Caldrin Vane froze mid-swing, the tip of his practice blade suspended just inches from his partner's throat. He hadn't meant to stop—it was the sound that did it.
The faint, far-off hum curled through the morning air like a whisper, winding over slate rooftops and between the sharp-tiled towers of Aevarra's capital. It was impossible—should have been impossible—from this distance. They were housed on the far side of the city, quartered in a crumbling estate once claimed by nobility and now turned over to the Wardens.
Yet there it was. The Harmonium of Resolve. Low and resonant, its vibration settled deep in his chest like a second heartbeat.
Caldrin lowered his blade.
"You hear that?" he asked, though his voice barely rose above the garden wind.
His sparring partner, a dark-skinned girl with eyes like polished onyx—Imara, another trainee—nodded. A sheen of sweat traced her brow. "Yeah. Means the princess said yes, then."
He exhaled and turned toward the direction of the palace, visible only as a gleam through the urban haze. The wedding ceremony would be underway by now, cloaked in silk and ceremony. Caldrin imagined the royal family lined like figurines, Aevarran tradition etched into every movement.
Even Rion—the bastard prince—would be there.
Caldrin's gaze flicked back to Imara, who was already re-sheathing her sword.
"It still feels wrong," he murmured. "That we're this close and not there."
"We're not Aevarran," she replied. "Not truly. We're The Eye's."
"No," he said, "but we serve Aevarra while we're posted here. Shouldn't our presence mean something?"
Imara gave a wry smile. "It would if we weren't still pups."
He studied her—how she moved, how she never wasted energy. There were precious few women chosen by The Eye. Fewer still who made it past the first trials. Imara had. And she wore that rarity not as a badge, but like it was a blade kept sheathed until needed. She was one of the very few female Wardens-in-training in all The Land—a rarity that made even other trainees pause.
"Tell that to Torren," he said dryly.
Imara snorted. "He's probably bothering Kael again."
A third voice joined them—heavy boots on gravel, steady and unmistakable.
Warden Silas Dorrin.
Of the five full Wardens tasked with guiding their field instruction, Silas was the least forgiving. Eyes sharp as a hawk's, voice clipped like a commander's, hair streaked iron and posture ever-coiled.
"Enough sparring," Silas said. "We've been summoned."
"To the palace?" Imara asked.
"No. A noble's coach was attacked on its way there. Not far from here."
"Political?" Caldrin's voice was already tight.
Silas gave him a hard look. "Everything is."
They moved quickly across the estate's boundary walls. Caldrin rode behind Silas, beside Imara. With Torren having joined them, trailing in typical loose formation.
By the time they arrived, the morning light had sharpened into gold. Their two other Warden teachers were also upon the scene already, Kael and Ryne. Before them all was the shattered remnants of a coach lying askew in the mud, axle snapped, the house sigil smeared with blood.
House Verin. Church loyalists.
Two bodies had already been covered with gray cloth.
Imara muttered, "This close to the capital?"
Caldrin crouched by the wreck. Clean cuts. Fast work.
"Not Aevarran," he murmured. "And not ours."
Kael knelt beside him. "No Harmonium residue. No Binding."
"Blades, then," Caldrin said.
Ryne growled, "Blades don't kill without message. Look around."
Torren whistled. "You think someone's trying to ruin the wedding?"
Kael's gaze was unreadable. "When power moves, it doesn't always march. Sometimes, it dances."
They returned just as the Harmonium shifted again, this time into the deep reverberation of Reverence.
Caldrin sat with Imara and Torren in the east-facing room, where light streamed through cracked panes. Their mentors remained silent, stationed at corners like statues.
Imara broke the silence first. "Do you believe it?"
"What?" Caldrin asked.
"That someone would kill Verin retainers as a protest."
"No," Caldrin said. "Not protest. Warning."
"Then who was it meant for?" Torren asked.
Caldrin looked toward the far wall. "All of us."
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He walked alone through the outer gardens again, thoughts too loud for rest.
Then the Harmonium sounded again—soft, steady.
Silas found him not long after. The Warden stood in silence beside the low stone bench.
"You did well this morning," Silas said finally.
"I did something?"
"You thought. You questioned."
Caldrin turned to him. "I just want to do more than swing a sword."
Silas smiled faintly. "Then you might be more than most."