By the time the sun cleared the eastern ridge, Springville had stopped pretending the riders were only passing through.

The advance party had arrived the way winter did, quietly at first and then all at once. Six horses. Polished tack. A banner that made people straighten their backs without meaning to. They had asked for water and supplies “in the name of King Aldric,” and the words had carried like a bell. They had spread through the village with a careful ease, speaking to the innkeeper, the miller, the woman who kept the largest chicken coop, the men who maintained the southern road. They had smiled. They had thanked. They had taken notes without ink, storing the shape of the place behind their eyes.

It was not the size of them that unsettled Ranoke.

It was the method.

They were not here to fight. They were here to learn.

And learning, Ranoke knew, was always the first stage of taking.

He kept to his forge the rest of the morning. He told himself he had work. He told himself that was reason enough. The blade he had left unfinished in the sudden shift of yesterday’s news had been calling at the edge of his attention ever since. His hands remembered the last angle he’d struck. The metal remembered too, sitting on the anvil like an accusation.

So he heated it again.

He focused on the familiar things: the hiss of coals, the color of iron as it softened, the steady discipline of hammerwork. He told himself that the ring of steel was more honest than any banner.

Still, he felt the village watching the road.

Even the forge seemed to listen.

Bram came and went twice, making excuses to pass the inn’s front step, then circling back with information he pretended not to care about. He tried to act bored. He failed.

“They’re measuring,” Bram muttered the second time, leaning against the forge wall like he belonged there.

Ranoke did not look up from the anvil. “Measuring what?”

“Everything,” Bram said. “Width of the road. How many carts fit between the well and the inn. How long it takes to walk from the river bend to the town square. If we have more than one exit. If the back lanes connect.”

Ranoke’s hammer paused briefly, then resumed. “That’s normal for a patrol.”

“It’s normal for a patrol that plans to come back,” Bram said.

Ranoke struck the iron, kept his gaze on the glow. “They said they’re traveling through.”

Bram snorted. “You believe the words that come with a banner?”

Ranoke did not answer, because Bram’s question carried its own answer. He had grown up under the reach of Clayland. Words were often what Clayland used to make a thing true.

Bram watched the fire. “Havka’s already trying to be polite.”

“Havka is always polite,” Ranoke said.

“Not like this.” Bram scratched at his jaw. “Polite like someone’s about to judge him.”

Ranoke quenched the blade, the hiss rising like a snake, and the sudden steam made the morning air feel close. He set the metal aside to cool, then wiped his palms on his rag.

“What else?” he asked.

Bram hesitated. “They keep asking about the spring.”

“The spring?” Ranoke frowned.

“The one that feeds the river,” Bram said, nodding toward the hills. “Where the water stays cold even in summer.”

“That’s just water.”

Bram’s eyes flicked up. “You sure it’s just water?”

Ranoke’s mouth tightened. Springville was full of small superstitions people insisted were not superstitions. The river was “good luck.” The old oak by the field was “protective.” The hill stones were “watching.” Mostly people said those things because it felt better to pretend the land cared.

“I’m sure,” Ranoke said.

Bram didn’t look convinced. He pushed off the wall. “They said more riders are coming. Not just six.”

Ranoke felt a small tightening in his chest. “How many?”

Bram lifted one shoulder, casual on purpose. “Enough that people are sweeping their thresholds.”

Ranoke glanced past him toward the inn. Havka’s shutters were open wide, the doorway busy with villagers pretending to browse and travelers pretending to be invisible. Children had been warned not to run in the street. They were running anyway, quieter than usual, like they could feel the tension even if they didn’t understand it.

“Go eat,” Bram said abruptly.

Ranoke blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been hammering since dawn,” Bram said, like it irritated him. “You’ll get stupid if you don’t eat.”

Ranoke almost smiled, but the expression didn’t quite form. “I ate.”

“You ate half a loaf and called it breakfast,” Bram said. “Come on.”

Ranoke wanted to refuse. He hated being pulled away when his hands were in a rhythm. But he also understood that Bram was not asking because he cared about food. Bram wanted him present. Visible. Not alone.

So Ranoke followed.

They walked through town as if it were any other day. As if people weren’t watching the road. As if the air didn’t feel slightly wrong, like the moment before a storm.

Havka stood outside the inn with a bucket in each hand, directing two boys to carry water around back. He looked up as Ranoke approached, and his expression tightened in relief that he immediately tried to hide.

“Ranoke,” Havka said, as if the name itself might be useful.

Ranoke nodded. “Morning.”

Havka’s gaze flicked toward the road again, then back. “If they ask you anything, you answer politely.”

Bram opened his mouth.

Havka raised a hand, cutting him off without looking. “Polite,” he repeated, more sharply this time. “You can be suspicious later.”

Bram muttered something under his breath.

Ranoke didn’t argue. Havka had a way of being both practical and fearful without admitting either. He had survived long enough in a border village to know what banners meant.

Inside, the inn smelled of bread and damp wool and smoke. People sat closer together than usual, speaking low. The soldiers from the advance party were not inside at the moment, but their presence had changed the room anyway, like a weight on the roof beams.

They took food to the back corner.

Bram tore into his bread with the appetite of someone who ate like the world might steal the chance. Ranoke ate slower, listening.

Snatches of conversation drifted past.

“—said the king’s daughter is with them—”

“—no, I heard the king himself, but why would he come—”

“—they’ll want a place to sleep, and if Havka says no—”

“—it’s not the sleeping, it’s the counting—”

Ranoke’s eyes lifted. “The king’s daughter?”

Bram chewed, then swallowed. “That’s what people are saying.”

Ranoke felt something odd in his stomach that was not hunger. “Why would a princess come here?”

Bram’s mouth twisted. “To remind us Clayland exists.”

Ranoke didn’t answer. Springville was not a place royalty visited for nostalgia.

The murmur in the inn shifted, as if everyone had heard something at once. Heads turned.

Outside, hoofbeats rolled down the road.

Not the controlled rhythm of six horses.

Something larger.

The sound reached the inn in layers: the steady thud of hooves, the creak of leather, the subtle clink of metal, and beneath it all the deeper sound of wheels.

Bram set his bread down. Ranoke rose without meaning to.

They stepped outside.

The road to the north curved over a low rise and then dipped into Springville, and over that rise came the procession.

It was not an army.

It was not a parade.

It was something between.

The first riders wore Clayland colors without apology, cloaks pinned high, armor polished to a shine that made them look like part of the kingdom’s wealth rather than its defense. Behind them rolled two wagons with canvas tops, their sides decorated with carved panels and braided rope. More riders flanked the wagons, spaced like a practiced pattern. A second banner rose above them—larger than the first, heavier in the wind.

The crowned sigil of Clayland.

It made Springville feel suddenly smaller.

Villagers gathered along the road, some drawn by curiosity, some by fear, some because everyone else was doing it. Children climbed onto barrels. Old men leaned on sticks. A woman held her toddler’s hand too tightly.

The advance party fell into motion immediately. They moved with the confidence of men who had rehearsed this. One rode forward to meet the lead rider, spoke briefly, then turned to position the village like it was a stage.

Ranoke’s gaze tracked the movement, looking for the point of control.

He found it in a man who dismounted near the inn without hurry.

Captain Victor.

Ranoke had not known his name yesterday. He only knew the way the man had carried himself: calm, deliberate, used to obedience. Today, he wore his rank openly. His cloak clasp was heavier. His belt bore a sigil. He moved through the crowd like he belonged in any room.

Victor lifted a hand.

The lead rider raised his voice. “Springville,” he called, and the word sounded like a test. “We come on royal circuit under the authority of King Aldric of Clayland. Your cooperation honors your crown.”

A ripple passed through the crowd—some people flinching at “your crown,” as if the phrase claimed more than it should.

Victor stepped forward, his voice smoother. “We will take water for the horses and a secure place for the wagons. We will not burden you beyond reason. You will not be asked for payment.” He let the last sentence linger, as if he knew it was what people most feared.

Bram muttered, “Generous.”

Ranoke did not respond. His attention had shifted to the wagons.

The first wagon passed, canvas drawn tight. The second was slightly smaller, but the guards around it were tighter.

And then, between the wagons and the rear riders, a horse stepped forward that did not match the others.

It was a pale gray with a mane brushed smooth and braided at the neck. The rider sat straighter than anyone around her, but not stiff. There was ease in the posture, the kind that came from being taught from childhood that the world made space.

A young woman.

Not in armor. Not dressed for battle. But in travel clothing that still managed to look like court: deep blue fabric, a cloak clasped with a small silver pin. Her hood was down.

Her hair caught the light.

Not bright yellow, not dark brown. Somewhere between, like wheat before harvest. It fell in a thick braid over her shoulder.

She turned her head as she passed the crowd, and her gaze swept over faces with practiced composure.

Ranoke felt Bram shift beside him.

“Don’t stare,” Bram murmured, as if Ranoke had moved.

Ranoke hadn’t meant to, but he understood why Bram said it. People stared at royalty like they stared at storms: because it was impossible not to.

The young woman’s eyes moved again, and for a brief moment they landed on Ranoke.

Not just in his direction.

On him.

It was not a dramatic moment. There was no thunder. No music. No obvious sign that anything had changed.

But Ranoke felt it anyway.

Her eyes were clear—he couldn’t have said what color from this distance, only that they were bright enough to make the rest of her face seem sharper. She looked at him the way someone looked at something unexpected: a pause, a small narrowing of attention, a flicker of curiosity.

Ranoke’s hands were still stained with soot. His shirt was damp with forge sweat. He stood behind the inn’s edge with Bram like an ordinary villager who happened to be in the road.

And yet she looked at him as if she had found something.

Ranoke’s breath caught for half a heartbeat. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know what she could possibly see.

Then her cheeks colored faintly, as if she realized she had stared.

She looked away.

Ranoke realized his own face had warmed.

Bram made a low sound of disbelief. “Oh, for—” He caught himself, glanced around, and lowered his voice. “You look like you just swallowed a coal.”

Ranoke’s mouth tightened. “Be quiet.”

Bram stared at him. “That was her.”

Ranoke pretended not to know what Bram meant.

Bram leaned closer anyway. “Princess,” Bram whispered, and the word carried the kind of awe Bram hated admitting he felt.

Ranoke swallowed. He told himself it meant nothing. A glance was a glance. Royalty was trained to look at people.

Still, his heart was not behaving like it meant nothing.

The procession came to a controlled stop near the town center. The wagons were positioned where the road widened. The guards spread out, creating an invisible boundary without ever drawing a blade. People stepped back without being told.

Victor began issuing instructions to villagers with polite firmness. “Water here. Horses tethered there. No one approaches the wagons without permission.” He spoke like he expected compliance and received it.

Havka appeared at his shoulder, wiping his hands as if soot might offend a princess. “Captain,” Havka said, bowing slightly.

Victor inclined his head. “Innkeeper.”

“We can house some,” Havka said quickly. “Not all.”

Victor’s gaze flicked across the inn, the side yard, the forge behind it. “We will not ask you to.” He turned slightly, and his voice softened by a fraction. “Princess Liora requires privacy.”

So that was her name.

Liora.

It fit strangely well. Like something bright in a place that wasn’t.

Bram’s jaw tightened at the way Victor said “requires,” as if Springville existed to provide it.

Ranoke’s mind caught on the name and wouldn’t let go. Liora. It echoed once, quiet, and then settled somewhere behind his ribs.

The princess dismounted with assistance from a handmaid who stepped down from the wagon. Liora didn’t need the help, but she accepted it because it was expected. Her boots touched Springville dirt like it was a new texture.

She looked around slowly, taking in the village. Not with the bored disdain Ranoke expected from someone raised on stone halls, but with a kind of watchful interest. Her gaze lingered on the river. The fields. The children who had gone silent and were now staring as if she might vanish.

Then her eyes passed over Ranoke again.

This time she didn’t blush.

She looked thoughtful.

Victor spoke to her quietly. Ranoke couldn’t hear the words, but he saw the way Victor’s posture shifted—respectful but not deferential. A man who served, but also guarded.

Liora nodded once. She began walking toward the inn.

As she moved, Springville made itself smaller. People stepped back as if her cloak took up more space than cloth should. A child dropped a wooden toy and scrambled to pick it up without looking at her directly.

Ranoke found himself stepping aside with everyone else, but he did not lower his head. Not out of defiance. Out of something else.

Curiosity, perhaps.

Or the lingering heat of that first glance.

Liora’s path took her near the edge of Havka’s yard, and for a moment she was close enough that Ranoke could see her features clearly: a face still young, but shaped by court discipline. High cheekbones. A mouth that looked like it was used to holding back words. Skin pale from indoor life, but not sickly. The faintest shadow under her eyes, like she had not slept well.

Victor finished speaking with the merchant and turned away, but his eyes drifted once more toward the forge before he walked off.

Ranoke pretended not to notice.

Bram did notice.

“They keep circling,” he murmured.

Ranoke folded his arms, feeling the grit of soot against his skin. “Maybe they’re bored.”

“They’re not bored.”

Across the yard, Princess Liora stood at the inn’s upper window, one hand resting against the frame as she looked out over the river and fields beyond the town. For a moment, her gaze brushed the forge again—not searching this time, but thoughtful, like she was trying to remember something she didn’t yet understand.

Then the shutters closed.

The Clayland banner snapped in the wind.

Ranoke stared at it longer than he meant to.

For the first time in his life, he wondered what a king saw when he looked at a village like Springville.

And whether that gaze ever moved on once it had found something worth keeping.

Chapter 1

Chapter 3