"Thirty silver!"
"Fifty silver!"
"One hundred silver!"
"Oh! We got a gold for the cow! Lady Benereth really was one lucky cow!"
Keiser leaned against the cool stone wall of the alleyway, arms crossed as he watched Lenko gleefully count the earnings. The teen had chosen this little nook—tucked just behind the village's main road—as the perfect place to tally their gains.
Lenko sat on a low crate, coin pouch in his lap, eyes glittering as he recited each sale like they'd won a fortune.
Earlier that day, Lenko had looked heartbroken. Somber, even, as he marched out of the open field with the livestock in tow, leading them one by one to market. Keiser half-expected him to cry when he said goodbye to the horse— Sir Mckenzy was it?—The way he clung to that ropelike, like he is parting with an old friend.
Keiser hadn't intended to sell everything, just a few supplies—maybe a goat or two. Enough to last them until they found a wagon or some way to travel through the neighboring villages and onward to the capital. Something practical.
But Lenko had other ideas.
Keiser hadn't stopped him. Let the boy do as he pleased. After all, this wasn't his life—not really. He was still adjusting to it, to the feel of this new body, the strange tension in his muscles, the soft ache in his bones. Still figuring out where Muzio ended and where he began.
At least now they had coins.
Enough to move forward.
And they would.
No matter how unfamiliar the path felt beneath his feet, Keiser intended to walk it all the way to the end.
But as Keiser walked away from the Sheol border, he could already feel it—the pull of the sigils, the runes etched deep into the land. The ones Muzio had apparently carved, woven with purpose. They clung to him, tugging faintly, like invisible threads trying to reel him back in.
They were protective markings. Designed to shield them from both monsters and men. From those who might be looking for them. Or from something worse.
But Keiser knew the rules of magic—at least the basics.
Sigils and runes only held power while their caster remained nearby. The farther one strayed, the thinner the mana stretched, like smoke unraveling in the wind. Belief, too, weakened with distance. Eventually, the magic would fade entirely.
So, by the time they emerged from the tree line and onto the open plains—where wagon tracks crisscrossed the grass and ruts etched paths into the dirt—Keiser felt the last threads of protection slip from his skin.
That's when Lenko pulled up Keiser's hood. Swiftly. Purposefully.
"This is your first time here, my lord," he said, voice low but urgent. "I suggest you don't speak to anyone if we can help it. The people here are kind, but… your eyes…"
Keiser understood immediately. Without a word, he pulled the hood of his cloak up even more over his head, shadowing his face.
Eyes like the King's—sharp, piercing, unnaturally red—were the sort that would let people know his identity. The kind that invited questions. And Keiser had no answers he could give.
Not yet.
They reached the village sooner than Keiser had anticipated.
Still, he was drenched in sweat and panting heavily the entire way. He wasn't even the one pulling the livestock—Lenko had insisted on doing that—but his body, this body, felt like it was barely holding together. Weak, underfed, untrained. Not his.
Before they left the woods, Lenko had stopped to draw sigils on the animals with a stick of charcoal, explaining that it would keep them from wandering too far. Then he turned to Keiser, holding out the charcoal. "You should mark a few too, my lord. Just enough to keep them calm."
Keiser had hesitated. He didn't want to raise suspicion—Lenko was already starting to notice his strange behavior—but drawing sigils? That was not something he could do. Not him. Not Keiser.
And yet, faced with Lenko's expectant look, he relented.
He scribbled words on the livestock—'not-get-far', simple and blunt—and watched, stunned, as the crude lettering twisted, shimmered, and folded in on itself. The letters rearranged into loops and lines, then curved again into runes. Into sigils.
Keiser stared.
He blinked, rubbed his eyes, but the change was real. The sigils pulsed faintly on the animals' hides.
Working.
It wasn't knowledge he had. He could read some runes—basic things, remnants of training and necessity—but he had no mana of his own. As a knight, he'd relied on relics and weapons imbued with cores from mana-rich beasts. Magic had never flowed through his veins.
But now...
The letters became sigils. The mana wasn't his, but it had responded to him anyway. The meaning behind the markings resonated, shaping magic from intention.
It wasn't him, he realized.
It was Muzio.
Keiser pressed a hand to his head. His breath caught.
Maybe Muzio wasn't entirely gone.
Maybe, somehow, he was still here—with him.
"Done!" Lenko chirped, his grin bright as he held up a clinking money pouch. "Let's go, Your Highness—we can probably hire a coachman to the next village now!"
Keiser frowned. That sound—the clink and clatter of coins—wasn't the song of success.
It was a bell. A warning.
And sure enough, as they stepped out of the alley and made their way toward the guild hall—where Lenko said they could find a coach or a traveling mercenary—someone bumped into them.
"Whoa, careful—" Lenko stumbled back slightly, reaching instinctively to steady a small figure that had collided with him.
A girl. Young, hood pulled low, head bowed. She didn't speak. Just dipped her head and tried to slip past them in a hurry.
Too fast.
Keiser's arm snapped out, fingers clamping around her wrist. A jolt of pain ran up his arm immediately—his muscles stung, his whole limb trembled with the strain. This body was useless. Just holding her was exhausting.
The girl yanked, but he didn't let go.
"Young Lord?!" Lenko hissed, leaning in with a whisper-shout, "What are you doing?"
"Check your coin pouch," Keiser said, eyes fixed on the girl.
Lenko blinked, confused for a heartbeat—then his expression crumpled in shock. "Ahh!" he yelped, clutching at the now half-empty bag.
The girl's head snapped up, fury in her eyes.
Keiser met her glare, his grip still tight despite the burning in his arm. Her hood had slipped just enough for her face to be visible—pale skin, flushed cheeks, lips small and tight with anger. Eyes dark as obsidian. Hair jet black, chin-length, framing her face like a shadow.
Keiser's eyes widened.
He knew her.
Not just from the court, but from portraits, from whispered rumors, from silent glances across grand halls as well as during the trials.
That was her.
The First Prince's fiancée.