-----

The wind from the coast bit at their skin—sharp with salt, soot, and smoke not yet forgotten.

Francesca adjusted her satchel and glanced back toward the trees, where cinders still floated like dead stars. Her steps were steady. But her silence was loud.

Cornelius was not as quiet.

He paced ahead, boots crunching across scorched stone, his golden cloak streaked with ash. His jaw clenched with every step.

“They should’ve never been alone,” he said tightly. “Not that close to the docks. No backup. No plan.”

Francesca finally spoke. “You think I didn’t try?”

He stopped walking.

His hand hovered near his sword. “You’ve trusted that mercenary too easily.”

She looked at him.

“I trust what I’ve seen,” she said calmly. “He protects her. I don’t need to know why.”

Cornelius turned away, muttering, “Maybe you don’t.”

---------

They stopped beneath the remains of a collapsed arch, ivy growing over stone like veins.

Cornelius finally faced her.

“How did you survive the estate fire?”

Francesca blinked—more surprised by his tone than the question.

She straightened. “Alberta remembered the stair behind the west tower. Duke Aslac showed it to her when she was young.”

“And the flames?”

“We ran. Through smoke. Through fire. She pulled me out.”

Cornelius studied her. For the first time, something shifted in his expression.

Not disbelief.

Guilt.

And beneath that… fear.

-------

A silence stretched between them.

Then Francesca asked, “Why are you still traveling with Ceasare?”

Cornelius looked surprised. “Because he knew where Alberta might be.”

“And you believed him?”

She crossed her arms. “I’ve been watching him. The way he touches her. The way he always arrives just when she needs reassurance. Too perfect.”

Cornelius looked away.

“You think he’s with the Church?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Francesca said. “But something’s off. And if you’re protecting Alberta… you need to decide who you’re guarding her from.”

Cornelius didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know.

-------

They crested a hill overlooking the outer reaches of Virelle.

Smoke still hung low. The water glistened dull silver. No sign of Dantes. No sign of Alberta.

“Where did they go?” Cornelius muttered.

Francesca scanned the shoreline. “If anyone can keep her alive, it’s him.”

Cornelius exhaled sharply. “You trust him too much.”

She smiled faintly. “You’re jealous.”

He didn’t answer.

“Cornelius,” she said gently, “he’s dangerous. But so is Alberta’s fate. Whatever he is, he’s not the one who set our home on fire.”

Cornelius hesitated. “Then who did?”

Francesca’s smile vanished.

She didn’t know.

And that scared her more than Dantes ever could.