That afternoon was already strange before it truly began.

Tyron had been dressing slowly, a nervous, fumbling procession of buttons and hems, when something yanked at the edge of his collar. He nearly doubled over, breath stolen by the sudden motion, and then froze when he looked up.

The tenth prince' red eyes were on him... narrow, calm, and unreadable. His highness' hand curled into the fabric and pulled him out of the little guest room the saint princess had lent them.

"We're leaving now," the prince said simply.

Tyron blinked. He noticed, almost absentmindedly, that the prince had slung the princess' scary knight's bow across his own shoulder, the weapon stark against his dark cloak, and an arrow quivered at his hip.

The implication hit him the moment his gaze tracked to the strap. "N-now? Isn't this too early?" he stammered, looking out the low window where the sun hung, already beginning to sink behind the far sky.

Lenko protested, too, scrambling, protests muffled into the corridor as the prince's jaw tightened and his voice remained that same quiet authority. Despite the argument, despite Lenko's scowl and the prince instructions, they moved. The prince's momentum was a rope pulling everyone along... resistance simply fell away.

At first Tyron thought it a welcome spontaneity... an early departure that would spare them the crush of the market or the tedium of negotiations. But the streets they took were not the broad, sun-drenched avenues. He led them through narrow alleys and shuttered lanes where the light seemed to thin. Even though the sun still rode the horizon, the alleys were twilight-dark, each step swallowed by stone walls and leaning eaves.

The prince moved with a confidence. He threaded through the alleyway as if he had walked it a hundred times, shoulders loose but always aware, eyes cataloguing exits and blind spots with steadiness. Tyron fell into step beside him because there was nothing else to do. There was an odd, growing certainty in his chest... that the prince knew these alleys. Too well.

It should have been stranger... the tenth prince, the same boy who had been missing for years, who'd run from the palace and its comforts, moving through the capital's backstreets like someone who belonged to them.

But the memory of Hinnom tugged at Tyron, the village where he'd grown up and thought himself was unsafe because the forest lay just a wall away. Hinnom had danger in the trees and in the night, but at least its rules were simple...

Tyron's thoughts grew louder, messy and ashamed... his father had taken his mother's heart to the capital to sell, and Tyron had gone after it because he believed in the simplest things, that he could pull it back, that he could fix what had been broken.

His hands kept fumbling toward where his pendant were before, the little vial his mother had insisted he never part with. It was empty now... the pendant was gone. That absence felt like a new kind of vulnerability, a missing sense.

Everything heavy in his chest seemed tied to that vial, a secret, a responsibility, and a guilt. For a long time afterward he'd been certain it was his fault that things shifted, that people were hurt. He had bargained with the elven out of that guilt...

Somewhere ahead the prince's silhouette moved through a pool of late sun and shadow. Tyron tightened his fingers around the fabric of his tunic, feeling the tremor in himself. He kept thinking of the bow at the prince's back and the look on Lenko's face, the anger, the worry, and that reluctant obedience.

He thought of the strange, crooked deals that had already been made, of the elven with the grotesque smile, of the parchment the prince pass to Lenko's sister as they left.

Tyron could never quite understand how the tenth prince's mind worked, how he could move with that quiet, razor certainty that made everyone else look slow.

One moment, they were still threading through the alley's narrow gloom... the next, his highness stopped so abruptly that Tyron nearly bumped into him.

The prince stood still for a minute, head tilted slightly, as if listening to something beyond the air. Then, without any fanfare, he murmured, "It's here. Get ready."

Tyron barely had time to ask what before his highness pulled a dagger from his belt. He dragged the blade across his finger in one smooth motion.

Tyron winced at the sight, but the prince didn't so much as flinch. The blood welled bright against the pale of his skin and dripped in precise rhythm as it began to trace symbols onto the cobblestones.

At first, Tyron thought it was random, streaks of blood pooling, connecting, but then the pattern emerged... intricate arcs, lines spiraling inward, intersecting runes forming a sigil that pulsed faintly.

He recognized it instantly.

The same night the elven had humored his desperate bargain, when Tyron had traded his pendant just to let them escape the dungeon, the floor had shifted this way too.

And now, the tenth prince was recreating it from memory, not with the cold grace of an elf, but with something rawer, human, and burning.

Tyron could only watch, torn between awe and disbelief. The sigil's light deepened, lines crawling over the stones until the entire patch of ground began to tremble. The air thickened with mana. He felt it prickle against his skin, sharp and metallic.

Then the floor moved.

The cobblestones spiraled inward, sinking into a descent, steps forming where there had been none, a staircase leading downward. The air that wafted from below smelled of rain in a sunny day.

Tyron swallowed, his throat dry. He wanted to say something clever, 'Is that even allowed?' or 'Your highness, did you just open a hole to hell?', but all that came out was a strangled sound as the prince grabbed him by the collar of the cloak and started down the steps.

His awe quickly soured into nervousness. "W-wait, Your Highness, are you sure this---"

"We're by the auction place already," the tenth prince interrupted, his tone flat, practical. "Below this, we'll find the undercroft soon enough."

That didn't sound reassuring. Especially when the stairway walls began to creak, and the light above was already shrinking into a pinprick.

Tyron's voice faltered into a whisper. "…But what exactly are we walking into?"

The prince didn't answer. He simply pulled out his dagger again. The runes along its blade shimmered faintly red as he poured mana into them, until the weapon itself gleamed like an ember in the dark.

It was the only light they had, a ghostly glow that barely reached the stone steps. Shadows slithered and twisted, following their every movement.

When they finally reached the bottom, the passage opened into a cramped crawlspace. Above them, faint vibrations rumbled through the ceiling, muffled footsteps, distant chatter.

The prince moved forward with the confidence of someone who had been here before. Tyron, meanwhile, ducked low and followed.

Then they reached what must have been a covered panel, a hatch, its underside lined with old velvet and nailed wood. His highness pushed it open a crack, and Tyron, curious, leaned in to peek through the gap.

He blinked.

Through the slit in the curtain, he could see the gilded hall above them, servants bustling around, fixing chairs and adjusting table linens, arranging plates of fruit and wine.

The air shimmered faintly with candlelight. At the far end, Mr. Genevra barked orders. "The red carpets, straight, not wrinkled! Make sure the steps are clean before the guests arrive, hurry up!"

Long crimson runners were being laid across the marble steps, leading directly to the center stage. Everything was immaculate, composed, civilized, a world above the filth they stood in now.

Tyron's admiration lasted all of two seconds.

He turned to ask his highness something, but the space beside him was suddenly empty.

He blinked once, then again, scanning the shadows. The tenth prince had been right beside him, close enough that Tyron could hear his steady breathing, and now he was gone.

It wasn't until that moment that Tyron realized his own heart was hammering too loud.

"Y-your highness?" he whispered, voice trembling.

No answer.

For a minute, he could hear nothing but the muffled hum of the hall, the clinking of plates, the soft shuffle of servants' feet. Then silence. A heavy, smothering silence.

His breath hitched. He was just here.

Heart pounding, Tyron ducked behind the thick stage curtains, his back pressed to the cold wood. His claws twitched nervously at the hem of his cloak as he peered out from behind the drapes, eyes darting across every shadowed corner. 'Where did he go?'

He bit his lip, a cold sweat beading at his temple, and nearly leapt out of his skin when a hand landed on his shoulder.

He spun around, barely suppressing a yelp, only for another hand to slap firmly over his mouth.

"Quiet," came the low voice, clipped, steady, and unmistakably from the prince.

Tyron blinked up at him, wild-eyed. The tenth prince was back. Just like that...

He then noticed a faint smear of blood glinting brushed over the left side of his chest over the cloak. Then next, is the bow and quiver that had been with the prince earlier were gone.

"Wh-where have you been, your highness?" Tyron hissed under his breath once his highness finally released him. His voice came out small, rough from holding it back.

The tenth prince didn't answer right away. Then he turned away, motioning for Tyron to follow.

The narrow path they'd descended through, the stone steps, the shifting floor, was now reforming itself. Piece by piece, slabs of stone slid back into place, accompanied by a low grinding sound.

Sigils flared faintly where cracks had formed, drawn by the thin trails of the prince's blood. The lines gleamed faintly red, sealing what they had broken to make the descent.

Tyron swallowed hard as he followed, his steps slow, careful. Each drop of blood from the prince's hand fell with purpose, connecting the runes, the glow from them gleaming faintly across his highness' face and the edge of his dagger.

The tenth prince tapped the dagger against the stone once, tik, tik, as if testing its stability. Then, without turning, he muttered, "Where do you think?"

Tyron didn't have an answer.

He had walked into the lion's den, past the servants and come back without a single trace to mark his passing.

The only thing that lingered was the image burned into his mind, the prince's pale face lit by the dagger's red gleam, his expression unreadable as the floor beneath them began to tremble and crumble again, dragging them both down into the dark.

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