Alexia took one step closer to the body again, eyes narrowing slightly. "So why is there a dead woman lying on the floor, blood still warm?"

  Lysandros raised both hands, shovel tucked in the crook of his elbow like he was surrendering. "That's not my doing! And for the record, I found her before you even got here."

  He pointed toward a stairway behind them. "I went downstairs to grab my shovel. Y'know, the whole 'bury the dead and honor the fallen' routine. I didn't think anyone else would be climbing up here tonight — let alone a sword-dragging, armor-clanking knight-lady-who's-not-a-knight."

  Alexia tilted her head. "You went down just to get a shovel?"

  "Well, I wasn't gonna scoop her up with my hands! That's disrespectful and very unhygienic. And also I only have two shirts."

  She raised an eyebrow.

  "I swear," he added, getting dramatic now, "whoever did that to this woman, may the gods strike them down, may their kneecaps be reversed, may their socks always be wet—"

  "Alright," she cut in. "You made your point."

  Lysandros huffed, muttering, "I'll erase their existence from this world with my fracture, that's what I'll do!"

  That word stopped her cold.

  Alexia blinked.

  She kept her expression even, tried to look disinterested, casual. Too casual.

  "Fracture?" she asked. "You're a fractureborn?"

  He grinned proudly. "Why yes, I am. Thank you for noticing."

  She folded her arms. "You don't exactly look like one."

  He gasped, hand to his chest. "I'll have you know, my fracture is extremely powerful. So powerful, I once accidentally caused every bird in a tree to poop at the same time. It was horrifying. But majestic."

  "...Right."

  "Also, nice to meet you, fellow fractureborn."

  She blinked again. "What?"

  He winked. "C'mon, you think I wouldn't notice? Fractureborns are most of the time, or let's just say, all the time, lo"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Of course you don't," he said with a knowing grin, twirling the shovel like a baton. "But hey, good to know I'm not the only one cursed—sorry, blessed—with a mystery power and identity issues."

  Alexia turned away before he could see the corner of her mouth twitch.

  "I'm not here to talk about fractures," she said stiffly. "I'm here for something else."

  "Right. Of course. Just like I wear this tunic and carry a shovel for fashion."

  He leaned on the shovel, one eye squinting at her. "You're a terrible liar, you know."

  "And you're an annoying man-child with a shovel."

  "Which makes me uniquely dangerous," he replied, grinning. "Now. Are we gonna work together to figure out who murdered this poor woman, or are we gonna keep trading insults until the plague takes us both?"

  She looked at the body again.

  Fresh blood.

  A clean kill.

  And no visible signs of plague.

  This wasn't random.

  Something — or someone — had been waiting.

  Alexia exhaled slowly.

  Then muttered under her breath, "Fine. Just don't slow me down."

  "I'll try not to trip over my own masculinity."

  "Unbelievable."

  "Thank you!"

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  They stood there, the knight-who-wasn't-a-knight and the boy-who-wasn't-a-boy, on a mossy castle wall where ivy had eaten stone, dusk curling into night.

  They walked along the upper wall of the castle, boots thudding against the slick stone, still damp from the rain that had only recently stopped. The sky was a pale, dusky orange now, with streaks of purple crawling in from the edge of the horizon. Below them, the courtyard and surrounding ruins of the keep stretched out in stillness, overgrown and half-swallowed by ivy and years of silence.

  Alexia led the way, her steps steady, eyes scanning the layout from above. Behind her, Lysandros walked with a slightly quicker pace just to keep up, his shovel bouncing slightly over his shoulder.

  Then came his voice, light and casual, but obviously a setup for something.

  "By the way," he said, "there’s one thing I’ve been meaning to ask. How exactly is the plague transmitted? I mean just wondering for a friend."

  Alexia didn’t even glance back. “Thanks for giving me a clue that you’re not from our kingdom,” she replied flatly. “You’re a villager, aren’t you?”

  “What?!” Lysandros nearly tripped on a loose stone. “Whoa whoa whoa—hold on now. What gave that away?! Was it the shovel? I swear it’s not a fashion choice. Or maybe the hair? Is it the hair? I’ve been told I look rustic before, but rustic is charming, isn’t it? Right? Like, ‘Oh look at that guy, he probably knows how to gut a fish or build a barn with his eyes closed.’ That kind of thing. Not ‘Look at that guy, he probably doesn’t even know what soap is!’ That’s a whole different category, and frankly, I bathe regularly, so—”

  Alexia raised an eyebrow, still not looking at him. “Only the kingdoms have wide knowledge about how the plague works. Villages? Most of them still think it’s a curse passed on from sneezing or bad dreams. What village are you from?”

  Lysandros paused. “...Do I have to answer that?”

  She finally turned to glance back at him. “Don’t try avoiding me now.”

  “Ahhhh dammit,” he groaned, throwing his head back. “Fine, but just so you know—I’m only answering because you’re asking, not because I’m, like, secretly admiring your strong warrior energy or anything, alright? Let’s get that straight. I mean, yeah, you look like you could cut a boulder in half with a glare, and sure, your armor’s all shiny and intimidating in a cool way, and maybe the way you hold your sword makes me feel like I should be standing ten feet to the left at all times, but that’s not admiration, that’s just basic survival instincts. Totally different.”

  “Village from the east?” she interrupted, unimpressed.

  He blinked. “How in the name of the old goats did you guess that right?”

  “People there usually have a loud mouth that talks nonstop,” she said dryly. “Just like how a goat chews nonstop.”

  Lysandros burst out laughing. “Oh wow. That’s terrible. You’ve got the intimidation thing nailed, but your jokes? Yeesh. That one was moldy.”

  He swung his shovel forward like a walking stick and grinned. “But yes, I’m from the east. Village of Riverbend. You’ve heard of it?”

  “I have,” Alexia replied. “Been there once before the plague. Quiet place, had good fishing spots. Decent food, too.”

  “It is a pretty good place,” he nodded. “You know, for a forgotten corner of the world.”

  He scratched the back of his head. “What about you? What’s your name? Where’re you from?”

  “Haldaerk Kingdom. Name’s Alexia.”

  “Ooohhh, fancy,” he said, pretending to be impressed. “I have no idea where that is, but it sounds official. Living in a secured kingdom, huh? Must be nice. Do you get, like, free bread and proper shoes and everything?”

  Alexia rolled her eyes.

  “So,” he said again, this time eyeing her gear, “what got you lost out here, then? You an adventurer?”

  “A warrior,” she answered. “I live through quests.”

  He raised his brows. “A warrior, huh? I like it. A warrior who wears knight armor. Kind of like a wolf in wolf’s clothing.”

  They walked a bit further in silence as the shadow of the Red Keep rose ahead, its towers jagged and half-eaten by moss and time. From here, the castle looked even older than it was — like it was sagging beneath the weight of memory.

  Lysandros looked at it, then glanced at her.

  “So… why are you really here?”

  Alexia’s steps slowed. She didn’t look at him, but her tone changed, quieter now. “I’m looking for a Fractureborn.”

  He blinked. “Wait, what? That’s me.”

  “I know. But since you’ve forced me—”

  “Hey hey hey! I didn’t force you into anything!” he protested. “I barely had time to blink before you unsheathed your sword like you were gonna chop my head off!”

  She continued without reacting. “I figured it’d be fine to waste a bit of time before heading back to the kingdom.”

  Lysandros was quiet for a second. Then his tone changed, less playful now. “Hmm. You’re looking for a Fractureborn like me, aren’t you?”

  Alexia turned to glance back at him, her voice half-serious, half-teasing. “You’re kind of freaking me out, do you know that? Is your fracture about reading people’s minds like mine?”

  He looked horrified. “Noooo! Gods, no! That’d be horrible. Can you imagine? Every time someone passes by, you accidentally hear what they think about your haircut? Or worse, your breath? Nah, I don’t want that kind of pressure. My mind’s already a crowded place, thank you very much. I’d rather carry a bucket of worms on my head than hear what everyone’s thinking.”

  Alexia let out a small, reluctant laugh.

  “But you’re right, though,” Lysandros added, quieter. “Fractureborns… we’re always alone. People don’t get us. Sometimes I wonder if we even get each other. But even if we’re weird and a little cracked, doesn’t mean we don’t need company sometimes.”

  Alexia looked over her shoulder again, this time for longer. Her eyes softened just a touch.

  “Company, huh.”

  And then, just ahead, movement caught her eye.

  A figure, cloaked in brown, was slipping through the tall wooden doors of the Red Keep. The person moved quickly, almost too quietly for someone just walking. The fabric of their cloak fluttered like torn leaves in the breeze, and their face was hidden in shadow.

  Alexia stopped.

  Lysandros stopped too, following her gaze. “You see that?”

  “Yeah,” she muttered. “Someone else is here.”

  She reached down toward her sword again.

  Lysandros squinted at the figure slipping through the Red Keep’s gate. His voice dropped a note.

  "That person might have something to do with the woman who was killed."

  Alexia didn’t even look at him right away. Her eyes stayed forward.

  "As a warrior, you already failed the first step of becoming one," she said flatly. "Don’t assume without evidence."

  Lysandros didn’t smile this time. His grip on the shovel tightened.

  "Let’s go," he said, tone sharper now.

  "Just in case I’m not wrong."

  Lysandros’s fingers curled around his shovel. The humor in his voice was gone.

  The wind picked up.