The rhythmic scratching of a stray branch against the windowpane matched the anxious rhythm of Kat’s heart. In the center of the Princess’s bedchamber, the large oak table had been cleared of its cosmetic jars and ribbon-baskets, replaced instead by the heavy, imposing weight of parchment and ink.

Celesta leaned over the table, her face illuminated by the steady, golden glow of three tallow candles. Her fingers, stained with a faint trace of library charcoal, traced a sweeping line of faded ink on a sprawling map.

Both sisters understood well what the East meant to the realm. There, beyond the reach of any map's edge, rose the Razor Peaks — a jagged range crowned by a single long-dead volcano, from whose heights fell the Blood River. It came down scarlet, red as its name, and ran its course through the forest called the Cleftwoods before it emerged on the far side clear and sparkling, and it was this water that the whole realm drank and lived upon.

But the forest stood in the middle of everything, and the forest was the trouble. The Razor Peaks had never been scaled, for no ordinary soul who stepped beneath those trees came out again; the woods killed a common man where he stood. 

There were older stories, too — of the Sirens of the forest, the scarlet-haired blood-witches, whose beckoning was said to make a man forget himself and walk willingly into the dark. Some were never seen again. Some staggered back changed, babbling of pleasures no living woman could give. In the warm safety of the alehouses the place went by another name — the Velvet Bower — traded with a wink and a lewd grin.

And yet, besides holding the realm's greatest terror, the East also held one of the realm's greatest treasures. At the heart of Friartown sat the Guild, that ancient bastion of the kingdom's scholars, and the Grand Lexicon it kept — the largest trove of knowledge anywhere under the Crown. It was from those same vaults that Celesta had drawn the map now spread across the table.

“This is the most meticulous chart of the East preserved within the Lexicon vaults,” Celesta said, her voice dropping to a cautious murmur. “Here sits Friartown, a modest settlement resting a short journey from the dark eaves of the Cleftwoods. And clustered along the river-veins are the smaller hamlets—including the very Fostery that sheltered Celia in her youth.”

Celesta reached into a small velvet pouch and drew out several smooth, dark river stones, placing them with deliberate clicks onto the parchment.

“I have marked the neighboring Fosteries with these stones,” Celesta continued, her expression hardening. “According to the Guild Archives and the daily logs of the border wardens, the tragedy Celia described is no isolated misfortune. There have been numerous incursions by a well-organized mercenary band—or perhaps a highly disciplined faction of local bandits—ravaging these sanctuaries. These child-snatchings first began some dozen winters ago, striking not only the unwritten children of the Fosteries, but spilling into the peasant villages nearby.”

Kat stepped closer to the table, the heavy crimson fabric of her court gown rustling softly against the floorboards. She stared at the alignment of the stones, her emerald eyes narrowing as she tried to discern a pattern in the geography of the raids.

“Do the Archive ledgers contain any specific details regarding the children who were stolen?” Kat asked, her voice tight. “Names, lineages, or perhaps their ages when they were taken?”

“The public registries are frustratingly sparse on the matter,” Celesta replied, shaking her head. “To the high courts, the disappearance of a few uncharted foundlings warrants little more than a line of smudged ink. But we might discreetly petition Lord Blackwood to look into the matter. His house maintains an extensive web of informants and scouts within Friartown; surely he can glean the details the Guild chooses to ignore.”

Kat let out a slow, measured breath, leaning her palms against the edge of the dark oak. “My thanks to you, sister, for unearthing these truths from the dust. I dare not burden our royal father with such border anxieties at present—he is already so terribly occupied with the demands of the Scriptor’s prelates.”

Celesta straightened, looking at Kat with a mixture of sisterly affection and steady, analytical resolve.

“Our father would welcome any inquiry from your lips, sister, for he values your counsel more than he admits,” Celesta said gently, beginning to gather her charcoal notes. “But I agree that we should do our part to map the structure of this rot first. It is always better to bring the King a solved riddle rather than a bleeding wound.”

◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

Katarina made a point to visit young Mili at least once per week, preferably on one of the days she was unburdened by her duties within the Scriptor’s Hall. The girl was gradually adjusting to the sprawling, chaotic rhythm of the castle kitchens, but Kat knew the ache of a severed bond remained.

She resolved to arrange a secret meeting between the child and her kin, bringing them under guard to the capital. To orchestrate such a delicate journey without drawing the suspicion of the King’s watchmen, she required the resourcefulness of Sir Daniel once more.