THE RETURN OF THE PRINCESS

​The mud of the Outer Rim didn’t care about royal blood. It clung to Elara’s boots, heavy and cold, dragging at her heels as she marched toward the gates of Aethelgard. ​Ten years. ​Ten years since they had tossed her over the cliffs like a broken doll, whispered "traitor" into the wind, and told the kingdom she was dead. They thought the ocean had swallowed her secrets. They were wrong. The sea had only washed away her innocence, leaving behind something much sharper. ​The Reunion ​As she approached the tavern at the edge of the capital, the smell of cheap ale and unwashed bodies hit her. It was a far cry from the scent of jasmine and polished marble she remembered. ​"One drink," she rasped. Her voice was a low growl now, scarred by the salt air of the salt mines where she’d spent her exile. ​The bartender, a man with a broken nose and eyes that had seen too much, slid a glass of amber liquid toward her. He lingered a second too long, his eyes catching the faint, silver shimmer of a scar peeking from beneath her hood—the mark of the Crescent Moon. ​"You're a long way from home, traveler," he whispered. ​Elara leaned in, her breath hitching. The air between them grew thick, charged with a sudden, dangerous heat. She reached out, her fingers brushing his calloused hand as she took the glass. It wasn't just a touch; it was a challenge. ​"I'm exactly where I need to be," she said, her voice dropping to a silk-soft murmur that made the bartender’s pulse jump in his neck. "And I’m looking for a man who used to call himself the King’s Shadow." ​The man stiffened. His eyes darkened with a mix of fear and an old, buried longing. "The Shadow is dead. He died the night the Princess fell." ​"Then," Elara whispered, leaning so close her lips almost grazed his ear, "you’d better start believing in ghosts."