"Why are you glowing?" Vencian asked.
He stared at Quenya. The dim light cast off her skin, hair, and even her eyes. It wasn’t just a faint shimmer. It was a steady, bluish-white glow that illuminated her dark dress.
"What?" Quenya blinked, after which she looked down at herself. "Wait... I... what is this?"
She turned in the air, inspecting her arms, her legs, her floating hair. Her glow flickered slightly but held.
Vencian looked away. He caught sight of his reflection in the stream again. The rippling water blurred the image, but not enough to hide the obvious.
The sharp jawline was gone. The pale hair too. His features were softer, familiar. Not Vencian’s face. His own.
What happened? he thought. He did not try to alter a thing. Hadn’t wanted this.
A flicker of movement snapped his attention back to Quenya. Her glow began to dim. Her stance softened somewhat, akin to a drain opening in her.
He felt something shift. A thread inside his chest, pulled tight just moments ago, loosened.
Quenya floated lower, her limbs relaxing. Her color dulled back to normal. She looked tired.
And the reflection in the water showed Vencian’s face once again.
He stood up slowly. Brushed the dirt from his coat. Took a breath.
"That was... different," Quenya said. Her voice had a strange edge.
Vencian didn’t answer immediately. He stepped back toward the stream, watching as his reflection flickered, then returned to the sharp lines of Vencian Vicorra. "It felt... opposite. Like something slipped out instead of coming in."
Quenya floated beside him, visibly trying to shake off the fatigue. "I felt it too. Like something in me surged and then vanished. It wasn’t just you who changed."
"So we triggered something," Vencian said. "Something real."
She nodded. "It was you, but not in this body. And I was glowing. Not just light. It was pulling from me. Feeding something."
"Do you think that’s part of your purpose?"
Quenya tilted her head, uncertain. "I don’t know. But whatever happened, it happened because of you. Because your mind changed."
Vencian looked down at his hands. They looked steady now. Familiar. But for a few moments, they hadn’t.
"We talk about it later," he said. "We can’t stay here."
He didn’t ask anything else even though he wanted to.
It didn’t matter. Not compared to what was coming.
He turned to the horse. This was not Valnor. They didn’t have the luxury to choose their horses while escaping.
This poor thing was still restless. It had no idea what was chasing them. No idea it had become a liability.
Tracks in the snow. Easy to follow. Even a half-trained scout could do it.
He stepped forward and stroked its mane. It nickered softly.
A rough coil of rope was tied to the saddle, looped beside the blanket roll. Not for cargo. Not for weather. This was restraint rope—standard for prisoners. They had planned to bind him during the ride.
He untied it and shoved it into his satchel. Thin. Strong. Maybe useful.
"You’re going to keep going," he whispered to it. "But not with me."
He pulled the reins and pointed it toward the open field. A clear line through the trees. Still roughly in the same direction they had come.
He slapped its flank. Not hard, just enough.
The horse hesitated, then started forward.
Then he looked down at himself.
His cloak was fine cloth. Too fine. The edge of the Vicorra family crest was stitched into the lining. The latest_epɪ_sodes are on_the NovєlFіre.net
He removed the cloak and flipped it inside out. The inner side was plainer, without any sheen that might reflect the moonlight. He readjusted it, fastened it once more, and moved away.
He reached up and ran a hand through his pale hair. House Vicorra was known for it. It made him stand out. Especially here, in the middle of nowhere.
He knelt by the stream again and soaked a patch of cloth. Pressed it to his hair until the strands lay flat and damp. Then he wrapped it with the inside of the cloak’s hood.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was no longer obvious who he was.
And anyone who came too close.
Without another glance back, he turned and walked the opposite way
The cold hit faster once he stopped moving. Snow bit at his socks and boots. His cloak wasn’t thick enough for long exposure.
The pursuers would fan out. That was the smart thing to do.
They didn’t know which way he had turned. The horse trail was their best lead, so most would follow that. But not all. Someone would go off-track. Someone would search the woods.
That was who he needed.
He wasn’t running anymore.
He crouched low near a cluster of frost-covered stones. Not to hide. Just to think. Think like the enemy.
They would be cautious. Slow. Watching for tracks. Listening for movement.
He reached down and wiped the snow with his sleeve, trying to see the dirt beneath. It was hard to tell how loud he had been moving. He looked behind him. His own footprints weren’t subtle.
So he stopped leaving them.
Quenya guided him. She had a better sight in the dark than him.
He found a frozen log and followed it. Stepped on stone patches where he could. Moved through dry brush, light on his heels.
He was on foot. They had horses. It wasn’t a race he could win
And he wasn’t ready to confront them. Not yet. His sword stayed sheathed. He barely knew how to fight.
But he didn’t need to fight.
He just needed answers.
And fear spoke clearer than any sword.
He moved again, slower now. No more noise than a passing breeze.
Quenya stayed behind him, almost invisible again. She didn’t speak.
This wasn’t Vencian Vicorra anymore. This wasn’t a nobleman’s son playing the role he inherited.
This was someone else.
Vencian didn’t feel angry. He didn’t feel scared. He felt focused.
He would find one of them.
And when he did, he wouldn’t run.
And when the moment came, he would make them talk.
The answers he was set out to find.
He was done being hunted.
Somewhere far from the woods, light flickered in the early dark.
A man tightened the clasp of his riding gloves, his armor marked with the insignia of House Vicorra. His cloak was travel-worn, the colors dulled by dust.
Another man approached—older, in the uniform of a Vicorra knight. He stopped a few paces away and gave a short nod.
"We’re ready to move," the knight said.
The younger man turned. Auburn hair, bronze eyes. A sharper face than Vencian’s, less aristocratic, more defined by quiet anger.
He gave a single nod and stepped toward his horse.