Eliott stared at the painting. In fact, it was all he did for the past five minutes or so. He glanced at the painter who stood beside the easel it perched on. The painter, a wiry man dressed in a plain robe with a scarf wrapped around his neck, ducked his head under Eliott's attention.

"Is it to Your Grace's liking?" the painter dared to probe. Under normal circumstances, he would be punished for speaking out of turn but Eliott's mind was far from protocol and formality. Especially when the painter has outdone himself, knocking Eliott's expectations out the window of this manor.

Right. It was easy to forget they weren't in Rosewall this time of the year. Every once in a while, the royal family, along with the higher Dukes from the adjacent duchies, retreated to the summer villa in Porte Valinten. It was in this dingy, old castle where they would be spending the celebration of the Summer Harvest Festival which the Porte's Duchy was in charge of facilitating. For once in Eliott's year, he got to truly relax.

Eliott glanced at the real window to the studio. Outside, the sculpted landscape burst with blobs of yellow and white. After all, summer marguerites and snow lilies were Porte Valinten's main line of trade. The Duke's paternal grandmother loved the flowers so much she had plastered the towns with them until they inflated with petals.

That reflected in the painting now standing in front of Eliott. The background was peppered with strokes of white and yellow, both blurred and defined. They went around the main subject situated in the middle of the scene. It was a lark. On its feet were about a dozen trinkets, scattered in a hazy array as if the bird couldn't decide what to take on its next journey. It was a mistlark, one of the types of larks that has some of the sweetest songs Eliott has ever heard.

He bobbed his head at the painter, having let the question thrown between them linger for too long. It created an illusion that he had really thought of what to say. "It's great," he said. "I thank you for your hard work. Expect the Crown to compensate you richly."

The painter bowed until his torso was parallel to the ground. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said. "The honor to have done this is enough."

Of course, it was merely formalities. The man, after all, had to eat. And the paint as well as the various brushes, canvases, and travel expenses must have cost a ton. It wasn't a cheap venture. That's why only the best flourished with them getting clients from the wealthy and royal classes.

Eliott jerked his chin at the painting. "Take good care in bringing it to Rosewall," he said. "I expect it to be installed in the Princesse Chambers as soon as possible. It's a gift, you see."

The painter ducked his head once more. "Dare I ask," he said as soon as he straightened. "Who's the lucky lady?"

The door to the studio flew open and spat out Sir Geoffer. Eliott beamed. "Ah, speak of the ghouls," he said. "Do you bring news?"

The affairs manager's face was tight. Drawn. Sweat beaded and dripped down the side of his face when he reached the spot where Eliott and the painter stood. "We need your presence, Your Grace," he said. "There's been a commotion in town."

Eliott knitted his eyebrows. "Why can't the Porte's military take care of it?"

Sir Geoff's throat bobbed visibly as he swallowed. "It concerns the Princess Consort," his tone lowered at the mention of Edge's pending title.

The last syllable hadn't even left the manager's lips when Eliott stormed out of the room, his strides long and sure. Geoffer had to jog at his wake to keep up.

Eliott's mind swirled with all the scenarios which could happen. He was against Edge wandering around town alone, having her wings in full display. Porte Valinten wasn't one of those towns which looked at fae with a doting gaze. They had the highest tally of fae slave deaths in the past five years.

But Edge insisted she go alone. "I'll be meeting Ivory for an afternoon. We'll just catch up. I'll be back before you know it," she had assured him before spreading her wings and darting out of the window this morning, too fast for Eliott to even try to stop her. So, to be sure, he sent Sir Geoffer after her. The affairs manager was probably the only one he could trust in a palace full of people who wanted nothing to do with her.

And now...Geoffer had thought it best to leave Edge for a minute to fetch Eliott. Was she hurt?

"Where is she?" Eliott almost didn't recognize his own voice. He had never heard himself sound so...angry. Usually, he could keep his head even under extreme pressure. What did that say about him now? "Please tell me she's okay."

Geoffer didn't reply but they reached the villa's front door. In a few seconds from the patio, Eliott threw open the stable doors and found his horse already saddled. He had to give Geoffer credit for that. Soon, the wind ripped Eliott's hair off his forehead. He drove his horse into a full run, the beast hungering for it anyway. The sound of hooves slapping the cobblestones blared in his ears, joining the chorus of pounding heartbeats. His gut twinged, driving sweat to coat his palms. He adjusted his hold on the reins and held tight.

He steered his horse to the side, giving the clear signal for Geoffer to start leading the way. Together, they tore through unfamiliar alleys and passed unfamiliar people. Strangers, at best. Whispers flitted inside Eliott's ears before going out the other in a speed he hasn't experienced before.

There was only one thing that mattered now. Edge. He had to know if she was okay.

After a few turns, a crowd forming a semi-circle around something crept into view. One glance at the manager told Eliott enough. Edge was somewhere in the middle of that commotion. He urged his horse to go faster. The crowd scrambled out of the way as soon as they heard the thundering hooves of the beast. One woman yanked the arm of her son just as Eliott swung his leg off the horse's flank. The horse hadn't even come to a full stop when Eliott jumped off its back, landing on his soles on flat ground.

They were in some sort of town square. A rotund led to at least four paths, all bursting with activity. Still, most of the people present in the vicinity stared, heads craned down towards their object on the floor. Eliott pushed shoulders out of the way while most learned of his presence and stepped back on their own. He came to the center of the crowd.

Blood.

Edge sat in the heart of it.

His throat constricted. Before he knew it, he lurched forward. His boots splattered against the puddle forming beneath them. "Edge, I'm here," he was saying but his ears were barely registering it. Only one word bounced around his head. Blood. Blood. Blood.

"I'm alright," Edge insisted, despite the gurgle in her voice. Was she...crying? He forced himself to look past the slick, dark liquid curling off her arms, her skirts, and her face. Where was she hurt? What was she saying?

"Eliott," her voice bordering on pleading made him pause and look at her. Really look at her. "I'm fine. Ivory—"

He followed the arc her head made as she looked down. Cradled in her arms was a fae woman. Lifeless eyes stared into the sky, never once seeing how blue it was today. Dark hair spilled in straight waves, the ends floating around the pool of blood painting the ground. A pair of glass spectacles sat lopsided on the bridge of her nose. She was dressed like the locals—a combination of tunic, trousers, and woolen boots.

Then, his eyes landed on the unmistakable arrow tip protruding from the woman's chest. Pierced from the back, shot through the heart. It had enough force to emerge to the other side, stopped only by the arrow's colorful fletching. If not for the bloodied tufts, it would have punched a hole through her.

Her name had been Ivory Lightborn. She had been the friend Edge had been talking about, the one whom she found recently after years of being separated.

And just like that, she was gone. A victim of violence. Another tick in the tallies. Just information.

"Who..." Eliott's own voice quivered when he dared speak aloud. He turned to the crowd who all visibly shirked away from him. Why had they done that? "Who did this?"

Nobody answered. After all, not everyone should be talking to a prince. "Who did this?!" he roared. His voice echoed in huge bursts down the length of the alley.

"Let go of me, you bastards," a strangled voice urged from the back of the displaced audience. They parted once more as hands clad in metal gloves shoved them out of the way. A gruff soldier dropped to his knees just a few steps from where Eliott and Edge were. "That fae had it coming."

Sir Geoffer stepped into Eliott's periphery and positioned himself next to the blubbering soldier. Eliott rose from the ground, leaving Edge from where she accompanied her friend in the last moments. "Full report," Eliott wasn't looking at the affairs manager but both of them knew it was only him who could speak.

"This runt spotted the Princess Consort with her friend," Geoffer said. "He thought the Princess Consort was in danger from the fae. So he..."

Eliott flicked his gaze at the manager ever so quickly. "Continue," he ordered.

Geoffer pursed his lips, seemingly forcing himself to never look behind him, at all the blood and carnage. Even though he had been with Eliott throughout the years of looking into fae violence cases. At least the man still had a shred of respect.

"Shot her through the heart," Geoffer finished. "She was dead before she hit the ground. It was a clean hit."

Eliott knelt in front of the soldier. The armored men Geoffer had come in with had their swords pressed against the soldier's neck. "As I have seen," Eliott said, his voice chilling into a sharp edge. "You sure did your best with that shot, didn't you?"

The soldier's lower lip quivered. He didn't know the Crown Prince was capable of being cold and serious. None of them did, even Eliott. "F-forgive me, Your Grace," the soldier said. "I merely did what I was told. The fae are dangerous. They shouldn't be around the Princess Consort. Fae are dan—"

A resounding slap rang in the air. Eliott's own hand was raised, the force of the swing still heavy in his muscles. Geoffer's eyes were wide, his body frozen in mid-lunge. "Speak ill of your future Queen's kind once more and it's going to be more than hell for you," Eliott said. Then, before the adrenaline faded from his system, he straightened and turned to the other soldiers holding the criminal. "Lock him up. If it had to be Rosewall, then so be it. He will stay there all his life. This is for taking an innocent life. I condemn him according to the Lezeris Constitution."

Eliott waved his hand in the air. "Take him away."

The criminal was hauled backwards, sputtering and begging. Eliott leveled his gaze to the gathered people around him. They seemed to have swelled in number in the past five minutes. "Let this be a lesson to all of you," he said. "Violence towards the fae is not going to save you. It would only condemn you to a fate worse than death. If not by my hand, then by the fangs of the law. Consider this your only warning."

Before any of them could react, he reached down and grasped Edge's wrist, hauling her gently away from her friend. He turned to Geoffer as he began leading Edge back to his horse. "Give her a proper burial," he ordered. He had been throwing those around a lot today. "Make sure no one gets in your way."

He didn't wait for the man's reply and just helped Edge into the horse. "Go ahead," he told her. She wasn't looking into his eyes but nodded. Her fingers played with the hem of her bloody skirt. "Get the maids to change your clothes. I'll meet you in the evening, okay? We can talk then."