Many a time, between the shaded bars of my cell, Sarielle would whisper of the seasons. Spring, with its gentle caress and bright colours that sprout in sheets across the plains. Summer in all its glorious sunshine, pulsing with heat. The fade that came with autumn, the fiery colours the trees wore like plumage before dulling into ashen grey.

She told me winter was the beast that arose in the wake of all that beauty. The winding chill of a serpent, constricting tighter as the frosts dug in, icy fangs armed with a bitter bite.

I'm not sure I believed her until now.

My fingers curl into the coarse black fur of the horse as I hunker down, chest pressed into the front of the saddle. Over the twitching tips of the horse's velvety ears, the horizon strikes a fiery line, the sun just kissing the faraway hilltops. As its strength feeds those flames in the sky, it steals that same warmth from the air. The breeze revels in it, darting under the folds of my tunic to nip at my skin.

I used to feel that same joy at the touch of cold air. The instinct is still there: the urge to tilt my head back, to lift as far as I can with my feet tangled in stirrups and let the wind wash any trace of heat from my skin. I used to like being carved of ice. It was natural, easy.

The binds on my wrists scuff the horse's neck. My grip tightens. No longer.

Another gust tears through me, chilling claws scraping deep enough to sink into bone, and an uncontainable shiver wracks my body. Gritting my teeth, I stretch my gaze further. Shadowed by the horizon is the small smudge of a town, rooftops silhouetted in harsh lines against the sky's auburn glow. It isn't far now.

"Are you cold?"

Jolting upright, I twist my head sideways. Walking at the horse's side is Fiesi, the breeze tugging on his grey cloak so that it flutters behind him. Humour doesn't quite succeed in burying the concern that steels his tone.

"I'm fine." The lie stings my tongue with shame. It's so obvious.

He laughs, plodding step keeping perfect time with the horse. "You can soak yourself through with snow unbothered, but a little evening wind is too much?" It trails into a half-smile. "You can borrow my cloak, if you want."

My arms enclose my chest in a futile effort to shield it from the cold. "Really, I'm fine." I'm not helped by the second shiver that shakes the final word.

"You're not." He spins a finger around the cloak's clasp. "Just accept it. This colour doesn't suit me, anyway."

I bunch up a fistful of my tunic. A single layer, as I've always worn, and yet only these past few days has it begun to trouble me. This is the worst I've felt -- bad enough that I can't hide it anymore. Enduring the cold was the one talent I thought I still held. Even that is gradually being leached away, trickling into the bottomless pit. Last night's sighting of death seems to have sapped all energy I had left.

My eyes flit to the town again. It isn't far, but the evening will only worsen. I'll simply have to pray that no-one notices.

Reluctantly, I nod. He grins, whipping off the cloak with a rapid gesture and tossing it over the horse's flank. I fumble to catch it, my numb fingers struggling to fasten it around my neck, but once it is I hug it around myself with fresh relief. "Thanks."

"No problem." He stands taller, chin tilted up, as if the small act makes him some sort of saint. I hide my smile under the cloak's thick pads.

It soon falls as I survey the rest of the soldiers. Even though the wound in my side is nothing more than a jagged scar, Dalton still commands that I ride. I hate that I have no grounds on which to protest; there's no chance I'd be able to walk for as long as they do. And now it seems I can't even master sitting in a saddle without needing extra support. Fiesi's cloak weighs on my shoulders.

At least the guilt doesn't have to last much longer. The sun hasn't yet sunk below the hills by the time we arrive at the outskirts of the town. I refuse Dalton's offer to help me down and carefully slide off the horse's back, shaking off the jarring impact and snatching up its reins. Its eyes are almost as dark as mine, round and wide as it observes me with caution but allows itself to be led into the streets. There was a time when merely being in the presence of a horse could spook it, my cursed flames invoking nothing but fear. To this horse, I'm just another set of baggage to carry.

If anything, it seems to dislike Fiesi more. I'm sure I catch him skirting away from us, shooting the creature a subtle glare. It shakes its head with a snort.

Sarielle drifts over to take his place at my side. The nervous energy bouncing her step immediately shoves all other thoughts aside. Her eyes dart to every building we pass, every open window and gleaming doorknob, tapping out a rapid rhythm against her hip. The notes thud softly against her sword's sheath.

When she says nothing, I latch ahold of my voice. "They're here, aren't they?"

She spares me a glance. The look in her eyes confirms it, their usual calm blue rippled by anxiety. "I don't know," she mutters, tugging at her own cloak. It's a simple tan colour, one of a traveller, wrapped tight around her to conceal the Oscensi white beneath. Akurin may be neutral territory, but our enemies have already shown how little that will stop them.

She squares her shoulders, staring straight ahead. "I don't want to hope. But... I'm still afraid of what it means if they aren't."

My heart pangs with sympathy. It's a feeble gesture, and yet I reach out, knuckles brushing over her twitching fingers. They still. I shove down the desire to seize them, to enclose her palm with my own. The smile we share is enough.

"It just means we keep searching," I tell her, hoping I sound sure of the words. "We'll find them. We have to."

It isn't truly the royal family we speak of, as much as that may be the noble goal that brought us here. Sarielle longs to find her father. As the advisor to the Oscensi throne, he is placed in nearly as high regard as the royals themselves, and so it is highly likely that he escaped alongside them. But nothing is certain. My fingers curl inwards despite their greater pull to grasp her hand. I hate seeing her so anxious and fearful. It's as if the world teeters on her shoulders, rocking back and forth, moments away from toppling down and smashing on the cobbles at our feet.

But she won't let it. She's strong enough to take that weight. Still, I can't help my endless yearning to drive a blade into anything that threatens to waver that strength.

She nods slowly, the sparkle creeping back into her eyes. "You're right. Thanks, Nathan."

I duck my head to hide the flush of warmth that climbs the back of my neck. This is nothing at all. She's comforted me a million times. Besides, back when a mask still hid the colour of my eyes, I promised her I'd help her find her father. I certainly don't plan on breaking that promise.

The same tension that thrums through her gradually latches its thread over me, stretching my muscles taut. By the time we finally snake around a narrow corner and trudge to a stop before the tavern, I'm sure I'll snap. At least the horse's reins give me something to do with my hands.

A server pokes out around the doorframe ahead, curiosity hopping his gaze between every one of us. We must look quite the group, weary and armed with dirtied weapons and yet most of us no more than children in the eyes of those that receive us. The same reaction has continued unwaveringly from town to town. It's almost amusing.

Dalton marches out in front of us to greet the man. They exchange a few quiet words before he beckons us forward. Spying the stable to the tavern's side, I start towards it, but Sarielle's brush against my sleeve freezes me in place. She sweeps back a stray lock of her golden hair, eyes flitting downward almost shyly. "Would you come in with me? Just for, well..." She laughs lightly. "Moral support."

Perhaps her musical rhythm has moved inwards, dancing over my heartstrings in a gentle tune. Part of me is tempted to sing along. "Of course," I say, a little too much joy carrying the words given her request's context. I hurriedly twist around.

Fiesi stands only a couple paces behind, staring deliberately up at the sky, lips pressed together as if to conceal a laugh. He evades catching my eye, although he raises a hand to smother a muffled snort. Heat rushes to my cheeks. Scowling, I thrust the reins in his direction, taking pleasure in how quickly his expression falls as he takes them gingerly.

The horse doesn't respond to his tug, something close to haughty in the way it remains stiffly stationary. He growls something under his breath.

"Sarie," Dalton calls from under the door's sheltered arch. Sarielle gives me another delicate nudge, and I oblige, leaving Fiesi to his struggle as the rest of the regiment crowd in behind us. A quick glance confirms that only Averil is staying behind, leading the second horse with far more grace.

Sarielle gives a decisive nod. "Let's do this." Her hand sneaks to my side, closing around mine. I fight to contain my startled delight.

There isn't time for it regardless. The server scurries out of the way, opening the door fully, and Dalton leads us into the tavern.

The blast of heat hits me immediately. A blazing fire roars in a grate to the right, twisting flames spitting sparks that narrowly miss the numerous tables clustered around it. A painful pang cuts through my chest. I wrench my gaze from it, returning Sarielle's tight grip on my hand. At least I'm not cold anymore.

The opposite wall is taken up by the oval curve of a bar, littered with people perched on tall bar stools, all sipping one drink or another. They clog the air with their tangle of chatter. Beneath them, a mosaic of wooden tiles spill into a floor that glints a warm chestnut shade in the additional firelight of the hanging lanterns. The lighting is a little too harsh, the talk a little too noisy, not to mention the bitter, uncomfortable scent that makes me reluctant to draw in a full breath. The sense of walls closing in cumulates in a throb that digs into my temples. I shrink into Sarielle. I've still not quite adapted to these sorts of public places.

It's then I realise that her hand has slackened, her step stumbling to a halt. "Nathan," she whispers with enough urgency to snap my gaze into following hers.

All I see are the tavern's tables, no more than three or four occupied. I can't tell which group she has fixated on. "What?"

"It's them." She's trembling, just barely, her voice breathless. "They're alive."

"Stay calm," Dalton says lowly. "Don't draw attention." Turning to the others, he adds, louder, "The rest of you, find somewhere to sit. Sarie and I would like to greet a few friends we've spotted."

Collective excitement rolls through the regiment. They do their best to hide it, nodding and heading for the pair of tables closest to the door, although the glances they cast in the direction of the far corner are a poor attempt at subtlety. Carlin even pauses long enough to stand on her tiptoes, peering around Dalton's shoulder, before turning sharply to shield her widening grin.

I take a step with the intention of following her, but Sarielle's renewed grip prevents the movement. Returning her squeeze, I match her pace as we resume crossing the room. I didn't particularly want to leave her side anyway.

Dalton edges between two tables. By now, it's clear that he weaves a path towards the very back corner. The man seated at the head of the table there draws my initial attention -- fine brown hair dark enough to have been dipped in liquid mahogany striking against his soft, pale skin. Beside him is a lithe woman wrapped in a white shawl, a boy younger than me leaning into the fur. His features mirror those of the man. His son.

"They say the brush that paints Oscensi's rulers is formed of a falcon's feather," Sarielle told me only days ago, face turned from me as she held her palms to our fading campfire. "A white falcon, our symbol. That's why their skin is so pale." She laughed as she threw a glance at me. "Perhaps the same brush coloured your skin."

The steady tap of realisation stutters my heartbeat. I knew it would be them. Of course I knew. Yet still the shock is electric, leaving me stunned.

That man is Oscensi's king. Not only the king we came all this way to find, the king Rovena tasked me with keeping safe before I had anyone to rely on but myself. This is also the king the guards to my cell spoke of many a time.

The king who imprisoned me there in the first place.

Somehow, I yank the steady panic winding through me into the spear of an action, hand whipping up to grab the hood of Fiesi's cloak and thrust it low over my ears. It shudders in my grip. Clenching my jaw, I attempt to contain the sudden shakes. I don't want to taint this moment for Sarielle.

Will he recognise me? She did the instant Fiesi tore the mask from my eyes. Yet he didn't visit, not once. I can't even find any recollection of his face hidden amongst my memories.

It'll be okay. I take in a shallow breath, the tavern's taste stinging my tongue.

There's no time to back out now regardless. Dalton has reached the table. The king lifts his head, a blank sort of frown hiding whatever real emotion he might be feeling. He doesn't look our way. His son does. The boy's face lights up, his mouth rounding in surprise as he stares at Sarielle, before he nudges the woman -- his mother, the queen, she must be -- with frantic vigour. She quiets him with a firm pat, whispering something I can't hear.

Sarielle has inflated with a similar excitement, although better hidden and not reflected back at the boy. She's watching the man who sits with his back to us, more solidly built than the others at his table, with hair like blond ribbons of sunshine.

I must be crushing her hand with nerves, tight in every muscle of my body. She hardly seems to notice.

Dalton is the only one maintaining a complete posture of calm. In a near-casual gesture, he tugs back the edge of his cloak, revealing the gold glint that etches out the crest sewn into his tunic: a graceful bird in flight. The king's brow arches silently, the briefest ripple of shock that is quickly smoothed out. For the first time, his gaze slides over enough to notice us.

Suddenly very conscious of the distinctive nature of my black eyes, I retract into my hood, hoping its shadow conceals their shade. If only Fiesi hadn't destroyed that mask.

The smallest of smiles twitches onto the king's face. Lips moving in a murmur too quiet to hear, he stands, nodding to Dalton. The blond man twists around as he too pushes to his feet, eyes locking with Sarielle's. Her father. He must be. No other could wear such relief, such unmissable joy, no matter how much he tries to shove down their obvious nature. The resemblance he bears to her only presses certainty into that fact.

If possible, my heart races even faster. Her father, the king's advisor. Complete with rose-tan skin, hair etched in gold, watery green eyes -- the only feature he and Sarielle don't share. The beginnings of a beard clusters in thick stubble at his chin.

I know that face. Not by word like the king's, but from my own memory, old and buried as it might be. I've seen him before. There's no doubting it. And he's seen me.

More than ever, I wish the darkness huddled in the room's corners would swoop in and swallow me whole.

I don't even have Sarielle's hand to cling to anymore. She's released it, freed fingers returning to their eager twitch as she steps forward. Dalton stills her with a look. He says something else to the king, who nods and starts off in the direction of the staircase that spirals up from the tavern's centre. Sarielle's father follows immediately, with her trailing close behind.

Excitement thrums in her every step. I can't move.

Fortunately, Dalton notices before he can join them. I swallow hard, fists curling loosely. "I should stay with the others."

Dalton shakes his head. "You need to come." He throws a glance after the disappearing king and rocks back on his heels. He's more on edge than he's letting on. "Please don't worry, Nathan. No-one here will hurt you."

I can't let him down. With a firm nod, I pull my shoulders back as best as I can, although my hand drifts up to secure my hood. "Okay." I squeeze my eyes shut, inhale, open them again. I'm not a prisoner anymore. Nor am I the danger I was. I've no reason to fear.

All the same, I pray to any star capable of listening that my identity can pass unnoticed.

"Okay," I repeat, stronger. It's time to face a king.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Fun fact: Back in AToD's early days, I did briefly plan for Fiesi to give Nathan his cloak in his first PoV chapter. You know, back when he was still plotting murder and having a crisis over a bby boy. It didn't fit in the end, but I'm glad it's made a resurgence. It's a cute trope. And extra funny this way because it's usually done in a romantic context lol.

Anyway. We finally found the royalty!! That was technically Nathan's mission before he got sidetracked by pretty girl, so go him for completing it. Or, well, being moral support. We all need a local bby to help with that.

See you next Saturday :D

- Pup