The uneven road wasn't the main reason his mood matched the perpetual gray hanging overhead. In fact, it wasn't even the lack of sunlight for the past few days or the fact that his boots were sullied by the rain that graced the previous town the night before. If he was to figure out why he felt like punching walls or the first idiotic face he saw, he would have to go back a couple of days back.

His mother's face popped up at the back of his head, along with the memories of that day. He arrived in her office thinking it would still be another talk about the issues in supply and production coming up recently. Turns out, it was something worse.

"Are you familiar with Verolya?" she asked. Before he could open his mouth, she waved a hand in the air. "Never mind. Of course you aren't."

Arren remembered clenching his jaw until his gums hurt. His mother always treated him this way—like he was a moron who happened to be a Renlicht. Nevertheless, he couldn't do anything save for balling his fists against the satin of his trousers and standing steps away from her darkwood table where she couldn't reach him with her tapered nails.

Her forefinger tapped the stem of her thin pipe in a discordant rhythm. He narrowed his eyes at it, checking if she hinted at a message in secret. No such thing. Smoke obscured most of her pale complexion, casting a hazy veil over her mold-green eyes. Unfortunately, they're the eyes Arren inherited.

"What about it?" he said through his leaden tongue. It took everything in him to make sure his tone didn't betray the ire boiling in his gut. Ever since the elders of the Renlicht House started shoving him into the business, his mother grew harsher and, well...distant.

Still, he wouldn't put it past himself to let her think he didn't know anything about the famed heritage site. As the site of the ancient Krahviy, it included everything the old dynasty boasted about before they were overthrown. Now, the capital sat in Arvensey, a few cities and mountains off Verolya. Arren could only guess when the current Krahviy would be deposed and for Arvensey to turn into an offshoot of the place his mother now referred to.

Selera Renlicht, the most ruthless woman to have ever married into the bloodline, stuck the end of her pipe into her lips before blowing a gust of smoke. The sweet smell of iokhi combined with other herbs reminded Arren of the incense the niryodhs forced them to offer in the Crusche. It was an abomination to how iokhi was supposed to be smoked, but his mother needed to be clear-headed to lead and, as the townsfolk proved time and again, the saccharine herb was addictive.

"I need you to retrieve the Heart," his mother said after another puff. "It's the answer to our problem."

Arren frowned, his forehead creasing. "What problem?" he prodded. "Production is as good as ever. We're even ahead of the quota for the week. Logistics had no further issues save for the beasts up north, and those vermin can be dealt with. Do you need me to contact the Kalaos House? We need to supply our men with the right weapons."

A pink tinge colored his mother's cheeks. Then, a laugh bubbled up her throat, more smoke pouring off her plump lips painted with the reddest tint. "Your eskanovbri being a complete failure," she said. "That problem."

Oh.

"Is that something I need to be concerned about?" Arren snapped. It didn't matter if this was his mother he spoke to. His eskanovbri was something he wanted to push to the back of his mind, and she seemed to find it amusing to keep bringing it back up. What did she stand to gain with it, anyway?

She bobbed her head, her blonde curls spilling from her shoulders. Of all the features Arren could inherit, why did it have to be her eyes? His orange hair courtesy of his father—Angels bless him—had done him no favors since birth. If he could blame it for his eskanovbri scandal, he would have.

"At this point, the Agnussens would be beating us in producing an heir," she answered. Of course, that's what she's worried about. "You don't want that, do you?"

At this point, Arren could give zero fycks about the Agnussens were doing. They should focus on making the Renlicht House the monopoly of iokhi trade and not resort to tearing another noble house down. But he had seen his mother throw a tantrum when she didn't hear what she wanted to hear, and it's something he didn't have the time to mind so early in the morning. So, he rolled his shoulders and said, "No. Do you need me to go to Verolya?"

His mother jerked her chin to the wooden safe resting on her desk. "Use that as your guide," she ordered. "It's the quickest and safest way to the ruins."

And within a few hours, Arren was on his way. The Heart of Verolya—that's what he was supposed to bring home before anyone could. Legends claim it had the power to change people's perceptions of its owner and was the reason the ancient Krahviy was able to withstand the deposition for as long as they did. But no empire was eternal, and the Heart was lost among the ruins like the civilization who owned it.

Recently, a couple of shepherds chased a lost sheep into the ruins and discovered another section of the sunken city. The Levera House—always being the first to hear about such developments—concluded it used to be Verolya's coffers, filled to the brim with treasures from the old dynasty.

It'd only be a short time before the Krahviy heard of it and sent its own men, if not for the Heart alone, then for the priceless riches buried with it.

Which was the case with the man behind Arren, astride a horse with a brushed black coat. Seated on his own steed, he watched the man from his periphery ever since he left Bezkovrod. Every path Arren took, whenever his gaze brushed the tall line of trees or the shadows lingering with the night, the man was there. After confirming the man wasn't a product of his misguided imagination or one of his mother's lackeys monitoring his progress, he began laying his trap. There's a bigger chance his stalker was after the Heart too. The faster he gets rid of the man, the more at peace he's going to be. That's the only way he'd be able to continue on this journey.

Now, in a new town called Svyktzar, the man never left Arren's tracks, staying a respectable distance to be considered disconnected from Arren by anyone who gave them something longer than a glance. Well, Arren hated shadows just as he hated being in this foolish quest.

He tightened the hold on his horse's reins and steered it towards the deeper part of the town's alleys. The noise of afternoon traffic jostled past his senses while he strained his ears to listen to the clomping hooves lacing with his steed's. Unlike the orange leaves lining the streets of Bezkovrod, Svyktzar's cobbled roads stayed pristine. He had lost count of how many sweepers bearing feathered brooms sauntered around, absorbed in their jobs to notice two men performing a silent chase-the-cheese.

Arren yanked at the reins and halted the horse at the sight of another dark alley. This one was narrower than the main road and the one he left. It was the perfect place to meet. He put two fingers to his lips and blew the iconic trill of the Renlicht spies. From his periphery, he saw the man's shoulders flinch. Ah, he knew what it was.

Next, Arren left his steed on the alley's entrance and stalked deeper into the perpendicular path. He kept his pace slow and steady, listening for the sound of dismounting and quiet steps. They came, but only when Arren was halfway through. Of course. If this man was any good, he'd be wary of Arren leading him into a trap.

As if by divine providence, another corner and an even smaller alley bled to his left. He took it, making sure to stop for a second. He made sure a semblance of recognition passed across his face before trudging into the alley. There, he flattened his back against the wall made by the high brick fences of the establishments. He waited.

A minute passed. Two. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of a dagger tucked by his belt. The footsteps crunched against the debris scattered over the cobblestones. Closer. Closer.

The moment a dark shadow appeared from the corner, Arren lashed out. Black whirled in his vision as the man reacted in a speed Arren didn't expect. Silver glinted against the dimming sunlight passing through the gaps made by the towering roofs. Arren aimed at the neck or anywhere else to render this stalker immobile for the next few days. The man lashed out and grabbed Arren's dominant arm.

Arren grunted against the man's force. His dagger's tip hovered in the space between them. Now locked in a stalemate, he noticed the man wearing a black scarf around the lower half of his face, tucked inside a wide hood thrown over his head. Black hair covered most of his forehead, obscuring the color of his eyes and any other discernible features he might possess.

His side erupted in pain, driving him against the alley's wall. The dagger clattered out of his grip. His gaze snapped to the man to find him lowering a leg. He...kicked Arren?

"That's it," Arren said, wiping the corners of his mouth as he peeled off the wall. "You're going down."

Arren lunged, clenched fist aiming for the man's jaw. The man dodged, weaving out of Arren's trajectory by going low. He was aiming for his gut. Arren beat the man to it, bringing his knee up just as the man made it into his personal space. While the man gagged, he grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him into the wall. Ha, served him right.

The man moved to claw his way out of Arren's grip, fingers curling into flashing tapers. It reminded Arren of his mother's manicured nails for some reason. Nevertheless, Arren sidestepped and whipped to grab the man's hood from the back. He yanked down.

The silk scarf fluttered to the ground. Long dark hair burst into view, stirred by the wind driven by Arren's motion. A woman...?

She turned. Their eyes met. He knew who this person was.

"Madalynn," he blurted before his mind could put a brake on his tongue. Worse, it was none other than Madalynn Agnussen.