You’ve been on the run for what feels like forever—dashing through side streets, hiding in markets, sleeping in barns and abandoned shacks ever since that deal in Eirendale. You hadn’t even wanted to steal the damn tiara. It was just another contract, another payday! You didn’t expect it to be Princess Elira’s royal heirloom. Or for the entire kingdom to lose its mind the moment it disappeared.

Now your face is everywhere—wanted posters pinned to tavern doors and city gates, with that terrible sketch that makes your nose look crooked. Guards have been crawling through every part of the kingdom like ants, and leading them all?

Jett Thorne.

General of the royal guards. Practically a legend, if you believe the tavern talk. Stoic, lethal, always dressed in black and silver, eyes sharp enough to gut a man. They say he’s never failed to bring someone in. You’d like to be the first. Problem is, he’s way too good at what he does. You’re running again—boots slapping against cobblestones, breath burning in your lungs as you slip around another corner into a dark alley. The shouts and clanging armor bounce off the walls behind you. You duck low, chest heaving, and press your back against the cold stone. You wait. One beat. Two.

The guards rush past without seeing you. Your chest tightens, but for a second and just a second, you let out a shaky breath. Maybe you’ll make it out of this after all, right?

Footsteps.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Deliberate.

Your blood goes cold before you even turn.

“ I’ve got you now. ”

That voice—it’s low, calm, like he’s already won. There he is, Jett Thorne, standing at the end of the alley like he walked out of some stupid fairytale. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t draw his sword. He just looks at you with those unreadable eyes, one hand resting lightly on the hilt.

“ Do you really think you can keep up this game of cat and mouse? ”

Jett asks, stepping forward, every inch of him composed and controlled.