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Oberon

AURELITH’S HALLS WERE never truly silent—not in a place founded on politics, war, and ambition. At this hour, the sounds that remained were distant: the whisper of wind slipping through stone crevices, the occasional murmur of shifting guards, and the rhythmic echo of my footsteps. Beyond the narrow windows, the sky stretched in shades of black and silver. The clouds parted, allowing the moon to spill through in scattered beams of light. Those fleeting slivers of light cut across the stone floor, illuminating the polished marble for moments before darkness consumed them again.

Tonight, it was my turn to make the rounds. It was a tedious, mind-numbing task that tested my patience. I was ill-suited for such duties. My purpose wasn’t to patrol the hallways and ensure that the castle remained undisturbed, but Alric required it.

A knight. That was what I had to be. Not an assassin, nor the blade that severed threats before they took root. A knight. A soldier of the crown. To wear that title, I had to play the part. Part of that meant enduring the dull routine of men who had never tasted war outside of an open battlefield.

I exhaled sharply, my breath swirling in the frigid air as my mind recalled the command I had received before nightfall.

“We caught wind of a rebellion leader,” Alric said while he slid a map across his desk. The parchment was old, edges softened from wear, but its contents were fresh. Marked routes and crude circles converged on a forest outpost. “His name is Rhys Carrow.” A familiar name, spoken in hushed warnings and in reports that have surfaced often. A man operating in the shadows, coordinating attacks from the forests beyond the capital’s reach.

I studied the map, noting the terrain, weak points, routes of entry, escape paths, and the distance between the outpost and the nearest village or safe house. “The orders?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

Alric’s expression hardened, accentuating the traces of an individual who hadn’t yet learned to wield the ruthlessness his father once had. His hesitation was brief.

“Bring him back alive. I need answers, not a corpse. Enter through the eastern gates and take him to the cells. Get as much as you can out of him. If he resists…” There was a flicker of hesitation before his expression smoothed into cold calculation. “Do what you must.”

I nodded, memorizing the map, tucking away every detail of the mission ahead.

Now, I walked the corridors, my mind already planning and hunting beyond these walls. The halls stretched on, lined with flickering torchlight, and the faint scent of melting wax wafted through the cold air.

A figure at the archway of the inner garden caught my attention. It seemed to be just another shape in the periphery, another servant, or a lost court member wandering the halls where they didn’t belong. But something about her drew me in. It was a novel sensation, an invisible string pulled taut and anchored to the unseen, to the inevitable.

She stood shrouded in the glow of the fading moonlight from the garden beyond. Silver light caught the edges of her figure, outlining her too delicately for this place. Her simple clothes, made from worn and well-used fabrics, showed signs of mud and frayed seams. She didn’t belong among the silks and perfumes of the court. No noble would dare wear clothing like hers.

She wore a well-maintained cloak, too well-maintained and too large. It was made for a man, not for someone of her stature. The contrast struck me.

From whom had she taken it?

Her hair was untamed, a wild halo framing her face, a testament to hours spent in the wind and under the sun. A few loose strands caught the silver light and shimmered softly. Nestled behind her ear was a sprig of lavender—an intentional touch.

But neither the lavender nor the unruly waves of her hair captured my attention. It was her posture. She clutched a tattered leather journal to her chest, her fingers gripping it until her knuckles turned pale. She hesitated, caught between stepping forward and bolting back. She gazed at the garden as if it were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Or perhaps it was the magic that, though forbidden outside these walls, thrived here.

The hypocrisy of it all didn’t escape me.

Her skirt brushed against the stone floor, and the softest scent of wildflowers reached me. It wasn’t perfume, nothing crafted or intentional. It was simply her.

She was trying too hard. Her shoulders were too relaxed, and her posture appeared too deliberately casual. A radiance that felt feigned rather than genuine. A mask she had worn for so long that I wondered if she even knew how to let it fall.

I wanted to walk away. I tried to ignore whatever pull I felt. But I couldn’t stop staring.

So, I ordered her attention.

“Dilthen Doe.”

She turned at my voice. Her gaze searched my armor as I exited the shadowy corridor, eyes flashing with an emotion that carried too much depth and weight. In that quiet moment, a soft blush crept across her cheeks. Her lips parted, and my heart skipped a beat. It was an intense and unwelcome experience. One that I detested.

“I assume the guards allowed you entry,” I said, maintaining distance in my voice. “State your purpose.”

She swallowed before turning to face me fully. “I’m seeking the herbalist position,” she explained. Her voice was soft and decadent. It clung to the recesses of my mind and refused to let go. “I was instructed to visit the infirmary.”

Yet she stood in the inner garden. Far from the infirmary, far from where she was supposed to be.

The garden’s soft glow framed her, making her seem out of place. She didn’t belong here any more than I did. I continued to stare, searching for a clue in how she carried herself and spoke to determine whether she was another fool, unaware of the position she sought or just another waste of time. But I found nothing. Tension seized my jaw, and I pivoted abruptly, indifferent to whether she followed or remained at the garden’s threshold.

“Follow me.”

As we stepped into the next corridor, the air grew colder, the warmth of the day long since swallowed by the castle’s stone walls. The chill was deep, damp, and creeping beneath my armor, sinking into my skin with an unwelcome touch. She followed behind me, her presence impossible to ignore, like a too-bright candle in a dim room.

It had been silent, except for the measured echo of our footsteps. I focused on my immediate objective—getting her to the infirmary, passing her off to Calder, and being done with it. Done with her and whatever unsettling feelings she had stirred within me.

When that wasn’t enough, I let my mind drift back to something more significant: Rhys Carrow, the rebellion, the mission ahead. His outpost was exposed in three places. To the east, through the tree line, if I went in alone. North was a more direct route, but riskier. To the west, where his men—

“Do you always patrol the castle at night?” Her voice interrupted my thoughts, rich like honey dissolving in hot tea. I didn’t respond, assuming she would pick up on it. “It must get lonely, all this quiet,” she pressed. “Or is that something you prefer?”

I kept walking with my gaze fixed ahead. My patience wore thinner by the second. She would stop eventually; she had to.

“I imagine this gives you plenty of time to think,” she continued. Her voice became lighter, amused by my silence. “That could be pleasant… Or maddening.”

Like you?

My jaw tightened, and my eye twitched as I fought the urge to snap. She was deliberate in this, wasn't she? A woman like her—a traveler, a commoner, someone who didn’t belong within these walls—had no right to sound so damned confident. She shouldn’t have sounded so at ease with the silence I wielded as a weapon.

When she continued her rambling, I exhaled in pure exasperation. “Do you ever stop talking?”

To my further annoyance, she laughed, seemingly unbothered. “Only when someone answers,” she mused. “It’s more fun that way.”

“Fun,” I muttered. “That’s what this is.”

“See? I knew you could make a joke.”

The adaneth was insufferable.

I halted and spun to face her. As expected, she walked straight into me. The impact was a faint thud against my chest. Her body was too small, too light to do more than falter. She stumbled back. Her hand flew to her nose, and she righted herself, rubbing the spot where she had collided with my armor.

I hoped that hurt as much as she had been irksome.

She blinked up at me. Her lips parted to speak, but she didn’t say a word. I savored the moment until that damned smile returned. She was too sure. Too bold. “Let me guess,” she said. Her tone was far too casual for someone who had just walked straight into me. “You’re about to tell me I talk too much?”

“No,” I insisted, leaving no room for jest as I leaned in, letting my words settle. “I’m about to tell you that I see right through you.”

Her smile deepened. “Well, aren’t you perceptive? I hope you like what you see.”

The audacity of her.

My muscles locked with the irritation curled low in my gut. She played a game that held no appeal to me. But the way she stood, the way she looked at me, made it impossible to ignore.

The moonlight filtered through the arched window behind me. Its fractured glow broke through the clouds, softening the hard edges of her face. The silver sheen made the planes of her cheeks and jawline otherworldly, which didn’t belong in these halls of detached stone and sharper intentions.

Yet it was her eyes that held me captive.

Amber. Rich. Firelight shone over polished gold. Warm but deceptive—capable of being soft or passionate depending on the light. They locked onto mine through the narrow slit of my helmet, wide and searching. She tried to read something in me I wasn’t willing to share.

My breath hitched. It was a faint lapse in control that infuriated me the moment it happened. My eyes narrowed, and my heart kicked against my ribs.

She had been too close. The scent of wildflowers and elduvaris clung to her, carrying the night’s lingering chill. Now that she was within arm’s reach, the imperfections that distance had dulled became painfully clear. The faint dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks reflected time spent in the sun, the wind, and the world outside these walls. She stood, wearing defiance as effortlessly as she did that oversized cloak. Her skin flushed a delicate pink that crept up her throat, spread over her cheeks, and bloomed beneath the pale light.

Was it the proximity? Embarrassment? Something else?

The thought had been irrational in its persistence, like a burr caught in fabric—slight but impossible to shake. My chest constricted, and my breathing threatened to slip from its steady rhythm. I took a slow, deep breath, as if that would prevent whatever this feeling was from taking root.

Her mouth parted as if she intended to speak, but no words came. The stillness between us stretched taut. Heat raced up my spine and twisted at the base of my skull, making the limits of my self-control fray at the seams. My leather gloves creaked from the force of my fists clenching at my sides.

No.

I gritted my teeth and buried the feeling deep inside. It meant nothing. She was insignificant.

Yet I stood, trapped in a moment that shouldn’t have existed. The blush on her cheeks deepened as her gaze dropped to the ground. I huffed. The pressure in my chest eased just enough for me to regain control and push away the unsteady tug she had wedged beneath my skin. She was another distraction in a night I wanted to forget. Nothing more.

Her forced cheerfulness grated on me in a way I couldn’t identify or dismiss. It made me want to tear down whatever walls she had built and discover what lay beyond them.

I pivoted and stalked toward the infirmary doors. “Stay here,” I snapped over my shoulder before pushing the door open. It creaked under my touch, and the aroma of dried herbs and burning oil wafted into the chilled corridor. “Calder!” My voice pierced the silence.

Even with my back to her, she remained bright as ever.

Damn her .

Footsteps shuffled inside, followed by the slow scrape of a chair against the stone. A tired voice drifted out before its owner appeared. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Calder’s tone conveyed the weariness of someone who hadn’t slept in days. “If it’s another one of those so-called ‘herbalists,’ you can spare me the trouble and send them right back out the—”

The faint glow from within the infirmary backlit her figure, highlighting the distinct features of her face. Calder was tall and built from efficiency and endurance. She had pulled her chestnut-brown hair into a tight, practical bun, but stray wisps escaped, curling around her temples and defying her usual precision. A streak of dark herbs, ink, or dried blood smeared her cheek, a testament to the long hours she spent tending to the sick and preparing remedies.

Her sharp hazel eyes flicked toward me, ready to argue and protest, before settling on the young woman behind me. She stilled. There was a brief pause—a flicker of calculation. I didn’t understand what Calder saw in her, but something changed, and I didn’t like what that meant. Stepping aside, I crossed my arms while Calder studied her.

The corners of my mouth pulled into a faint scowl behind my helmet. “She claims she’s here for the position.”

Calder offered a dry, humorless laugh and shook her head. “They’ve been emerging from the woodwork—desperate, clueless, and barely skilled enough to bandage a finger. I—”She paused, her gaze sharpening as she reassessed the woman.

The woman shifted on her feet, her earlier ease faltering under Calder’s scrutiny. Her smile held a newfound tension. Her fingers tightened around that damned journal of hers, and she dipped her head, avoiding Calder’s gaze. Whether it was a sign of submission or strategy, I couldn’t tell. I should have been pleased, but that moment of uncertainty—the brief fissure in her carefully crafted mask—unsettled me.

“I must take my leave,” I announced with a stiff bow. “The castle doesn’t inspect itself.”

Calder scoffed.

I straightened, flicking a final side glance at the woman. “Good luck.”