I am Willow, a 5,096 year old fae, currently contracted to protect and guide the young prince, Ren Drakemore.

The manor's lamps are dark, its halls quiet. Ren and Maribel sleep soundly in their beds. He had clung to me earlier, and I watched over him until the peaceful embrace of sleep took him. But I cannot remain at his side through the night. There is something of dire importance that demands my attention.

In the twenty-second hour of our first day in the manor, with the moon still high and bathing the world in pale blue light, I slip silently through the front door. A few paces from the threshold, I stop—coming level with the golem standing sentry at the edge of the patio.

"Going out?" Shadow says as only his head slowly turns to regard me with a faint screech of metal on metal. Moonlight drapes his mithril mask in jagged shadows, casting hollow pits where eyes should be.

"I won't be long," I respond simply, without returning his gaze.

He lingers in silence, as if there's more he wishes to say. But in the end, he simply turns his head back forward and resumes his silent vigil.

I know the fragment of Ren that became Shadow still longs for the connection it once had with me. He wants to regain what it lost—so it can return to how things were.

But that is out of the question.

Not only because he's become a detestable weapon, forged from a metal that can kill beings like me—More importantly, Ren must be allowed to fracture. His pieces must walk their own paths—must grow, must corrupt. Only by treating each fragment as its own individual can I ensure that divergence takes root. And in that corruption… lies the boy's salvation.

It may seem cruel. But it is necessary. Because in the end, that corruption will be what saves his life—and mine. It is the only way to fulfill the contract that binds us both.

Without another word, I release the illusion of my human form, dissolving into a cloud of dark mist and rocketing off the manor's patio into the night sky. The sensation of immaterial flight—soaring freely through moonlight and silence—is a welcome reprieve from the constraints of my mortal disguise.

That body has its uses, of course. There are certain pleasures one can only experience in the flesh. A pleasing figure is a powerful tool, especially when coaxing men to betray their better judgment. But confinement to that vessel for too long… it begins to chafe. To suffocate. To feel more like a cell.

I don't fly far. Twisting midair, I dive into the wheat field just beyond the manor. I hit the ground as a silent black cloud, folding into the golden stalks without so much as disturbing the soil.

My toes are the first to take shape, pressing into the dirt as my ethereal form condenses. Ebony skin, clawed hands, limbs half-formed and unraveling at the edges—somewhere between flesh and mist.

I settle cross-legged upon the soft soil, teeming with the small but steady flow of botanical life force. The energy coursing through the plants around me and the roots below is faint—nothing like the rich, intoxicating essence that flows in mortal veins—but it will do. A beggar's meal, meager and thin, yet still enough to aid in what I must do.

It has been an arc since that fool Gavin set off for the capital—to decide whether I am the threat to Arcadia, or if I acted to shield Ren from the king's murderous intent. One of the reasons we've retreated to Hyperion is to honor his request that we stay clear of the capital while he validates our claims.

How troublesome, that we must place even a shred of faith in his judgment. It was a shockingly clever move on that bloated sack of lard Fobos's part to manipulate Ren's ally into confronting me. No doubt they hoped Gavin would destroy me… or that I would be forced to kill one of Ren's most trusted companions.

He never had a chance. But had I killed him, it would've shattered the valuable alliance Ren has with Griswald.

What we need now is for the king's crimes to be exposed by someone the nobility trusts—someone from within the system. And as thick-skulled, brutish, and painfully straightforward as Gavin may be, his position as Captain of the Royal Guard grants him that authority.

It is my complete lack of faith in Gavin's investigative abilities that finds me seated in the damp soil among these young wheat stalks. I must check in on his progress—such as it is—and perhaps give him the faintest nudge in the right direction.

To do so, I will establish a link with one of the creatures I previously enchanted—simple minds that live normal lives until I call upon them. Through their eyes, I may observe… and when needed, subtly guide.

This is a far lesser cost than the dreadful toll of maintaining my influence over Edric these past nine years. A Grandmaster of magic, his will does not bend easily. He fights me daily, clawing at the edges of my grasp, desperate for freedom. Ren doesn't know it, but holding the king in check requires constant vigilance. At times, when I've been forced to divide my focus, he's come perilously close to slipping free.

And I don't even fully control him. I've limited my interference to what is strictly necessary—no more. Yet even that restrained tether costs me years of life with each passing arc. With the distance between us now stretched across kingdoms, that cost has only grown steeper.

For that reason, restraining the king was never meant to be permanent. And killing him outright is not an option either. For Ren to legitimately claim the throne, he must defeat his father himself. What I've done is merely delay the inevitable, granting the boy time to grow. But even that time is running short. I feel the strain. I won't be able to hold Edric much longer.

Even establishing a link with simple-minded animals at this distance costs me valuable time. To lessen the toll, I will augment my life force with that of the plants in this field.

I close my eyes and sink my claws into the damp soil. I reach out to the threads of life around me and draw them inward. The taste is bitter. As I drink from the shallow current, the wheat around me begins to wilt, bending low in a silent bow. Within moments, a ring of withered stalks surrounds me—three meters wide and utterly drained.

The flavor is foul—like sucking marrow from rotted bone. Only the most desperate of fae attempt to sustain themselves this way. And even then, without a lush, vibrant forest to feed from… they starve all the same.

Then I reach out to the distant links, straining harder the farther my mind travels from my body. All awareness of where I am fades, until only two things remain: the unyielding tether to Edric, and another tendril of thought, drifting through the mist, searching for faint lights like beacons on a shoreline to a ship at sea.

As I draw near, the minds become clearer—rats, birds, cats, and dogs, all busy with their trivial lives across the streets of Cairndorn. Some dig through refuse, others scurry through walls, or lounge in the warmth before a noble's hearth.

I latch onto one: a hawk gliding silently above the rooftops. In an instant, I soar through the sky, peering down at the castle far below. The bird continues its flight, blissfully unaware of the intrusion. I nudge it toward the noble quarter, and it veers lazily in that direction.

Using its sharp vision, I scan for Gavin. The hawk circles repeatedly above the city, and with a deeper push of life force into the spell, I augment its sight—searching for Gavin's mana signature.

He isn't at home. Nor is he anywhere near the castle.

But I don't need to search long. I spot him at the doorstep of a minor noble's manor, clad not in armor but in the ceremonial blue and gold attire reserved for formal occasions. He raises a white-gloved hand and raps sharply on the door.

Just before it opens, I release the hawk and shift my focus to a tri-colored kitten nestled in the flowers beside the entrance.

My wings are replaced with furred legs, my beak traded for a wet nose and twitching whiskers. I lift my small head, peering up cautiously at the towering figure only feet away—his scent immediately apparent. A distinct musk clings to him, mingling oddly with the perfume of the blossoms surrounding me.

The door swings open with a soft creak, revealing a tall, pale woman with shoulder-length black hair. She wears a shawl draped over a long white nightgown, her posture tense with surprise. Her expression shifts quickly—curiosity curdles into restrained displeasure the moment her gaze lands on her visitor.

"Oh. Captain Gavin... it's you," she says, her tone laced with veiled disdain. Her fingers tighten around the doorframe as if she's debating whether to slam it shut again.

"Good evening, Lady Holt," Gavin says with a friendly smile and a polite bow, undeterred by her piercing glare. "You're a hard woman to catch for an audience." He straightens up, towering over her by more than a head and a half.

Lady Holt? What a surprise. Holt was the family name of one of the four men who, a year ago, died to my fangs in their foolhardy attempt to murder Ren in a dark alley. That would make this woman Astrid Holt—the wife of the man I tore in two.

Perhaps Gavin is on the right track, but I doubt he'll get any evidence from the man's wife about the dirty deals that got him killed. Admitting the truth would mean ruin for her entire family.

"I've been very busy managing my family's affairs in my husband's absence," Astrid replies coolly, her tone as sharp as the look in her eyes.

"Mama, who's at the door?" comes the high-pitched voice of a child from somewhere behind her. A moment later, a small face framed in a tangle of long black curls peeks out around her legs.

"I'm glad I finally caught you, because his disappearance is precisely what I need to ask you about." As Gavin speaks, the cat I inhabit slips from the flowers of its own accord, slinking across the cobblestones to sniff at the heel of his boot.

The girl's eyes drift downward and light up the moment she spots me.

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"Tabitha's back!" she squeals, dropping to her knees and stretching out her arms to coax me closer. So… the child of the man I slew—a would-be assassin who failed to kill Ren a year ago—has befriended the vessel I left behind. How quaint.

Still, the body responds to her without hesitation, springing into her embrace with an eager purr and sloppy licks across her cheek. No time for this. Stay focused, you ridiculous little beast. I nudge its instincts, flooding it with curiosity toward Gavin. The cat settles in the girl's arms, eyes locked on the man at the threshold, watching.

"At this hour, you must know we'd be in bed," Astrid says curtly, voice laced with irritation.

"Yes, well," Gavin replies, offering a sheepish shrug, "you've been remarkably unavailable every other time I came to call. This was the only hour I could be certain you wouldn't be elsewhere."

The dunce seems completely unaware that Astrid has been actively avoiding him. The frustration on her face makes it clear she would have preferred to avoid him this time as well—if only his late visit hadn't caught her off guard.

"My family is under Lord Fobos' domain. I've already answered his questions, and he completed his investigation," Astrid says dismissively.

"Yes, according to his report, your husband went missing within the capital—which, unfortunately, places the matter under the jurisdiction of the Royal Guard as well," Gavin replies, his tone that of a weary bureaucrat forced to follow an inconvenient policy. "It's really just a formality."

"I truly am sorry to impose, Lady Holt, but if you wouldn't mind inviting me in for a brief moment, I only have a few quick questions," Gavin adds, gesturing inward with a conciliatory tone.

It seems very much like Gavin is simply going through the motions, as if the investigation's conclusion has already been decided. Clearly, I expected too much from this oaf. He never intended to investigate the king. What a coward he turned out to be.

"Very well," Astrid relents, stepping aside so Gavin may enter.

She leads him into the parlor, taking a seat on the couch and gesturing toward a vacant loveseat across a low table for Gavin to take. The girl carries me to an open patch of floor beside Gavin, where she plops down cross-legged on a plush carpet. She sets to work rubbing my belly, though the cat's eyes remain locked on the muscle-bound idiot awkwardly attempting to squeeze into a seat clearly designed for a man of much smaller stature.

"Thank you for your patience," Gavin says, pulling a notepad and pencil from inside his coat pocket.

Clearing his throat, he continues, "So, Lady Holt, is it true your husband worked for Lord Fobos as a retainer?"

"Yes. Our family has served the Count loyally for ten years," Astrid replies, puffing up her chest with pride.

"And on the day he went missing, was he working for your lord then as well?" Gavin asks, scribbling into his notepad.

"Yes."

"And are you employed by the lord yourself?"

"No. I tend to our home and raise our daughter, Emily." She gestures to the girl, who is now scratching behind my ears.

Gavin offers the child a kind smile, and she beams back at him, revealing a wide grin with several missing teeth.

"And what task, specifically, was your husband performing on the day he went missing?" Gavin asks, glancing up from his notes.

There's a pause as Lady Holt seems to weigh her words—more like a calculating tactician than the grieving wife she's supposed to be.

"You'll have to ask Lord Fobos. It's not my place to know the lord's affairs," she finally says.

Gavin raises a questioning brow at her response, but before he can speak again, the sound of wood scraping against wood echoes from deeper within the house. Gavin, Astrid, and the girl all glance toward the noise in surprise.

Gavin is the first to speak. "Would that be one of your servants up late?" he suggests.

"I suppose so," Astrid replies, slowly turning back to him. "She has a habit of stealing food. I'll deal with her later."

"Right," Gavin mutters, turning a stern look to his notepad and tapping it lightly with his pencil. "It's been a year since his disappearance. How have you managed financially with him gone?"

As he speaks, he scans the finely decorated parlor—subtly implying that the Holt family appears rather well off for having lost their only breadwinner.

"Lord Fobos is a generous and kind man who takes care of those who serve him," Astrid replies, her tone turning ice cold.

"Some more than others, it would seem…" Gavin mutters.

"Excuse me?" Astrid bristles.

"It's strange, though," Gavin says more firmly now, the first trace of accusation entering his voice. "A lord usually only pays the family of retainers who've died in his service… not those who have simply gone missing."

A tense silence follows—thick as ice and just as frigid.

Then, to drive the point home, Gavin adds, "If he were truly missing, he could just as easily be a deserter. Paying his family in perpetuity would suggest the circumstances of his disappearance are known—even if not openly admitted."

"I think it's time for you to leave." Lady Holt says rising to her feat with a tone of finality.

"Very well, Lady Holt. Thank you for your time," Gavin says flatly, with no hint of genuine gratitude. He presses down on the armrest to extricate himself from the tiny chair. As his hips slip free, there's an audible cracking sound from the sides of the seat. Astrid's eye twitches as Gavin pauses to regard the chair for a brief moment, then gives her a curt nod and turns to stride toward the door.

"Wait Tabitha no!" Emily cries as I urge the kitten to wriggle free of Emily's loving hands and follow after him. It bounds across the gap to the door, hopping like a coiled spring, slipping out just in time to avoid Lady Holt slamming the door shut behind Gavin.

Gavin takes several steps away from the manor before coming to a stop and looking back. Not at the manor, but at me. At the cat that now stalking him, looking up at him with an unnaturally intense focus.

Gavin eyes me curiously, slowly kneeling down to get a closer look. "You're an odd one, aren't you?" he says, more to himself than anyone.

"Meow," the cat responds, sitting down before him, licking its paw—its eyes still locked on Gavin.

"The whole time I was in there, you never stopped looking at me," he muses. "You never even blinked."

I blink.

"And right there—you just blinked in response to me saying you hadn't been blinking!" Gavin says in a completely counterproductive loud whisper, now clearly speaking to the cat.

He reaches out a gloved hand toward me, sparking an intense, visceral urge not to let him touch me.

Shink.

Acting on my influence, the kitten swipes at Gavin's outstretched fingers with a quick flash of claws, then deftly dodges out of reach.

Gavin doesn't flinch, but he does draw his hand back with an annoyed frown. He looks down at the forefinger of his white glove, now bearing a small gouge and a growing spot of red.

"Ruddy cats."

Choosing to continue my observation from a distance—and far more inconspicuously—I release my hold over the cat and return to the hawk flying overhead. From above, I watch my former vessel bound back into the flower beds in fright, while Gavin stands, then resumes walking down the path away from the Holt manor.

As I urge the bird to follow, I reflect on what I've seen.

I suppose it's good that Gavin is investigating, and perhaps he's taking it more seriously than I initially assumed. But what, really, did he uncover that he didn't already know? Questioning Lady Holt revealed nothing about the actions of the king, Lord Fobos, or Lord Cromwell.

It was a complete waste of time.

Time I don't have to waste.

My musing is interrupted as my avian eyes catch something odd trailing behind Gavin—a smaller figure cloaked in black, moving with feline agility across the rooftops, leaping between shadows. They've been tailing him, it seems, ever since he left the Holt estate.

I focus harder, trying to discern more about the one pursuing him. But they're cloaked from head to toe in black, their features completely obscured. All I can make out are two faint pink lights glowing beneath their hood. Worse still, I sense they're veiled beneath a broad aura of illusion magic. Whatever spell they're using is more than enough to mask their presence from the dense simpleton that is Gavin—but the hawk's natural vision appears unaffected.

Did they really send an assassin after Gavin? Perhaps they fear his investigation poses a real threat. Fools. They needn't go so far—Gavin has no hope of uncovering their plans.

But what should I do?

I could take full control of the bird, but what good would a fae-possessed hawk do in a fight? I could attempt to warn him, to draw his attention to his pursuer.

I urge the hawk to swoop lower, watching as Gavin reaches the stoop of his own, much smaller home in the noble quarter. He steps through the door, the metallic click of the lock sliding into place behind him.

I land in a tree outside his parlor window just as the cloaked figure arrives—silent and light as a feather. Oddly, Gavin stands in his parlor with his back to the very same window, seemingly reviewing his notepad.

He is blissfully unaware as the window glides open with barely a sound, and the cloaked figure slips inside with the flexibility of a snake.

"CAW!" I force the hawk to cry out just before the window slides shut. Those pink glowing eyes glance back at me, curious for a moment, before turning once more to their target.

The fool Gavin doesn't so much as raise his head, let alone turn at the hawk's call. He just stands there—still, oblivious—a sitting duck as the black-clad figure creeps up behind him, hands outstretched.

Even with the window closed, my hawk's sharp hearing picks up everything inside. I hear Gavin's breathing, the rustle of paper as he turns a page… but no sound at all from the one approaching him. No footsteps. No breath. He doesn't see the hands reaching out.

"Got you!"

The hands suddenly wrap around Gavin and pull him into a hug from behind. As they do, the hood falls away, revealing a long mane of red fur and two twitching fox ears. The pink glow in Abigail's eyes fades as she snuggles her face into Gavin's back, balancing on one paw and leaning against him for support.

"You had me worried for a moment there," Gavin chuckles, trying—and failing—to reach back and pat Abigail on the head. Eventually, he gives up and simply pats her hands where they rest against his chest.

"Did you trip over a table?"

"Of course not!" Abigail says with mock indignation as she releases Gavin, allowing him to turn and face her. He looks down at her with the kind of smile shaped by years of deep affection.

"That really was their servant sneaking bread from the cupboard. Walked right by me without even noticing."

"Huh… lucky, I guess," Gavin shrugs. "Well, for us anyway. They're probably going to be beaten," he adds darkly.

Abigail sighs and rubs her neck where her own slave collar rests, then removes her cloak and pulls a few pieces of parchment from a pouch on her belt. I get the impression she's reflecting on how many others like her live very different, far less fortunate lives.

"What did you find?" Gavin asks.

"Their ledger is identical to the other three families. Not just similar—identical, line for line," Abigail says, frowning in confusion as she taps the parchment in her hands. "The day after their husbands died, they received 500 silver. And the same amount on the first of every arc since."

"Means Fobos knew immediately that his men were dead—not missing," Gavin notes grimly. "Didn't even wait for an investigation."

I had noticed, before we left for Hyperion, that Abigail had gone to visit Gavin for an extended period—but I had no idea he had enlisted her help in his investigation. Was his questioning of Lady Holt merely a distraction to give Abigail time to search through their financial records?

I know the ledger they're discussing. It's a standard document every noble family in Arcadia maintains to track their income and calculate taxes owed.

"There's one more thing in their ledger," Abigail says, holding up the parchment for Gavin to see. "Lady Holt has an adult son, it seems, who also works for Lord Fobos."

"It's normal for a baronet's entire family to serve under a count," Gavin responds.

"Yes, but his income has come from the regular delivery of sheep to Lord Fobos," Abigail says, her tone suggesting a deeper mystery. But when Gavin doesn't seem to grasp her meaning, she elaborates. "Which is strange, because they don't own a farm… or any sheep. And Fobos, as head of a merchant guild, doesn't manage a farm either."

"That is strange," Gavin admits.

"Look here," she continues, tapping the parchment. "The ledger lists sporadic deliveries—small numbers, usually two to four—labeled as sheep, rams, and lambs."

"It's strange, right?"

"I guess so," Gavin says, rubbing the back of his head. "Do you think it's related to our investigation somehow?"

"I don't know." Abigail throws her hands up in defeat and lets herself fall into Gavin's arms. "I'm tired. Let's go to bed," she whines seductively.

I break my connection with the hawk abruptly, feeling my mind snap back into my own body. My eyes fly open to the moonlit circle of wilted grain around me, beneath a star-speckled night sky. I've seen all I needed to see—and I've no interest in wasting my life on the show that's likely to follow.

I draw my claws from the soil and rise to my feet. Where I had been seated is now the center of a ring of pale white mushrooms that sprang up while I was channeling my spell.

It's good to know that Gavin is taking the investigation seriously, despite his mental limitations. If he can bring the King's crimes to light, it may sow disunity within the kingdom—earning Ren new allies, and new enemies for the King. Should Ren's existence become more publicly known, and if he's painted as the brave victim of a tyrant, it could strengthen his position considerably.

But all of that hinges on Gavin not only uncovering the truth, but convincing the nobles of the ruling council that the King ordered the assassination of his own son.

Knowing Gavin, it would be prudent to have a backup plan.

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