CHAPTER 478: CHASING A SHADOW

"By the way," he pressed, his voice a little steadier now, "since you’re here... you must have seen Lady Shaya, the missing daughter of the Duke Cassius."

The name struck Netser like a sudden blow. His expression tightened before he could school it—just enough for Rolan to notice. His eyes flickered, betraying recognition, and then hardened again into ice.

For a heartbeat, the training yard noise in the distance faded. All Netser could hear was the memory of a girl’s whisper under moonlight, a vow carried away by the wind: I will not be traded like cattle. Not even for a crown.

He drew a slow breath, steadying himself. "Careful with your tongue, young man," he said at last, his voice low, dangerous. "Names like that should not be spoken in these halls."

Rolan blinked, then he studied Netser’s reaction. "Then it was her! I knew it!"

"No." Netser cut him off, sharp as a sword drawn from its sheath. His eyes locked on Rolan’s with a fury that dared him to push further. "I haven’t seen her. I saw someone with a similar visage, but it is not her."

"I could not be mistaken, it was her." Rolan insisted.

"Even if it was her, remember this. You saw nothing. You know nothing. If you value your life—you’ll forget what your eyes told you."

Rolan opened his mouth, then faltered. He had expected denial, perhaps laughter at his foolishness. Not this... not the weight of a secret pressed against his chest until it felt hard to breathe.

"You speak as if—" he began.

"I speak," Netser interrupted, stepping closer, "as a man with nothing left to lose. Test me, Rolan, and you’ll discover how little mercy remains in me."

The younger envoy swallowed hard, his bravado draining away. Yet in the depths of his fear, something else stirred—curiosity, dangerous and insistent. Why the big reaction from Netser?

"Are you in love with her?" Rolan’s eyes widened as the realization struck him.

Netser froze but only for a second.

"Don’t accuse me. Besides, you aren’t even sure if it was her."

Behind them, the silver-bearded envoy’s voice rang out again, sharp with impatience. "Rolan! Enough of this chasing shadows! We leave at once!"

Rolan tore his eyes from Netser, backing away with a stiff bow, his thoughts a storm. "This isn’t over," he whispered, too low for his father to hear, but just loud enough for Netser.

Netser did not answer. He only watched, his jaw tight, until the young man turned and hurried after his father. Only then did he allow the smallest exhale to escape him, his hand clenching at his side.

Shaya.

The name still burned in the air, heavier now than any sword in his grasp.

Netser stood where Rolan had left him, the echo of boots hitting the ground fading into the the distance. The dusk pressed close, thick with smoke from the kitchen, yet all he could hear was a single name still vibrating in the air.

Shaya.

It had been years since he had allowed himself to speak it, even in thought. Years of silence, of pushing her memory down where grief and vengeance could not corrode it further. To hear it aloud—spoken by an envoy of Westalis, no less—was like salt ground into an old wound.

He had loved her secretly for years. A love he could only keep in his heart.

He pressed his palm to the wall, breath sharp, as if the stones themselves might steady him. He had seen her earlier; he was sure of it now. A flicker of her face beneath the humble cap, the unmistakable way she carried herself despite the plainness of her clothes. Fire could not be disguised by ash.

But if Rolan had noticed her too, if he dared speak her name aloud, if Lady Shaya truly lived, if she walked these halls... then the danger had multiplied. And Netser knew—every whispered name had weight. A name spoken too loudly could draw predators from the dark.

For years, she had eluded hunters, vanished from every road and harbor. If she were truly here, in Northem, soon it would reach Westalis. The prince she was supposed to marry was a vengeful person. He would not accept that someone had the audacity to reject him.

His jaw tightened. What are you doing here, Shaya? Why now, after all this time?

He should have ignored it, should have buried it as he had so many times before. But the thought gnawed at him like hunger. He could not. Not this time.

...

That night, after the palace gates had quieted and the training fields emptied, Netser slipped away from his barracks. The moon hung low and heavy above the rooftops, cloaking the courtyards in silver and shadow. He kept to the edges, every sense alert, a soldier moving as though the ground itself might betray him.

His boots found the path toward the infirmary—the place where the women had gone, their baskets swaying. The smell of crushed herbs and smoke drifted from its shuttered windows. Voices murmured within, soft, indistinct, as healers worked through the late hours.

Netser hesitated in the shadows of the archway, his heart a drum in his chest. Every instinct warned him this was folly. If he sought her out and it truly was her, he risked dragging her into the light too soon. If he was mistaken, then he was chasing a ghost.

But ghosts did not carry baskets. Ghosts did not glance over their shoulders with the same eyes he remembered beneath the moonlight.

He edged closer, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword—not in threat, but in reassurance, a tether to reality. He peered through a narrow gap in the shutters.

Inside, the women moved among cots, their skirts brushing the floor as they tended to the sick. And there—by the far wall—was a figure that made his breath catch. Her cap was gone, and though her face was half-turned, he knew. Heavens, he knew. The curve of her jaw, the stubborn tilt of her chin.

Shaya. It was indeed her.

Netser’s hand tightened on the stone sill until his knuckles ached. Relief, fury, longing, and dread collided in him all at once. He had found her. But so had Rolan. And if the envoys of Westalis had caught her scent, then she would not remain safe for long.

His chest heaved with the weight of the choice before him. To stay hidden, to protect her secret, or to step inside and risk unraveling everything.

Netser closed his eyes, drawing in a slow breath. Whatever else the night held, one truth had already branded itself into him: the past had returned, and with it, dangers long buried.

And he could no longer pretend.