We hesitated, Io and I, only long enough to pretend we were considering the consequences. Then Io pushed the door.

  It groaned loudly as stale air spilled out.

  A layer of dust coated everything - shelves, pillows, and tables.

  “I think…” Io whispered, “Grandfather lived here before Papa and Mama moved to the big chambers.”

  Her voice carried a strange reverence, and I realized that, for all her bravado, this place scared her.

  A royal bedroom, yes - but more than that. Personal. Intimate. The echoes of a king.

  I took her hand, offering what little reassurance I could. She was a child and needed that kind of support.

  She clung to my hand. “Papa says Grandfather was sick.”

  Sick, huh?

  Toys lay by the window - old, but cared for; a wardrobe of regal robes stood slightly ajar; a solid desk, stained with ink, held papers scattered across the floor, uncared for.

  This didn’t seem like a peaceful death scene to me.

  I crouched near the shattered vase; porcelain pieces lay scattered across the floor.

  What the hell happened here?

  My mind immediately suggested murder - that’s what happens to kings when they don’t pass peacefully, doesn’t it?

  I couldn’t tell Io that. She was, for one, just four years old, and second, the king’s death was clearly under scrutiny.

  Io stepped toward them, trembling but curious. “Do you think he was… scared?”

  “No,” I lied. “Kings aren’t supposed to die scared.”

  She hugged herself.

  For a moment, just a moment, she wasn’t a mischievous menace or a royal headache. She was a granddaughter. A child trying to understand a hole the adults had carefully wallpapered over.

  Her voice quivered. “Papa said Grandfather smiled before they closed his casket.”

  I wondered what that could really mean. It could mean a lot or a little.

  Before I could speak, there was a sudden noise.

  I looked at Io, her eyes wide, and said, “That wasn’t me.”

  We both froze.

  Another clang - sharper this time - rattled from deeper in the shadows.

  Io squeezed my hand hard enough to hurt - how could a toddler be so strong?

  I trained my whole life, and she was really crushing my hand.

  I swallowed, trying to look brave for her, but there was pain.

  I winced. “I-It’s probably just… a mouse.”

  Io sniffed. “Mice don’t wear shoes.”

  “That’s… a fair point," I said as I heard the sound of footsteps.

  The heavy door suddenly slammed open.

  “IO!”

  Her voice could make statues apologize; we froze in slow-motion terror.

  She stood framed in the door with a crown slightly askew on her head, two guards panting behind her - as if she had sprinted the entire way.

  And she looked furious.

  Io ducked behind me. “Uh… hi, Mama.”

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  Her mother’s eyes swept the room - the overturned chair, the cracked porcelain, and the dusty footprints.

  Then her gaze narrowed on me.

  “You. Explain.”

  My mouth opened. My brain didn’t join in.

  “We… were… uh… looking around?”

  The queen took a step forward, and we shrank back. “You are children, not detectives.”

  Io poked her head out. “We weren’t scared.”

  “You should have been,” her mother snapped - and then her voice softened, just slightly. “This room was sealed for a reason.”

  Io shuffled toward her, head lowered. “We just wanted to see Grandpapa’s things.”

  There was a flash in the queen’s face - pain, quickly hidden.

  Then she turned to me. “And you. Did she make you do this?”

  I considered. And then considered more.

  “No-” I said.

  “No, I didn’t!” Io yelled. “It was his idea!” She threw me directly under the nearest speeding carriage.

  The queen sighed with queenly disappointment - the worst kind - and gestured to the guards.

  “Escort them to the princess’ room. I’ll deal with them after I’m finished with the council.”

  Io whimpered. Her room was carefully watched by adults to prevent trouble, and she had to sit in a chair properly or face a scolding about posture.

  As the guards guided us out, Io tugged on my sleeve.

  “Caleb?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  Io nodded solemnly, then immediately tripped over her own feet and face-planted into the ground.

  One of the guards scooped her up like this was routine. Probably was.

  Being confined to Io’s room was only technically a punishment. I kind of liked it.

  The palace staff tried to make it feel less like imprisonment by offering pastries and toys.

  While Io rejected all of it with royal fury, I gladly took everything they brought. This would only be a footnote in the story I would be writing about it. I thought the part about the old king’s quarters would be interesting enough to give me some time to relax.

  “I am a prisoner,” Io declared dramatically, sprawled across a velvet couch and using words too big for someone her age. “I demand… a window to stare out of forlornly.”

  The guards exchanged looks that said, "The usual."

  Two days passed in a blur.

  Io dragged me through the castle whenever no one was watching, showing off everything she wasn’t supposed to see. When she wasn’t around, I wandered aimlessly, counting guards and doors and trying to map the layout by memory.

  The sealed royal quarters - the place she’d taken me - were now heavily guarded. Thick chains locked the doors. Magic runes shimmered faintly on the frames.

  The worst of it, though?

  Being idle.

  After months, years, of constant movement - scavenging, stealing, training, spells, keeping mentoring, and keeping two girls alive - my mind rebelled against rest. Sleep was a lost concept for me. At night I lay awake on a mattress so soft it felt like sinking into cloud-stuffed quicksand. I could not sleep. My body was trained to work.

  I had a strange feeling of time running out, and I missed my girls.

  How I talk about them will never not sound strange.

  On the second night, close to midnight, I gave up trying to rest. I slipped out onto a balcony overlooking the vast stretch of Astar below - lanterns flickering scattered around.

  I thought about writing something poetic into Geshich’s book, something like “constellations across the rooftops.”

  For a moment I was worried, having forgotten where I’d put the book. But it was safe in one of my trunks, hidden between layers of sensitive clothing. Who would go near a toddler’s underwear?

  Except perverts, but among nobles who’d be-

  Wait, don’t let me finish that thought. I’d read enough about history, the life of nobles, and high-ranking people in my old life to know that that wasn’t the best train of thoughts.

  I shuddered, but it seemed safe right now. What could happen right now? Nothing.

  Oh, brother. I had my work cut out for me.

  If I ever got the chance, I should attend a writing course or meditate to focus on just one thing.

  And the thing I chose to focus on was the city below, untouchable and beautiful.

  Leaning against the railing, I was trying to make my thoughts simple. Just something simple that wouldn’t make me worry more at the end.

  Story pacing. Character development. Prose. Somehow, imagining the story was much more fun than actually writing it or trying to write it. Writer’s block was real, but at least my story had to actually happen, and I didn’t have to worry so much about what to do next.

  A cool wind brushed against my face, curling under clothes. I breathed out, slowly.

  I stared without really seeing… until my eyes caught something.

  At first, just shadows, but they move strangely. I squinted, trying to separate imagination from motion.

  There.

  Across the rooftops - dark shapes darting like wolves under the moonlight. But they moved so fast.

  Could they…?

  No, no. Impossible. It couldn’t be. They wouldn’t.

  Another leap - farther this time. Farther than any normal human should jump.

  I climbed onto the balcony rail, stance wobbling slightly - four-year-old legs, adult stupidity.

  I gauged the distance; it was pretty far. But, I thought, it was doable with magic. With a hard landing, a roll, maybe a few broken bones. I’d healed worse.

  Just not dying during it was the trick, and if I stayed conscious, I could heal myself. That’s the trick.

  I inhaled, preparing to launch myself into what was likely a terrible idea.

  But before I could even whisper a single spell-

  A soft whoosh of displaced air.

  Figures landed silently on the balcony behind me.

  I turned. Three silhouettes crouched on the marble behind me, poised like creatures built for nightfall.

  They had on dark hoods that covered their faces.

  But when the faint torchlight finally caught them. I sighed.

  Catherine, Juliet, and the red-haired newcomer - dressed in noble fabrics I had stolen and they had crudely sewn stood there.

  Their faces broke into smiles the moment they saw me.

  “Father,” Catherine and Juliet breathed in perfect unison, like a prayer they had rehearsed a thousand times over.

  I stood frozen, torn between relief and sheer horror at the implications.

  They had traveled across half the country. Survived alone. Scaled rooftops like ghosts and tracked me to the most guarded place in Asolar.

  Those were some scary girls.