Nora woke to birdsong. Sunlight flooded the windows. She stretched, disoriented, then slid her legs over the bed's edge. The room gleamed spotless. The smell of baked bread drifted from downstairs. Yesterday's silence was gone. The villa pulsed with movement—servants darted through the hall, linens snapped tight over furniture, and silverware clattered.
Her heart skipped a beat as a man filled the doorway. Time had carved grooves around his eyes and mouth. Steel-grey hair framed tanned skin stretched over his high cheekbones. His glacier-blue gaze pinned her. Calloused hands hung motionless at his sides. Sleeves rolled up revealed scarred forearms. He stood like stone. The air thickened until the servant polishing candlesticks halted mid-motion.
The man moved swiftly to Nora's side, his gaze sweeping over her. "Young lady!" he blurted, voice filled with concern barely masked by relief. His calloused hands gripped her shoulders.
"I'm fine, Jareth. Why are you here?"
Jareth's fingers pressed harder into her flesh as he bent closer. "I rushed here as soon as I heard about the assassination attempt," he murmured, his breath stirring the hairs at her temple. "The Master's orders—for your protection—and the investigation." His jaw flexed like granite.
Nora's mind spun. An assassination attempt? Her spine stiffened as his words sank in.
The two guards who had shadowed her every move since her arrival in the city stepped forward. "Forgive us, young mistress," one murmured, his head bowed low. "We have failed in our duty."
Tears blurred Nora's vision, and her voice cracked as she shouted, "Clark! Connor! You're here too?"
Clark lowered his gaze. "We shadowed you from the mansion's gate, young mistress. The Fifth Mistress ordered us to protect you without intrusion."
"She did?" Nora's tone held a tint of anger and spite. "She could've just left me for the wolves. Am I supposed to owe her now?"
Clark and Connor lowered their gaze and clenched their jaws in silence.
"Ahem," Jareth cleared his throat.
"This threat carries weight," he said, flicking his wrist to dismiss Clark's and Connor's greeting. "The Assassin Guild's contracts don't come cheap. Whatever shadows pursue you…" His eyes hardened. "...they danced with power and wealth."
Cold sweats trickled down Nora's spine. The fragmented clues—watchful shadows, peripheral movements, and sleepless nights gnawed by dread—finally clicked into place.
She studied the tension bracketing Jareth's mouth and the deliberate stillness of his hand. She leaned away from his grip. "What aren't you saying?" His pupils constricted—a subtle tell—before his practiced composure snapped back into place.
"We can't make any reckless speculation, young lady," he rumbled, the gravel in his voice worn smooth by decades of swallowed truths. The thumb brushing her collarbone betrayed him; it trembled at those words, refusing to believe his own tongue.
"But mark this—no shadow walks where I cannot follow. You'll have your answer. Whole."
—
Nora felt relieved to have Clark, Connor, and Jareth nearby; their presence was a comfort, far better than being accompanied solely by a maid. But that comfort came with its own unease—heat crept up her neck whenever the two bodyguards flanked her in class. Their constant shadowing was impossible to ignore. While the Academy students carried on with their routines, seemingly indifferent to her entourage, one pair of eyes stood out. Gerral's.
His frustration grew more palpable each day during sparring matches. Every lunge he aimed at Nora met interference: a well-timed rock deflection from Connor or a subtle slowing spell from Clark tilting the match in Nora's favor.
Gerral's anger burned hotter as the sparring session wore on. Pride chewed at him raw—he'd once dominated these matches, but now Nora's guards reduced every strike to futility. When Clark's spell thickened the air around his arm yet again, he snapped. "Is this even a fight anymore?" he spat with bared teeth. "Call off your hounds and face me properly, coward!"
Nora tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips. "Slow reflexes aren't my problem," she retorted, sidestepping his delayed attack with ease. The retort hit its mark—Gerral's face flushed red. She relished the reaction; his temper always made him sloppier.
Gerral edged closer to Nora. Clark and Connor shifted in unison, gazes fixed on him. Tension crackled. The bodyguards stood ready to intercept his next strike.
"Instructor?!" Gerral pleaded with Ms. Silvermine. She turned her back, murmuring: "I saw nothing. I can't intervene. You shouldn't have challenged the Dawn."
CLANG!
Gerral hurled his trident at a stone. Nora chuckled. She aimed her sword at his throat. "Connor says you've been trailing me every morning. Explain."
Gerral's flush deepened. "What? Every morning? That's a lie. I only did it once."
"So you admit it. Now, why were you following me?"
"I—I wasn't following you. I was just curious about what you were doing outside the city. There are monsters in the woodlands—I'm just making sure you aren't getting into trouble."
"So you were worrying about me?" she smirked.
"No one cared about you!" Gerral snapped. "I was making sure you didn't lure any monster into the city!"
The jab cut deeper than Nora expected. Before she could stifle the impulse, her sword flew from her hand. Gerral stumbled back, barely avoiding the blade. "Are you crazy!?" he shouted. "You're trying to kill me!?"
She stuck out her tongue, a mocking gesture that was unbecoming of a noble lady.
Meanwhile, Alan and Sylas tumbled through their usual comical chase, laughter echoing until Sylas tripped over Gerral's discarded trident. He stumbled sideways and collided with Nora.
Connor darted forward in an instant—Tha-Thud! Oof-oof—Sylas' flailing form slammed against the academy's wall. The impact left the boy slumped and motionless.
"Young mistress, are you alright?" Connor's hands steadied Nora upright.
She rubbed her elbow, gaze shifted to Sylas' limp form. "I'm fine, Connor."
Alan checked Sylas's pulse. "You brainless brute!" he snarled, shoulders tightening when he detected a faint breath. He turned. "A tad excessive, don't you think?"
Connor crossed his arms. "Excessive?" His lip curled. "If he caused a single scratch on the young mistress, death would be a luxury."
The training yard fell silent. Sunlight glinted off Nora's abandoned sword, still quivering in the dirt where it had narrowly missed Gerral's head.
"Is that so?" Alan smiled—a calm smile—his father's smile.