Ariella took a detour to the infirmary, even though her father had mentioned he would visit in the morning. She couldn’t ignore the urge to check on him and see how he was doing. Still wearing her clothes and linens from earlier, and despite being told to change into something more royal, she made her way to the Cathedral District, accompanied by her handmaids. Shaya Traidor, the head of the group, led Elizabeth Kelley and Freya Kelley as the others. Snow fell gently on the city, and though it was past midday, a glimmer of sunlight pierced the overcast sky. Winters in Tyrana always carried a sense of melancholy, and Ariella found the mood fitting, reflecting her own feelings in the moment.

  She wished she could go alone, but being a royal princess in the city meant she was always under scrutiny. Even in the serene Cathedral District, with its grand cathedrals and breathtaking architecture—crafted by the finest dwarven stonemasons from the Dwarven Kingdom of Barrum—eyes were always watching. An entourage was required, even for a quiet stroll.

  As they walked in silence, Ariella’s mind wandered to Jaxton. She imagined him holding her in a warm, comforting embrace, his strong arms shielding her from her sorrows. A small smile touched her lips at the thought of his reassuring presence. Despite his humble beginnings and his blacksmith’s build, he always knew exactly what to say or do. He understood her in a way few people did. Ariella preferred his quiet company over anything royal or grand.

  Lost in her thoughts of Jaxton, she barely noticed Shaya approaching her side. "What are you thinking about, your highness?" Shaya’s voice was soft, almost melodic.

  Ariella hesitated for a moment, then quickly deflected, "Darion. I’m just wondering if he’s okay." It wasn’t entirely a lie—he was in the back of her mind.

  Shaya nodded. “I heard Ebonwing’s been guarding the infirmary entrance. Making it difficult for others to get through.”

  "Word travels fast in Tyrana, huh?" Ariella remarked dryly.

  Tyrana had a way of turning even the smallest piece of gossip into a spectacle, especially when it involved her or her family. When Aerimus had been publicly rejected by Princess Vesaelea and her father, it didn’t take long for the whole city to know. Within days, the Kingdoms of Cassia and Ardor were in the know, followed by the Elven kingdoms of Lothlor, Ilthalas, and Selenia. It seemed like people had nothing better to do than gossip, especially about things that didn’t concern them. Ariella had no strong feelings about Aerimus, but it frustrated her to think that the same people who spread rumors would never say such things to his face.

  As they neared the infirmary, they found Ebonwing curled up by the entrance, guarding it fiercely. A few townsfolk waited nearby, unable to enter, while two guards tried in vain to manage the situation.

  Ariella approached the scene, raising an eyebrow. "What’s going on here?"

  The guards bowed immediately. "Your highness, we have sick and injured people needing attention. But this beast refuses to let anyone near the door."

  Ariella nodded, motioning for her handmaids to stay behind with the guards. She stepped closer to Ebonwing, who was now alert and watching her with piercing ice-blue eyes. As Ariella neared, the gryphon reared up in defense, causing the guards, handmaids, and civilians to instinctively take a step back.

  She raised her hands slowly, her voice soft. "Ebonwing, it’s me. It’s okay."

  The gryphon paused, her fierce stance softening almost immediately. Ebonwing approached Ariella, nuzzling her gently with her beak and letting out a soft, almost apologetic squawk. Ariella giggled. "Quite the drama queen, aren’t you?" she teased, petting her.

  She continued soothing the gryphon, speaking gently. "These people need help too, girl. How about we get you to the pens? Nothing’s going to happen to Darion, I promise. I’m just as scary as you."

  Ebonwing’s demeanor seemed to change as Ariella spoke, as though she understood every word. Gryphons were known for their intelligence, but Ariella had never fully grasped just how sharp they were.

  "Let the guards escort you to the pens for the handlers," Ariella added. "Please."

  The guards exchanged uneasy glances. One sparked up with an immediate “Gods n-“, but his companion gave him a subtle nudge. "Of course, your highness."

  Ebonwing seemed to sense their hesitation and gave a respectful bow, as if acknowledging their fear.

  "Come with us, beast," one of the guards said, though he made no attempt to touch her. The two guards led Ebonwing away, keeping a safe distance, while she followed willingly.

  Ariella watched the interaction, unable to suppress a chuckle at their clear reluctance.

  The other guards at the infirmary began taking names and sorting the wounded or sick civilians, ushering them into the medical ward, while Ariella remained behind with her handmaids.

  "You three can go. I’m safe here. There are guards," Ariella said, her voice firm.

  "What about your return?" Shaya asked, her brow furrowing.

  "I’ll find an escort from the city guard—or better yet, I can fend for myself," Ariella replied, the frustration edging her voice. She could barely contain it. The constant questioning was starting to wear on her.

  "I don’t think—" Shaya began to protest, but Ariella cut her off sharply.

  "It’s an order, Shaya. Leave me." The words left her lips with a finality that surprised even her. In that moment, her tone mirrored Alistair’s when he acted as King, not as a father.

  Elizabeth gently tugged at Shaya’s arm, silently pleading with her to comply. The sisters, despite their reservations, understood that the princess wanted solitude. They would never dare question her authority in moments like this.

  With a scoff, Shaya reluctantly walked away, the other two handmaids trailing behind her. Ariella sensed the tension, the offense Shaya took at being commanded. As the head of her handmaids, Shaya was used to giving orders, not receiving them. While it had its uses, Ariella couldn’t help but find it irksome in times like these.

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  Ariella turned and walked into the infirmary, where a monk, draped in robes and wearing a hood, approached. A bandana covered the lower half of the monk's face—marking her as one of Loria’s trained physicians. After years of study at the College, monks attained their title through expertise in treating ailments, injuries, and diseases. Although most monks were women, a few men had ascended to this status, often former soldiers who retired from service.

  “How can we assist you, Your Highness? Are you well?” The monk’s voice was gentle and empathetic.

  “I’m here to see Prince Darion,” Ariella replied.

  “Of course, right this way, my lady,” the monk said with a nod.

  She led Ariella down a quiet hallway to a private chamber, secured with a wooden door and an iron bolt lock. A guard stood vigilant at the door, a clear indication that these were the precautions High King Alistair had put in place to safeguard his heir.

  As Ariella approached, she noticed the room was already occupied by several monks. Darion lay on his back, unconscious—likely sedated with Nightwater Essence, a potent elven substance that induced a deep, dreamless sleep. Ariella’s gaze immediately fell to the large, crimson gashes on his body, evidence of the brutal attack. Three massive claw marks marred his back, surrounded by deep purple bruises. The monks worked carefully, applying various ointments and herbs to clean the wounds, while others sprayed blessed water in hopes of aiding the healing process. A few monks prepared fine linen threads, ready to stitch his wounds once they were cleaned.

  Ariella watched in silent concern as the monks continued their delicate work. The monk who had led her inside approached, holding a steaming cup of herbal tea.

  “For you, my lady,” she said, offering the cup with a serene smile.

  “Thank you.” Ariella accepted the tea, her hands trembling slightly. She took a sip, the warmth offering her some comfort. “Will he be alright?”

  “Time will tell, Princess,” the monk replied softly. “If we can prevent infection, he should recover fully, though we can’t say when.”

  Ariella’s heart sank. She frowned deeply, her gaze never leaving Darion. “He took that wound protecting me,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

  "I’ve never seen him fight like that," she continued, remembering the way he dodged the dire bear's attacks with surprising speed and precision, the elegance of his strikes across the creature’s face. “He was so... skilled.”

  “I need him,” Ariella whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

  The monk placed a comforting hand over Ariella’s, her gaze filled with understanding. “We will do everything we can, Princess,” she said softly.

  Ariella nodded, her throat tight with unshed tears. She stood there, sipping her tea in silence, praying for Darion’s recovery, hoping for his safe return.

  As she stared into the dimly lit room, the sound of heavy footsteps drew her attention. They thudded against the stone floor, accompanied by the familiar clatter of armor.

  “Princess,” a voice called softly, “I’ve been meaning to visit, but duty calls. How does he fare?”

  Cedric stood before her, his silver-winged helmet tucked under his arm, revealing his handsome face. Neatly trimmed dark stubble lined his jaw, fitting for the Captain of the Royal Guards. His light brown eyes and brown skin — seemingly unmarked and unblemished — held a quiet intensity. Ariella remembered Cedric as a boy, a ward to her father. His parents, Delilah and Edward Ashford, had been killed in a bandit raid on their successful farming village, Harken, west of Stonegate. At just eleven, he’d arrived in Tyrana, bloodied but unscathed, claiming he’d encountered the bandits on the way.

  Cedric had become close with all three of the Elric siblings after that, almost like another brother — especially Darion. Ariella had always found his friendship with Aerimus difficult to bear, but she knew he had his duties. Cedric quickly rose through the ranks of the Royal Guard, and by eighteen, he was knighted and named captain by High King Alistair. The King had proclaimed that no man had been so gifted with the sword in over three hundred years, since the reign of High King Titos of Ardor, who had ruled over Cassia and Tyrancia.

  For a time, Ariella had convinced herself that Cedric might be the perfect suitor — strong, impossibly handsome, noble, wise, and loyal. Yet, despite her advance, he had rejected her, his heart already spoken for by another — Olivia Parlour, the daughter of Arvin Parlour, the Lord of Coin and Treasures in Tyrana. Ariella knew that even if Cedric had ever reciprocated her feelings, he would never be accepted as her match, for his name carried no political weight.

  “They said that if they can prevent the infection, he’ll make a full recovery in time,” Ariella said calmly, her voice steady. The presence of Cedric beside her provided a sense of comfort. In time, she had come to see him as another Darion, after the infatuation had faded and their bond grew deeper.

  “Aerimus or Father haven’t seen him yet, I believe,” Ariella added, her words laced with venom.

  “Everybody grieves differently, Princess. They may feel that there’s nothing more they can do right now except pray and let the skilled physicians work their healing,” Cedric said, his tone soothing, as he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  Ariella didn’t argue. Cedric was right, though it stung. She loved to challenge, especially when it came to family, but she knew deep down that he was speaking the truth.

  “Do you remember when Darion competed in the tourney at the Grand Coliseum, a few moons ago?” Ariella asked, her eyes lighting up.

  “He was relentless—fought for hours on end and was practically unstoppable!” she added, a hint of excitement in her voice as the memory came alive.

  “I couldn’t forget it. But it’s different when people are fighting against a prince and the heir—they hold back. Of course, I wouldn’t have,” Cedric chuckled.

  “It’s a good thing you weren’t competing then!” Ariella teased, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

  “Princess Circelia was there too, wasn’t she? We both knew he was fighting for her hand,” Cedric remarked, smiling at the memory.

  “And it worked. She’s smitten with him. Before we left this morning, I heard she’s been pestering her father to arrange the marriage within the week,” Ariella said, her smile softening as she spoke of their dear friend.

  “Now, that’s a girl in love,” Cedric chuckled.

  Ariella’s smile faded as she looked back to Darion, who lay unconscious, his wounds attended to by the monks.

  “What did you leave for, Princess?” Cedric asked, his confusion clear. He still didn’t understand how Darion had ended up here, battered and broken.

  “He didn’t tell you? Not even you?” Ariella asked, her voice tinged with surprise. Cedric, after all, was Darion’s best friend, his closest comrade. But Cedric simply shook his head gently and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “Whatever the secret is—and if it’s yours—he must have felt it was more important than you realize,” he said quietly.

  Ariella stared at him for a moment, digesting his words. She trusted Darion with everything—never hesitating to share her heart with him. He had always kept secrets, but how well? She wasn’t sure.

  “Father knew,” Ariella murmured.

  “He’s the king, Ariella. He has spies and birds all over the city. But take comfort in this—he ignored it. Whatever it was, he chose not to intervene,” Cedric said, trying to offer her some peace.

  Ariella exhaled, a genuine smile curling on her lips as she glanced at the monks tending to Darion.

  “That does bring me comfort,” she admitted softly.

  “I’ll take my leave now, Cedric. Thank you, as always,” she said, her emerald eyes gleaming in the soft light filtering through the stained-glass window.

  “Be well, Princess,” Cedric said, bowing his head.

  Ariella shook her head with a smile. “How many times do I have to tell you, Cedric? You can call me Ariella,” she joked, her tone light.

  “It’s a habit,” Cedric chuckled.

  Turning toward the door, Ariella paused to bow to the monks and sisters, thanking them for their care of not only Darion but all of the wounded. As she was about to leave, she stopped and turned back toward one of the monks who had helped her earlier.

  “Might I have a robe? It’s quite cold outside, and I forgot my fur coat. Foolish of me,” she said, trying to sound coy, though the glint in her eye was anything but.

  “Of course, Your Highness,” the monk said kindly, as she rummaged through a large wooden cupboard filled with spare robes. After a moment, she handed one to Ariella with a smile. “This should fit.”

  “Perfect! Gratitude!” Ariella said, her voice suddenly light and energized. The monk looked a bit confused by the sudden shift in Ariella’s mood, but she didn’t mind.

  As she draped the robe around her shoulders, Ariella felt the warmth of her disguise settle over her. This was exactly what she needed — a cover to slip through the streets unnoticed, to sneak into Smuggler's Alley... and to see him. To see Jaxton.