Kael followed the direction the girl had run, drawn not by reason, but by instinct—something in the way she moved, the fire in her eyes. In his time as King Ardaeron, he had led battalions and slain beasts of shadow, but there was something about her… something off. Something familiar.
The streets were alive with noise—vendors shouting, children laughing, drunks singing in alleys—yet his eyes locked onto her the moment she turned the corner.
She was fast, weaving through the crowd like a ghost. Her hood was still up, but strands of jet-black hair slipped from beneath it. She moved like someone who had spent her life escaping—fluid, practiced, unafraid.
Kael's body wasn't what it used to be, but his mind was. And it was sharp.
He cut through the crowd, tracking her with the grace of a shadow. No one saw him move, yet he moved faster than most should. His legs burned, lungs ached, but he pushed forward, slipping past merchant stalls and barrels of spoiled fruit, his eyes never leaving her.
The girl darted into a crumbling stone building tucked between two burnt-out taverns. Kael followed, quietly.
Inside, the air was heavy with damp and smoke. The scent of firewood barely covered the mold. A single candle flickered on a crate. The girl sat near it, back against the wall, digging through the satchel she'd stolen.
"Not bad," she muttered to herself, counting silver coins and slipping a rolled parchment into her boot. "Rich idiots always make it too easy."
Kael leaned silently against the doorframe.
"You're quick," he said, voice low.
She didn't startle. Instead, she looked up, her eyes a piercing violet—sharp, calculating. Not the eyes of a child, not even of a street rat. These were the eyes of a survivor.
"Took you long enough," she replied, sliding the satchel aside.
He raised an eyebrow.
"You saw me?"
"Golden eyes. Quiet steps. You're not from around here. You don't belong."
Kael stepped forward, slowly.
"Neither do you."
A flicker of amusement crossed her face. "Touché."
He studied her. She couldn't be older than twenty, but the weight in her gaze said otherwise. Her cloak was tattered but carefully patched. A dagger, notched and worn, hung from her belt. She had the posture of someone who slept with one eye open.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Depends. Who's asking?"
"Kael."
"Just Kael?" she echoed, unimpressed.
"Just Kael," he repeated, with a ghost of a smirk. "And you?"
"Lysandra."
He nodded once. "Nice steal."
She shrugged. "Not bad for someone running from her own bounty."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "You're wanted?"
"Everyone worth something is," she said, sliding the satchel under her cloak. "What about you? You're not just some poor bastard in rags, are you?"
Kael hesitated. For the first time, someone looked through him. Not at him. Not with pity or disdain. But with curiosity. She saw something—something he hadn't meant to show.
"I've lost… a lot," he said. "More than I care to name."
Lysandra tilted her head. "You've got the eyes of a killer. And the silence of a man who's seen too much."
He didn't deny it.
A tense beat passed between them.
Then Lysandra stood. "Come on. I know a place where we won't get stabbed. Not immediately, anyway."
Kael raised a brow. "Why help me?"
She flashed a grin. "Because I don't trust you. And I want to know why."
As she slipped past him and into the rain, Kael followed.
Something had started in that moment—two fates colliding like fire and storm. She didn't know who he was. Not yet.
But she would.
And when the truth came out, it would either forge an unbreakable alliance… or ignite a war.