The tavern had no name, but the locals called it the Cradle.

  Not the kind of raucous that shook rafters or summoned guards, but the sort of warmth that seeped into tired bones, the comfort of mugs clinking, fire crackling, and voices rising in laughter over the long ache of survival.

  Men and women gathered around worn wooden tables, their cloaks damp from the drizzle outside, their boots caked with the day's labor. Farmers, hunters, blacksmiths, and wives huddled together, sharing food and stories while tankards of frothy ale passed between calloused hands.

  In the far corner near the hearth, an old man sat slouched on a crooked bench, his coat slipping off one shoulder. His silver hair was wild, like the wind had tried to comb it and failed. Across from him sat a young boy, maybe ten or eleven, his eyes wide and too curious for his own good.

  The boy's legs dangled from the bench, not quite touching the floor. He gripped a cup of goat's milk in both hands, eyes flicking about the room, watching people with that intense, silent kind of focus only children had.

  The old man raised a shaky hand.

  "Oi! One beer, if ye please!" he shouted, voice gravelly and slurred with drink.

  The bartender, a sturdy man with a thick brown beard and a permanent frown etched into his brow, turned with a grunt. He wiped his hands on his apron and grabbed a mug from the shelf.

  "Y'know, old man, you'll outlive the rest of us just outta spite," he muttered as he filled the mug.

  The boy frowned. "Grandpa, you shouldn't be drinking that much beer, especially at your age. Didn't Ma tell you that?"

  "Bah!" the old man waved a hand lazily. "Relax, lad. This—this is just stress relief. Keeps the soul from cracking worse than the bones."

  The bartender dropped the mug on the table with a small splash. "Here's your beer, old man. Don't go dying in my tavern. Bad for business."

  The old man chuckled and raised the mug. "To the bad business of staying alive," he muttered before taking a deep swig.

  The boy wrinkled his nose at the strong smell.

  "You know," the old man said after a long sip, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, "back in my day, this village used to sing louder than the hills. Used to be festivals every moon, back when the fields were full and the rivers ran clean."

  The boy looked up. "Before the sickness?"

  "Aye," the old man nodded solemnly. "Before the Lymesis, the great plague. Before the world cracked open like a rotten nut."

  He took another drink, slower this time. "It happened quiet, at first. No birds. No bees. Wind stopped. Just... stillness. Then people started coughing. Pale as smoke. You couldn't stop it. We burned more than we buried."

  The boy stayed quiet, eyes locked on the fire in the hearth.

  "Not just people who died, boy. Kingdoms fell. Whole empires vanished in weeks. The highborn were the first to go. Too proud to run, too weak to change. Kings, queens, dukes, princes... dust. Even their castles rotted. You remember the Red Keep?"

  The boy nodded. "Where the ivy swallowed the stone."

  "Aye. That's the one. Nobody rules from there anymore. No one dares."

  "But our kingdom stayed," the boy said. "Didn't it?"

  The old man leaned forward, voice low. "Barely. We had the plague same as the rest. Lost our king. Lost our queen. Lost every son and daughter in the palace." He paused. "Except her."

  "The princess?"

  The old man nodded. "Aye. Just a girl then. Watched her whole bloodline turn to ash, and still she stood. No crown, no court, just a sword and a will. She held this kingdom together with grit and mercy. And maybe a little madness."

  "She still won't call herself queen," the boy whispered.

  "No," the old man said, squinting toward the tavern door. "And that no one knows why."

  The boy leaned closer. "Aren't there priests in our kingdom, Grandpa?"

  The old man nodded slowly. "Aye, we've got one or two. But the only one folks talk about now is Brother Nikandros."

  "I thought he helped people," the boy said. "Ma said he prayed over Old Marta's son. Said the plague broke right after."

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  The old man's brow furrowed. "Maybe he did. He speaks soft, walks humble. But there's a kind of silence around him, like even the walls are listening. He hasn't come down to the Cradle, though."

  "Why not?"

  "Too busy preaching in the hills, maybe. Or maybe he's just waiting."

  The boy looked uneasy. "Waiting for what?"

  The old man took a long pull from his mug. "That's the part I don't like guessing about."

  The wind picked up again, and the tavern door creaked.

  Someone entered.

  For a heartbeat, no one looked.

  Then she was just there by the bar.

  A woman with a sword at her hip and armor dulled by rain. No helmet. Blonde hair damp and swept back. Blue eyes clear and tired. A scar crossed her right brow, just short of the eye.

  She moved with calm purpose, boots echoing on the wooden floor, shoulders broad and presence solid as stone.

  "Beer," she said simply, her voice low and even.

  The bartender handed it over without a word.

  She stood beside the old man and the boy, sipping quietly.

  The old man leaned closer to his grandson, his voice now a whisper.

  "Remember what I told you last night? That one—she's no common swordhand. She's one of the princess's warriors."

  She took a sip of her beer, lips barely touching the rim.

  Then, almost too quiet for anyone to care, she spoke.

  "Peaceful."

  She waited. No one noticed.

  "But this won't go on," she said again, louder this time. "Not with so many fractureborn slipping into shadow."

  The boy's head turned. That curious kid. Still watching.

  She glanced his way. He didn't flinch.

  "Tell me," she said, still leaning, voice steady, "how many fractureborn have gone missing this month?"

  The old man shifted, setting down his mug. "Too many."

  "Wrong, you lost count."

  "It's not like we keep a list."

  "Exactly," she replied. "You notice when a sheep's gone from the field. But when someone like me vanishes? You just assume we were never here to begin with."

  The boy tilted his head.

  She looked down at him. He was small, brown-haired, too skinny for the season. But his eyes stayed on her. Clear, honest, not afraid.

  The boy swallowed. "Are you one of them? The ones they call... Fractureborn?"

  She didn't answer. Not at first. Someone coughed behind her. A dog thumped its tail under a table.

  She looked at the boy for a long moment.

  "Not tonight," she said.

  The boy blinked. "What?"

  She shook her head. "Ask again when it matters."

  The old man narrowed his eyes at her. "You look familiar. From the north?"

  She gave him a ghost of a smile. "Once."

  "Then why fight for us?"

  She looked toward the window, toward the rain.

  "Because someone has to."

  The old man leaned forward. "You don't owe us anything."

  "I know."

  "Then why stay?"

  Her voice dropped a note. Not quieter. Lower. Firmer.

  "Because people like me don't get to disappear without a trace. Not anymore. I've spent too long being forgotten. If I don't stand here, someone worse will."

  The boy's gaze lingered on her blade. "You were in the Red Keep, weren't you? They say you stood with the princess when the plague came."

  She didn't blink. "She still walks like she did at sixteen. Same braid, same silence."

  The boy opened his mouth, but whatever question he had fell away.

  She turned. Rain feathered in through the open door. A baby cried upstairs. The innkeeper argued softly with someone out of sight.

  She stepped into the rain.

  The old man blinked. Looked at the door. Then frowned.

  "Who ordered the second beer?"

  No one answered.

  — ? — ? —

  The rain softened as she stepped out onto the cobblestone path, mist curling low over the stones like it feared to rise.

  Her boots moved without hurry. Each step sure. South, toward the poorer edge of the kingdom, the southern district. The place where the roofs sagged and the chimneys rarely smoked, not for lack of wood, but for lack of breath to blow the spark.

  She muttered as she passed the shuttered windows and slumped doorways, voice low and even.

  "One more mile carved into the bone. One more mile closer to forgetting what I walked for."

  A woman swept the mud from her doorstep with a broken broom. A man stared through his window, eyes hollow as the plague had left him. No one spoke. No one bowed. No one noticed.

  She kept walking.

  At the bend near the old market wall, the smell thickened. Rot, smoke, wet linen. Two men dug a trench beside the chapel. One had no boots. The other had only one arm.

  They did not look up as the cart arrived, its wheels groaning under cloth-wrapped shapes. Plague-dead.

  Across the road, others worked quieter. No trenches. Just fire. Black smoke curled upward, slow and mournful.

  She paused a moment. Watched the flames.

  "This land's memory is ash and grave-dust. It forgets the names, but never the weight."

  She moved on.

  The building came into view just past a gutted smith. Tall, stone-faced, its windows fogged with age and damp. No sign above the door. It didn't need one. Those who walked in already knew what it was.

  She pushed the door open. It creaked but no heads turned. A dozen men and women sat in the hall, armor dulled, weapons sheathed, eyes far away. One snored against the wall. Another muttered to himself while sharpening a blade already too thin.

  She walked straight past them, toward the wall.

  The wall stretched high and wide. Covered in curling parchment, frayed vellum, strips of cloth inked with quests and calls. Notices hammered in with rusted nails, charred edges where old ones had been burned and rewritten.

  She stopped before it. Read silently at first. Then began to murmur.

  "To any able fighter:

  Investigate the blocked tunnels beneath the Red Keep.Stone collapsed near the old vaults. Some say they hear voices.Pay offered. Risk high. Exit not certain."

  She murmured, "I've already been buried there once. Let it rest."

  "Wanted: Escort for grain carts.

  From southern granaries to central court.Thieves struck twice last week. Bring a blade. Paid in coin by the load."

  She snorted. "Risk your neck to move rot? Not worth the purse."

  "Help needed: Clearing plague remains near the west sewer line.

  Protective gear provided. Fire recommended.One shift only. Light duty, heavy smell."

  She muttered, "Even rats deserve warmer graves."

  Her eyes drifted over faded notices, torn edges, dried ink. Most were useless—calls for laborers, missing cattle, sightings of smoke in the western hills. Then one parchment stopped her.

  "Fractureborn missing. Last seen near the old cistern north of the Red Keep. No signs since. No remains found."

  She stared at it.

  Just a few lines. No names. No reward.

  But she didn't need either.

  Another one.

  Still in the kingdom. Still unaccounted for.

  She touched the edge of the paper, fingers brushing the cold stone behind it.

  "...They always wait too long to care," she muttered.

  Then she turned.

  This time, her boots didn't hesitate