Chapter 5

As I reach for the spoon, a sudden, sharp scent of roses fills the air, more potent than before. The innkeeper glances around nervously.

It hits like a wave — cloying, sweet, so thick it coats the back of the throat. Not the gentle perfume of a garden in bloom, but something concentrated, almost *aggressive*. The kind of scent that doesn't fade because it's not coming from a flower you can see.

The innkeeper's hand freezes mid-wipe on a mug. Her eyes dart to the windows, the door, the corners of the room.

The two old men by the fire have stopped talking. One of them sniffs the air, frowning. "Rose season's not for another month," he mutters.

The scribe looks up from his parchment, nose wrinkling.

The innkeeper sets the mug down slowly, deliberately. She meets your eyes across the room. Her expression says: *They're still here.*

The scent lingers for three long heartbeats — then vanishes, as if a door slammed shut in another world. The air returns to normal: woodsmoke, old ale, morning dust.

Silence.

Then the front door of the inn swings open, and a young man in the livery of the royal guard steps inside. He scans the room, spots you, and walks directly to your table.

He's young — barely out of his teens — and trying very hard to look official. He clears his throat.

"I'm looking for a traveler. Foreign clothes, no escort." His eyes settle on you. "That would be you, I'm told. Master Aldric requests your presence at the castle. He says it's urgent.”

The guard frowns slightly at your hesitation. "Master Aldric was quite insistent. He mentioned something about the princess. Said it was imperative you hear about it immediately.”

The innkeeper's eyes flick to you from behind the bar. A single, subtle shake of her head — *don't trust this easily* — before she busies herself with rearranging cups.

The guard waits, his stance shifting from official to slightly uncertain. He's young enough that the authority hasn't settled into his bones yet; he's reading from a script he was given, not one he owns.

"She's not hurt," he adds, as if sensing the question. "He didn't say more than that. Just that you'd want to know, and that time was a factor.”

I glance at the innkeeper, catching her subtle warning, before turning back to the guard. "Master Aldric wants to see me? Very well. Lead the way.”

The guard nods, relieved, and turns toward the door. He holds it open, waiting.

The innkeeper catches your eye one last time as you pass the bar. She doesn't speak, but her mouth forms a single silent word:

*Careful.*

Then you're outside, the morning sun warming your face, the guard falling into step beside you. The road to the castle winds through Thornwell's main street, past a baker's shop, a cooper, a small shrine with wilted flowers at its base. Villagers glance at you — the stranger in wrong clothes walking with a guard — and look away quickly, pretending they haven't noticed.

The guard clears his throat after a few moments of silence.

"I'm Tomas, by the way. Third footman, usually on gate duty. Master Aldric pulled me off rotation to find you." A pause. "He seemed... agitated. Which is unusual for him. He's normally the calm sort.”

I walk beside Tomas, my hand going to the pouch of coins in my pocket, assessing the weight. "Agitated enough to send for a stranger like me? What does he think I can do?”

Tomas glances at you sidelong, then back at the road ahead. He's quiet for a moment, as if measuring how much to say.

"He didn't explain that part. Just said to find you, bring you to his study in the east tower, and make sure no one else intercepted you on the way." He pauses. "He specifically said 'no one else.' Which is odd, because usually the only person who cares about visitors is the Captain of the Guard, and the Captain's been in a closed-door meeting with the King since dawn."

He lets that sit.

They pass through the village gate and onto the wide, crushed-stone road that leads to the castle proper. The golden spires rise ahead, closer now, their surfaces catching the morning light in ways that seem almost liquid. Rose bushes line both sides of the road, thousands of blooms in every shade of pink and cream, immaculately maintained.

The castle gates are open. Guards flank them, watching your approach with neutral, professional faces.

I pause, placing my hand on the doorframe, and take a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for whatever Aldric might have to say. The weight of the pouch in my pocket is a slight reassurance.

The door swings open onto a narrow spiral staircase, worn stone steps winding upward into dim light. A single enchanted lamp flickers at the first landing, casting a warm glow that doesn't quite reach the upper turns. The air smells of old parchment, dried herbs, and something metallic — ink, perhaps, or older things.

You climb.

The stairs creak underfoot. The walls are close, brushing your shoulders in places. At the second landing, a small window offers a sliver of the courtyard below — the rose fountain, a servant crossing with a basket, the guard who recognized you still visible at the main gate.

At the third landing, a door stands slightly ajar. Warm light spills from the crack, carrying the scent of tea and the low murmur of someone speaking to themselves.

A voice — elderly, dry, faintly irritable — drifts out.

"Don't hover in the doorway like a messenger with bad news. I can hear you breathing. Come in, come in, and close the door behind you. The draft is playing havoc with my papers.”

The elderly voice grumbles again, "Don't linger. My tea is growing cold and my patience is even colder. Step into the light so I can see what sort of straggly mongrel the guard has dragged in.”

The study is a chaos of knowledge. Bookshelves line every wall, crammed with volumes stacked horizontally atop vertical rows, loose parchment spilling from between them like dead leaves. A massive oak desk dominates the center, buried under star charts, alchemical diagrams, and a half-eaten plate of bread. A single enchanted orb hangs from the ceiling, casting a steady, warm light.

Behind the desk, hunched like a crow guarding a hoard, sits Master Aldric.

He's older than you expected — perhaps seventy, perhaps older, with a sharp, narrow face, silver hair pulled back in a messy knot, and pale grey eyes that miss nothing. His robes are deep blue, stained with ink at the cuffs. He holds a cup of tea in one hand and a pair of spectacles in the other, which he perches on his nose to study you with undisguised scrutiny.

"Well." He sets down the tea. "You're not what I expected."

He gestures vaguely with a gnarled hand.

"Closer. Let me look at you. The princess has been quite beside herself since dawn, and I'd like to see what all the fuss is about.”

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