The wind whispered through the iron gates with a voice like a closing door.

  Iron Yard Prison sat on the edge of the Leonidas slums, its perimeter wall rising like the spine of some buried god. The kind of facility that didn’t bother pretending to rehabilitate. Here, punishment was the point.

  Araeius Braythar pulled his coat tighter around him as he approached, flameborn eyes shielded beneath the brim of his cap. The early autumn chill had teeth, gnawing into the marrow of morning. His boots echoed against the cracked pavement as he approached the entrance.

  Inside, everything was concrete and humming fluorescents. A long, low desk greeted him—steel, impersonal, manned by a clerk who moved like her soul had long since clocked out.

  "Name," she said.

  "Braythar. Ser Araeius. I’m here for a scheduled visitation. Inmate 1123."

  “Relationship to the inmate?”

  Araeius hesitated, jaw twitching.

  “…Family.”

  The woman barely blinked as she typed. There were forms. Signatures. A retinal scan. More signatures. A thin band of red light passed over his face. An armed escort arrived, clad in black security armor, one of them clutching a small folder under his arm.

  “No weapons permitted past the checkpoint,” the escort said flatly.

  Araeius unbuckled his sidearm, placing it into a grey tray. It slid into the wall, vanishing like it had never existed.

  They walked through two layers of gates, an airlock of bureaucracy. At the final checkpoint, a guard held out a tablet for a thumbprint. Another scanned his irises again. The same cold voice: “Step forward. Glass visitation only.”

  Of course it is, Araeius thought.

  A final door slid open with a hydraulic hiss, revealing the visitation chamber.

  Two rows of booths. Bulletproof glass. Metal stools bolted into the floor. Phones tethered to hooks. No warmth. No mercy. No history allowed inside.

  Araeius sat, adjusting his coat, folding his hands. The door across the glass opened—and in walked Dean Braythar.

  There were no cuffs.

  No shackles. No bruises. No orange jumpsuit. Dean wore a dark navy jacket over a perfectly pressed shirt. He walked like he wasn’t an inmate but the host of this place. One of the guards even held the door open for him.

  His eyes were a pale, icy blue. Cold and deliberate. The kind of gaze that didn’t burn—it froze.

  He sat, picked up the phone with lazy grace, and smiled.

  “Finally getting around to visiting your big brother, huh?”

  Araeius didn’t return the smile. He lifted the phone.

  “This isn’t a social visit. I need information.”

  Dean tilted his head. “You’ve lost weight since I last saw you.”

  Araeius’s voice stayed flat. “Again—not a warm family reunion.”

  Dean chuckled. A low, easy sound. “No. What it is… is the ultimate expression of irony.”

  Araeius’s tone cooled. “Where’d your men take Delacroix?”

  Dean leaned back, his fingers drumming the receiver.

  “Away from here.”

  Araeius’s jaw tightened. “That’s not an answer.”

  “No, it’s not,” Dean said. “And from that side of the glass, there’s not much you can do about it, is there?” He gestured loosely. “You’re not going to string me up. You’re not going to threaten me with violence.”

  Araeius said nothing.

  Dean’s smile thinned. “Would you like to know what happened to the men who gave you this lead?”

  Araeius met his eyes.

  Dean leaned closer, breath fogging a sliver of the glass. “They’re all at the bottom of the river now.”

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  Araeius shrugged once. “Occupational hazard.”

  Dean chuckled again—warmer this time. “I’m surprised to hear that coming from you. You’ve been spending a lot of time on the other side of bulletproof glass lately.” A pointed glance. “Delacroix, now me. Tell me, brother—are you becoming sentimental?”

  Araeius didn’t bite.

  Dean’s voice dropped. “What are you going to do when you find him? The shadeborn prince?”

  “Bring him back. He needs to face judgment.”

  Dean’s eyebrows lifted. “You think he’ll come willingly?”

  Araeius’s jaw flexed. “It won’t be up to him.”

  A pause settled between them, like a held breath.

  Then Dean raised a hand, tapping the glass lightly. “Would you mind if I had a smoke?”

  Araeius didn’t answer.

  Dean waved to the guard.

  Without hesitation, the man approached, pulling a cigarette from a silver case. He placed it between Dean’s lips and lit it for him. Dean inhaled deeply, then exhaled a smooth stream of smoke to the side, away from the glass.

  Araeius watched. “Are you trying to impress me?”

  Dean smiled faintly. “No, brother. I’m trying to educate you.”

  He leaned in, eyes sharpening. “What’s happening to Delacroix right now? That’s thanks to men like me. And Mr. Chan—he’s locked in the Black Vault. Cell next to Delacroix’s old one.”

  Dean’s voice dropped to a whisper of ice.

  “His mother pleaded for three years. With every judge, every councilman, every bastard with a gavel. And nothing.”

  Another drag. Another exhale.

  “But all it took Chan was a few phone calls.”

  Araeius’s voice was a low growl. “To murder Thorne.”

  Dean’s eyes gleamed.

  “That, little brother… was a business transaction.”

  “Why Thorne?”

  Dean shook his head. “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  Dean smiled tightly. “There are… higher authorities than me. I recognise the chain of command.”

  Araeius stood, the receiver lowering in his hand.

  “This was a waste of time.”

  Dean didn’t move. Just said, casually:

  “Kyōsaka.”

  Araeius paused.

  “…What?”

  Dean tapped ash into the tray.

  “The prince. He’s on a ship bound for Kyōsaka.”

  “Why?”

  Dean smiled that same empty, elegant smile.

  “Ask him yourself.”

  Araeius stared at him for a moment longer—then hung up the phone.

  Dean didn’t move. He just watched as Araeius turned and left.

  The guard opened the door for him again.

  No cuffs. No chains.

  The warden didn’t run Iron Yard.

  Dean Braythar did.

  The gates of Iron Yard Prison groaned shut behind him.

  Araeius slipped into the driver’s seat, the door’s weight clunking closed with a finality that echoed louder than it should have. The air inside the car was still, heavy with the sterile scent of leather and steel. He let his hands rest on the wheel for a moment, staring at the reflection of the facility’s towers in the windshield. Barbed wire glinted against a cloudy autumn morning. Somewhere behind those walls, his brother—his blood—was still sitting like a king on a rusted throne.

  The ignition clicked. The hum of the engine filled the silence.

  He tapped the comm on his wrist, connected the line, and waited.

  “Hello?” Mélanie’s voice came through, soft and warm, touched by the static of distance.

  “I have a lead,” Araeius said, eyes fixed on the winding road ahead. His voice didn’t rise above neutral, but the tension underneath it coiled like wire pulled taut.

  There was a pause. Then—“Is it something you actually believe?”

  He didn’t answer right away.

  “I have to,” he said quietly.

  “Where is he?” she asked. There was no need to specify who.

  “He’s on his way to Kyōsaka.”

  Mélanie exhaled, not surprised. “So I assume you’re catching the next flight out?”

  “I’m already heading home to pack.”

  There was a pause on her end. Long enough to carry weight. Then—“Romantic getaway, is it?” she said, voice light, teasing. “You, me, and the ghost you’ve been chasing.”

  Araeius cracked the faintest smile. “We could get a room with a view. Maybe hunt a terrorist in between sake tastings.”

  She huffed out a soft breath—half a laugh, half something else. “I’ll wait for a real one.”

  “When this is over,” he said, more serious now, “I’ll take you wherever you want. Name it. The white coasts of Iska, the mountains of Varel…hell, even the floating cities if you’re into spectacle.”

  Her voice came quieter this time. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  But something in her tone had shifted.

  It was subtle, a faint deflation in her words like the air had been let out of her lungs. Something resigned.

  Araeius narrowed his eyes. “Your tone just dropped. Everything alright?”

  “I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Just… tired. The Legion’s been dumping a mountain of data work on me. Templar reports, troop audits. Nothing thrilling.”

  He nodded slowly. “Don’t work too hard.”

  “I’ll try.”

  A pause.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  The line dropped.

  —

  Mélanie stood still for a moment, the comm device in her hand, the faint chime of call termination still ringing in her ears. Outside her office window, the autumn sun filtered through the clouds, casting a long shadow across the sleek steel walls of the Legion intelligence wing.

  She didn’t return to her desk.

  Instead, she turned and walked across the room, her boots clicking softly on the tiled floor. She reached the double doors at the far end, passed her clearance badge over the scanner, and stepped through into a chamber colder and darker than her own.

  The office was spartan. Not unadorned—just deliberate. The blinds were half-drawn, muting the light. Two swords hung on the wall behind the desk, untouched but sharp. A digital map of Kyōsaka hovered in the corner, flickering with red intel tags. And behind the desk sat a man whose posture made the whole room feel like a courtroom.

  Ashen Teorista.

  Son of A’noa.

  Half-brother to the Shadeborn prince.

  Frostborn—through and through. His icy eyes were pale and clear, void of warmth but sharp with calculation. He didn’t look up from his screen as Mélanie entered. He didn’t need to.

  “Sir,” she said, composed.

  Ashen’s fingers stilled above the keys.

  “We have a lead,” Mélanie said. “His Highness is in Kyōsaka.”

  Ashen’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. No surprise. No celebration. Just the click of an internal mechanism shifting into place.

  “Have our men stationed there begin surveillance on Braythar,” he said calmly. “If he moves, I want a report before he reaches the docks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mélanie turned to leave.

  “Is he suspicious?” Ashen asked behind her, voice cool and composed.

  She paused.

  “No,” she said. “Not yet.”

  Ashen nodded once, satisfied. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  She left the room, her expression unreadable.

  And behind the closed door, the frostborn commander returned to his screen, his finger tapping a single point on the Kyōsakan coastline—marked in red.

  Where the brother will find the prince.