The grand hall of the palace felt colder than ever, Queen Amalia pacing its polished floors with restless, clipped strides. Her face, usually so composed and dignified, showed lines of worry and exhaustion that hadn't been there before. 

It had been over a week since Arto disappeared without a trace, and the once-vibrant palace now held an atmosphere of hushed anxiety. Search parties had been dispatched across the kingdom, but each day brought back the same report: nothing. No sightings, no leads—just an endless, gnawing silence.

Sir Balthus watched her, his own brow creased as he leaned against a marble column. Despite their shared worry, tension between them was high, the worry for Arto lacing every word with a volatile edge.

"Where could he be?" Amalia's voice, though barely above a whisper, was thick with worry and dread. "No one just disappears, not my son. Not like this."

Sir Balthus took a measured breath before responding, his tone pointed. "Perhaps, Your Majesty, this is the outcome of choices made," he said, his eyes meeting hers unwaveringly. "Choices that cost us allies and created rifts within our people. Kael Blackwood was his best friend, yet you had his family condemned. Arto's loyalty to him never wavered, but the rift—"

"Watch your tongue, Sir Balthus!" Amalia snapped, her gaze sharp as a blade. The reminder of the Blackwood family's fate hit her like a slap, stirring both guilt and anger. "I did what I had to. For the security of the throne, for the security of this kingdom."

Balthus held up his hands in a placating gesture, though his expression remained steady, his voice calm but resolute. "Your Majesty, I mean no disrespect. But we cannot deny the impact. Arto has always been...independent. And if I may speak freely, perhaps his absence has something to do with old loyalties you've been so quick to dismiss."

Amalia's lips tightened, her fingers curling around the edge of her gown in agitation. "Are you implying my son would betray me for the memory of that family?"

"Not betrayal, Your Majesty," Balthus replied, smoothly sidestepping her ire. "But friendship—these bonds aren't so easily erased. The Blackwood family's loyalty was one of the oldest ties to the crown, and we severed it without much thought to the consequences. That choice may be haunting us now." He tilted his head, offering her a sympathetic look that almost softened the sting of his words. 

For a tense moment, the Queen looked as though she might explode, her gaze boring into him, fists clenched. But the reality of Balthus's words was undeniable, and her anger melted into something far closer to pain.

"Do you truly believe this is my fault?" she asked, her voice a rare whisper of vulnerability.

Sir Balthus straightened, softening his tone. "What I believe, Your Majesty, is that your son is stronger than you know. And he may very well come home, given time."

Queen Amalia's gaze drifted from Sir Balthus's steady face to the darkened corridor beyond, where shadows gathered thick and silent like her own unspoken fears. She took a deep breath, her hand brushing instinctively over her collarbone as if she could soothe the ache building there.

"I want him home, Balthus," she said, her voice low and threaded with a rare softness. "More than anything. Especially now."

She turned, meeting his eyes again, her gaze carrying a new weight. "The king's health... you've seen him. Zyran grows weaker each day. His mind slips in and out of clarity, and his strength fades." Her voice faltered, a flash of vulnerability breaking through her regal façade. "I can't... I can't do this without Arto. He needs to see him, to know his son is safe, before..." She trailed off, her unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

Sir Balthus's expression softened further, He saw a mother, burdened by fear, by the cruelty of time, and by choices that had etched themselves into the lives around her.

"Then, Your Majesty," he began gently, "Perhaps it's time to loosen the reins, so to speak. Arto's journey may have led him to dark and difficult places, but he is the king's son. And, more importantly, he is your son. Let him find his way back to you on his own terms, and trust that he knows where he's needed."

She sighed, her shoulders sagging just slightly. "It's not just about letting go, Balthus. It's the not knowing. Every day without word, without some proof of his safety—it's like losing him, bit by bit."

Balthus nodded, understanding. "And yet, even with the king so unwell, there is still time. Zyran's spirit remains strong, even as his body fails him. He fights still, and so should we."

Queen Amalia hesitated, the shadow of doubt passing over her face. "Yes, you're right." She glanced back toward the corridor leading to Zyran's chambers. "The kingdom needs strength now, and that means protecting Zyran as best we can. I don't want Arto coming back to the crown in pieces."

Sir Balthus gave a small nod of agreement. "Of course, Your Majesty. We'll send only those we trust, those who know Arto well enough to reach him without revealing our vulnerabilities."

Amalia's gaze lingered, distant, the weight of responsibility etched into every line of her face. "Find him, Balthus," she whispered finally, her voice unsteady but resolute. "Bring my son home."

As Arto and Kael huddled in the shadow of a narrow alley, their breathing ragged from the frantic escape, Kael steadied himself, gripping Arto's shoulder to brace them both. "We should be clear for now," he muttered, glancing over his shoulder to be sure no one had followed them.

Arto nodded, his hand still pressed over his racing heart. The adrenaline pulsed through him, but when he looked up, his gaze caught on a worn parchment posted against a nearby wall, its ink barely visible under the flickering torchlight. He moved closer, almost hypnotized by the image.

It was his face staring back at him.

The words beneath were sharp, desperate, and the reward — a sum that would tempt even the noblest hearts.

He felt Kael step beside him, his friend's eyes narrowing as he took in the same sight. "They're searching for you," Kael murmured, the disbelief evident in his tone. "The Queen... she must be worried sick."

Arto clenched his fists, the initial shock giving way to a confusing rush of emotions. "She put out a poster," he said bitterly, a hint of resentment creeping into his voice. "As if I'm some criminal who needs to be tracked down."

Kael let out a frustrated, bitter laugh, crossing his arms as he studied the poster. "So now you're some royal fugitive, right? A prince they need to haul back like lost property. Unbelievable." His voice dripped with sarcasm as he glared at the faded parchment. "Guess they just can't stand it when you're out of their reach."

Arto snorted, equally bitter. "Or maybe they're realizing what it's like to lose control over something they've taken for granted." His lips twisted into a smirk, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Royal duty, prince, whatever they want to call it. They wouldn't be so quick to put a price on my head if they'd just listened."

Arto glanced at Kael, his expression shifting from bitter anger to a more vulnerable regret. "Kael... I'm sorry," he said, voice rough with sincerity. "About your family. I had no idea. I swear, if I'd known... things would've been different. I would've—"

Kael raised a hand, stopping him. For a moment, his jaw clenched, and he looked away, wrestling with his own memories and the pain he d carried. But as he looked back at Arto, something softened in his gaze, and a flicker of realization settled over him. "You really didn't know, did you?" Kael murmured, studying his friend's face.

Arto shook his head, the weight of the confession evident. "I didn't," he whispered. "I didn't know the Queen would..." He trailed off, the weight of the unspoken words hanging heavily between them.

Kael sighed, the tension in his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "All this time, I thought you were keeping it quiet, defending her choice, or worse—agreeing with it." He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.

"I'm sorry," Arto repeated, his voice thick with guilt. "You deserved better, Kael. Your family... they deserved better."

Kael nodded, the pain still present but somehow less sharp. "They did. And maybe one day, the Queen will have to face that truth." He met Arto's gaze with a determined look. "Whatever's happened between us, I'm not letting Ondina fall victim to the crown. Not like my family did."

Arto held his gaze, feeling an intense wave of gratitude and loyalty wash over him. "Then we don't stop until she's free," he said, and Kael nodded, a fierce glint in his eyes.

"Until she's free," Kael agreed.

Arto and Kael slipped quietly into a crowded, dimly lit tavern, finding a secluded spot by the hearth where they could keep a low profile. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of stale ale, and the hum of conversation filled the room. As they settled in, they caught snippets of a conversation from a nearby table where two guards, clearly off-duty and several drinks in, were speaking in loud, unfiltered voices.

"Can you believe it?" one guard slurred, his mug of ale sloshing as he gestured. "Kiernan's got himself a real live siren. Last of her kind, they say." He chuckled, clearly pleased at the idea. 

Kael's hand clenched, his jaw tightening, and Arto felt a flicker of fury burning in his chest. The guard's careless words hit home hard—they knew immediately who the guards were talking about. Ondina.

"She'll be just a pretty display piece," the other guard sneered, taking a swig from his tankard. "Sirens were dangerous creatures, but this one's as good as caged. Only fitting end for a monster like her."

Arto gritted his teeth, fighting back the surge of anger threatening to boil over. He exchanged a look with Kael, whose eyes held the same mixture of worry and fury. 

But as Arto leaned closer to hear more, the first guard's gaze shifted, narrowing on them with suspicion. He nudged his companion, nodding in their direction. "Oi," he muttered, "those two've been listening in a bit too closely, don't you think?"

The second guard turned, squinting at them with a growing scowl. "You there," he called out, setting his mug down with a heavy thud. "What's got you two so interested, eh? Didn't think Kiernan's ball was open to common folk like yourselves."

Kael offered a quick, disarming smile, raising his hands. "No offense, friends. Just overheard, is all. Sounds like quite the event."

The guards exchanged a sceptical glance. One of them rose, towering over them with a drunken sway. "You think you can just listen in on things you've got no business with?" His eyes narrowed further, now filled with the familiar, simmering disdain for outsiders. "Best you two get out of here before you find yourselves at the bottom of a lake."

Arto felt his pulse quicken, but he forced a casual smile, even as his hand itched toward his dagger. "We're just here for a drink," he replied smoothly. "No need for threats."

Before the guard could retort, a voice cut through the tense silence. "Leave them alone," came the sharp words, accompanied by the confident slap of a tankard against the table.

Arto and Kael turned to see a familiar face: the barmaid they'd met in another tavern. She stood tall, hands on her hips, her gaze fixed firmly on the guards. Her tone was light, almost playful, but there was a hard edge to her words. "These two are regulars here, and good tippers at that. You boys ought to be worrying more about keeping yourselves upright than harassing my paying customers."

The guard wobbled a bit, blinking at her as if struggling to place her. "Just minding our business," he grumbled, his face flushing red with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. But as the barmaid's glare intensified, he faltered.

"They're harmless," she continued, her voice dropping just enough to add a hint of danger to her words. "So if you're finished... I'd suggest you sit back down before I decide to throw you out myself."

The guards exchanged uneasy glances, clearly not wanting to risk crossing her. The one who had risen took a step back, muttering something under his breath before slumping back into his chair. "Fine, fine," he mumbled, waving them off as if dismissing an annoying insect. "Didn't want to waste time on lowlifes anyway."

Satisfied, the barmaid turned to Arto and Kael with a quick, conspiratorial smile. "Careful who you listen to in places like these," she murmured, picking up the tankard and wiping the table briskly to keep up appearances. "Seems like some information's worth more trouble than it's worth."

Arto grinned, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. "Thanks again," he murmured, scratching the back of his neck. "You really saved us there."

The barmaid arched an eyebrow, letting her gaze sweep over him with playful amusement. "Don't mention it, handsome," she said, a sly smile tugging at her lips. "I'd hate to see a face like yours in trouble."

Kael, barely containing his laughter, clapped Arto on the shoulder. "Look at you blushing. Always so easy to fluster."

Arto rolled his eyes, trying to shrug off the embarrassment, but the barmaid's gaze lingered on him with a flicker of recognition. Her eyes darted briefly to the missing poster still pasted outside the tavern door, and realization dawned over her face.

"You... you're the prince," she murmured, her voice soft with awe, though she quickly dropped her eyes to avoid making a scene. Kael's posture shifted defensively, stepping closer to Arto. "Don't think that knowing who he is changes anything," he warned, his tone steely.

She raised her hands in a gesture of surrender, her expression earnest. "I'm no threat to you," she promised. She lowered her hands, and a touch of admiration crept into her gaze. "But you need to be careful, Prince Arto. If people like those guards find out who you are... they won't be as easily convinced to let you go."

She stepped closer, her voice low and sincere. "I want to help you both. I've seen enough of what Lord Kiernan is capable of. If you're planning to take him down, you'll need someone who knows this town and its people. I can be that person."

Arto exchanged a glance with Kael, the weight of her words sinking in. "Why do you care so much? You barely know us," he asked, scepticism creeping back into his tone.

She leaned against the bar, her expression serious. "Because I know a thing or two about running away," she replied looking at Arto, her voice steady. "I had a sister once. We were part of a circus together, always on the move, always performing. But it wasn't all bright lights and applause. My family... they weren't kind. They had their own demons, and they took it out on us."

Arto exchanged a glance with Kael, the mood in the tavern shifting from casual to somber.

"One night, I was cruel to her—out of frustration, I guess. I didn't mean it, but I let my anger get the best of me," She continued, her gaze drifting to the wooden floorboards. "The next morning, she ran away. I tried to find her, but the tracks led me here, to this town. I never went back to the circus after that. I couldn't bear the thought of facing my family again, knowing I might've driven her away."

Kael frowned, the story resonating with the pain of his own past. "I'm sorry. That sounds terrible."

She nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I've been on my own ever since. I know what it's like to feel trapped, to long for freedom. That's why I'm here, helping those who need it. I may not have been kind to my sister, but I've learned from it. I want to make sure no one else feels the same pain I did."

Kael and Arto exchanged glances, a shared understanding passing between them as they listened to Camila. 

"I get it," Kael said softly, leaning forward. "We've all faced our demons, trust me."

Camila offered a small, grateful smile. "I just want to do my part, even if it's just in this little corner of the world."

Arto nodded, intrigued. "So, what's this ball about? Why are people so excited?"

"It's all anyone can talk about," she replied, her brow furrowing slightly. "Kiernan's throwing a grand event at his estate. It seems he's got something special planned. They say there'll be a performance."

"With a siren, right?" Arto echoed, curiosity piqued. "The last of her kind?"

Camila nodded. "That's the rumour." Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if sharing a dangerous secret. "Some of the customers even mentioned that there are whispers of rebellion in the air—people not happy about how the siren is being treated. It's creating quite a stir."

Her expression grew serious, her eyes narrowing as she continued. "The thing is, not everyone sees this as a celebration.  They see her as a threat, a reminder of the massacre that wiped out so many of her kin. It's easier for them to view her as a monster, something to be feared rather than a living being deserving of freedom."

Arto clenched his fists, anger bubbling beneath the surface. "It's sickening. He can't just treat her like an animal."

"Exactly," Camila agreed, her voice laced with frustration. "Some nobles want to use her, to demonstrate their power over her, to remind everyone who's in charge. But there are others, ordinary folks like us, who remember the pain the sirens endured and think it's wrong."

Kael's brows furrowed as he listened, understanding the weight of the situation. "So, there's a divide? Some people want her dead, while others want to help her?"

"Yes," Camila replied, nodding gravely. "The whispers of rebellion are growing louder, and tensions are rising. People are fed up with the old ways and the injustices that have been swept under the rug. They don't want to see another innocent life taken, and they're not afraid to stand up for what's right."

Arto felt a fire ignite within him, a fierce determination to protect Ondina. "She deserves a chance to live freely, just like anyone else."

Camila leaned closer, her voice low as she divulged everything she had overheard. "From what I've gathered, the ball is all about opulence and grandeur. It's strictly nobles only—silks, jewels, the works. You'll need to look the part if you want to blend in. But the guest list? It's a tight circle; even I wouldn't be able to get in without some serious connections."

Arto and Kael exchanged glances, "So, how do we sneak in?" Kael asked, his voice steady.

"There's a side entrance that leads to the kitchens," Camila explained, her eyes sparkling. "It's less guarded, especially during the peak of the festivities. Once inside, you'll need to navigate your way through the crowd. Just be careful; the nobles can be more observant than you think. And keep an eye out for Kiernan—he'll be the one on the stage."

"Great," Kael said, determination flooding his voice. "We'll keep an eye out."

As they prepared to leave, Arto hesitated. "Wait," he said, turning back to her. "What was your sister's name?"

Camila's expression shifted, a shadow crossing her features. "Caroline," she said softly, the name hanging in the air like a distant memory. There was a depth of emotion in her voice, a hint of sorrow that spoke of lost chances and unheeded lessons.

"Caroline," Arto echoed.

Kael, sensing the emotional gravity of the moment, turned to Camila with a warm smile. "Thank you. You've been a great help." He inclined his head in a respectful nod.

Camila returned the smile, a flicker of hope igniting in her eyes. "Just promise me you'll look out for the siren. She deserves to be free, just like all of us."

Arto nodded firmly. "We will. We won't let her down."

With that, Kael and Arto stepped out of the tavern, the cool night air washing over them as they made their way into the shadows.