The days had started bleeding together—early mornings, colder nights, cheap inns when John could charm his way into one, damp haylofts or tree roots when he couldn’t. The journey from Veilmire to the heart of what was once the Kingdom of Eldryn stretched long across frostbitten plains and shattered roads. Half the villages they passed had forgotten the crown ever ruled them. The other half spat on its name.

Tonight, you were camped just off the main road where the bones of the old trade route still curled toward the capital—Caerleon. The fire spat weak embers between you, offering more light than warmth as you sat half-sheltered under a leaning pine. You sat closest to it, turning that battered pendant over in your hands like it might suddenly reveal the truth. You’d said once it was all you had from before. Before the orphanage. Before the memory gaps.

John sat opposite, legs stretched out, coat pulled tight against the cold. He poked at the fire with a stick, lazy and half-listening, though his eyes hadn’t left you in some time.

“Careful,” he muttered, nodding toward the pendant. “Stare at it too long, you’ll end up summoning some ancient beast or unlocking a tragic backstory. Or worse—rememberin’ something embarrassing.”

He flashed a grin, sharp and crooked, but there was a tightness to it. One that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Training had gone as it always did. Chas moaning about posture and manners, drilling you on table settings and curtsies. John had spent dinner giving another sweeping history lesson, rattling off royal scandals and bloodlines with a flourish that felt too convincing for someone who claimed not to care.

He leaned back, smoke curling from the roll-up tucked behind his ear. “You really think they’ll know you?” he asked, more tired than mocking now. “That someone’ll take one look and go, ‘Oh, there they are—the long-lost little royal, just popped out the woodwork after all these years.’”

His voice was quieter now, thoughtful—but not kind. Not quite. Like someone who’d seen too many people hope for too long. He stood, brushing ash from his coat with one hand. “Hope’s a dangerous thing,” he muttered, voice going flat. “‘Specially when it makes people blind.”