Blood and Ink

(Paige’s POV)

A single beat hangs still. The King gasps, uneven, fading, while crimson spreads sharp across the cold floor. That color stains everything.

A sudden roar tears through everything. Sounds crash like broken glass across the sky.

Chaos spills into the room as shouting swells from every corner. Noblemen bellow over one another while women cry out in sharp bursts. Clattering metal cuts through noise - guards shoving forward, weighed down by steel. At the center, the Chancellor flaps his hands like a wounded sparrow yelling for healers of the crown

Stiff as stone, my gaze holds on the King’s pale, lifeless expression. Cold as snow, his hand clung to me just moments before. That last grasp - tight, pleading - burns through me now. End it.

Out of nowhere, a thick hand grabs my arm, yanking me away from the stage. It’s Noah. He moves fast, placing himself right in front of me - like a barrier against the noise and motion behind us. Every muscle in his frame feels tight, ready to snap.

He asks if I am injured. His words come soft but fast, gaze locked on my face instead of the fading monarch.

Silence hangs heavy. His blood coats the page, not mine. The words leave my mouth like smoke - thin, cold. Fingers stay locked around the wide map, streaked gray with soot. Near the mark labeled central treasury, one wet bead of royal crimson sinks deep, sealing something unseen.

“Good.” His gaze sweeps the hall, calculating, dangerous. “This is a vacuum. And nature hates a vacuum. We need to leave. Now.”

That’s true. Shattered now is the shaky peace that held during the meeting. Grouped tightly near the back, Prestwick and his allies mutter fast under their breath, glancing sharp from the dead ruler to our position. Elsewhere, nobles push toward exits, piling up where the doorways narrow.

Alex materializes at Noah’s elbow, two of our northerners behind him. “The corridors are jammed. Everyone’s trying to get out or get closer. It’s a mess.”

“We go out the side entrance. The one by the servant’s stair,” Noah orders. He takes my hand, his grip firm. “Stay close. Do not let go.”

A cluster shifts - hard edges from the north adrift among soft chaos draped in fabric. Ahead, Noah parts the crowd just by being there. His gaze alone makes nobles step aside. The air changes where he walks.

Foot still brushing the low archway, sound slices through noise - sudden, firm, impossible to ignore.

“Stop them!”

Over there - Greymont. He lingers near the dais, ringed by his men. His gaze skips the king entirely. It lands on us instead, twisted into something sharp and satisfied. A grin cuts across his face like a wound. "Traitors," he spits. The duke and that woman of his - they’ve poisoned the crown with dark work. Take them."

A blade-like charge cuts the air. Shock spreads in waves, voices rising as if pulled by strings. Hesitation grips the guards - duty tugs one way, sudden orders another.

Onward Noah pushes. The side door flies wide. “Don’t listen - just move - he’s stalling.”

Footsteps echo down a narrow passage where light barely reaches. From behind us, the great hall fades into quiet, its noise swallowed by stone walls. Ahead, only shadows stretch along cracked tiles under flickering bulbs. Somewhere deeper inside the structure, metal clangs - sharp, sudden - a sound that makes us freeze. Breathing slows. Ears strain toward the dark beyond the next corner.

“He’s laying the groundwork,” Noah growls as we run. “If the king dies, he needs a scapegoat. And we’re it. A perfect story: the vengeful northern witch, rejected by the crown, uses her dark arts to murder the king.”

Terror, colder and sharper than any I’ve felt, lances through me. It’s a trap more elegant than any army. “The note… ‘the balcony awaits’… it was never about Beatrice. It was to rattle us, to make us look guilty before this happened.”

The grit in Noah's voice matches the tension across his face. A pause comes before he speaks again, low and certain. "This was never sudden - just timed." At the hallway split, he shifts sideways, checking beyond the wall. Silence stretches until he moves. "We go right now. Rooms above, past two stair climbs."

Up we rush, the tight back staircase shaking under our steps. Each breath hits hard, fast, my pulse drumming through bone as I grip the case - red stains smearing the cover - to me like it might save my skin.

Down the hall we rush toward our chambers. Outside stand the pair of sentinels, watchful now, fingers resting on blade hilts. A sharp wail slices through the wood - Lysander’s voice, frail and raw. That noise hooks deep, drags something up from within.

“My lord!” one guard says. “We heard commotion - ”

“The King has fallen. Greymont is crying witchcraft. We’re targets,” Noah snaps. “Bar the door. Nothing gets in.”

In through the door we go. Elara, the woman who feeds the baby, walks back and forth holding little Lysander, who whimpers without pause. Her eyes land on us - suddenly she stops moving. Silence follows.

That’s it, just one word from Noah: trouble.

Running toward her, I gather up my boy. As soon as he lands against me, his sobs fade into shaky breaths. This weight in my chest steadies everything else that wobbles. Nose buried in the crook of his neck, I pull in the scent like air after drowning. They won’t take you. Not while I’m here.

Already heading for the window, Noah checks how far down it is. Too high a fall. Trapped, he thinks out loud. Facing Alex now, he asks about their people at Highvale - how many are ready inside

“Twenty, including us here. The rest are with the horses at the outer stables.”

“Send a runner. Have them armed and ready at the postern gate in the lower wall. The one by the old grain store. Quietly.”

With a quiet dip of his head, Alex steps away into the hall. The door closes behind him without a sound.

Noah paces, a caged predator. “Greymont won’t try a direct assault on our rooms. Not yet. He’ll use the chaos, let the rumor fester, let fear do his work. Then he’ll come with ‘royal authority’ to arrest us for regicide.”

Out of nowhere, the words come: "We need those letters," cutting through the worry stuck in my chest.

Stillness takes over his body. A question slips out - what kind of signs had been seen?

The penance. You set fire to the paper he kept on him, mentioning I was next. Though Alex mentioned extra items tucked inside his bag. Anyone go searching later on? Not that it matters now. Could it be true then - Greymont brought him on not only to take me, yet also to unravel the North ahead of marching in? That every move was stitched together toward one aim: seizing control himself?

Noah’s eyes ignite. He strides to the door, yanks it open, and speaks to the guard outside. “Find Gareth. Now. Tell him to meet me in the armory. And bring the assassin’s pack. All of it.”

Pressing his forehead to the heavy wood, he shuts the door slow. A beat passes before he looks up. His expression now set like stone. Should evidence exist, things might shift. Present it in court - reveal him as the one who betrayed us, never us

What if it’s not there? I say, barely above a whisper.

Three steps carry him across the floor. Not reaching for Lysander, he frames my face with both hands, thumbs grazing my skin. Fierce eyes lock onto mine, steady like stone. Night is coming - we move then. Escape begins when we leave together, heading north with Lysander between us. He stares at me, waiting. Hold on to Blackstone till things turn serious. That is what he wants. Is it something you can manage? Walk away from everything here. Just like that

That map still lives in my portfolio. The king’s red fingers stain the edges. A weak idea of a new realm sits penciled near the border. My husband stares ahead, jaw tight. Our boy watches me, his gaze steady, expecting nothing but truth.

“I can leave anything,” I whisper, the truth solidifying in my core. “As long as we’re together.”

His lips meet mine, sudden and sharp, locking the word in place. Together

A knock cuts through the quiet. Apart we pull, sudden. In walks Alex, shadowed by Gareth, who carries the old leather pack of Penance.

“We looked through it for obvious threats, my lord,” Gareth says, his northern burr a comfort in the gilded prison. “Standard gear. We missed nothing obvious.”

“Look again,” Noah commands, dumping the contents onto the table. “Every seam. Every lining. The man was a ghost. His secrets won’t be in plain sight.”

There we are, huddled by the table - me clutching Lysander tight, Noah beside Alex, Gareth watching close. Among us lie ordinary things: a whetstone worn down, wire curled like a resting snake, strips of old meat, a little flask giving off sharp fumes. Hope slips away, quiet-like.

A small bump stops my hand inside the bag’s fabric. Something’s off about it - too thick where it should be smooth. Found it

A blade slips out of Noah's boot - his fingers steady as they cut through thread. The seam gives way under slow pressure. Back comes the leather, lifted like old secrets uncovered.

Over there, you see them. They just show up like that.

A single slip of paper, creased tight into a tiny square. Held shut by dull gray wax - just like what sealed the message Noah watched turn to ash.

His hands are steady as he breaks the first seal. He scans it, his eyes narrowing. “Instructions. Payment schedules for the Penance. Signed with a cipher, but the details… they mention troop movements near the northern border. Dates from before the siege.” He looks up, a savage satisfaction in his eyes. “Greymont was planning his invasion long before he had any ‘provocation’ from us.”

He opens the second. This one is shorter. He reads it aloud, his voice like gravel. “‘The witch is the key. Her death is preferable, but her capture will break the mountain’s spirit. The king’s illness provides the perfect cover. Chaos is our ally.’”

A plan that matches what's unfolding today - nothing more, nothing less.

Not the same, that third letter. Deep blue replaces the usual grey seal. With a snap, Noah opens it. No code here - just clean, known handwriting. A note about the king. His body weakening, day by day. Weather shifts the judge’s patience. Peak chances arrive when silence hangs heavy.

A mark is there instead of a signature. Not letters, just a tiny sketch left behind.

A soft white bloom, shaped just right. Its petals open slowly under morning light.

Beatrice’s sigil.

A chill fills the space. Not gone, just waiting. Her influence lingers like breath on glass. From within those locked walls she speaks - quiet, steady. Passing secrets piece by piece. Pushing Greymont forward without force.

“He wasn’t working alone,” I breathe, horror washing over me. “He had an editor.”

Noah gathers the letters, his face a storm. “This is it. This is our proof. Treason. Conspiracy to commit regicide using the king’s own illness as a weapon. Greymont doesn’t just want us dead. He wants the throne.”

A glance comes my way, then drifts toward the stained map resting next to those accusing papers. The room holds its breath.

“The king asked you to finish it,” he says, a new, relentless light in his eyes. “So let’s finish it. We take this to the hall. Now. While the chaos is still fresh, before Greymont can solidify his story.”

“He’ll have guards. He’ll deny it,” Alex warns.

“Then we’ll see who the court believes,” Noah says, tucking the letters inside his tunic. “The grieving nephew of a dying king? Or the man holding proof of a conspiracy, standing with the woman who just showed them a future worth fighting for?”

There he is, reaching toward me. Not so I follow close at his back. But that we move forward together. His fingers open - not a shield, not a barrier - just space made for another.

Through the map my eyes trace, stained with the King’s blood. My child rests against me, breathing slow. Bridges come to mind, then snow breaking loose, moments that carve who you become.

His fingers close around mine. The touch feels steady, real. Not much is said. Just walking together changes everything.

“Together,” I say.

Then we pivot, meeting the wolves eye to eye.