Morning came pale and cold.

The fire had burned to ash, a thin ribbon of smoke curling from the pit. Grave rolled his shoulders until something popped, then grimaced at the hard ground. Ashen uncoiled nearby, a slow ripple of scale and sinew, wings brushing the low branches before tucking tight again.

Sana sat cross-legged at the edge of camp, lips moving as she checked each charm for hairline burns. A cracked one hissed and curled to ash between her fingers.

Rook hadn’t moved.

He sat in the same spot all night, armor beaded with dew. His visor faced the dead fire as if it were still burning.

Grave squinted at him. “Did you even sleep in that thing?”

“I slept,” Rook said. The voice from behind the visor was steady, measured—like it never woke, never dreamed.

Grave tore the last heel of yesterday’s bread in half and tossed a piece across the pit. “Eat.”

It bounced off Rook’s armored chest.

Sana looked up, one brow tilting. “Not hungry?”

“I ate before dawn,” Rook replied smoothly.

Grave froze mid-chew. “That's funny. Didn’t see you touch dinner either.”

Rook angled the visor a fraction toward him. “Perhaps you weren’t paying attention.”

“Yeah,” Grave said. “Because I usually watch people eat with rapt attention.”

Rook rose without answering, cloak brushing the dirt. He tightened the straps on his gauntlet. The bread lay where it had fallen.

Sana flicked a harmless paper scrap at Grave’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Some men prefer to live in mystery.”

Grave muttered into his mouthful, “If he wants to starve, let him starve. I’ll enjoy my bread.”

Ashen’s tail slid between them, claws etching slow lines in the earth. Grave shut his mouth and looked away.

Rook adjusted his cloak and started down the road.

By midmorning, the fields gave way to hedgerows and stone markers carved with the crown’s crest. The road widened, the ruts smoothed. Far ahead, the capital lifted into the haze—bright walls, taller towers, banners catching the light.

The first checkpoint was a group of spears and red tabards. Two guards stepped forward, faces blank until they saw the dragon, then they shifted into wary recognition.

“You’ll stop here,” one barked, voice a notch higher than he wanted. “State your business.”

Rook stepped up before anyone else could speak. His words clicked into place like a practiced drill. “The King summoned us.”

He drew the sealed envelope from his cloak. The wax glinted.

The guards straightened. Spears lifted at once. One bowed and gestured them through, eyes never quite leaving Ashen’s teeth.

Sana whistled low as they passed. “Love what a bit of wax can do. Well, wax and a dragon.”

“That’s the fastest respect we’ve ever had,” Grave muttered. His gaze slid to Rook’s back. It was straight, unbending, perfectly measured. “You almost look like you belong in a captain’s seat.”

Rook didn’t slow.

The capital swallowed them in noise and stone. Hooves rang on cobble. Market cries tangled from every street—bread, oranges, salted fish, knives. Banners snapped from high windows. Children leaned too far over balconies until mothers yanked them back, eyes round as Ashen padded by, his shadow swallowing doorways.

Sana soaked it in with a crooked smile. “Always feels like the city’s trying to sell me things I already own.”

Grave kept close. He noticed the stares first for the dragon—and then for the man in black armor that the dragon shadowed like a hound. Rook’s stride never faltered. He moved the way the guards had moved at the gate: crisp, certain, as if each step knew where it was meant to land.

“Trying to impress someone?” Sana asked lightly.

Rook said nothing.

They climbed broad marble steps to the inner gates of gilded iron. The palace guards didn’t bother with questions when they saw the seal and the dragon at their heels; the doors opened like an inhale.

Whispers traveled ahead of them down the corridor. Black Banner. The King’s cleaners. Don’t look at the beast. Don’t look at the man in the dark armor.

Grave pretended not to hear.