Outside, the sky remained heavy and dim; the first light of day could not pierce the thick veil of clouds left behind by the night's rain. The dirt road was still damp, bearing the imprint of soldiers' boots as they busied themselves with gathering their belongings, preparing for departure. In the courtyard of the inn, there remained only a single wagon—an ungainly, roofless cart meant for transporting military gear, tents, and supply crates.

There was no carriage reserved for the wounded, nor any more convenient means of travel in this modest little town.

In his arms, Sir Darius carried the young woman, stepping with deliberate care across the threshold towards the wagon. His uniform jacket, now wrapped around her like a frail blanket, concealed both her disheveled, rain-soaked hair and her pallid face, flushed with fever. Each of his steps was firm yet gentle, as though he feared the slightest jolt might add to her suffering.

The soldiers who saw them merely stepped aside in silence. No one laughed, no one whispered. Perhaps they all knew that, in the army, compassion could itself be a form of discipline—quiet, unspoken, yet enduring.

Darius halted by the wagon, swiftly spread a clean tarpaulin over a corner of the load, and laid her down with meticulous care. Beneath the canvas lay neatly stacked bundles of gear—soft enough that they would not wound her further. He removed his outer cloak, adding another layer, then drew it up to cover her completely, leaving only her fever-reddened cheek exposed.

A gust of wind passed, bearing with it the faint mustiness of coarse fabric, mingling with the pounding of hooves from the stables beyond. He lifted his gaze towards the leaden sky, then lowered it again to adjust the collar at her throat.

"We shall be there soon."

His voice was low, dry, and uncertain—whether meant for her, for himself, or merely to fill the silence pressing upon his chest, even he could not say.

What stirred within him was not pity alone, but a subdued curiosity—one that lingered quietly, the sort of observing instinct belonging to men long accustomed to withholding interference, yet ever attentive to detail. At first he had thought her nothing more than a young lady of ordinary birth, perhaps returning from the provinces to the capital after the coronation, overtaken by rain and forced to seek refuge in the inn. Such occurrences were commonplace at the outset of summer.

And yet, the more he observed, the less the image seemed to fit.

That girl—with her pale, rain-worn hair and her eyes that seemed always fixed upon some distant place within her soul—did not resemble a lighthearted daughter of nobility.

Darius was not a man of excessive inquisitiveness, and yet the handkerchief she had left behind the night before persisted in his thoughts, like a question that would not be dismissed. He had folded it carefully and slipped it into his coat pocket, a soldier's instinctive tidiness, but his gaze had lingered on the silken fabric far longer than it should have. It was no fabric for common folk, nor even for the lower ranks of nobility.

Upon the ivory ground of the cloth, silver thread had embroidered the bloom of a rose in full flower. Not lavender, as he had mistaken at first glance. A rose—the emblem once belonging to the old Royal House, before Caelum Duclair ascended the throne and altered the fate of the realm.

Few remembered that symbol now, and fewer still could have preserved such a piece of embroidery, made exclusively for the ladies of the court. Darius, trained to notice every mark, every shade of meaning concealed within the smallest of signs, understood at once what it implied. Such handiwork was not only costly; it had been fashioned for those dwelling nearest to power itself.

That young woman could not be ordinary. However far she might have fallen, however poor her present condition, the fact that she still carried such an heirloom marked her as someone who had once lived close—perhaps perilously close—to the throne. She might be the daughter of some noble house brought low, perhaps kin to those who had once stood near the crown—or even... even someone who had once stood beside the Emperor himself.

Darius did not ask. Yet when he had lifted her from the shabby chamber that morning, and she had let her head sink wearily against his chest, something within him had stirred—a sensation altogether unfamiliar. Not because she was frail, nor because she was beautiful.

But because she bore with her a remnant of history—a relic slumbering within pages hastily folded and put aside.

A hundred questions pressed upon his mind, yet he forced himself into silence. Speculation hovered on his lips, but he swallowed it down as he had swallowed the cries of the wounded on the battlefield—a reflex born of discipline, a way of keeping himself steady.

Her identity, the rose embroidered upon her handkerchief—the emblem of a vanished dynasty—and those shadowed eyes that seemed to conceal a depth of sorrow untold, all compelled him to look once more, to study her more intently. But he forbade himself.

His duty was not to unmask the past of a fragile young woman. He was an officer of supply, not an inquisitor of the crown. And more importantly, she required healing—not the gaze of a man seeking mysteries within the great game of power.

Thus, throughout the journey, he remained seated at her side in silence, his thoughts kept as still as the white mist that veiled the town of Berlinard.