"Disguise only works if your chin isn't doing all the talking."
But even masks crack when the past starts whispering.
(Westport Pier – Arrival in Aurevelle)
After two weeks at sea, the group disembarked quietly at Westport Pier, bypassing the island of Variethiel. The morning breeze smelled of crushed grapes and pine—a warm welcome to Aurevelle, land of vineyards and golden hills.
Their goal wasn't wine or comfort.
It was Cornelius' old palace—and the border road toward the Weeping Forest beyond.
But first, they would travel incognito.
And pray the masks held.
Cornelius wore a hood and a clenched jaw, walking like a man trying not to own the land beneath his boots.
"We enter as commoners. No names. No attention," he muttered.
Dantes, beside him, oozed the confidence of someone born to cause attention.
"Right. Except for your posture, your boots, your noble stride, your face—"
"Dantes."
"—and your very loud princely aura."
Francesca, snorting from behind:
"You do realize your face has been painted in at least five royal portraits, right?"
"One of them's literally titled 'The Golden Heir with the Hawk.'"
As they approached the side stables near the lower estate gate, a stablehand stepped out—a boy no older than seventeen.
He froze when his eyes landed on Cornelius.
His mouth opened:
"Y-Your H—"
Cornelius moved fast, shoving a cloth bundle and a silver coin into the boy's hands.
"Shhh. Please. Not today."
The boy stared down at the coin, blinking furiously.
He gave a panicked nod and vanished.
Alberta, barely suppressing laughter:
"You're getting better at this."
Francesca, dry:
"He's improving. Now the servants only whisper after we pass."
Dantes, smug:
"Should've gone with the fake mustache."
They ducked through a vine-wrapped side gate and found their way into the estate's old cellar quarters—unused since before the war, but still furnished with barrels, blankets, and dusty stone walls.
Cornelius dropped onto an old bench with a sigh.
"We'll rest here. Leave before sunrise."
Francesca leaned casually against a cracked window ledge.
"Do you realize there's a life-sized statue of you still standing outside the east vineyard?"
Cornelius froze.
Dantes lit up.
"A statue?"
Francesca grinned.
"Yes. Holding a hawk. In dramatic fashion."
Cornelius buried his face in his hands.
"I hate this place."
They entered a quiet village inn near the estate wall—modest, ivy-draped, and old enough that the wine barrels outside bore royal crests long faded by time.
The innkeeper took one look at them and simply nodded.
Too wise to ask.
Too quiet to risk saying more.
They sat at a corner table, cloaks drawn, drinks warm. Just travelers passing through—on the surface.
But Aurevelle never forgot its nobles.
And gossip never waited for permission.
(Noble Gossip – The Next Table Over)
Two merchant women—draped in silk and secrets—spoke just loud enough for ears to catch what they shouldn't.
"Did you hear? House Montagne's daughter—vanished. But the Crown's whispering again about marriage alliances. Someone said a union with the royal line would calm things."
"That girl? Last seen heading toward Glinstisia, wasn't she?"
"She's wild, they say. Raised like a sword. And now she runs with mercenaries."
"Better that than ending up in a crown's cage."
Francesca's hand twitched near her drink.
Cornelius didn't move. But his jaw did.
Alberta stared into her cup—expression unreadable.
She wondered if they would still whisper if they saw her hands bloodied and shaking in the ruins.
Probably. Just louder.
Dantes, softly amused:
"Well. That didn't take long."
Alberta, calm but clear:
"If they're already whispering, someone wants us found."
Cornelius, voice low:
"Or someone's stalling the court by offering ghosts."
Francesca, sharp:
"Then let them chase shadows. We'll write our truth ourselves."
(Later That Night – Vineyard Path, Just
Beyond the Inn)
The road was still.
Moonlight fell in quiet pools between the vines, silvering the leaves. The rest of the group walked ahead, shadows melting into the misty dark.
But Alberta and Cornelius lagged behind.
Neither spoke at first.
Finally, Alberta broke the silence.
"They're still talking about me like I'm not real."
Cornelius gave a small, bitter exhale.
"They talk because they're afraid you are."
She gave a quiet, hollow laugh.
"A lost daughter. A royal match. A flame to bind kingdoms. Do you think that's all they see?"
"It's all they're allowed to see."
"That's how they keep power—by turning people into symbols."
She slowed, brushing her hand over the tips of grapevines.
"Sometimes I wonder if it would've been better to stay hidden. Let the name die quietly."
He stopped. Turned.
His voice came low. Honest.
"Don't say that."
"Why not?"
Cornelius looked at the ground. His silence lasted a second too long.
Then:
"Because I believed in you long before they needed you."
She looked at him then—really looked.
He held her gaze a little too long.
"You never resented me?" she asked softly.
Cornelius hesitated.
"Sometimes."
Then, with a faint smile:
"But only because you were always the flame, and I was always the shadow behind it."
He paused. The moment stretched.
"You were the only one who saw me as more than the bastard."
Alberta's eyes softened.
She reached out, touched his wrist gently.
"That's because you were always more."
Her touch lingered longer than necessary.
His breath caught—but he didn't move.
And for just a second, the world felt quiet again.
Then—
"If you two are done whispering in poetry,"
came Dantes' voice from up ahead,
"some of us are trying to brood dramatically before the cursed forest eats us."
Francesca's laugh rang out.
Cornelius groaned.
Alberta smiled.
And neither of them looked at each other for the next hundred steps.
But neither stepped away, either.