It was a woman’s cry that tore him to the edge of the village.

  His vision blurred. A tremor crawled up his spine.

  Bryn held a woman at knifepoint.

  Her terror filled the small room, her skirt bunched around her hips, her screams, choked by Bryn's hand.

  His paladin’s hand—the same hands that vowed its sword to protect the weakest.

  “Do enlighten me.” Aurpius seized Bryn by his cloak. “Is stupidity the only talent lowborns never fail to master?”

  Outside, the village lay in a deceitful calm. The night breathed softly, disturbed only by the murmurs of Paladins combing for proof that the Magicals had truly raided the neighbouring settlement.

  Bryn crashed into a chair, the impact knocked loose a wooden wardrobe behind them—immediately the magical’s hazel eyes darted to it, widening as tears fell afresh.

  She collapsed to her knees, her arms shaking while she clutched her clothes around herself.

  “Bryn,” Aurpius said softly. “I swear by the Hidden, if there’s someone inside it, you will return home on foot.” His violet gaze burned into him.

  Bryn, still sprawled on the floor, said nothing.

  He stepped toward it.

  The woman hurled herself into his path, sobbing, shaking, her golden hair clinging damply to her brow.

  Desperate enough to forget fear.

  "Please! I beg you—please!" Her voice broke.

  Aurpius shoved the aside and wrenched open the wardrobe door.

  A little boy crouched within.

  His hair, as fair as the woman’s, his small body drawn inward, his little hands covering his ears.

  The boy looked up.

  His caramel eyes struck Aurpius's old wounds. A look that no child should own—one that mirrored his own reflection from years he buried deep within. Terror. Helplessness. The kind that carved itself beyond one's mind.

  “Go,” he said, not meeting the child’s eyes. “Don’t look back.”

  Before the wardrobe door closed, the woman and the child were already swallowed by the night. Air escaped the prince’s lungs in a rush—they would never know who lay beneath the crow mask.

  Aurpius turned to his men, adjusting his sleeves.

  “You.” He removed his gloves methodically.

  His teeth clenched so hard his lip split.

  Only then, he struck Bryn from the doorway.

  The paladin scrambled backwards pleading, inaudible to the prince. Blood thundered so loudly in his ears, drowning all else.

  “If you value your life.” Aurpius murmured, “Never. Force. A. Woman. Again.”

  “If I so much as suspect you did it—if the thought crosses my mind—I will kill you. Slowly.”

  He let Bryn crumple.

  “Rape is abhorrent. But to do so with a filthy Magical?”

  He leaned close, breathing ice against the paladin’s ear.

  “Disgusting.”

  His fist connected with a crack that echoed through the half-timbered houses. He hit him again. And again. The copper scent of blood rose as the cuts opened fresh.

  Aurpius's knuckles split too.

  Bryn’s pleas dissolved into wet, choking sounds until he couldn’t move any longer.

  The Crown Prince retrieved his gloves from the rutted, unpaved ground. Brushed the dust away and slid them in his coat.

  He walked away without looking back. Composure, the court would call it. Detachment, his enemies. But it was only another mask layered between the golden crow's beak and his royal skin.

  He retraced his steps back to the place he should never have needed to leave. Along the lane candlelights stirred awake—one by one. Caellum had done his work.

  He entered the finest house at the heart of the settlement, modest though it was, where his men waited.

  "The wands?" He asked.

  Caellum—same size as him, built like a stone wall—nodded toward a linen sack resting on the wooden table.

  “The houses?” He pushed.

  "All but one," Caellum began. "We coul—"

  "They left weeks ago!" The interruption cracked through the room. Every gaze turned toward the speaker — a Magical, clearly, their leader.

  “Who granted you leave to speak?” Quinn—the thinnest among them, had the quickest temper. He drove his fist into the man’s stomach, folding him with a strangled gasp.

  "Open the house." Aurpius spoke directly to the Magical.

  The prince inclined his head towards where the wands were, signalling for Caellum to return one single wand — to only one man.

  "Out. Now!" He ordered.

  The portly man with a prominent nose hurried forward to reclaim it, bowing too often, smiling too much for the situation he found himself. Poor thing if he thinks the crown prince could be soothed down by such eagerness.

  As they moved outside, a crumpled form came into view. Blood darkened his tunic; one eye had swollen, the other shut.

  “What in the eleven’s befell him?” Garreth—the best fighter but always the first to question orders.

  "Misconduct." Aurpius kept walking. "The result of ignoring his vow."

  He exhaled sharply as they walked across the only path of the small village.

  “What are yo—" Garreth pushed.

  “Knights must act by the standard of their oath.” Aurpius turned slowly. “Enlighten me. In what world does violation mean protection?” Disdain cooled his voice. “Restraint is what separates us from animals. Learn it.”

  The matter was closed. Only a dry swallow from each.

  Just a few steps from where they gathered, stood a hollow and darkened house, untouched by sound or breath.

  “After you.” The Crown Prince gestured toward the threshold. His tone carried a vile sarcasm. “You're acquainted."

  The village leader’s jaw tightened and his hand made a piercing movement forward as he cast the spell. “”

  No lightning, no sound. Just an invisible wind pressed against the locker and the door swung inward.

  “Caellum, enter.” Aurpius called, placing a firm hand against the man’s chest. “All and only the men. Inside.” His gaze flicked toward the Paladin at the rear. “If trouble arises, answer it as you see fit.”

  As he crossed the door frame, unease rippled through the women and children left behind, followed by his paladin orders for them to shut.

  Inside, his eagle eyes measured the perfection of everything: the furnishings neatly in place, the hearth holding charred remnants of wood. In the kitchen, a slice of bread sat in the basin half-soaked. Yet, not moulded.

  Aurpius drew his longsword: Svip.

  Caellum followed, through the single-storey dwelling in silence, checking corners as the men gathered in the larger chamber.

  No garments. No footwear. No scent of life. Nothing matched the bread and the wood in the firepit.

  Too clean. Too exact. Almost staged.

  “What’s under the rug?” Aurpius asked. His voice, muffled by the iron mask all Paladins used—a long nose thing, etched with eagles and hollowed eyes.

  “A trapdoor, m’lord.” The Magical’s voice trembled despite his effort to stand firm.

  “Kneel. All of you.”

  The men obeyed at once, standing side by side around the cowhide rug.

  “Not you.” He pointed at their leader. "You open it."

  A frail, bald man collapsed to his knees before the order could be obeyed. “Mercy! We have families—”

  There is a moment, rarely spoken before one witnesses it, when fear ceases to be dignified. Men do not merely weep; they reach their deepest and they soil themselves.

  Today, the paladins pushed past that threshold.

  Aurpius felt no satisfaction in it—nor any shame.

  Some acts must simply be done. If he didn’t, someone else would.

  “Have you committed any offence against the crown?” Aurpius asked evenly.

  “No, m’Lord!” the same man gasped.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Nothing to fear, then.” Aurpius said. “Are you waiting for a golden stamp, ?” He shoved their leader forward.

  The man recoiled as if burned upon hearing the slur. With shaking hands, the elder lifted the cowhide rug and drew open the trapdoor.

  Every eye in the room fixed upon them.

  All breath seemed to vanish from the room.

  Aurpius seized Caellum’s torch and descended first.

  The upper steps revealed nothing amiss.

  But then, two steps later, without warning, the stench struck him—sharp and clinging, putrid onion and rotten eggs mingled with something fishy, like stale flesh on damp stone after a trader’s fair. He tasted it on his tongue, the thickness made his stomach lurch.

  Another step, and the torchlight unveiled women pressed against walls slick with grime. Men hollow-eyed and shaking. Children clutching one another. Infants cradled in rags. Filth, hunger, terror—woven tight in a pit, people hidden like rats.

  He couldn’t even inhale deep, the stink was almost unbearable.

  Proof. The justification for every brutal choice he'd made that night just beneath a cowhide rug.

  “Come,” Aurpius said, turning. “You stand under the protection of the Crow Paladins.”

  He felt better calling them Crow Paladins than Queen’s Paladins. He would not name them as his mother wished. They weren’t her toys.

  As the prisoners stumbled up the stairs into the light, Aurpius drew a slow breath.

  "Garreth. Tell Lyall to take the refugees away. Then return."

  His gaze passed over them, settling on nothing.

  "The Crown is the law. The law has been broken."

  He brushed a speck of dust from his glove — stopped — then smoothed the leather again.

  "Spare only those under ten."

  The kneeling men begged— pleading, some in the common tongue, others in words Aurpius never heard before. He buried whatever remained of his humanity.

  All without magic were the weakest among beings who can wield the unnatural.

  Even him.

  Aurpius steeled himself against doubt.

  "M’Lord, we knew nothing of this! I swear!" their leader cried. "I beg you—allow me but a moment to show—"

  The moment never came.

  Garreth had already returned, breathing hard from the rush. Caellum moved.

  The rasp of steel leaving sheaths was a distant whisper while the old man’s hand reached his waist.

  Aurpius reacted.

  The ivory pipe at his belt snapped open. With a sharp twist, the carved tip revealed a hidden blade. The dagger flew before the man could draw breath.

  It struck him squarely between the eyes. The plea froze upon his lips as his body collapsed.

  Chaos erupted.

  Steel sang. The men tried but they couldn't even fight properly. Screams tore through the house as Paladin blades sealed every path. Blood sprayed across walls. The wet sound of bodies hitting the floor mixed with desperate cries that died mid-breath.

  Amid the carnage, Aurpius’s gaze fell upon the fallen leader. Something drove him to kneel and close the man’s staring eyes.

  But his lifeless fingers caught his attention.

  He hesitated.

  The violet-eyed prince searched the blood-soaked floor for sense, for justification. His eyes met Caellum’s—his hand flexed at his side, fingers curling once before flattening again.

  And for the first time in a while he saw himself on the edge of his own conscience. He hesitated.

  He couldn’t afford the there.

  they’d see his eyes or a lock of his hair.

  words spread out that the crown prince led the Paladin Crows.

  any of those had happened they would come for him.

  Aurpius did not stay the blades.

  Beyond these wooden walls, he cared about other lives. He could not allow a future shaped by vengeance or those he cared about becoming a target.

  He chose not to spare any life that might one day return for his own.

  Aurpius reached into the dead man’s pocket for the rigid shape of a wand—anything to justify the order.

  Instead, his fingers closed around a feather.

  He drew it slowly into the light.

  It was long, its colour impossibly red. Not the muted rust of a farm bird nor the dull crimson of dyed fletching, but a sovereign scarlet—the kind of red that didn't belong in dead men's pockets. The kind that shimmered even in torchlight, each barb catching light like fresh scratches.

  Those people couldn't afford such a thing.

  A tightening coiled low in him, then spread up his chest. Something in this was profoundly amiss.

  The massacre—the screams still echoing off the walls—suddenly felt like a play. Like he'd been led here.

  The blood on his hands never felt so heavy.

  Behind him, through the open door, he caught the refugees' faces. Horror. Disgust. They'd been saved from one nightmare only to witness another. Some wept. Others looked away.

  Yet an old woman, with grey hair, stared directly at him. A look far from gratitude. Somehow looking at that peasant’s eyes reflected exactly what he felt, a void.

  Aurpius tucked it into his pocket and rose - knowing he wouldn’t be able to let it go. Knowing who owned that kind of feather.

  Outside, charred wood and iron choked the air—blood clung to his boots as he found his horse. Bodies scattered the road; crimson pooled, then sank into thirsty earth, painting the simple, earthy village that it was.

  Aurpius watched Rowan—always the gentlest, the one who joined for protection not glory—distribute bread to the starving refugees. Watched Garreth and Quinn fastening irons around the wrists of the remaining Magicals. Watched Lyall approach with a question half-formed on his lips.

  "Should I fetch Bryn, Your H—" His man caught himself before revealing too much.

  “No.” He didn’t break stride. “Even if those filthy witches are beneath such use, Bryn walks. Bring him, and you walk with him.”

  He took Equesta’s reins and swung into the saddle of his horse, a blue-eyed beast that turned every ride almost poetic. Without a hood, his hair blended seamlessly with Equesta’s mane, as platinum as his.

  He considered ordering the bodies hung as a warning. Then a better idea came.

  "Garreth!" he shouted.

  The masked Paladin gave the bread to Rowan before looking at the crown prince.

  "Burn it all."

  Garreth inclined his head and went to carry out the order without hesitation.

  Flame consumed quickly. The crackle of burning wood caught their ears, sparks climbed hungrily into the dark, and soon fire consumed what had been homes, lives, futures. The heat pressed against Aurpius's back even from a distance.

  The cries of the chained rose with the smoke until even the crackling blaze could not drown them.

  Aurpius turned his horse toward the place supposed to feel like home — The Marbl. Not looking back, at least, not until there was light in the skies.

  By dawn, smoke was all that remained on the horizon behind them.

  The journey stretched five long days, the convoy forced into the patient rhythm of the slowest traveller. The scent of burnt wood and flesh faded quickly, replaced by the cool perfume of wet grass, wildflowers and the clean breath of earth.

  The Red Forest swallowed them whole—a vast woodland spanning the heart of Easeror, the bridge between north and south.

  Towering trunks rose like the pillars of his father’s vault. Amidst it, the shafts of light brought the autumn painting of the leaves—orange, yellow and stubborn green, a breath and living piece of art. Foxes darted between roots. Squirrels chattered from branches.

  The cold air wrapped around them—tender, beautiful. Peaceful. A beautiful lie.

  In Easeror, peace was but a distant dream. Even in times of quiet, those in power pursued their deepest ambitions without restraint — the feather in his pocket reminded him of that.

  The rush of recent days had dulled Aurpius’s senses; only now he grasped how long it had been since all of them last slept or ate.

  His body chose that moment to remind him. A low, traitorous growl stirred beneath his ribs.

  Beside him, his most trusted friend, Caellum cast an amused glance.

  "Even the highest-born bow to their bellies eventually." Caellum mocked. His grey eyes narrowing beneath his mask.

  "How in the name of the Hidden are we supposed to rest with all these people?" Garreth grumbled.

  "We split up, genius." Aurpius halted his horse. "By the Hidden, I could fall asleep in the saddle."

  “I’ll see to our supper. Who’s coming?” Garreth asked.

  “Lyall and I. Wait—” Caellum grabbed the youngest among the Paladins by the back of his cape.

  “Looks like we’re staying,” declared Rowan. “Come, let’s survey the perimeter,” Rowan told Quinn Duskhorn.

  One by one, they vanished between the trees. Leaving Aurpius to breathe.

  The refugees clustered together their faces drawn and hollow. Not far off, the chained Magicals sat in weary knots, their stillness heavier than any protest.

  Time passed without disturbance, and the tight coil within Aurpius’s chest began — slowly — to loosen.

  He leaned back against the broad trunk of an oak. The warmth of the sun settled across his features in a muted glow that relaxed him. Around, stretched a deep hush, stirred only by the murmur of leaves and the far, solitary cry of a bird.

  Soon enough, Garreth, Caellum and Lyall returned from the hunt, their frames dappled by sunlight.

  Too calm.

  As they neared, the air changed—an almost imperceptible shift raising the hairs on his neck

  The horses sensed it first—tossing their heads, hooves scraping the soil, leather straining as powerful muscles bunched beneath their harnesses. Equesta's nostrils flared.

  One by one, the refugees collapsed.

  Caellum dropped mid-step, the hare tumbling from his grasp. Then Garreth. Then Lyall. Then his other men. They sank gently to the ground as though some invisible hand guided them.

  No struggle. Merely sleep — sudden and absolute.

  But the Magicals. Those remained conscious—although without wands, they couldn't have conjured this.

  Aurpius's pulse thundered. He scanned the clearing.

  "Look!" A little Magical girl pointed straight at him. "He's not sleeping like the others!"

  Laughter rippled through the woods — high, lilting, and sharpened with mockery.

  Aurpius whipped his head from side to side. His mind raced. This was no ordinary spell; it was something far more insidious. He looked up, searching the rustling canopy but found only light and shadow.

  Then he looked ahead.

  Three slight figures slipped between the trunks.

  Long ears tapered to delicate points. Their skin seemed almost translucent beneath the sun, and their eyes — gold and rose — gleamed with irreverent delight.

  He'd heard the stories. Never believed them.

  "He will catch you!" The girl shrieked, clapping her hands in wild excitement while the Magicals broke into frantic pleas, their words tangled in a tongue he did not know.

  . The last thing he needed was a child giving him away.

  Fortunately, after exile Aurpius had a habit of preparing for the unexpected. His saddle-maker had crafted a special holder for a rapier—thin steel meant for clearing branches, not combat.

  Iron.

  He drew it swiftly, along with chains from Caellum's saddle, and crouched low, ready to intercept the approaching elves.

  The elves swept toward him like leaves on the wind.

  Aurpius lunged. He raised his weapon and the moment iron touched their skin, they crumpled with sharp cries of pain. Their skin reddened immediately where the metal contacted flesh, blistering.

  One began muttering in that same unknown language — a curse, perhaps, or a strangled spell.

  "Silence, idiot!" snapped the tallest, fury flashing across his fine-boned face. "Your stupidity got us caught!"

  Aurpius kept the iron pressed to their limbs as he secured the chains, ensuring there would be no sudden escape. Only when the last shackle was fastened did he allow himself to study them properly.

  For the briefest moment, a smile ghosted across his mouth.

  Burgundy linen blouses; pointed dark green shoes. Just as his Divgora had described in childhood tales—mischievous creatures who swapped objects around houses, causing chaos for their own amusement.

  The memory dissolved beneath a rise of angry Magical voices.

  Slowly the refugees and his paladins began to stir, yawning as if waking from a deep sleep. The elves, meanwhile, never stopped cursing the prince, still in incomprehensible words.

  "By the Goddess—elves!" Quinn Duskhorn's eyes went wide beneath his pointed nose mask, his voice higher than usual.

  "No kidding," Aurpius said dryly while fastening the chained creatures to Equesta’s saddle.

  As he tugged the first elf’s small fist to test the lock, the creature flinched. A darkening bruise marred the pale wrist right beneath the iron, the skin blistering and raw.

  Iron didn’t just suppress their magic — it burned them.

  Aurpius looked away. They were secure; that was what mattered. He'd witnessed worse tonight. Felt worse. Inflicted worse.

  "You there.”

  He turned back, brows drawing together.

  Quinn bristled at them. Aurpius lifted a quiet hand to still him before temper betrayed too much. No one here was meant to glimpse who lay beneath the masks.

  "What have you drunk today?" The pink-eyed creature demanded.

  Aurpius lifted one brow. "I beg your pardon?"

  “Have you, by chance, crossed paths with rizus—” began the narrow, golden-eyed one.

  The tallest struck him smartly. “Would you condemn us all with your tongue?”

  Aurpius thought.

  Pointed noses, hairless skin so pale it seemed almost translucent — and possessed of a clumsiness that sat oddly beside their reputed cunning.

  “Aliidhel,” said the pink-eyed elf, inclining his head with surprising composure.

  “A pleasure, Aliidhel,” Aurpius answered, faint amusement threading his voice. “Pius.” He offered, the name resting easily behind the shelter of his mask.

  “What is rizus?" Aurpius asked, mimicking indifference.

  “You have not slept, Syr.” The elf lent a curious weight to the title — whether in mockery or regard, Aurpius could not tell. “Either you have wandered near a protective plant… or—”

  "By the Holies, I feel like I slept for hours!" Duskhorn cut in, oblivious.

  The elf smiled faintly. “Or…”

  “Out with it,” Aurpius said, too quickly, too loud.

  Something about the elf's knowing unsettled him—as if the creature saw more than he should.

  "The elf forgets his place," the pink-eyed one replied smoothly, speaking of himself as though he were another. “Forgive me, Syr.”

  Aurpius studied him for a long moment. Whatever game this creature was playing, exhaustion dulled his appetite for riddles.

  "Shall we eat?" He turned toward the fire, where roasting meat had begun to scent the air. "Pinky—" He nodded at the elf. "We're not done. Hunger outweighs curiosity, for now. But I suspect to be some inhibitory thing. We have plenty of time until your new home."

  Aliidhel answered by cuffing the golden-eyed companion once more.

  Aurpius slipped his composure-mask back into place — arrogance upon his shoulders, indifference upon his mouth.

  As though none of it troubled him. As though he hadn't just slaughtered a village. As though the feather meant nothing. As though the boy's caramel eyes hadn't haunted him.

  The mask that used to be like a second skin.

  Never fit so poorly.