The next morning, no one spoke anymore of whether Alina was doing something she was not meant to do. The question had shifted. It was no longer about whether she moved, but where. Alina began the day as she had begun the days before. She sat in the writing room, received letters, wrote replies, read aloud. Her voice remained calm, her hand steady. Anyone watching her could have seen no difference from the days before. Yet she herself felt that her attention had changed. She no longer listened only to words. She listened to pauses. To the things that were not said. A man spoke of a path he had once used, then broke off and talked about the weather. A woman mentioned a trader who had not come for two weeks and then changed the subject. A young lad described a route that took longer than usual, without being able to explain why. Alina gathered these things without commenting on them. Late in the morning, she stood. “I will return,” she said. It was the same sentence as before. But by now, some knew that it meant more. In the courtyard, three people were already waiting. Mara stood calmly at the edge, as she had the day before, as if she belonged there. Lio kept to the background, not from uncertainty, but because he was used to not standing at the center. Taren leaned against a wagon wheel, arms crossed, as if he had already decided he would not remain long. Alina stepped toward them. “We do not go together,” she said. None of them objected. “We do not take the same road either,” she continued. “Each of you takes another route. Not far. Not deep. Only far enough to see where the lines cross.” “And if they do not cross?” Lio asked. “Then we know that too.” Mara nodded faintly. “And if they do cross?” Alina looked at her. “Then we know where not to go.” A brief moment passed. “You are not coming,” Taren said. “No.” “Why not?” Alina answered calmly. “Because I am needed here.” It was not an excuse. It was the truth. If she left, the structure within would begin to loosen. And without that structure, everything else was worthless. “Then tell us when to turn back,” Mara said. Alina shook her head. “You decide that.” Taren raised an eyebrow. “I do not like that.” “Neither do I,” Alina said. “But I will not be there when it happens.” That was the difference. She looked at each of them in turn. “You are not going to prove anything,” she said. “You are going to return.” No one answered. That was agreement. They went. Not together, and not conspicuously. One after another, they left the courtyard, each as if they had their own reason to leave. No one stopped them. Alina remained behind. This time, it was harder to turn around and go back into the writing room. Not because she doubted, but because she knew she could no longer accompany the decision. She sat down, took up the quill, and began to write. The words came more slowly. Not because she could not find them, but because part of her was with the roads she could not see. She forced herself to keep the rhythm. Every letter she wrote was someone’s connection to the front. She could not lose that connection merely because she was searching for another. Around midday, the master of stores entered. He did not remain at the edge. He came straight to her table. “We must speak,” he said. Alina set the quill aside. “Then let us speak.” He did not sit. He remained standing. “You sent someone yesterday.” “Yes.” “Today as well.” “Yes.” He looked at her. “Without the council’s knowledge.” “The council knows enough,” Alina replied calmly. “It does not know what you are doing.” “Then it is not asking properly.” A brief moment passed. The master of stores exhaled. “You are forcing us into a position where we must react.” “Then react.” “We will.” Alina held his gaze. “Good.” He hesitated for a moment, as if he had expected another answer. “You believe you can control this,” he said at last. “No,” Alina answered calmly. “I believe that otherwise we control nothing at all.” The master of stores looked at her for a long time. Then he said, “If you fail, no one will stand between you and responsibility.” “I do not expect that.” He gave one short nod and left. Alina took up the quill again. This time she wrote faster. Not because she thought less, but because she knew that time had changed. In the afternoon, Lio returned first. He entered quietly and did not sit down at once, but stood for a moment as if he had to make sure the room was still the same. Alina looked up. “You are early,” she said. “Earlier than planned,” he replied. “Why?” He sat down. “Because I was seen.” The room grew quieter. “By whom?” Alina asked. “I do not know,” Lio said. “I did not see anyone directly. But I became slower. Not because I was tired.” Alina nodded faintly. “You felt watched.” “Yes.” “And then?” “I turned back.” A brief moment passed. “Good,” Alina said. Lio looked at her. “That was not far.” “It was far enough.” He nodded slowly. Shortly after, Mara came. She appeared unchanged, but her eyes were sharper. “I went farther,” she said. “How far?” Alina asked. “Until I knew I should not go farther.” “Why?” Mara looked at her. “Because it was too quiet,” she said. “No sounds. No movement. No reason for it.” Alina understood. “And then?” “I slowed,” Mara said. “And then I came back.” “Did you see anyone?” Mara shook her head. “No.” “And still you turned around.” “Yes.” A brief moment passed. “Good,” Alina said again. Taren came last. He did not enter quietly. His steps were firm, not hurried, but clear. “I reached the line,” he said. “What line?” Alina asked. “The one you do not see.” The room held its breath. “Explain,” Alina said calmly. Taren leaned slightly forward. “The road does not change,” he said. “But the movement on it does. People walk differently. Wagons stop longer. Things happen without being seen.” Alina nodded slowly. “And you?” she asked. “I went farther.” A brief moment passed. “How far?” “Too far,” he replied. Silence. “And?” Taren looked at her. “I was spoken to.” No one moved. “What did they say?” Alina asked. “Nothing worth repeating,” he answered calmly. “They wanted to know where I was driving. I told them what they wanted to hear.” “And they let you go.” “Yes.” “Why?” Taren shrugged. “Because I was not important enough.” The sentence remained in the room. Alina knew that this was not safety. It was a moment. “Good,” she said at last. Taren looked at her. “That was not a good road.” “I know.” She stood. “We have enough for today.” The three looked at her as though they wanted to hear more. A plan. A direction. Alina looked at each of them in turn. “Now we know it is a net,” she said calmly. “Not a tight ring. But enough to see us if we go wrong.” No one contradicted her. “That is enough for the next step,” she added. Outside, darkness slowly gathered. And for the first time since the beginning of the war, Alina did not only feel that she was waiting for something. She had begun to search for it. The next morning, Alina had the writing room opened earlier than usual. Not because more work was expected, but because she wanted to alter the rhythm without breaking it. The first people came as they always did, bringing their letters, their questions, their voices. Everything moved calmly, orderly, familiarly. But this time, Alina did not remain seated throughout. She worked, rose, took a few steps, returned. It was not restless behavior, but a rhythm that showed she was no longer bound only to a table. By midmorning, she had Mara, Lio, and Taren called to her one by one. Mara came first. “You go again,” Alina said without preamble. Mara nodded. “Yes.” “Not alone.” Mara looked at her. “Whom do I take?” Alina did not answer at once. “Someone who does not move like you,” she said at last. “Not the same gaze. Not the same roads.” Mara smiled briefly. “You do not want us recognized as a group.” “I do not want you recognized before it is too late.” Mara nodded. “You go farther than yesterday,” Alina said. “But not to the border. You go only to the point where you feel someone is waiting for you to continue.” Mara held her gaze. “And then?” “Then you turn back.” No discussion. No pride. Mara understood. Lio came next. He did not sit at once. He remained standing, as if he wanted to hear how the words would fall. “You will walk more slowly than yesterday,” Alina said. He frowned slightly. “More slowly?” “Yes,” Alina said. “You are not going to get through. You are going to be seen.” A brief moment passed. “That is more dangerous,” Lio said. “Yes,” Alina answered calmly. “That is why you do not go far.” “And if they speak to me?” “Then you answer,” she said. “Not too much. Not too little.” He nodded slowly. “And if they want more?” Alina looked at him. “Then you go no farther.” Lio exhaled. “Good.” Taren came last. He sat without being asked. “You go again,” Alina said. “I know.” “You do not take the same road.” “I know that too.” A brief moment passed. “You go deeper,” Alina said. Taren looked at her. “How deep?” “As far as you went yesterday,” she replied. “And then a little farther.” Silence. “That will be noticed,” Taren said. “Yes.” “Why me?” Alina answered calmly. “Because yesterday you went farther than I told you to.” Taren’s expression did not change. “And because you came back anyway,” she added. A brief moment passed. Then he nodded. “Good,” he said. Alina looked at him. “If you feel you have to decide, you turn back.” “Even if I am just about to see something?” “Especially then.” Taren leaned back. “I will not like that.” “Neither will I.” He nodded. With that, it was decided. Alina had not chosen many. But she had chosen deliberately. And just as deliberately, she had not chosen others. When she left the room, a young woman stood in the corridor, one she knew from the last several days. She had often been in the writing room, listening, asking questions that were not loud, but attentive. “You are not going,” Alina said calmly. The woman stopped. “Why?” “Because you do not yet know when to turn back,” Alina replied. The woman swallowed. “I can learn.” “Yes,” Alina said. “But not there.” A brief moment passed. The woman nodded, even though it displeased her. Alina went on. In the courtyard, the council had gathered. Not all of them, but enough to carry weight. The master of stores stood at the front, two other council members beside him. They were not waiting by chance. They were waiting for her. Alina stopped as she approached. “Your Highness,” the master of stores said. “We must speak.” “Then speak,” Alina answered calmly. He looked at her directly. “You are forming groups.” It was not a question. “I am working with people who know roads,” Alina said. “Without a decision of the council.” “With the necessity of the land.” A murmur passed through the small group. “You are exceeding your authority,” another councilman said. Alina remained calm. “Then tell me where my authority ends.” “Within,” the master of stores answered at once. “Supply. Order. Communication.” “And the outside?” Alina asked. “That is the alliance’s matter,” said the councilman. Alina looked at him. “The alliance lost our king.” Silence. The sentence struck. “He is not lost,” the priest said sharply. “He is captured.” “Then the alliance left our king behind in captivity,” Alina replied calmly. No one contradicted her. The master of stores took a step closer. “That does not give you the right to act independently.” “It gives us the duty not to remain idle,” Alina said. “You endanger us all.” “I am trying to give us a possibility.” A brief moment passed. Then Seraphina stepped beside Alina. Not hastily. Not loudly. But visibly. “The council has voiced its concerns,” she said calmly. “And I have heard them.” She looked at the men. “Now you will hear me.” The tone shifted. “We have a king in captivity,” she continued. “We have a front that does not fully inform us. And we have a land that is beginning to ask what we are doing.” No one interrupted her. “Alina is not acting against you,” Seraphina said. “She is acting because you have nothing faster than words.” The master of stores began to speak, but Seraphina did not let him. “You want order,” she said. “Then see that it carries. But you will not prevent us from gathering knowledge simply because it was not approved in your meetings.” Silence. Alina said nothing. She did not have to. Seraphina stepped half a pace back, not away from her, but beside her. “If you have something better,” she said quietly, “put it on the table.” No one did. The master of stores looked between them. Then he said more softly, “And if it goes wrong?” This time, Alina answered. “Then we carry it,” she said calmly. No defiance. No sharpness. Only fact. The moment stretched. Then the master of stores stepped aside. Not willingly. But visibly. Alina walked past him. Not quickly, and not hesitantly. Simply straight ahead. And for the first time, it was clear that she was no longer only acting. She was becoming the decision. On the morning after the confrontation with the council, Alina remained in the courtyard longer than usual. Work began early. Baskets were carried, tools distributed, water drawn from the well. Women went to the fields, old men sat at the entrances of the storehouses, children ran between adults and tried to be useful, though they did not always know how. Ardenthal kept moving, though its king was captive. Alina watched them and thought of what Seraphina had said the day before. If you have something better, put it on the table. No one had put anything on the table. That did not mean resistance was gone. It only meant that, for the moment, the council had no answer better than inaction. Alina did not want to fill that gap with grand words. She wanted to fill it with people who could do something. Mara stood at the well and spoke with two women from the Western Woods. She pointed to the edge of town, then to the hills beyond it. Her hands moved briefly, precisely. She did not explain much, but the others still listened closely. Taren knelt beside a wagon and checked the axle. He spoke to no one while he worked. Sometimes that was useful. Lio came from the direction of the river, a basket of nets over his shoulder. He had begun to see first and greet afterward. That too was useful. Alina went to them. “We meet tonight after sunset in the old store room behind the northern wall,” she said. Mara looked at her. “Who is we?” “Those who can do more than wait.” Taren tightened the last bolt and stood. “That sounds like many.” “It will not be many,” Alina answered. Lio set the basket down. “And who decides that?” Alina held his gaze. “I do.” None of the three objected. It was not obedience. But it was recognition enough. Alina spent the rest of the day not gathering names. She gathered reasons. In the writing room, she listened differently than before. One woman told her that she had once set traps in the forest with her father before coming to the court. Another mentioned, almost casually, how to sharpen a knife so that it would cut even through wet leather. A third brought bandages and said she had seen worse wounds than those in the northern wing, because births and winters were sometimes crueler than battles. Alina wrote, listened, asked questions, and left much uncommented. Not everyone brave was suited. That realization weighed more heavily on her than she had expected. In the afternoon, a young woman stepped up to her table. Her name was Rena, and she was hardly older than sixteen. Her eyes were red, not from weeping, but from sleeplessness. Her brother was among the captives. Alina knew that from the lists. “I want to go with them,” Rena said. Alina set the quill down. “Where?” “Wherever you are sending people.” The words were spoken too loudly. Two scribes briefly raised their heads. Alina waited until the room returned to work. “Who told you I was sending people?” Rena pressed her lips together. “No one had to say it.” Alina looked at her. There was anger in Rena’s gaze, but anger was not a plan. “You are not going,” Alina said calmly. Rena turned pale. “Why not?” “Because you want someone to stop you.” The sentence struck her visibly. “That is not true.” “Yes,” Alina said. “It is. You want to run until something stands before you that is larger than your fear. I understand that. But I cannot take you for that.” Rena breathed quickly. Her hands clenched. “My brother is there.” “Yes,” Alina said. “And that is exactly why you must not go.” For a moment, it looked as though Rena would argue. Then she lowered her eyes. Alina softened her voice without withdrawing the decision. “You are needed. Not there. Here. In the northern wing, they lack hands that are not afraid of wounds. If you want to be strong, begin there.” Rena looked up. The anger had not disappeared, but it had found a direction. “With the wounded?” “Yes.” “And later?” Alina did not answer at once. “Later will decide itself later.” Rena gave a short nod and left. Alina remained seated for a moment. She had expected choosing to feel like power. Instead, it felt like responsibility. Shortly before sunset, she went to the stables. There she found the woman Mara had spoken of. Her name was Jonna. She was no soldier and did not try to look like one. She wore a plain dress with a worn leather vest over it, and her hair was tied so that it would not fall into her face. Beside her lay two hares, cleanly dressed, and a bow better cared for than many swords in the armory. “You hunt,” Alina said. Jonna did not look surprised. “If we want to eat, yes.” “You know the forest.” “The western part.” “And the eastern?” Jonna took a cloth and wiped her knife. “Not well enough.” “Would you learn it?” Now she looked directly at Alina. “For whom?” “For Ardenthal.” Jonna slid the knife into its sheath. “Many say that when they really mean someone in particular.” Alina accepted the sentence. “For the king. For the captives. For those who may still live because we understand where they are quickly enough.” Jonna stood. She was smaller than Alina had expected, but her movements were sure. “I do not go into open fights,” she said. “I am not asking that.” “I shoot if I must.” “That too.” Jonna glanced at the bow. “Then I will come tonight.” Alina nodded and went on. The old store room behind the northern wall had barely been used for years. Once, grain had been kept there, but now only empty barrels and broken shelves stood along the walls. The room was dry, cool, and far enough from the busy corridors to hold a conversation that would not immediately be carried into the kitchen. When Alina entered, Mara, Lio, and Taren were already there. Mara had her arms crossed. Lio stood near the door. Taren sat on an overturned barrel. One by one, more came. Jonna entered without looking around and took a place by the wall from which she could see both door and window. A woman named Elda came from the northern wing. There were bandages on her hands and dark circles beneath her eyes. She was not formally a healer, yet in the last days the wounded had asked for her more often than for some of the learned men. Then came Berit, a smith from the lower quarter. Her shoulders were strong, her hands marked by old burns. She carried no sword, only a heavy hammer at her belt, which she probably would never have called a weapon. Another woman entered last. Her name was Sanna, and she was one of the ladies who had worked in the writing room. Alina had not called her, but she had come. “I know what letters say before others hear them aloud,” Sanna said when Alina looked at her. “And I know who lies when they dictate.” Taren snorted softly. “That is a skill?” Sanna looked at him coolly. “One that would probably have saved your life several times already, had you possessed it.” Berit laughed shortly, and for the first time, there was something other than tension in the room. Alina allowed it. Then she stepped into the center. “I did not call you because you want to fight,” she said. “Anyone who only wants to fight is wrong here.” No one spoke. “I need people who can see, hear, return, and say what is truly out there. I need roads, not hero stories. I need hands that can carry, bind, open, close, guide, and if the worst comes, kill, without turning it into glory.” Elda lowered her gaze briefly, but raised it again. “We are not an army,” Lio said. “No,” Alina answered. “Not yet.” The word remained in the room. This time, she did not take it back. Mara watched her closely. “How many?” “Seven today,” Alina said. “Perhaps ten later.” Taren lifted his head. “Why ten?” “Because more will be noticed, and fewer cannot carry enough.” Jonna nodded almost imperceptibly. “That is true.” Alina looked around the circle. “No one decides today from anger. No one decides because someone is missing. No one decides because they cannot sleep. Whoever stays, stays from clarity.” Berit crossed her arms. “And if clarity comes only while walking?” “Then that person does not walk,” Alina said. The sentence was hard, but necessary. Sanna looked toward the door. “The council will not tolerate this.” “The council tolerates many things when it has no better answer,” Seraphina said from the doorway. All turned. The queen entered without escort. She wore no splendid gown, only dark cloth and a narrow belt. Her gaze moved over those present, pausing briefly on each, then on Alina. “I am not here to bless you,” she said. “I am here so that no one can later claim Alina acted in the shadows against Ardenthal.” The words took some of the secrecy from the room without making it safer. Seraphina stepped beside Alina. “Whoever remains here does not do so for a princess,” she continued. “You do it for a land whose king is captive and whose council is still busy finding the right words for its fear.” No one contradicted her. Alina felt that the moment was larger than she had planned. Not louder. Larger. “No one decides finally tonight,” she said. “Tonight you only hear what may become necessary. Tomorrow, the work begins.” Mara nodded first. Taren followed. Jonna said nothing, but she stayed. Elda pulled her sleeves a little higher, as if she had to adjust herself to a new kind of work. Sanna stepped away from the door and joined the others. Berit placed a hand on the hammer at her belt and said calmly, “If we do this, then first we learn how not to die.” Alina looked at her. “That is exactly where we begin.” Outside, darkness fell, and throughout the castle, lights were lit one by one. In the old store room stood seven people who did not yet know how far this evening would take them. Alina did not know either. But for the first time, what lay before her did not carry only fear. It had form. For a while, no one spoke. Not because there was nothing to say, but because the room had to grow used to what had just been spoken. They were not an army. Not yet. But the word had stood in the room, and no one had pretended it meant nothing. Alina looked into the faces before her. Mara seemed focused. Lio tense. Taren watchful. Jonna stood quietly by the wall, one hand near her bow without touching it. Elda looked tired, but not uncertain. Berit stood firmly on both feet, as if not even a wagon could move her aside by accident. Sanna observed not only Alina, but the others as well, and for precisely that reason Alina was glad she had come. Seraphina remained beside her. “We do not begin with weapons,” Alina said at last. “We begin with what each of you already can do.” Berit lifted her head slightly. “And if that is not enough?” “Then we learn,” Alina replied. “But no one becomes useful by pretending she can do something she has never practiced.” It took from the matter some of the dangerous shine that stories often place on such moments. There were no born heroines standing here. There were people who, in recent weeks, had learned that work could change when the world demanded it. Alina turned to Mara. “You know forest paths and can tell when a road has been used. You lead not because you are faster, but because you notice sooner when one must slow down.” Mara only nodded. Then Alina looked to Lio. “You know the villages near the eastern border. You know who lives there, who talks, and who is better left unasked. You do not go forward when you are expected. You listen.” Lio looked as though he wanted to object, perhaps because listening sounded less like achievement than courage. But he did not. “Taren,” Alina continued, “you can drive a wagon to places where others on foot would stand out. You know when to keep talking and when to be silent.” Taren twisted his mouth briefly. “You learn that when you do not want to lose everything at toll posts.” “Good,” Alina said. “Then we keep exactly that.” She turned to Jonna. “You hunt. You can wait without growing impatient. You can strike from a distance. That is not an invitation to shoot first.” Jonna looked straight at her. “I do not shoot to impress anyone.” “Then you belong here.” With Elda, Alina paused a little longer. “You tend wounds, and you can decide when someone can continue and when they cannot. I need someone who contradicts us when courage begins to become stupidity.” Elda exhaled slowly. “Some will not like that.” “I probably will not always like it either,” Alina said. “You will do it anyway.” A brief trace of agreement passed across Elda’s face. Alina looked to Berit. “You can read metal because you work with it. You see whether a blade is cared for, whether a lock is weak, whether a wagon will break before it breaks. You are also strong.” “You could have left out the last part,” Berit said dryly. Alina met her gaze. “No. Strength is also a skill, as long as it is not the only one.” Berit accepted that. Finally, Alina looked at Sanna. “You are here because you listen before you judge. You know voices. You notice when someone does not mean a sentence themselves. In the writing room, that can be comfort. Outside, it can be warning.” Sanna nodded slowly. “And you?” Mara asked. Alina had known the question would come. She had expected it and still did not have a fully finished answer. “I hold the threads together,” she said. Taren snorted softly. “That sounds like court.” “Then I will say it differently,” Alina answered. “I decide who goes where and when, and I carry the responsibility if it was wrong.” That was enough. Seraphina took half a step forward. “This remains small,” she said. “For now. No one leaves Ardenthal without a clear task. No one seeks glory. No one speaks in the courtyard of who was here. If asked, you were part of an assignment for supplies, watches, or roads. That is not even a lie.” Berit looked to the queen. “And if the council asks?” Seraphina held her gaze. “Then it asks me.” With that, part of the danger had been named and, for the moment, bound. Alina took a piece of chalk from an old barrel lid and drew a rough line on the floor. She marked the Arden River, the old mill, the road to the bridge, and the area where Lio had felt watched. It was not a clean map, but it was enough to speak over. “Tomorrow, not all go,” she said. “Mara and Jonna check the edge of the woods as far as the old mill. Lio goes to the riverbank village and listens for whether traders or travelers know more. Taren remains here and prepares a wagon that looks as though it needs repair and can still carry enough. Elda remains in the northern wing and makes a list of what we would need to move wounded men. Berit checks locks, chains, tools, and everything that can open doors which do not wish to be opened. Sanna stays in the writing room and watches for letters that conceal more than they say.” Sanna crossed her arms. “So you already expect letters to lie.” “No,” Alina said. “I expect people to be afraid of writing things down.” Everyone in the room understood that. Jonna stepped closer to the chalk line. “If I go with Mara, I want to know when we stop.” “When you see someone who sees you,” Alina said. “When the road becomes too quiet. When you cannot explain why you are there. When one of you feels that the other is wrong.” Mara raised an eyebrow. “That will be interesting.” “Then tomorrow you learn whether you can trust one another,” Alina said. Elda looked from one to the other. “And if one returns wounded?” “Then you tend her,” Alina answered. “And if you say she does not go again afterward, then she does not go.” Berit no longer laughed. “You mean that.” “Yes.” A sound came from the corridor. Everyone became quieter without moving hastily. Sanna stepped toward the door, but kept her distance. Footsteps approached, paused briefly outside the store room, and then moved away again. They were ordinary footsteps, likely a servant or a steward, but in that moment, the room learned how quickly a conversation could become a secret. Seraphina looked to Alina. “That is the price of secrecy.” “I know,” Alina answered. “No,” Seraphina said calmly. “Not yet. But you will learn.” It was not a warning meant to hold her back. It was a fact meant to prepare her. With her shoe, Alina wiped away part of the chalk line, not all of it. Enough that no one passing through would understand at once what had been there. “That is enough for today,” she said. “Tomorrow, each of you does exactly what was discussed. No additions. No private heroics. If you see more than was planned, you remember it and come back.” Mara nodded first. The others followed, one by one. They did not leave the room together. Sanna went first because she was needed in the writing room. Then Elda, who had to return to the northern wing. Berit remained briefly and asked Taren about a wagon fitting, as if they had happened to speak about work. Jonna left without farewell. Lio waited until the corridor was clear. Mara remained last. “You did not take Rena,” she said. Alina looked at her. “No.” “She will be angry.” “Yes.” “She may try to do something anyway.” Alina had thought of that. “Then I need someone to keep an eye on her.” Mara nodded slowly. “I will speak with her.” “Not to keep her small,” Alina said. “To keep her here,” Mara replied. “That is not the same thing.” Then she too left. Alina remained alone with Seraphina in the store room. Outside, darkness had fully fallen. Cold air entered through a narrow gap in the window. “You chose people today,” Seraphina said. “Yes.” “And turned others away.” “That too.” Seraphina let her gaze fall to the blurred chalk lines on the floor. “The second will become harder.” Alina knew she was right. Rena was only the beginning. More would come. People full of anger, full of fear, full of love for those held captive. Not all would be suitable. Not all would accept that. “How does one decide it correctly?” Alina asked. Seraphina looked at her. “Not always. One decides as clearly as possible and then carries the consequences.” Alina was silent. “Your father never did it differently,” Seraphina added. At those words, Alina raised her eyes. “He often seemed more certain than he was,” Seraphina said. “That was not deception. It was part of his task.” Alina thought of Arvid in the map room, of his calm voice, of the way he explained decisions but rarely revealed what they cost him. “Did he doubt?” she asked. “Constantly,” Seraphina answered. The answer came without hesitation. Alina received it in silence. It changed nothing about her father’s captivity, but it changed something in her memory of him. He had not seemed certain because he had no fear. He had seemed certain because others needed that certainty. Seraphina went to the door, but paused once more. “Tomorrow, the council will try to make this meeting smaller or larger, depending on what serves it. Do not let them decide the name for it.” “What name should I give it?” Alina asked. Seraphina looked at her. “None yet.” Then she left. Alina remained alone. She looked down at the floor, at the blurred lines, at the remains of the Arden River she had drawn in chalk. It was only a mark on stone, but in her mind, it had begun to carry roads. People. Decisions. Risks. She stepped on it and blurred the last trace as well. When she left the store room, the castle was quiet. From the northern wing came muffled voices. From the kitchen came the smell of warm soup. In the courtyard, two torches burned, and at the gate stood an old guard with a spear that was still too heavy for him. Alina stopped beside him briefly. “Everything quiet?” she asked. “Quiet enough,” he answered. She nodded and went on. In the West Tower, darkness waited. She lit no candle. She stepped to the window and looked out at the fields, which at night were visible only as dark planes. Somewhere beyond that darkness, her father lay in captivity. Somewhere there were Matthis and the others. Somewhere between here and there moved people who watched, waited, and controlled roads. For the first time, the distance no longer seemed infinite. It was still large. Dangerous. Full of gaps. But it had begun to have names. Mara. Lio. Taren. Jonna. Elda. Berit. Sanna. For now, there were seven. Later, perhaps ten. Alina placed her hand on the window frame and remained there until the cold crept through the wood into her fingers. Then she turned away. The next morning, they would not go to war. They would learn how to get there at all.