​"Walk with your weight in your heels," Luca hissed under his breath, his voice echoing hollowly inside his helmet. "Soldiers don't scurry. They march because they own the ground they stand on."

​Liam tried to obey, but his movements were stiff, his joints locked by the sheer force of his anxiety. Every time his greaves clanked together, he winced as if he had fired a cannon.

​They reached the staging area just as the second bell’s echoes died away. This was the moment of the Great Shift. Hundreds of men were moving in the torchlight, a sea of steel and leather. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, wet stone, and the sharp, acidic scent of cheap wine on the breath of men who had just finished their watch.

​"Column four! To the bridge!" a Sergeant roared, his voice like grinding gravel.

​Luca didn't hesitate. He grabbed Liam’s shoulder and steered him into the back of a line of twelve men. They were the "Shadow Watch," assigned to the secondary gate that led toward the industrial districts of Byblos.

​The march began. Clack. Clack. Clack. The sound of a hundred boots hitting the stone in unison was hypnotic. It was a heartbeat of iron. Luca kept his head down, eyes fixed on the rusted neck-guard of the soldier in front of him. He realized with a jolt of cold clarity that these men, the men he had looked down on from his window, were the only thing standing between his father and the world.

​They reached the Great Gates. These were massive slabs of iron-wood, reinforced with black steel and engraved with the Sun Crest of Lorendo. To Luca, they had always been a silhouette on the horizon. Now, they were a wall of reality.

​"Halt!" the Gate-Warden commanded.

​The line stopped. Luca felt Liam’s sleeve brush against his arm; his friend was vibrating with a tremor so violent it threatened to rattle his breastplate.

​The Warden walked down the line, his torch held high. He was checking for sobriety, for gear, and for the sluggishness that came with a long night. Luca held his breath, praying that the visor of his helmet sat low enough. The Warden stopped in front of him. Through the narrow slit of the iron mask, Luca saw the man’s eyes, red-rimmed, tired, and deeply bored.

​"You're new," the Warden muttered, the torchlight flickering across Luca’s iron-clad chest.

​"Transferred from the North Wing, sir," Luca replied. He pitched his voice lower, roughening it with the gravelly tone of a commoner. "Captain said the Shadow Watch needed more meat for the gate."

​The Warden grunted, his eyes lingering on the way Luca stood. Even in rags, Luca held himself with a posture that spoke of education and training. It was a flaw in the disguise, a ghost of the palace that refused to leave him.

​"You stand like a man who’s never had to dig a trench," the Warden said, a suspicious edge creeping into his voice. "Where'd you say you were from?"

​"The slums of the East Port, sir," Luca lied, his mind racing. "Before I took the King’s coin to keep my mother from starving."

​The mention of a starving mother seemed to satisfy the Warden. It was the common story of every man in the infantry. He moved on to Liam.

​Liam was a statue. He didn't breathe. He didn't blink. The Warden stared at him for what felt like an eternity. Luca’s hand drifted toward the small dagger he had hidden in his belt. If the Warden reached for Liam’s helmet, the mission was over. Blood would be spilled on the bridge.

​"This one looks like he’s about to vomit," the Warden laughed, turning back to his desk. "Welcome to the Night Watch, boys. Try not to die of fright before the sun comes up."

​The heavy chains began to groan. Slowly, the Great Gates creaked open, revealing a world that Luca had only ever seen in maps and dreams.

​The air that rushed in was different. It wasn't the stagnant, perfumed air of the palace. It was wild. It smelled of the river, of coal smoke, of rotting fish, and of a thousand lives being lived in the dark. It was the smell of Byblos.

​The column marched forward, crossing the stone bridge that spanned the dry moat. Luca looked down. Below them, in the darkness, lay the discarded silks and tunics they had thrown out earlier, the last remnants of his life as a Prince.

​As they stepped off the bridge and onto the dirt of the city roads, the Sergeant gave a sharp whistle. "Break! Four hours until the next rotation. Stay within the district and don't get so drunk you can't find your spears."

​The soldiers scattered into the dark alleys like rats. Luca didn't wait. He grabbed Liam’s arm and pulled him into a narrow gap between two crumbling stone buildings.

​"We're out," Liam whispered, falling against the wall. He pulled off his helmet, his face drenched in sweat. "We actually made it. We're outside."

​Luca removed his own helmet. The cool night air hit his face, and for a moment, he felt dizzy. The city of Byblos stretched out before him, a sprawling, chaotic mess of flickering lanterns and crooked chimneys. Somewhere in that darkness was the truth. Somewhere in that noise was the dragon.

​"We aren't safe yet," Luca said, though he couldn't stop the grin that pulled at the corners of his mouth. "The King will notice I'm gone by the morning prayer. We have a few hours to disappear into the skin of this city."

​He looked up at the Great Peak, which loomed over the city like a silent judge. The mountain looked even more terrifying from the ground. It was no longer a distant painting; it was a physical weight that seemed to press down on the city.

​"The dragon is waiting," Luca whispered.

​He didn't know how he knew it, but he could feel a low vibration in the soles of his boots. The earth was humming. The mountain was calling its son home.

​"Liam, the gold," Luca commanded. "We need to trade these iron shells for something that doesn't scream 'soldier.' We go to the marketplace. We become ghosts."

​They stepped out of the shadow of the alley and into the heart of the city, two boys carrying the secrets of a kingdom on their shoulders.