Chapter 1: The Dying Man’s Secret

The rain was a curse that night. It turned the cobblestone streets of Thornfield into slick, treacherous rivers and drove every sensible soul indoors. I was not sensible. I was a tavern maid with a chipped bucket and a dead patron’s coin purse, sent out to fetch more ale from the cellar before Old Margery skinned me alive.

The cellar door was at the back of The Rusty Flagon, tucked between a pile of rotten crates and the alley’s endless stench of piss and cheap wine. I’d nearly reached it when I heard the sound—a wet, rattling gasp. Human. And close.

I froze. Danger was a language I spoke fluently in this city. But the gasp came again, weaker, and something in my chest tightened. I took a step forward, peering into the shadows where the alley curved, and there he was.

A man, crumpled against the brick like a discarded doll.

He was dressed in clothes too fine for this part of town—dark velvet, torn now, glistening with rain and something darker. Blood. A crimson bloom spread across his chest, and a knife hilt jutted from his ribs. His face was pale as the moon, streaked with mud, but I could see the sharp cut of his jaw, the aristocratic slope of his nose. He was a noble. A dead one, soon.

I should have walked away. I’d learned long ago that the rich only brought trouble to girls like me.

But his eyes fluttered open, and they found mine. A startling shade of storm-grey, bright with desperation and a flicker of something else—recognition? No. That was impossible.

“Please,” he rasped. His voice was a ruin, hoarse and gurgling. “You have to… take it.”

I knelt beside him, heart hammering. “Take what? Who did this to you?”

He didn’t answer. His hand shook as he reached into his torn shirt, and when he pulled it out, the breath left my lungs. A pendant, forged of gold so pure it seemed to glow even in the dim light, hung from a broken silver chain. An eagle, wings spread, clutching a crown in its talons. The royal sigil of Eldoria.

I’d seen it once, painted on a banner during a parade. It was the symbol of the king.

“I’m no one,” I said, fear tightening my throat. “I can’t—I can’t take that.”

“You must.” His fingers closed over mine, and they were cold, so cold. “They killed my brother. They’ll kill me. But you—you’re the last one. She told me. The old woman said… she said you’d be here.”

My blood turned to ice. The old woman. There was only one—a mad crone who lived on the edge of the forest, who told fortunes for copper coins and smelled of rot. She’d grabbed my wrist three nights ago at the market, her eyes milky-white, and whispered, “The crown will find you, little bird. Do not refuse it.”

I’d laughed it off. I’d called her a drunk.

“I don’t understand,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Who are you?”

“Prince Alaric,” he choked. “Of the house of Thorn. And you… you are the hidden heir. The daughter of the king.”

The world tilted. The king had no daughter. The king had one son, Prince Alaric, and a younger brother who’d died in a hunting accident. The realm knew this. I knew this because I was a tavern maid who memorized gossip to survive.

“That’s not possible,” I said. “I’m an orphan. I have nothing. I’m no one.”

“You are everything.” He coughed, and blood spilled over his lips. “Your mother was the queen’s lady-in-waiting. She hid you when the usurper struck. She gave you to the orphanage. But the bloodline is true. The pendant—it only responds to royal blood. Take it.”

I stared at the pendant. It was warm in my hand, impossibly warm, as if it had a heartbeat of its own.

“Take it,” he repeated. His eyes were losing focus, the grey misting over. “Find the loyalists. The hidden circle. They’ll protect you. And avenge—avenge us.”

“Alaric, I don’t know how to do any of that!” I cried. I slapped his cheek, trying to keep him awake. “I pour ale. I scrub floors. I can’t fight a war!”

“You can,” he whispered. And then, so faintly I almost missed it, he said, “Ella.”

My name. How could he know my name?

“The old woman called you that,” he rasped. “Three days ago. I was watching. She said… she said you’d be here tonight. She said you’d save me.”

“I can’t save you.” Tears burned in my eyes. “Look at you. I can’t do anything.”

He smiled, a fragile, broken thing. “You already did. You saw me. No one else did. That’s—that’s more than I got from my own court.”

A sound echoed from the main street—boots, many of them, pounding against the wet stone. Voices, sharp and cruel, shouting orders to search the alley.

Alaric’s grip tightened on my wrist. “They’re here. Run. Hide the pendant. And Ella—don’t trust anyone who wears a silver rose. The usurper’s men. They’ll find you.”

“I can’t leave you!”

“You already have.” He coughed again, a wet, terrible sound. “You were never here. You saw nothing. Go.”

The boots grew closer. I had seconds, maybe less. I looked at him—at the dying prince who’d given me a name I didn’t want and a destiny I couldn’t comprehend. And then I did the only thing I could.

I pressed the pendant to my chest and ran.

Behind me, I heard him exhale. One long, final breath. And then, in a voice that carried over the rain, he called out one last word—my name, but not my name.

“For Eldoria.”

I didn’t look back. I burst through the tavern’s back door, past the cellar, and collided with Old Margery, who shrieked and dropped her mug.

“Witch!” she hissed. “Where’s the wine?”

I was still clutching the pendant, its warmth searing against my palm. I opened my mouth to lie, but the front doors of the tavern smashed open, and three men in dark cloaks strode in. Each wore a silver brooch shaped like a rose.

The usurper’s men.

Their eyes swept the room. They stopped on me.

And I felt the pendant burn.