The morning mist had yet to lift when Abler had already loaded two large crates of elixirs onto the handcart. Andrea stood by the cart in a coarse homespun dress Linata had found for her, hair bound back with a cloth strip. Awkward, she tugged at the skirt hem — her first time in human women’s clothing; the sweep at her ankles felt like dragging a chain of dead weight.
“Where’s today’s delivery?” she asked, softening her voice on purpose to fit the meek-sister guise of “Anya.”
Abler wedged the last bundle of Nethermoss into a seam and lowered his voice. “The hunters’ camp on the west side of town, passing by Black Raven Forest.” He glanced up at the second-floor window of the apothecary. The curtain was drawn tight — Linata was likely still asleep. A rare chance for them to speak alone.
The handcart groaned over the bluestone road with a long creak. Abler hauled the rope in front while Andrea pushed from behind, three paces between them. To passersby, they struggled together against the rough road; in truth, they spoke in a frequency only each other would catch.
“How many does Kalos’s Emberflame Army have left?” Abler’s voice, folded into the wheel’s rumble, was light as wind.
“Unclear.” Andrea’s palm pressed the rough planks, fingertips tapping unconsciously. “After Ironrock Fortress betrayed you, he pulled the remnants back to the Eastern Volcanic Rocks and vanished. Some say he bent the knee to Krog; others say he’s secretly rallying the old ranks.”
Abler’s step faltered. Kalos had been Krog’s own protégé — in the Frostvale campaign he’d blocked a holy silver arrow for him. But with Krog’s revolt, Kalos’s stance had become a riddle.
“And Sandar?” he asked, a familiar rasp rising in his throat. The sand-golem master of the western reaches had always gone alone, yet the year Abler ascended, he’d come of his own accord to offer a defensive schema built of desert crystal.
“Shadowweave slipped a dispatch last month,” Andrea said, voice dropping. “He’s holding the Western Crystal Tower. Three sorties Krog sent have all failed to take it, but the tower’s magic is weakening. It won’t last long.”
The cart turned out of the stone lane onto the dirt road outside town. In the fog, the Inquisition’s checkpoint showed faintly — a few knights in silver armor dozing against a stump, sword belts slung crooked. Twilight Town’s ‘defense,’ slack as a bundle of kindling left untied.
Abler’s red eyes glimmered in the mist. “And Coldgrave’s Everfrost Guard?” The icebone drake cavalry of the north — Andrea’s most trusted lieutenant. Abler’s throne had held in no small part thanks to Coldgrave’s iron riders.
At the name, Andrea’s hands shoved hard, the axle squealing. “He fell back to the icefields with the survivors. Krog’s men hounded him. Last month… Shadowweave reported he vanished.” Her voice roughened. “I don’t believe he’s dead.”
Abler said nothing, only cinched the rope tighter. Coldgrave’s secret love for Andrea — only Abler knew. The taciturn rider, every briefing, his gaze trailed her without meaning to, as though after the only light.
“Shadowweave’s net still holds?” He shifted the subject, eyes passing the crooked-necked tree by the sentry post — last winter, beneath that tree, he’d found the copper token carved with a half Ice-Crystal Rose.
“It should.” Andrea said, “Her mental web spans the realm. She’s blind, but her mind’s the keenest of us all. Krog put a price on her head and still can’t even find where she nests.”
Talking, they rolled into Black Raven Forest. Ancient trees blotted out the morning light; damp rot soaked the air. Abler halted and turned, his red eyes burning in the shade. “Twilight Town can be our start point.”
Andrea blinked. “You mean—”
“This is the border between humans and the demon realm. The knight corps are rotten; the Mayor’s a coward.” Abler’s finger traced the grain in the cart’s plank as if sketching a map. “We take this place first. Clean out the knights. Make it our hub to call in the old guard.” He paused, then added, “If Shadowweave’s people are near, they’ll catch the signal.”
“Cleaning out the knights takes bodies,” Andrea frowned. “We’re two, and…” Her glance flicked to Abler’s shoulder. The wound had knit, but holy silver still lurked. “Your magic hasn’t returned.”
“That’s why we need Kalos.” Abler’s tone stayed even. “His Firebat Cavalry excel at raids. If he still names me his king, he’ll come.” He drew a smooth black crystal from his breast and pressed it into Andrea’s palm. “Messenger crystal from the Eastern Volcanic Rocks. Find a chance to trigger it in the forest’s depths — Kalos’s men will feel it.”
Heat pricked her palm — like a brand fresh from the forge. Andrea gripped it, remembering ten years ago when Abler had pressed a messenger crystal to her hand, saying: “Take the northern icefields. I’ll be in Demon King City with the victory wine.”
“And there’s Felin,” Abler’s voice pulled her back. “The treasurer. Miser to the marrow. He’s hoarded crystals for sure. Find him and we’ll have coin to raise and feed troops.”
At Felin’s name, Andrea’s mouth twitched. The old man with the crystal prosthetic eye nagged “over-budget” every time, yet before she rode out, a pouch of gold always found its way into her pack.
“Understood.” She slipped the black crystal into a hidden pocket sewn inside the skirt. “After we deliver to the hunters’ camp, I’ll head into Black Raven Forest.”
Abler nodded and hauled on. Wind threaded the crowns with a wooo like a hundred unseen eyes peering from the dark. Yet he felt steadier than he had in a year — for the first time, he wasn’t alone in an empty attic staring at nothing; he was laying a road that could be walked.
The drop at the hunters’ camp went smoothly. Weathered men asked little of the taciturn “sister Anya,” only joked as Abler tallied the fee: “Good fortune, Abu — your sister looks handier than the tavern madam.”
Abler’s ears flared red. He started to protest, but Andrea’s look cut him off. She was already measuring the camp’s dispositions, fingertips tapping her curved blade’s scabbard — her habit when plotting weak points in a defense.
By their return it was afternoon. They shunned the main road, detouring through the deeper forest. Under a millennial tree, Andrea activated the messenger crystal. A ghostly blue flared — a fallen star — and sank into the shadows at once.
“Three days at best, a week at worst, before we hear back.” She lowered her hand, warmth lingering in her palm.
“Mm.” Abler’s gaze drifted to Twilight Town. Cooking smoke rose, a white ribbon tied over the roofs. He suddenly recalled Linata’s words that morning: “Snow-lizard stew tonight. Come back early to split kindling.”
“We need to hurry.” He took the cart rope, pace quickening. “Linata said—”
Andrea cut him off. “Your Majesty, are you… afraid of her?”
Abler stumbled, nearly tripping on the rope. “Afraid? Of her?” He stiffened his neck. “She’s just… just sharp-tempered. Keeps a vicious ledger. Hikes the interest for nothing…”
Watching the pink creep up his ears, Andrea laughed. For the first time since Ironrock’s betrayal, the sound came from her heart. So the all-conquering Demon King could be handled by a human apothecary.
By the time they pushed the empty cart into the bluestone lane, dusk had bled across the sky. The Thorn Apothecary’s light glowed, but no humming drifted out as usual. The wooden door was shut, a sign hanging from the ring, charcoal scrawl:
“Late returners pay double.”
Abler’s stomach dropped. He lifted his hand to knock — the door swung open with a creak. Linata stood behind it, flour dusting her white coat, a rolling pin in her grip. In the lamplight, her gray eyes were cold as ice.
“Have a pleasant outing?” Her voice was the flat of a frozen lake. “The snow-lizard stew boiled into paste. I used the chopping axe to mince the meat — Ab, your debt rises from two thousand to three thousand. Anya, lodging is fifty gold a day, starting now.”
Abler’s mouth opened — We were about the real work — but Andrea tugged his sleeve. He glanced back to see her shake her head, then flick her chin toward the rolling pin — thick enough to count as a weapon.
“Uh… We were wrong.” Abler’s voice went unusually soft, a hint of appeasement in his red eyes. “Tomorrow I’ll gather double the Nethermoss. Anya… will help you scrub the jars. All right?”
Linata said nothing. She lifted the rolling pin and turned for the kitchen. Abler and Andrea traded a look and hurried the cart after her.
The pot did reek of scorch — the snow-lizard stew a deep green paste. Linata slapped the rolling pin onto the board with a booming thud. “Ab, split kindling. Anya, light the hearth. No one slacks tonight.”
Abler obediently took up the axe and stepped to the woodpile. Andrea crouched at the stove, clumsy with the tinder. Sparks jumped onto her coarse skirt and burned a tiny hole.
Abler’s swing paused. In the kitchen’s warm lamplight, Linata’s back moved as she stirred, apron tied neat; at the stove, Andrea blew at the kindling, profile intent. Something hollow in him filled.
The road to vengeance was long. Twilight Town’s knights waited to be purged; the scattered old guard to be summoned; Krog’s head to be taken by his own hands. But for now — with Linata scolding Andrea for stoking too hot, and Andrea muttering “Smaller than the icefield bonfires” — a night like this felt bearable.
The axe came down. Wood split with a crisp crack — and he smiled, unseen. Perhaps the first step to ruling Twilight Town wasn’t cleansing the knights, but learning how to coax the two women in the kitchen currently arguing over whether the fire was too big or too small.