Zara let out a sharp, exhausted sigh as she made her way through the dim, cobbled streets, heels clicking with every angry step. The moon hung above her like an eye—watching, judging—cold and distant as the expression she imagined on her brother's face.
"Tch… that damn knight," she hissed under her breath, voice thick with frustration. Her steps faltered. Her ankles ached from the heels—stupid, fragile things she only wore for this exact kind of seduction. She resisted the childish urge to tear them off and fling them into the gutter.
Her gaze drifted upward, catching the moonlight in her eyes. She inhaled sharply through her nose and muttered more quietly, "What will Mark say to me…"
She could already see him in her mind: the look of distant disapproval, that cold flick of the eyes that cut deeper than any scream. He wouldn't yell. He'd just stare—not at her, through her—like she wasn't even his sister.
"Like I'm just a waste of a royal name…"
Her voice trailed off, trembling with the weight of the thought.
"He wouldn't even be wrong."
The words left her on a shuddering exhale, breath catching halfway through. She had failed. A princess dressed like that—dripping in allure, to twist hearts with a smile—and she couldn't seduce a single knight. Not just any knight, but a lowborn one. A commoner with muddy boots and too much honor.
She curled her hands into fists, nails biting her palms.
"I deserve it," she whispered.
Then, shoulders sagging, she started walking again.
---
"Ugh… that fucking bitch," Crow spat as he ran a hand through his stark white hair, teeth grinding. He'd stormed off half an hour ago, just to get some air. Anything to get away from Amara. He couldn't stand another second around her without snapping something—or someone.
The cool night helped. He always preferred the streets at night—less noise, less heat, less people in general.
"When the hell am I going to get to kill her?" he muttered, turning a corner.
He clenched his jaw, eyes scanning the empty path ahead. Maybe if he fed, the tension would ease. It usually did.
He ducked into a shadowed alleyway, narrowing his eyes as he searched for a viable target. A guard on patrol? Nah, too risky. A civilian? Boring. A drunk? Waste of taste.
"No one good," he muttered, already turning away—
Then he stopped.
His eyes widened.
A shape. A walk he recognized. Familiar curves under silk.
Princess Zara.
His lips pulled into a slow, wicked grin. He licked them once, hungry.
"Well, isn't that a pleasant surprise?"
He stepped farther into the alley, concealed in the dark, gaze locked on her form in the distance.
"I could eat you," he murmured, voice thick with amusement. "But…"
He reached into his coat and pulled out a curved dagger. The kind that soldiers from Aeruna used.
His fingers tightened around the handle.
"Time to sow some chaos."
This—this was a once-in-a-lifetime gift.
---
Zara slowed the closer she drew to the inn, her steps losing purpose. The looming confrontation with Mark churned in her gut like poison. Her spine straightened, her stride faltered. Every instinct screamed to stall, to linger in the shadows just a little longer. She couldn't face him—not like this. Not as a failure.
Then it hit her.
A chill licked up her spine, sudden and electric. Danger. Behind her.
She spun around, heart jerking into her throat—but she wasn't used to heels. Her ankle twisted mid-turn and she fell hard onto her back, the breath knocked clean from her lungs.
A flash of metal cut through the moonlight. A curved blade hissed past her face, missing by inches.
Her eyes snapped to the attacker—masked, face wrapped in cloth save for two details that burned themselves into her mind: ghostly white hair and dark black eyes. But what chilled her more than his face was the dagger.
Aerunan steel.
Her stomach dropped. Her gaze sharpened into fury.
"You dare attack the princess of Veridiania?!" she roared, rage swelling hot and fast in her chest. "You dirt-sucking mongrel!"
A shout answered her. Two guards turned the corner and spotted the scene.
"Hey! STOP!" one barked, both of them breaking into a sprint with halberds raised.
Crow didn't speak. He didn't need to.
He dipped into his coat in a single fluid motion, pulling out what looked like a pistol—short, sleek, military-style. But its frame was pale, almost bone-like under the moonlight, and in truth, was bone—crafted through necromancy, but masked well enough to pass in the dark.
He fired.
The shot cracked through the street. The first guard dropped instantly, the bullet punching through his armor like paper.
The second froze, eyes wide, stumbling a step as his partner collapsed.
Crow didn't wait.
He dashed forward and buried the dagger into the second guard's skull. The man gave a choked grunt—then crumpled like cloth.
Crow turned back slowly, blade dripping.
Zara was already on her feet. Her heels were gone—tossed aside—and her breath came fast through her nose. She planted her bare feet, steadied herself. She couldn't run—not with a gun in his hand. She had to fight.
Her voice was steady, but low with warning. "Your Emperor chose poorly. My death won't weaken Veridiania in the slightest."
Crow's grin curled behind the cloth mask. He slid the bone pistol back into his coat.
*She's actually going to fight?* he mused, amused. *How brave.*
He lunged.
The dagger swept low, aimed for her gut. She twisted back—barely—and it missed. But he was fast. His free hand snapped forward, grabbing her shoulder. He raised the blade high—
Zara didn't close her eyes. She stared straight up at him, ready to die unblinking.
But the dagger never came down.
A rope whipped through the air and snapped tight around Crow's wrist, jerking it back.
"What—"
He spun, just in time to avoid the blade of a cutlass—almost. It sliced across his shoulder, drawing a shallow line of blood.
Standing in the alley, cutlass drawn and rope still taut in his hand, was Ulrich.
"Thank goddess he told me to watch over you," the Bandit Lord said with a cocky grin. "Otherwise this would've been one hell of a mess."