress tree, one hand resting on the stone railing. Her cloak was drawn up. Her hair pulled back tight. She wasn't shivering, but she should have been.

There were bags beneath her eyes now—new ones. Worn into her like creases in an old banner. She wasn't crying. She never did. But something about her looked… emptied.

I stopped a few steps away.

She didn't turn.

"I thought you were asleep," she said.

Her voice was low. Distant. Like she was already preparing to leave again.

"I was," I lied.

Silence stretched between us. Not awkward. Not quite.

Just full.

I wanted to say something—anything—to break it.

You're not alone.

I remember the girl who used to climb trees to spy on court meetings.

I remember the sound of your laugh before you knew what it cost to be royalty.

But all I said was:

"If you leave again… take me with you."

She didn't answer.

She just nodded once, barely a movement.

Then she walked past me—shoulder brushing mine—and was gone.

I stood there long after her footsteps vanished, listening to the wind through the garden.

And I said nothing.

Because loving her was never meant to be spoken.

Only endured.

I found the letter folded on my bed. No seal. No signature. Only a symbol pressed in gold ink: the sun-ring of the Divine Church.

It wasn't a summons. Not directly. Just a time, and a place. Dawn. The chapel by the old aqueduct.

They knew.

They knew she was still alive.

The chapel was plain stone, cold as unspoken judgment.

No stained glass. No saints. No icons. Just a single altar carved from black granite. Behind it stood a knight in white robes—clean-lined, sharp-eyed, too polished for someone in real service.

"Raphael of Faeryn," he said. Not a greeting. A verdict.

I didn't answer.

"You were loyal to the old king. To the prince. Now to the girl."

Still, I said nothing.

"Uncrowned. Untouched by the Empire. A living relic."

My jaw tensed. "She's not a threat."

"To whom?" he asked, voice calm. "To Orion? To the truth? To the idea that the bloodline ended when the war began?"

He took a step forward.

"You keep your blade close to her. But blades can shift direction."

"And you want to stop that?"

He smiled faintly. "We want to watch it."

He circled me slowly, hands behind his back like a tutor or an executioner.

"We could bring her in," he said. "Charge her with inciting war. Sedition. Harboring dangerous knowledge. She would vanish into the Holy Archives before the empress ever heard her name again."

My chest tightened.

"But we won't."

He extended a scroll.

"Instead, we bind her protector."

I didn't reach for it.

"You will enter our martial ranks. Serve in silence. Begin at the bottom. No name. No public title. No indulgence. You will endure the rites. You will submit to order."

"And if I refuse?"

"We begin asking questions in the wrong ears."

I took the scroll.

It was heavier than paper should be.

"You're afraid of her."

The knight's expression didn't shift. "We fear only what cannot be known. A living heir to a fallen throne is an open wound."

I stared at the altar beyond him. Cold. Black. Unblessed.

"I accept."

He handed me a strip of cloth.

"Bind your sword hand. Your training begins at dusk."

As I left, I paused at the chapel door.

"She doesn't know about this."

"Then she remains safer than you are."

I nodded.

"She'll stay that way."

And I walked out before I could say anything more.

They didn't say it was punishment.

They called it training.

Felt the same either way.

Before sunrise, I was on the lower training floor—bare hands, no armor. The real initiates moved in silence, fast and efficient. They'd been taught. I hadn't. That was the point.

They watched me like I was something sharp left in a drawer where it didn't belong.

They weren't wrong.

Haoran—my assigned "guide"—was built like a cathedral pillar. Broad. Scarred. His eyes didn't blink when he spoke.

"No weapon. No shield. Stone only."

He punched first.

Didn't warn me.

I didn't go down.

Didn't swing back either. Not yet.

Hours passed.

Lifting, hauling, and climbing. Writing out holy texts until my fingers blistered. Cold drills in soaked gravel. Kneeling prayer on broken tiles. No food. No rest.

They want to see if I crack.

Or speak out.

I don't.

But I bleed.

At night, they didn't give me a room.

Just a mat under the chapel stairs, beside a rack of dented shields. No candle. No warmth.

Someone spat near my bedroll once.

No one talks to me. Only watches.

Fine.

Let them.

As long as they don't touch her.

Third night. After drills.

Haoran called me aside. Same blank tone as always.

"You're being observed."

"I know."

He looked me over like he was measuring angles.

"The Church fears loyalty. Not weapons. Not power. Loyalty. The wrong kind."

I said nothing.

"If we ever give you a command, and she gives you a different one—you obey us."

I didn't nod. Didn't move.

He watched me a second longer, then walked off.

Later, in the dark, I stayed awake.

Not praying. Just listening.

They think I'll bend.

They think I belong to them now.

But I don't follow them.

I endure them.

For her.

Even if she never asks me to.

Especially if she never does.

The mission came on the sixth day. No ceremony.

Brother Malen handed me a sealed pouch before morning drills. Canvas. Damp. Marked with the Church's sun-ring in black.

"Deliver this to the informant in South Malton," he said. "Do not open it. Do not speak of it. He'll ask for confirmation."

"What's the word?"

"'Ashes rise.' You'll know him by the scar on his left ear. Do it fast. Do it clean. Don't look curious."

I took it.

Didn't ask what was inside.

Didn't have to.

South Orion was louder than the rest of the district. Smoke from blacksmith chimneys. Merchants are crying false gold. Laundry strung over alleys like pale flags.

I kept my cloak up, blade hidden. The weight of the pouch sat wrong on my hip. Not heavy, but tight. Sealed too tightly for paper.

Clay, maybe. Glass. Something fragile.

Something dangerous.

I found him near a stall selling dried rice and tar-root. He didn't look up when I stopped beside him—just kept slicing open tea leaves like a bored vendor.

The scar was there. Left ear. Just above the lobe.

"Ashes rise," I said under my breath.

He paused. Didn't smile.

"You're late," he muttered.

I handed over the pouch.

He didn't open it.

Instead, he dropped it into a sack, tied it, and looked at me, longer than he should have.

"You're the one who left with her."

I didn't answer.

"They say you're loyal. That's true?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

He snorted. "Then you're either a fool or in too deep to climb out."

Then he walked off, sack over his shoulder like nothing mattered.

On the way back, I didn't take the main road.

Too many questions in my head. Not about the man. Not about the pouch.

About what the Church was watching.

Back at the chapel, I returned to drills like nothing happened.

Malen said nothing. But he watched me longer than usual.

I know what this was.

Not a task.

A test.

They wanted to see if I'd flinch. If I'd open the pouch. If I'd talk to her. If I'd run.

I didn't.

Not yet.

But the next test won't be so clean.

They'll push harder.

And when they do—

I don't know who I'll betray first.

Them.

Or myself.

—---

We hadn't spoken in days, not properly. She moved through the compound like she was already somewhere else. I stayed out of her way. It was easier that way.

Tonight, she asked me to walk with her.

No guards. No reason.

Just us.

We took the side path by the riverbank. The sky was low and grey. The shrine by the bridge had crumbled in on itself, still unattended.

She didn't speak for a long while.

Then:

"They think Acacia's dead."

Her voice was level. Like she was stating a price.

"They think it fell with my father. With Armett. With the throne room in ash."

She stopped by the railing, fingers curled over the stone.

"But it didn't. Not really."

I said nothing. Let her talk.

"They left me," she said. "The clans. The court. Everyone who should've stood at my side." Her eyes narrowed, not at me, but at the water. "They thought I'd vanish. Hide. Marry into a minor house. Disappear."

She turned to me.

"But I'm going back."

"You think they'll listen now?" I asked.

"No," she said. "But they'll see."

She pulled her cloak tighter at the throat, the hem dragging faintly on the stones.

"They'll see what I've become. What Acacia can be again, under someone who won't run. Someone who remembers who betrayed us—and who didn't."

"You sound like a general."

She smiled. Barely.

"I sound like someone who's finished waiting."

I looked at her, at the sharpness in her voice—clean, controlled, nothing left of the girl who used to read by candlelight in the west tower.

"You've changed," I said.

She didn't look away.

"I had to."

We walked the rest of the way in silence.

At her door, she paused.

"You think I'm wrong."

"No," I said. "I think you'll win."

That stopped her. Just a breath.

Then: "But?"

I shook my head. "Just don't forget what it's like to lose."

She held my gaze a second longer, then nodded once.

When the door closed, I stayed behind.

Not because I didn't trust her.

But because I wasn't sure she trusted anyone anymore.

I waited until we reached the low wall by the old orchard. No one around. Only the sound of leaves and running water, and the wind threading through the slats.

Then I asked, quietly:

"How would you do it?"

She glanced at me.

"To reclaim Acacia," I clarified. "What would it take?"

Her eyes stayed steady. "Everything."

I nodded once.

Then: "Would you kill the Jhaljie?"

Her expression didn't change.

"Yes."

No hesitation. No anger. Just a fact.

"They took our territory. They killed my brother. They betrayed the crown. If they stand in the way, they fall."

I swallowed that answer.

It wasn't that I didn't expect it.

It was how easily it came out of her mouth.

"And if they didn't start the war?" I asked. "What if they were provoked? Or deceived?"

"They still killed him."

Her voice was sharp now.

"Giovanni vanished. The clans split. The forest burned. They didn't hesitate to take what wasn't theirs. That's all I need to know."

"You don't want to know more?" I pressed. "We don't even know the full history—what happened before the war started, why the clans fractured. No one trusted each other by the end. You never wondered why?"

She turned fully to me then.

"I don't need a scroll to tell me what I saw."

And then, colder:

"Their blood is dirty with betrayal. That's enough."

I stood still.

The girl I knew might have flinched, saying that.

This one didn't blink.

"Miriel…"

"If you're going to ask me to forgive them," she said, "don't."

We didn't speak after that.

She left first, cloak snapping behind her like a banner in retreat.

And I stayed.

Because what she said wasn't just strategy.

It was a belief.

And I don't know what scares me more—

The thought that she's right.

Or the fact that I might still follow her anyway.