Idris exhaled slowly. His gaze drifted past her, past the guards, past the silver-barked trees and the glowing fungi and the distant canopy of green and gold. His eyes focused on something none of them could see.

"Before that," he said quietly, "I need to go home."

The forest seemed to still.

The Princess said nothing. Neither did Hazan. Even Ramzah, bristling with barely contained hostility, went quiet.

"Darkthorn," Idris continued. His voice had changed—the theatrical exhaustion replaced by a serious tone.

Silence.

Then Ramzah's voice, flat and uninflected: "There's nothing left."

Idris turned to look at him.

"The Mage War," Ramzah said. "Darkthorn was one of the first holdings to fall. The magicians didn't just conquer it. They erased it. Scorched earth. Ruin salting. Every stone turned, every foundation broken, every trace of what was there ground to dust."

His tone was not cruel. It was simply factual. The recitation of historical records.

"You don't understand," Idris said. "I need to see it."

"There's nothing to see."

"I need to see it anyway."

"You're not listening," he said. "It's rubble. Three centuries of weather and neglect and active destruction. Whatever you think you'll find—whatever memory you're hoping to recover—it's gone. Has been gone. Will always be gone."

Idris looked at him. His pink eyes were very steady.

"There's an item," he said. "In the rubble."

Ramzah waited.

Idris did not elaborate.

"What item?" Ramzah demanded.

"A personal one."

"What kind of personal item?"

"A weapon."

Ramzah's expression hardened. "If you think I'm going to escort you on some sentimental grave-hunt through three-hundred-year-old ruins while you're supposedly on your way to formalize a treaty—"

"I'm not asking you to escort me."

"The Princess won’t let you go alone."

"I'm not asking her permission either."

"You're her treaty partner. Her betrothed. Her—"

"Not yet." Idris's voice was very quiet. "The vow is sworn. The marriage is later. I have a window."

Ramzah stared at him. His expression suggested he was reconsidering his earlier assessment that the vampire was merely insufferable. He turned sharply to the Princess. "Your Highness. You cannot seriously be considering—"

"I am."

Ramzah stopped.

The Princess's veil had not moved. Her posture remained serene, her hands clasped before her. But something in her voice had shifted—not softer, not harder. Simply final.

"He needs to go," she said. "So he will go."

"With respect, Your Highness—"

"You will accompany him."

Silence.

Very absolute, very profound silence.

Ramzah's expression underwent a complicated series of micro-transitions. Shock. Disbelief. Dismay. Something that might, under other circumstances, be described as horror.

"Your Highness," he said carefully, "I am your sworn shield. Your personal guard. Your—"

"My uncle is here," the Princess added. "You are the most qualified person to accompany a valuable asset into potentially hostile territory."

"Potentially hostile—Your Highness, HE is the potentially hostile territory."

Idris raised an eyebrow. "I'm standing right here."

Neither of them acknowledged him.

"I have trained under your command for seven years," Ramzah said. "I have never once disobeyed an order. I have never—"

"And you are not breaking that streak now."

A pause.

"No," Ramzah said quietly. "I am not."

"Good." The Princess's tone was perfectly level. "Then you understand that Count Idris's safety and successful retrieval of his personal item are now priorities equal to my own security. You will accompany him. You will protect him. You will ensure his return to this convoy within time for us to depart."

"Three weeks?"

"That is the timeline."

"Your Highness, Darkthorn is at least a day's hard ride from here. In good weather. Through contested territory. With a vampire who hasn't fed properly in three centuries and can barely heal a sword wound."

"I can hear you," Idris said. "Still standing right here."

The princess did not move

"As you command," Ramzah said.

"I'll try not to be too much trouble," Idris offered.

Ramzah looked at him. His eyes were very flat.

"You caught a Crescents blade with your bare hands," he said. "You are, by definition, trouble."

"The convoy will remain here for three days," the Princess continued. "Uncle Hazan's gout requires rest, and the engines need rest. You have until sunset on the third day." A pause. "If you are not back by then, nor given me any updates, we will continue to Qahila."

"That's... remarkably practical," Idris said.

"I am a practical person."

"I'm beginning to notice." Idris nodded slowly. He turned to go, then paused. Something caught in his chest, some ancient muscle memory of courtesy, of protocol, of the way his mother had drilled certain things into him until they were instinct.

He turned back.

The Princess stood where she had been, veiled and still, her guards forming a loose perimeter around her as they readied themselves to depart. Hazan had settled onto a fallen log, one leg extended at an angle that suggested his gout was indeed demanding attention. The forest light dappled across them both.

Idris straightened. 

"Princess," he said.

Her veil tilted slightly in acknowledgment, inquiry.

"Thank you," The words were simple. Quiet. "For the chance to go back. For helping me. For..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely. "All of it."

She said nothing at first. It made him feel weird, as if she was trying to breakdown every letter that he spoke.

The Princess's veil shifted. For some reason, he could imagine the curve of a smile beneath it.

"Count Idris," she said.

He waited.

"Your weapon. The one in the rubble." A pause. "What is it?"

"A sword," he said. "My grandfather's sword. It’s very important. Very useful, especially now." 

The Princess absorbed this.

"Ramzah," she said.

He nodded. "Your Highness."

"Make sure you help him find it."

"Yes, Your Highness."

Idris sent a short wave to her, then turned away. Ramzah fell into step beside him

"Count Idris." Hazan had not moved. His mustache was perfectly still. His weathered face was unreadable.

"The old buildings," he said. "The blackstone foundation. If you find any remnants, any fragments at all, I would appreciate them. For my collection."

Idris stared at him.

"You," he said slowly, "collects rocks."

"Architectural samples," Lord Hazan corrected. "There's a difference."

"Right… I'll see what I can find," he said.

"Good." Lord Hazan nodded once. "Safe journey then."