It started with a knock.
Not the stumble of a drunk. Not the force of the wind. A solid, purposeful knock on their decayed wooden door.
Charlotte straightened her back. Her hand moved instinctively to Finn, who slept with his head resting in her lap, still gripping a charcoal-laden drawing.
She lingered.
Another knock—three times. A pause. Once more.
A signal.
Military rhythm. Someone who understood.
Charlotte opened the door.
He was not from Briar Hollow. That much was clear. His coat was worn from travel but costly in design, the fabric subtly reinforced at the shoulders, as if meant to hold concealed weapons. His boots were spattered with red clay from the southern regions. And his face—
One eye. The other, a jagged socket covered by a metal disc, engraved with what appeared to be alchemical symbols.
He bowed his head.
"Princess," he said softly.
Charlotte maintained her composure. Her immediate instinct was to either kill or silence him. Her next thought: How did he track me down?
"You're mistaken," she replied flatly. "I go by Lina."
"Of course," he said with weary amusement. "And I'm just a weathered old soldier in search of a meal."
Charlotte's grip on the doorframe tightened. "Who sent you?"
"No one. They believe you are dead. Buried beneath white petals and remembered by gravestones. But I witnessed that night. I saw the moon change. I saw what followed."
Charlotte felt ice flood her veins. "What do you mean, what followed?"
The man leaned in, lowering his voice.
"The dreams. They started two weeks after your death. Up north, children began depicting your face in chalk. In the east, a blind seer uttered your name in a trance. And in the capital, the towers shed tears the day Eladin ascended."
Charlotte's breath hitched.
Eladin.
"And you believe… I am her?"
"I do not believe, child," he replied. "I remember. I served your mother. I saw you train that wolfhound to chase ministers into fountains. I recognize that glint in your eye."
He knelt—completely, with reverence—on the warped wooden floor.
"I pledged allegiance to the crown once. And now, I pledge again to you."
Charlotte felt the walls shift around her. The air was too heavy. Too noisy.
Finn stirred behind her. "Who's that?" he murmured drowsily.
The soldier turned his gaze to Finn.
And froze.
For a long moment, silence engulfed them.
Then the soldier's voice quaked.
"Eladin?"
Finn blinked. "My name's Finn. But… I dream of him."
Charlotte positioned herself in front of them. "He's not Eladin. He belongs to me."
The soldier nodded slowly, rising. "Then I shall protect you both. Because this world… it will seek you out once more. It always does."
Charlotte crossed her arms, skeptical. "What do you want from me?"
His response arrived quickly, without a hint of doubt.
"Nothing. But there are those who require you. And one who is already approaching."
Her heart fluttered. "Who?"
The soldier turned, stepping into the mist.
"Someone who dreams of you every night. Someone you once left behind."
He disappeared into the fog.
That night, Charlotte couldn't sleep. Not due to fear—but due to hope. Dangerous, trembling, foolish hope.
Was it conceivable?
Had Elias…?
Was Mira still…?
Had her legacy genuinely endured?
She glanced at Finn, curled beside her with a blanket fashioned from patched memories and threadbare dreams.