The cobbled streets of the market square were quiet at this hour, the torches lining the stone walls flickering in the cool night breeze. Most of the merchants had long packed away their wares, leaving behind only a few stragglers and the distant laughter of tavern-goers spilling from open doors. Alistair walked beside her, his steps measured, his expression as calm as ever.

Here, he was Elias, just another commoner weaving through the city’s winding alleys. Not a prince of Viremontis. Not a fugitive. Just a man trying to live unnoticed.

But then, something shifted.

A shadow moved near the edge of the square. A hooded figure, standing too still, watching. Alistair knew the feeling of being hunted, knew how the air changed when eyes lingered too long. His breath slowed, his muscles tensed—then he acted.

Before she could react, he seized her wrist and pulled her into the narrow passage between two stone buildings, the scent of damp stone and earth thick in the air. He pressed a hand gently over her lips, his own breath steady, listening.

A pause. Then—footsteps. Slow. Searching.

His pulse thundered in his ears, but he waited. And when the footsteps finally faded, his grip loosened. He turned to her, his green eyes sharp in the dim light.

“I never meant to involve you in this,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “But you need to know the truth,” a pause, his expression unreadable.

“My name isn’t Elias. It’s Alistair. Prince Alistair.”