Swynden rose before them, sprawling and unfamiliar.

  The capital of Milana had not been Milana’s in Callista’s lifetime. Iona had held it for as long as she could remember, its banners draped over the city’s bones, its presence woven into the streets like a stain that could not be scrubbed away.

  She had read of the city’s grandeur in history books, traced her fingers over faded maps, and imagined the towering spires and bustling markets in the quiet hours of the night. She had dreamed of the city her distant family had once ruled— not the one she was now entering.

  The banners of Tormevi blue and silver were long gone, replaced by Iona’s deep crimson and gold. The once-proud marble facades of the noble quarter were dulled by soot and grime, their balconies empty where they had once overflowed with flowers. The streets felt narrower than she had imagined, not because they had changed but because occupation had a weight, and it pressed in from all sides.

  And the people—

  Callista had expected suspicion. Perhaps even fear.

  What she had not expected was exhaustion.

  The eyes that flickered toward them held no spark of curiosity, no trace of the pride that had once defined Milana’s heart. The people moved like ghosts, heads bowed, hands tucked close to their bodies as if afraid to draw attention.

  This was not a city waiting for freedom. This was a city that had learned to survive.

  The buildings bore scars, not of war but of occupation. Of power shifting to irresponsible hands. A burned-out husk of a temple, doors chained shut. A statue, once grand but now decapitated, broken pieces left to crumble in the gutter. A row of gallows, empty but waiting.

  Callista clenched her hands at her sides. This was not the city her ancestors ruled.

  But it would be again.

  Duchess Callista Nazenne Ettaria of Byfox, straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and strode forward like she belonged. Because she did.

  Melissa adjusted the straps of her pack, glancing sidelong at Callista. So, uh. We’re just walking in?”

  “Yes,” Callista said, voice crisp.

  “No sneaking?” Brenna asked, a note of hope in her voice.

  “No sneaking,” Callista confirmed.

  Brandon let out a low sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Callista...”

  She turned on her heel to face them. “I am the Duchess of Byfox,” she said, enunciating each syllable as though daring them to argue. “Great-niece of the queen. I will not hide.”

  Julia, to her credit, did not argue. Instead, she tilted her head, expression assessing. “So we’re making an entrance.”

  “Yes,” Callista said.

  Melissa let out a short laugh. “Well. That’s going to be fun.”

  Gorgoloth clicked his mandibles in what sounded suspiciously like agreement.

  The guards at the city gates barely spared them a glance as they passed into Swynden proper. The streets were alive with the hum of midday traffic— merchants hawking their wares, children darting between carts, couriers on horseback weaving through the flow of people. The scent of fresh bread and roasting meat clashed with the ever-present undercurrent of damp stone and horses.

  Callista ignored it all. She moved with purpose, the others falling into step behind her as they crossed the stone-paved roads toward the palace.

  The guards at the palace gates, unlike those at the city entrance, did not ignore them.

  “Halt,” one of them commanded, stepping forward, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His eyes flicked over their group, lingering on Callista’s battered but tailored coat and the steel in her gaze. “State your business.”

  Callista did not hesitate. “I am Callista Nazenne, Duchess of Byfox, heir of Tormevi blood, and I have come to reclaim my place.”

  A silence settled over the street. A few passersby slowed, eyes widening as they caught the name— Byfox. The name of a land swallowed by the Mirrorwood, of a bloodline that should have been long dead.

  The guard hesitated, mouth opening, then closing.

  Callista’s lips curled into something that was almost a smile. “I would strongly advise you to let my party and me in.”

  The second guard— a woman with a scar across her cheek— narrowed her eyes but did not move to stop them. Instead, she murmured something to the first, who cursed under his breath before turning back to Callista.

  “...Wait here,” he said stiffly, before disappearing through the palace gates.

  Callista exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she turned to the others. “See?” she said, smug. “Proper channels.”

  Melissa smirked. “Oh yeah. Real proper.”

  Brandon crossed his arms. “You do realize we just announced our presence to every political schemer in the city, right?”

  Callista arched a brow. “Good. Let them know I’m back.”

  From behind her, Gorgoloth clicked his mandibles.

  And Swynden waited.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Swynden’s palace had once been the heart of Milana’s power, its marble halls echoing with the voices of rulers who shaped the land. Now, it was a place of quiet tension, of hushed whispers behind hands and half-finished decrees gathering dust on the council tables.

  Callista walked through its corridors as if her family had never left.

  The guards led them through high-arched doorways into the throne hall— though there was no throne. Instead, two seats of dark wood sat side by side on the raised platform, three banners framing them. On the left was the green-and-iron of the Rummi family, on the right the white-and-black of the Geurlas. And in the middle was the Ionian national banner, gold and red as blood.

  Adela Rummi and Onesta Geurla sat in those chairs, and the distance between them might as well have been an ocean.

  Adela was sharp angles and cold ambition, with her dark hair pinned in a severe braid and her crimson robes carefully arranged. She looked at Callista as one might regard a ghost— half-wary, half-disbelieving.

  Onesta was her opposite in every way: older, stockier, her gray curls left loose around her shoulders. Her fine garments were practical but worn at the edges, her fingers ink-stained from a life spent writing orders no one obeyed. She squinted at Callista with something approaching disdain.

  “So,” Adela murmured, leaning forward. “The lost duchess of Byfox graces us with her presence.”

  Callista lifted her chin. “And you should be grateful.”

  The court erupted in whispers. Isn’t she dead? Byfox is lost to the Mirrorwood— what claim does she even have. Look at her veins. Darkened. Is she... Cursed?

  Callista heard it all. She did not care.

  Melissa stood with her arms crossed, clearly holding back a smirk. Julia. ever the diplomat, kept her expression carefully neutral. Brandon remained at Callista’s side, as steady as ever, while Brenna shifted uncomfortably, glancing around at the muttering nobles. Gorgoloth, to his credit, remained impressively still, though his eight eyes flickered toward anyone who spoke too loudly.

  It was Adela who finally broke the silence. “You arrive in our city, unannounced, and expect us to believe you are who you say you are?” She raised a single dark brow. “What proof do you have?”

  Callista smiled coldly. “I have my name. I have my blood. And if that’s not enough, I have my power and the experience of fleeing my burning home in the night.”

  Adela’s lips twitched at the corner, though whether in amusement or irritation was unclear. “Name and blood don’t mean much when your duchy is gone.”

  Callista stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “Gone,” she repeated, her voice quiet but cutting. “Or taken? I have been through too much to be denied.”

  Onesta let out a long-suffering sigh. “We do not have time for old claims.” She rubbed at her temple as if fending off a headache. “Swynden has enough problems without ghosts dredging up the past.”

  Adela shot her a glare, then smiled sweetly at Callista. “Perhaps a ghost is exactly what we need.”

  The tension between them was palpable. It was no secret that the two co-rulers distrusted each other— Adela, the cold strategist who believed in rule by force, and Onesta, the exhausted bureaucrat trying to keep the city from falling apart under the weight of indecision. The council was deadlocked on nearly every issue, half favoring Adela’s ruthless pragmatism, the other half clinging to Onesta’s fraying ideals.

  It was why Swynden stagnated. Why the city waited in uneasy silence, caught between two rulers who could not stand each other.

  “Well,” Callista said finally, sweeping her gaze across the court. “Since you are clearly desperate for leadership, allow me to offer my services.”

  Adela smirked. Onesta sighed. And, somewhere in the palace, people listened.

  The whispers still echoed through the throne hall, murmurs of disbelief and unease rippling outward like cracks in old stone. Callista stood at the center of it, spine straight, chin lifted, utterly unshaken. “I didn’t come here to play court politics,” she said, her voice steady and clear. “I came here to end the Curse.”

  Silence. Then— laughter.

  Adela was the first to chuckle, low and amused, shaking her head as she leaned back in her seat. Onesta’s laugh was more of a disbelieving huff, half a scoff and half sheer exhaustion.

  “Oh, you are going to end the Curse?” Adela said, a smirk curling her lips. “And how, exactly, does a what— twenty-year-old?— plan to accomplish what the greatest minds of the last thirty years could not?”

  “I don’t care how old I am.” Callista met Adela’s gaze without flinching. “I know the Mirrorwood better than any of you ever will. I lived it.” She flexed her fingers at her sides, as if resisting the urge to show them the darkened veins creeping beneath her sleeves. “And I won’t stop until it’s done. Either we end the Curse, or we die trying.”

  Onesta sighed, rubbing her temple as though warding off an impending migraine. “Saints above,” she muttered. “It’s like listening to a character in a badly written play.”

  Adela smirked. “The Duchess Who Died Twice— has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  Melissa let out a low whistle. “Damn. Y’all are mean.”

  Callista ignored them. “Mock me all you like,” she said coolly. “But what’s your alternative? Wait another thirty years and hope it just... fixes itself?”

  That, at least, sobered Onesta. She exhaled heavily, rubbing at the space between her brows.

  Adela, however, seemed more entertained than anything. “Your confidence is charming, truly. But there is more at work here than you realize. The Curse is not something you can simply fix with sheer determination.”

  “I know that,” Callista snapped. “But someone has to do something.”

  Adela tapped her fingers on the armrest of her chair, studying Callista with something like curiosity. “You really mean it, don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  The silence stretched long. Then Onesta let out another sigh, this one almost amused. “Well, if you’re determined to throw yourself at a problem that’s killed better people than you, far be it from us to stop you.”

  Adela hummed in agreement. “Though if you insist on chasing impossible answers, you may as well start with Evadne Sharmure.”

  The name sent another ripple through the gathered nobles, some shifting uncomfortably, others exchanging glances.

  Callista narrowed her eyes. “I’ve heard the name.”

  “I imagine you have.” Adela’s smirk turned sharper. “She’s been... advising us on the matter for quite some time. Among others”

  Onesta’s mouth twitched. “Advising. That’s one way to put it.”

  Callista glanced at Brenna, who gave the barest nod. They had heard rumors of Evadne over the years, of her quiet influence over both rulers, of the way she whispered in ears and pulled strings that no one else could see.

  Adela gestured vaguely toward the far end of the chamber. “She’s expecting you.”

  Callista arched a brow. “Is she?”

  Adela’s smirk deepened. “Evadne always knows when someone is coming.”

  Callista’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Instead, she turned sharply on her heel, striding toward the chamber doors with the others falling into step behind her.

  “Oh, Lady Byfox?” Adela called from her throne. “You will be given a suite of rooms as befits a woman of your station. There will be room for your companions as well. Do stay awhile, will you?”

  Callista ignored her.

  Melissa leaned in as they walked, muttering under her breath. “So, let me get this straight. We just announced ourselves as a problem, got laughed at, and were sent off to talk to a creepy mystery woman?”

  “Yes,” Callista said.

  Melissa clicked her tongue. “Love that for us.”

  Brenna, beside them, exhaled softly. “Callista.”

  Callista didn’t stop walking. “I know.”

  Because despite the bravado, despite the way she had stood firm against their mockery, she knew one thing for certain.

  Evadne Sharmure wasn’t just expecting her. She had been waiting.