A small girl wandered alone through a village that had forgotten how to breathe. Doors hung open on broken hinges. Crows perched on chimney stacks. Bodies lay where they'd fallen, in streets, in doorways, under the bloomless trees, some bloated, some scorched, some so still they barely cast shadows.

  Flies ruled here. The air stank of ash, blood, and old dust. It clung to the throat.

  The girl moved slowly, bare feet slapping stone, her small hand covering her nose.

  "Momma?" she called.

  Nothing.

  She turned a corner. A heap of limbs greeted her, men, women, children, all tangled, all still. She backed away, eyes wide, throat burning.

  "Poppa!" she cried, higher now, breaking.

  Silence. Then something worse.

  A figure appeared in the alley ahead.

  A man.

  He wore a long black cloak and a bone-white mask with no mouth. Only the eyes — dark, endless.

  The girl stopped.

  He didn't move, didn't breathe.

  Then, softly.

  "You're the crack in the mirror, child. The world broke, and you remembered the sound."

  She opened her mouth and woke up screaming.

  "AAARGH!"

  She gasped, heart pounding. Her fingers gripped the wooden edge of the wagon she sat in.

  "Whoa! You alright back there, miss?" called the driver, a grizzled man atop a dusty brown horse. He twisted around to look at her, reins in one hand.

  "That's a reaction and a half. Bad dream?"

  She didn't answer right away. Just rubbed her face with both hands, wiping sweat and memory.

  The road kept moving beneath them, cobblestone turned to packed earth, trees lining the southern path toward the Red Keep.

  She exhaled slowly. "The same dream."

  The man nodded like he'd heard that before. "Don't worry. We're close now. Just ahead through the bend."

  She didn't speak. The wind picked up. In the distance, the spires of the old Keep began to pierce the morning haze.

  The wagon rolled on. The path curved toward a slow rise, where stones peeked through the dirt like bones from an old wound. The trees thinned. Ahead, the outline of the ruined castle began to take shape—jagged towers, leaning walls, and the ivy-choked gates of what once was the pride of the kingdom.

  The man clicked his tongue to slow the horse. He glanced back.

  "Are you sure you want to go in there, miss?"

  She didn't look up.

  "I mean, don't take it wrong. I'm not underestimating you. You're not old, you're not young either. Right in the middle, maybe. The kind that knows how to swing a sword at your hips. You look like you've held one more than once."

  She kept her eyes on the trees. "I'm not a knight."

  He raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

  "I'm just a warrior. Earning a living through quests."

  "Huh," he scratched his chin. "A quest, then. How many silver for this one?"

  "No coin."

  "No coin?" He gave a short laugh. "But you just said you earn a living."

  "I do."

  "Then why take a job for nothing?"

  She shrugged. "Not every quest should be about reward."

  The man was quiet a moment. Then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I get that. Some things you just do because they sit heavy if you don't."

  The wagon bumped over a rock. The wheels creaked. Wind picked at the edges of the trees.

  "You really gonna go inside the castle?" he asked again. "Even just the edge of it makes most folks nervous. But the Red Keep? You know how far north that tower runs? No one keeps track anymore. Just stone and root and silence."

  He tugged at the reins, then added, quieter this time, "And you know... people that've gone in there say they've heard voices. Not ones they know. Not ones they could place. They don't even sound human, and with the plague still creeping through the bones of this kingdom... I wouldn't bet they are."

  He spat over the side of the wagon. "At this point, anything's possible."

  She didn't respond right away.

  Under her breath, almost to herself. "So that one quest wasn't just noise. There were voices. Not just a story some drunk sold to a scribe. But no. Still an assumption. Until I see it. Hear it."

  He filled the space. "Used to be the crown's pride. Flags on every wall. Songs in the halls. Now it's just wild things. Ivy growing out the windows. Moss on the stairs. Even the bricks don't stay where they were laid. Like the place is trying to forget it was ever made by hands."

  He glanced back again, trying to catch her eyes.

  "I'll ask you again, miss. Are you sure about this?"

  "Don't worry. You won't remember I was ever here."

  He blinked. "Huh?"

  But just then, the wagon pulled to a stop. The road ended in a wide flat of cracked stones and fallen pillars. The castle's first gate stood open, rusted on its hinges.

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  The woman stood, lifting herself from the wagon bed.

  "That's about five silver for the ride," the man said, reaching into his coat for a pouch.

  She stepped down, boots crunching gravel. Her cloak caught the wind, fluttering behind her.

  Then she was gone, walking toward the gate.

  The man scratched his head.

  The last of the rain had stopped, leaving the air cool and heavy. Puddles clung to the edges of the road, catching the deepening orange light. Dusk was settling in—soft, hushed, the kind that made everything seem older than it was.

  He looked at the empty wagon bed.

  Then back at the road.

  Then down at his hands, still open for silver.

  He frowned.

  "That's strange."

  He reached for his reins again. "Thought I was talkin' to someone. Must be the fog playin' with my mind again."

  He gave a little shrug and clicked his tongue.

  The horse started forward. The wheels turned. The gate to the Red Keep stood open behind him.

  And the woman was already out of sight.

  — ? — ? —

  The inside of the castle was damp, the air thick with old stone and moss. Rainwater still clung to the walls in streaks, and the faint scent of mildew mixed with something older — like rust and forgotten wood.

  She stood just past the threshold. The great arch behind her cast a long shadow across the entrance hall. Then, without hesitation, she unclasped the damp brown cloak from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Her armor caught the last hints of fading light.

  She placed one hand on the hilt of her sword and closed her eyes briefly.

  "Alright," she whispered, steadying herself. "This is the perfect opportunity to get to know about the people like me. Fractureborns. You've been wanting to discover the truth behind fractures for a very, very long time now. How Fractureborns are born... or made."

  She opened her eyes.

  "Anyways. Let's not screw this up, Alexia," she muttered.

  She began to walk.

  One hand stayed on the hilt at her side, ready if something emerged from the dark. The other hung free. Her steps were deliberate, quiet.

  She looked around the castle's ruined interior. The Red Keep hadn't aged well. Walls wept. Floors groaned. Ivy crawled across every stone it could reach. Vines through windows. Cracks through the ceilings. Nature had slowly taken it back.

  "The plague is transmitted through touch," she muttered. "Easily. Thankfully it's not in the air. I'd rather not be choking through a mask in this armor. Not when I need my lungs."

  She climbed a winding staircase, the stone steps uneven and cold under her boots. As she rose higher, she caught sight of the ramparts. The upper wall walkways that gave view of the entire grounds.

  "I should get to a higher ground. Get a better look at the place. It's been a long time since I was last here."

  She reached out and ran her armored fingers along the damp stone. Moss and ivy squished between the plates.

  "It's been a long time," she repeated.

  At the top, the full spread of the ruined castle opened before her — shattered battlements, collapsed towers, courtyards split by trees that shouldn't have been able to grow here.

  She narrowed her eyes. "What a view," she said, dryly. "A disgusting view, that is."

  Then she saw it.

  A body.

  She froze. It was lying just ahead, near the base of a half-toppled pillar. A woman.

  Alexia rushed forward. The figure wasn't bloated, wasn't blackened. Not a plague victim.

  Fresh.

  She knelt down, armor creaking, and touched the red stain pooling at the woman's side with her gloved hand. She raised the fingers closer.

  "That's blood," she said. "Fresh blood, alright."

  Then—

  A sound.

  She heard it. A voice.

  Quick, sharp, low.

  Her instincts snapped.

  She stood and drew her sword in one motion, blade out, stance tight, her breath steadying. The air held still again.

  But something was there.

  She wasn't alone anymore.

  The voice came from behind the crumbled archway, light and careless.

  "What's a knight doing here? As far as I know, knights are the princess' lapdogs. And a knight being alone? Now that's strange. Are you perhaps depressed, kni—"

  The figure stepped out fully into view.

  Young. White tunic, streaked with ash and sweat, sleeves rolled past his elbows. His boots were caked with mud. He held a shovel. Old, wooden-handled, the metal head dull from use. His dark hair curled at the ends, damp from rain, and his face was half-smeared with dust. He blinked at her.

  Then froze.

  "Wait, you're a woman? A beautiful lady?"

  Alexia stood, sword halfway between her and the dead body. Her eyebrows lifted slightly in disbelief. "A boy?"

  The young man sputtered, offended and amused all at once. He thumped the shovel's end into the mossy stone with a dull clunk.

  "A boy? I'll have you know I'm not a boy! Believe me or not, I'm actually a man. A full-grown one. Beard and all. You just caught me on a day off."

  He wiped his brow dramatically, but only succeeded in smearing more dirt across his forehead.

  Alexia, after a long second of looking him up and down, slowly slid her sword back into its sheath. The sound of steel against leather echoed in the quiet air.

  "Did you just sheathe your sword because you think I'm no threat?" he asked, voice rising. "Just because you thought I was a boy?"

  "Yes."

  "Unbelievable," he muttered. "Everyone says that. My father. My mother. Our chief. The king. The queen. Even my little cousin."

  He shook his head solemnly.

  "But it's fine. Really. I'm getting used to being underestimated. It builds character. And back pain."

  Alexia ignored him. She turned her attention back to the body, crouching beside the woman carefully. The blood had barely dried.

  Then, quietly, the young man's tone changed. Lighter air dropping into something harder.

  "Don't touch her."

  She paused, her gloved hand just inches from the woman's shoulder. Her gaze shifted to the boy—no, the man—standing just a few paces away now, shovel held tight in both hands.

  "Why?" she asked. "Do you have authority here?"

  "No," he said. "But if you're one of those people who burn them to 'free' their souls, I won't let you do that. These people have lost everything. The last thing they deserve is fire."

  Alexia stood up, measured him.

  "Olny knights do those things and I'm not a knight."

  "You're not? Then what are you, a fake knight? An imposter?" His eyes dropped to her armor. "You don't see many folks walking around in plate unless they've got the coin or the titles."

  "I'm a warrior," she said simply. "Just lost."

  "Lost, huh?" He tilted his head. "You don't look lost. You look like someone trying very hard to find something. Something important."

  She shifted, growing impatient. "Fine. What does it matter to you?"

  "It doesn't," he shrugged. "Just making conversation."

  "Well stop making conversation," she said flatly. "I'm a grown woman minding her own business. I've got no reason to be chatting with a boy."

  "I told you, not a boy!"

  He took a step closer, then paused and gestured to himself.

  "Do I look like a boy to you? This is the body of a man who's dug more graves than you've had meals this week. Do you know how heavy wet dirt is? Do you? It builds these—" he flexed an arm, though his sleeve fell limply down—"and these"—he pointed to his thighs—"which you can't see, thank the Saints, because that'd be indecent, but they're very strong, I promise."

  Alexia blinked, unimpressed. "Fascinating."

  "Look, I'm just saying, maybe don't dismiss the man holding the shovel."

  She moved past him, crouched again by the body. She studied the woman's face — peaceful, but not from plague-sleep. From death. Blood pooled beneath the back of her head.

  "You really buried them all?" Alexia asked quietly. "Instead of burning?"

  "Yeah," he said, quieter now. "Someone has to. Someone who gives a damn."

  She was silent.

  "Burning them feels like forgetting them," he added. "I know people say fire 'frees' them. But to me, that feels like a way to not deal with what's left behind. A way to pretend they never lived at all."

  She looked up at him, something unreadable flickering across her face.

  "So you're that type," she said.

  "That type?" He frowned. "What type?"

  "The kind that buries strangers with their names still on their lips."

  "Better than the kind that forgets them before they're cold."

  That hit harder than she expected. Her jaw clenched.

  She stood slowly. "Let me just mind my damn business. I won't be here forever."

  "Neither will I," he said. "But if your business includes stabbing more people than graves you dig, maybe we've got a problem."

  They stared at each other for a long, charged moment. The dusk behind them deepened. The rain had stopped, but the stones still glistened, and wind whispered through the hollow halls of the castle's upper walk.

  A quiet passed between them.

  "I'm Lysandros, by the way," he said casually. "Just so when you inevitably insult me again, you can do it by name."

  Alexia didn't respond.

  "Also, please don't stab me in the back," he added quickly. "I've got this weird thing where I prefer being alive."

  Still nothing.

  "Alright. Strong, silent type. Got it."

  But his grip shifted on the shovel. Subtle. Defensive.

  He didn't trust her.

  And neither did she.