Garron didn’t say much as he stepped out of the town hall, his shadow trailing faintly behind him in the morning breeze.
Lucien and Cassian followed without comment, the door closing quietly behind them as if not to disturb the stillness that had settled over Mermaid’s Cove.
The streets had begun to stir—vendors setting out their goods, fishermen hauling nets from the docks, townsfolk eyeing the guards with subtle unease.
Whispers still clung to corners, like steam that hadn’t yet faded from the stones.
“Apologies for the walk, Your Highness,” Garron said without turning, his voice gruff but not unkind. “Our place is up the hill.”
“No trouble,” Lucien replied, adjusting the clasp on his half-buttoned cloak. “Frankly, I could use the air.”
“It’s cleaner up that way,” Garron muttered, more to himself than to them. “Less noise, too.”
Lucien glanced at the man beside him. “You sound like someone who prefers distance from politics.”
“I prefer honesty,” Garron said flatly. “But distance helps.”
Cassian gave a quiet, near-imperceptible smile behind them.
The three men walked along the worn stone path that curved between cottages and wild thyme bushes.
A pair of children darted past, giggling with wooden swords, while an old woman nearby watched them from her porch, knitting half-forgotten in her lap.
Lucien let his gaze drift upward.
The climb was modest, but as the rooftops fell behind them, the scent of the sea gave way to lavender and rosemary—herbs growing wild along the slope.
Then he saw it.
That red-roofed cottage.
Perched just over the hill’s bend, ringed by a garden still glistening with dew.
And in a single, quiet moment, it clicked.
His eyes lingered on the stone fence, the familiar angle of the doorway, the neat rows of herbs.
He remembered standing nearby yesterday, when something in the air tugged at him—warm, strange, and faintly luminous.
He smiled.
Of course it’s this house, he thought. Fate has a sense of humor, after all.
Garron didn’t notice the prince’s expression as he reached for the gate.
“Usually she's up at this hour,” he said, more gently this time. “But she’s probably still tired.”
Lucien stepped forward, brushing one hand along the fence’s edge. The wood felt sun-warmed beneath his fingers.
“No rush,” he said quietly. "I just hope we won't surprise her in a bad way.”
Garron pushed open the front door with a familiar creak, the scent of herbs and warm bread still lingering in the air.
Lucien and Cassian remained outside by the garden, the prince taking a slow breath as he studied the cottage’s simple charm—sunlight brushing the red tiles, a windcatcher swaying lazily by the eaves.
Cassian, as ever, stood still, quietly observant.
Inside, Elia turned at the sound of the door.
She was wiping her hands with a dish towel, a faint trace of flour still dusting the hem of her sleeve. “Back already?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
Garron stepped in and shut the door behind him, glancing briefly toward the kitchen table where Mira had sat just minutes ago.
Empty now. The blanket she’d left behind was still draped over the chair.
“She’s not here?” he asked.
Elia shook her head, already sensing the shift in his tone. “She went to the workshop. Said she had potions to brew. Why?”
Garron hesitated. “The prince is outside. He’s come to see her.”
Elia’s hand stilled on the towel.
Her expression didn’t change immediately—but her eyes did. That flicker of quiet worry returned, the same one she had tried to hide earlier by busying herself at the stove.
“The prince?” she echoed, voice low. “Here?”
"He knows,” Garron said. “About last night—and about Mira.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint chirp of birds beyond the window and the bubbling of a pot left simmering on the stove.
Elia placed the towel down carefully on the counter. “Then what exactly does he want now?”
“He said he wanted to say thank you personally,” Garron said. “But I don’t think that’s all.”
Elia met his gaze. “She’s still tired, Garron. Still sorting through whatever happened out there. And now a prince shows up at our doorstep?”
Garron’s expression softened. Just slightly. “He didn’t come in armor. Didn’t bring a council. Just him and his escort.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s ready,” Elia whispered.
“I know. But the prince is already here,” he sighed faintly, stepped forward and gently rested a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll go get her,” he said.
The door opened again, and Garron stepped out—this time with Elia just behind him, her apron still on and her brow faintly furrowed with concern.
Lucien straightened as they approached. His posture was polite, but there was a flicker of attentiveness in his eyes the moment he saw Elia.
“Your Highness,” Garron said, gesturing. “This is my wife, Elia.”
Lucien offered a respectful nod. “A pleasure to meet you, Madam Elia. I’m Lucien Aurelius Virelion of Arslan.”
Elia blinked, visibly startled by the formality, but she offered a shallow curtsey all the same.
“You’re too kind, Your Highness,” she said, with a soft smile that didn’t quite hide her nerves. “Please forgive the state of the house, we weren’t expecting a prince this morning.”
“I’m not here as a prince,” Lucien replied gently. “Only someone who owes your daughter a great deal.”
That caught Elia slightly off guard. She glanced at Garron, who gave a small, silent nod in return.
“Mira’s not here,” Garron said. “She went to her workshop. It’s further uphill, just past the old stone fence.”
Lucien followed Garron’s gaze toward the winding path beyond the garden, where the trees grew thicker and the slope climbed toward the wooded crest of the hill.
“Shall we?” Garron asked.
Lucien nodded. “Please, lead the way.”
Cassian fell into step behind them as they made their way past the fence.
The path was narrow, overgrown in places, but well-worn by familiarity.
Wildflowers dotted the edge of the trail, and sunlight filtered through the branches above, dappling the ground in gold and green.
Lucien walked quietly, his thoughts half with the steps beneath him and half somewhere else.
He glanced again at the road ahead—and then paused for a moment, realization dawning.
This path… this quiet hill… this breeze.
The faint sense of familiarity he’d felt the night before returned, clearer now.
Not déjà vu, not memory—but something gentler. Warmer.
He smiled to himself as he looked up, past the curve of the trail where a slanted-roof structure sat nestled among the trees, half-hidden by ivy and surrounded by the scent of cut wood and magic.
“So that’s where she works,” he murmured.
Garron gave him a sidelong look. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough. Just… be nice.”
Lucien gave a thoughtful nod, his voice low.
“I wouldn’t be anything else.”
Meanwhile, in the workshop—
The scent of cedar, ink, and drying herbs filled the air—familiar and grounding.
Mira leaned over her workbench, sleeves rolled, her damp braid slipping over one shoulder as she stirred a simmering copper pot.
Sunlight poured in through the tall, arched window, warming the parchment, the jars of powdered roots, and the rows of softly bubbling vials.
She added one last drop of valerian oil and paused, watching the potion shift to a perfect, translucent green.
Almost right.
But not quite.
Setting the ladle down, Mira exhaled slowly. The room was warm, the work comforting, but her chest felt tight with something she couldn’t name.
Not fear.
Something older. Deeper.
She turned toward the shelf, fingertips brushing the spine of a forgotten reference scroll.
And then—she felt it.
A stillness in the air. Like the trees outside had stopped breathing.
Footsteps.
Her father’s. Familiar as her own.
And two others.
One quiet, precise. The other… steady. Weighty. Not loud—but unmistakable. Like a storm that hadn’t broken yet.
Her heart beat once. Slow. Sharp.
She didn’t need to look through the window.
They were coming.
She crossed the room in three calm steps and opened the door just as they crested the hill.
Her father led, as always. Cassian followed behind, quiet as dusk.
And between them, Prince Lucien.
His cloak lifted slightly in the breeze, eyes already fixed on her. Calm. Intent. Familiar.
Not from memory. But from something else.
Recognition without a reason.
Her breath caught—but only slightly.
She didn’t look away.
Neither did he.
The silence between them was full—not awkward, but resonant. Like two puzzle pieces recognizing the edge of the other.
Garron raised a hand. “Mira. You’ve got visitors.”
Mira’s eyes flicked to her father, then back to Lucien.
Her voice was even. Quiet.
“I figured you’d come.”
