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ARATON

T he sky bleeds crimson as I finish securing the last of my belongings to the saddle.

Years of accumulated life packed into leather saddlebags—pitiful, really.

My zarryn shifts impatiently beneath the weight, pawing at the cobblestones with one silver hoof.

The beast senses my mood, as they always do.

"Easy," I murmur, running a hand along its shaggy neck.

Behind me, Ithuriel's estate rises like a monument to everything I'm leaving behind. Gray stone walls, elegant spires, meticulously manicured gardens—a fortress of nobility that once represented opportunity. Now it's just stone and mortar, empty without the presence that gave it meaning.

Lord Ithuriel. Dead three weeks now. The illness took him quickly, at least. Small mercies.

"Lord Velrien."

I turn to find Saresh approaching, her slim figure elegantly draped in the dark blue mourning colors of House Ithuriel. As the late lord's personal secretary, she's been working tirelessly to manage the transition of power.

"Just Araton now," I correct her, adjusting a strap unnecessarily. "The 'lord' was always honorary anyway."

She reaches into the folds of her robe, withdrawing a small wooden box. "Lady Ithuriel insisted you take this."

I accept it with a nod, thumbing open the clasp. Inside rests a signet ring bearing House Ithuriel's crest—an eagle clutching a sword. My throat tightens.

"Tell her it's unnecessary."

"She said you'd say that." A rare smile flickers across Saresh's severe features. "She also said to remind you that Ithuriel considered you the son he never had. The ring isn't charity—it's recognition."

I close the box with a sharp snap, tucking it into my inner pocket before my face can betray me. Twenty-three years of carefully constructed charm, of never letting anyone see beneath the polished exterior, and here I am, undone by a piece of metal.

"The new Lord Ithuriel has asked me to remind you that his offer stands," Saresh continues. "Chief diplomatic advisor would suit your talents well."

"His nephew is capable." I secure the final strap. "He doesn't need me watching over his shoulder."

"The Houses of Evarith and Dornaal have also sent inquiries regarding your availability."

I can't resist a smile. "Those birds circle quickly."

"Your reputation precedes you."

And there's the crux of it. My reputation. The charming, silver-tongued negotiator who can talk his way through any diplomatic crisis. The man who secured three key trade agreements for Soimur through nothing but charisma and calculated risks. Lord Ithuriel's secret weapon.

That reputation feels like someone else's skin stretched over my bones now.

"My answer remains the same." I check the saddle one final time. "I appreciate the interest, but I need... space."

"Space," Saresh repeats, skepticism etched in the arch of her eyebrow. "You've never struck me as a man who enjoys solitude, Araton."

I spread my wings slightly, letting the dying sunlight catch the silver flecks scattered among the dusky gray feathers. They itch for flight, for open sky, for something I can't articulate.

"Perhaps you don't know me as well as you think, Saresh."

She studies me with those shrewd eyes that have watched me charm ambassadors and intimidate rivals for nearly a decade.

"Perhaps not. Though I do know it's been three years since you've shown genuine interest in the company of others.

Since your mysterious monthly trips to the east suddenly ceased. "

My shoulders tense. "Careful."

"You disappeared for weeks after your last trip. Returned looking like you'd lost something vital." She steps closer. "Ithuriel worried about you."

"Then it's fortunate he's not here to worry anymore."

The words come out sharper than intended. Saresh doesn't flinch—she's weathered far worse from far more important people than me.

"Safe travels, Araton Velrien." She extends her hand in formal farewell. "May you find whatever you're looking for."

I clasp her arm briefly. "Give my regards to the household."

With practiced grace, I swing into the saddle, settling my wings comfortably against my back. The zarryn snorts, eager to be moving. I am too.

The estate staff have gathered in the courtyard—a testament to Ithuriel's leadership that they would bid farewell to someone like me.

Cooks who sneaked me extra pastries during late-night strategy sessions.

Stable hands who always ensured my zarryn was ready for those monthly journeys southeast. Guards who sparred with me in the practice yards.

I offer them a salute and my most charming smile—the one that never quite reaches my eyes these days.

"Don't burn the place down without me, you heathens."

Their laughter follows me as I nudge the zarryn forward, through the ornate gates and onto the road that leads away from Soimur. Away from politics and power plays and the exhausting performance of being exactly what everyone needs me to be.

I push my zarryn harder as we crest another rocky hill, the wind whipping through my hair.

Three months of wandering has worn the edges off my grief but left something hollow in its place.

The southern plains stretch before me, tall grass waving like an endless golden sea under a cerulean sky.

Beautiful, in its way—so unlike Soimur's jagged architecture and cold stone.

"What do you think?" I ask the zarryn, who snorts in response. The beast has been my only consistent companion since leaving the north. "Not impressed? You're getting spoiled."

Mornings like this, I could almost convince myself this wandering has a purpose. That I'm not just running from shadows and memories. The road curves toward a small trading post in the distance, smoke curling lazily from a handful of chimneys. Another nameless stop, another bed I won't remember.

My wings flex instinctively against my back, itching for flight. I haven't properly stretched them in days. Tonight, perhaps, when there's no one around to gawk or whisper.

A small caravan passes, heading north. The merchants eye my fine clothes, my obviously expensive zarryn. I give them my diplomat's smile—warm, disarming, completely empty.

"Fine day for travel," one calls out.

I tip my head in acknowledgment without slowing. Conversation is the last thing I want, though there was a time when I would have charmed them all by nightfall, gleaning information or favor or whatever else Ithuriel needed.

What do you need now?

The question haunts me like a specter. For twenty-three years, my needs were shaped by duty, by ambition, by the careful cultivation of influence. Now the map unfurls with no marked destination, and I feel strangely untethered.

My zarryn's ears twitch suddenly, focusing on something in the trees beyond the road. I reach for the blade at my hip before realizing it's just a pair of lunoxes, their white bodies barely visible against the underbrush. One turns, its blue-tipped face catching the sunlight.

Something twists painfully inside me.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, turning the small carved lunox over in her calloused hands. "They're real?"

"In the northern forests," I confirmed, unable to look away from the wonder in her gray eyes. "I thought you might like it."

She set it on her windowsill, where dawn's light would catch it. "Don't get used to bringing me gifts, xaphan. I'm not collecting trinkets."

But she kept it. Every month, there it was—proof that something of me remained when I was gone.

I shake the memory away with a muttered curse.

This is exactly what I'm trying to escape.

Three years, and she still appears like a vengeful spirit when I least expect it.

Ronnie, with her sharp tongue and sharper eyes.

Ronnie, who never fell for the charm that disarmed diplomats and nobles alike. Ronnie, who simply... vanished.

The trading post grows closer, and I force my thoughts elsewhere.

I need supplies. Food. Perhaps some better maps of the southern territories.

I try to summon interest in the upcoming villages and towns marked on my current charts, the historical sites and natural wonders. I should care about these things.

Instead, I find myself counting the miles between here and her village. Calculating how long a journey east would take, even though I know she's not there.

Because I kept checking.

"Pathetic," I mutter to myself, dismounting as I reach the trading post's stable. The zarryn huffs in agreement.

Inside the post, I move methodically through my tasks. Maps. Supplies. Information about road conditions south. The proprietor, a leathery old human with more wrinkles than teeth, eyes my wings with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

"Heading to Carradon?" she asks as she wraps dried meat in waxed paper.

"Perhaps. Is it worth seeing?"

"Got them giant crystal towers. Whole city's built 'round some ancient magic." She shrugs. "Fancy folk like yourself might appreciate it."

I've been called worse things than fancy. "And beyond Carradon?"

"Saufort's another three days' ride. Nothing special, just a market town. Good place to resupply 'fore heading into the deep south."

I nod as I keep counting. "Saufort?"

"Aye. Been there?"

"No." I push the coins in his direction. "Thanks for the information."

I mentally catalog the two names, thinking I might need them.

The continent feels smaller with each passing day, potential reminders lurking at every crossroad.

I finish my transaction and return to my zarryn, securing the new supplies with precise movements that don't match the chaos inside my head.

South. I'm going south because it's somewhere I haven't been. Because it's as far from memories as I can get. Because I can't seem to stop running from feelings I never wanted in the first place.

I look at the map one last time before folding it away. South. Just south.

Not east. Never east again.