Bener's strides were long and urgent, each step striking the cobblestones with barely contained anticipation. He did not spare a single glance at the blooming flowers that bowed gently over the path and the clusters of lilac and white jasmine that framed the quaint little house tucked into the right wing of Marquina Manor. The sweet scent of early spring clung to the air, but Bener's mind was too full, too fixed on the moment he had waited for.

Just a month ago, he had been granted the title of Marquis and Carles as his fief. It should have been the proudest moment of his life. And yet, all he could think about was Shaya—her smile, her steady gaze, and the promise of a future he was eager to claim.

He slowed only long enough to reach inside his coat, fingers brushing against the exquisitely crafted ebony box. Inside lay a diamond ring that caught the light like captured starlight. His heart quickened.

She will be happy, he told himself. I have courted her for two years. At last… it is time. He thought, smiling.

With a quiet breath, he knocked on the wooden door—once, twice, then again when no sound came from within. His smile wavered, but he raised his fist for another knock.

"General Bener, or rather Marquis, you are back."

Bener turned sharply. Lazira stood behind him, her expression troubled.

"Shaya was taken by people from Westalis," she said gently. "They claimed her father is dying and wished to see her one last time. She left this letter for you."

It felt as though a bucket of ice-cold water had been thrown over him. His breath caught. The warmth in his chest vanished, replaced by a hollow chill. The ebony box nearly slipped from his hand.

"When?" he asked, voice tight. "And which way did they go?"

"Three days ago. They took the southern road and planned to travel by boat along the River Praya."

Three days. Bener's shoulders sagged under the weight of the realization. Three days was a long head start, especially with the new wagonways that cut travel time in half. The world seemed to tilt—not enough to make him fall, but enough to rob the moment of its color.

At the manor gates behind him, another carriage rolled to a stop. General Odin, Freya, and Gideon stepped down, heading toward the entrance. Freya noticed Bener first.

"On such a joyful day, why do you look as though you're attending a funeral?" she teased, though her smile faded at the sight of his expression.

"Mother… Shaya was taken back to Westalis," Bener replied, his voice barely above a murmur.

"What?" General Odin barked. "How could that be? Did you not tell her you had a surprise for her when you returned?"

"Supreme General," Lazira interjected softly, "her father is on his deathbed. His last wish is to see his daughter one last time."

General Odin fell silent, studying his third son—his downcast stance, the tension in his jaw, the despair he tried to hide. He was far from the brave, spirited man he usually saw in the battlefield.

Then, with a shrug that belied the significance of his words, he said, "Then we go to Westalis and propose a marriage."

He crossed his arms, as if the matter were settled. "Perhaps," he added, "this is fate. Let's go back to Calma, pick up some things for the bethrotal gifts."

...

The journey to Westalis stretched across rolling plains and dense forests, the landscape shifting from the cooler grays of Mount Roca in Carles to the warm golds of the central plains, and muted greens of the western kingdom.

Bener rode between his father and younger brother, Gideon, along with envoys of Azurveda. Though he was physically with them, his thoughts seldom stayed with them. Every mile they traveled by land or by water soothed and sharpened him in equal measure—soothed, because the distance between him and Shaya was dwindling; sharpened, because dread pricked at him like the cold wind threading through his cloak.

He has a forboding feeling that something was off.

Westalis at the West, bordered by the Zandaya mountain range. Similar to Estalis, the Kingdom of Westalis was a stretch of coastal towns on the west, agricultural farmlands in the middle, and mining towns on the eastern side.

By the time they descended from the windswept peaks of the Zandaya Mountain Range, dusk had draped the world in amber and violet. On the horizon, the spires of Westalis's capital rose like spears of polished iron piercing the fading sky. The last rays of the sun stretched long, solemn shadows across the city's ancient stone walls, breathing an air of old majesty into the towering battlements.

Novare revealed itself as they drew closer: austere, commanding, beautiful in a cold and distant way. The main streets cut through the capital like straight, purposeful strokes of a blade.

Colossal statues of past monarchs watched from their pedestals, their timeless expressions stern and unyielding. Banners of deep imperial purple snapped crisply atop every parapet, catching the mountain and the sea wind as though they carried the heartbeat of the kingdom itself.

Gideon let out a low whistle. "Wow… I didn't imagine Westalis would be such a cold beauty. The place looks nothing like the other three kingdoms."

General Odin grunted, though there was a hint of agreement beneath the sound. "It's because merchants from every corner of the continent pass through here. A wise man once said Westalis is a forge where different cultures are hammered together."

Gideon whistled again, this time longer.

"Focus," Odin barked. "We're not here for sightseeing."

But Bener barely registered their words. His fingers tightened around the leather reins as they passed under the great iron-forged gate of Novare. His eyes moved ceaselessly—over the crowds, the passing travelers, the cloaked nobles and busy merchants. Every face that flickered by was a possibility, every corner a place Shaya might suddenly emerge from with her gentle smile and the warmth that always cut through his defenses.

They settled in an inn during the night.

"Brother," Gideon said as he sprawled across the bed opposite Bener. "The inns here lack the ambience of the ones our sister built in Calma. I miss how cozy they felt."

"Brother," Gideon said as he sprawled across the bed opposite Bener. "The inns here lack the ambience of the ones our sister built in Calma. I miss how cozy they felt."

Bener sighed. "If you have nothing worthwhile to say, then sleep."

Gideon turned onto his side, studying him. After a moment, he sat up and moved to sit at the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees. "Brother… I think you're the one who can't sleep. I can feel how uneasy you are."

Silence stretched between them.

Finally, Bener exhaled—a slow, heavy breath. "It's nothing. I just… feel uneasy. Uncomfortable." His voice was steady, but his eyes drifted toward the small window where the lantern light bled into the dark. It was clear he wasn't trying to convince Gideon.

He was trying to convince himself.