Written in 6o minutes.

It had to be a trick, a lie to lure her back inside the inn, back to a miserable future—

Elizabeth took one step away from the tree, towards the man who held her daggers in his hand, the only link she had to her heritage, to the world she’d known before that terrible day.

The winter wind swirled around them, rustling through the trees. The air grew more bitter, the chill deepening, but still she stood there, a foot separating her from her captor, from her weapons.

Jason Morgan tipped his head to the sky, then brought his gaze to hers as the first snowflakes fluttered past his cheek, dancing down to the forest floor thick with leaves and foliage. His eyes were shadowed, but she could see the corner of his mouth turning up in a half smirk. “Do you think you can freeze me to death? Is that how you plan to end this?”

She drew in a sharp breath, fought the urge to deny it. This man, this puppet of Valentin Cassadine held too many secrets—but how? Why would Valentin put so much trust in an underling? Or was Jason Morgan hiding secrets of his own from the Cassadine?

Elizabeth flicked her wrist and the wind settled, the flurries fading from the sky until they fell no longer. “I could bury you in a snowdrift,” she bit out, “if I so chose. Give me a reason not to.”

Jason flipped one of the daggers in his hand, a neat little twirl that she’d never seen anyone else complete — save for the man who had taught her. Had Alan Quartermaine trained him as well? But then who was he? And why had Valentin sent him?

Pressure built behind her eyes, an itch in her throat that she forced down. All she had was her dignity, her self-respect, and she would not fall apart in front of this man, in front of any man.

“That is not a reason, and I grow weary of this conversation. Keep the daggers.” She lifted her chin and stalked across the clearing, nearly reaching the other side before his voice traveled to her on the wind.

“A few months back, in another place, a woman came to a pub. She had a pair of those daggers.”

Elizabeth stopped, but did not turn around. Another trick, another lie.

“I was there on other business, and found myself in a meeting with her and an associate who knew something of my background. He thought she was lying, trying to lead him on a wild chase or steal something from him. But then she reached into cloak just the way you did — pulling one of these from some pocket that could not be detected. A dagger from Nevoie. They are not given to all members of the line. Just the women in the line of succession.”

“There are no survivors from Nevoie,” Elizabeth said, but her voice was soft, almost inaudible. “That’s not possible.”

“It’s what I would have thought. What we’ve been told.” Jason took a step towards her, almost hesitant. “A sickness spread in the household and the village. Too fast, too deadly. No survivors. That part is no lie, is it?”

“No. There was a fire—” Her throat tightened, the acrid smell of smoke still lingering in her memories, choking her from beyond. “After. They burned the village to the ground, then the house.”

“To stop the disease from spreading.”

“To hide their crimes.” Her fingers fisted in her skirts. “But I was captured in the woods. We ran. We ran, and we ran, and I lost her somewhere. I heard her screams. There are no survivors from Nevoie,” she repeated.

“You survived,” Jason said, taking another step towards her. “Is it so impossible that you alone could have?”

“I—” Her eyes blurred and something unfurled inside her. An emotion she could scarcely recognize. Hope. No. “She told you this. She told you that Nevoie was a massacre, and you did nothing. She showed you daggers, and you did nothing.” She swallowed hard, and her heart hardened again. “I expect nothing less from a Cassadine pawn—”

“What would you have me do? Tell the king that his aunt and her family were slaughtered like animals? She wanted no justice. Just vengeance. She came to my friend looking for revenge.”

“You still have told me nothing that convinces me that I should go inside or continue this conversation. You weave nothing but lies designed to trick me into trusting you.”

“I tell you the truth as I know it. She gave no name, and she never spoke of her relatives. She didn’t need to. The daggers—” Jason held them out to her again. “They don’t take kindly to being separated from their mistress, do they? That’s how you came to have them after all this time. Why they didn’t burn to the ground with your home or become the property of whoever kidnapped you from the woods that day.”

“How can you—” She bit back the demand, clenching her hands so tightly her nails dug into her palms. “Then you know that if you withhold them from me, they’ll only find their way home.”

“I do. So why go to that trouble when you can take them now?”

Her hands itched to take the offer, to snatch the daggers from him, but what if he were lying? What if he knew the power the weapons held, and he had a charm to bind them to him? What if she held out her hands and he grabbed her—

She was just so very tired.

With trembling hands she reached out, held out her hands, and nearly wept when Jason carefully laid the hilts in her palm, his fingers closing her hand around them so that his larger hands engulfed hers.

Their eyes met, and Elizabeth drew in a shuddering breath. “I don’t understand you.”

“I’ve heard that before. From the woman in the pub who also was unhappy that I knew the origin of these, that I knew their power, and declined to tell her why.”

“And do you think it fair that you seem to know all my secrets, and I still know nothing of yours?” she demanded.

“You know the one I’ve told no other. You just haven’t put the pieces together.” Jason released her hands, then drew his sword. Elizabeth leapt back, set herself to ward off the attack—but he held the hilt towards her, as if handing her the sword.

Elizabeth furrowed her brow, lowered her hands to her side, the tips of the daggers brushing her cloak. On the base of the hilt was the same insignia burned into hers. “The Quartermaines. They do not make weapons for the common people. They’ve made our daggers, and—” Her eyes rounded. “You’re a Quartermaine?”

“By blood,” Jason said, sheathing the sword again. “Not by right or name. I was honest when I told you I was a bastard from Wymoor. I just didn’t specify whose bastard.”

The information didn’t fit in neatly with everything else that she knew. The Quartermaines looked after their own, and clearly he had been part of the family at one time. He’d been trained and outfitted by Alan Quartermaine.

And yet—

“You take coin from the blood enemy of your family?” Elizabeth asked. “You think that to be reassuring?”

“You’re betrothed to the blood enemy of yours,” Jason returned calmly and she flinched. “Does that not make us the same?”

“I don’t know,” she said, lifting her brows. “Were you held prisoner for six years, then bound to a small, remote village for another eight? Did you bargain for the false pretense of freedom by trading your future?”

“Bound,” Jason repeatedly slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“Then let me make this very clear, Master Morgan.” She stepped close to him, their faces so close that the breath she exhaled mingled with his. “I begged Valentin to release me from the   locked room that had been my whole world since the day he slaughtered my family and took me prisoner. He brought me to Shadwell, to that cottage, and once I stepped across the border of the village, he relished in telling me that I was to stay there until he had need of me, and the only way he’d ever let me leave was if I agreed to marry him. Or else I’d rot away in my isolation. And for eight years, I prayed he’d find another way, another route to the power he so desperately craved. As long as the king drew breath, there was hope. And then you came.”

Jason took a step back, confusion swirling in his eyes. “He bound you to the land, but I spoke no words to release you—”

“You did not have to. It’s an oath. When you came and you asked me if I was his betrothed, I fulfilled the contract. I agreed to leave with you. But Valentin does not respect the old ways, the magic. I agreed so that I could leave. But I will never marry him. And if you force me, if you drag me to the capital, I promise you, Valentin will not live long enough to take the throne.”

Jason looked at her for long a moment. “Good. Then we are agreed.”

“We—” She blinked, shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“You wish to see Valentin dead. But I will tell you what I told your kinswoman — if you want Valentin’s blood, we are in accord. I’d prefer to do the deed myself, but if you need to have a hand in spilling it, that can be arranged.”

+24

Written in 60 minutes.

He scarcely had a chance to deflect the dagger before it sliced through his neck, but Jason managed to lift his arm, knocking her wrist back. He made a grab for her, but Elizabeth danced backwards, doing a roll that allowed her snatch up the first dagger, glinting on the forest floor.

“What—” Jason began but had to jump back when she swiped out again, nearly taking his intestines. Grimacing, he drew his sword. He had no taste for fighting a woman, even one who was armed—

And who had been trained well enough to dodge his attack. With the sword he kept her from another frontal attack, and held up another hand, hoping to suggest he meant her no harm.

But the meek woman he’d escorted from Shadwell and traveled alongside for the last two days had disappeared, replaced with a ball of fury. The hood had fallen back, and hair tumbled and loose around her face, only illuminated by the slice of moon visible through the gray skies.

“I don’t want to hurt you—”

“Says a man who takes the coin of a murderer,” Elizabeth spat, and he blinked at that accusation, and the rage shaking in her voice. That split second of confusion gave her an opening and she flew at him, one of her daggers slicing through his upper arm.

Jason hissed in pain, decided the time had come to end this farce. He threw the sword aside, grabbed one of her wrists, wrapping his hand around it like a manacle, tightening it. She cried out and the dagger fell to the ground.

When her other hand swung around, Jason was ready and within seconds, he’d wrapped her tiny wrists in one fist and backed her hard against the bark of a tree, holding the hands over her head, leaving a hand free.

“Let me go!” Elizabeth panted, twisting back and forth. When her knee came up towards his groin, Jason had already deflected it, curling one of his legs around hers, trapping it against his own.

Her chest was heaving, her breath a white cloud fading into the cold night, but despite having been completely disarmed and literally backed against a wall, Elizabeth’s turbulent eyes didn’t show even a hint of panic or fear.

“Let me go,” she forced out between clenched teeth. “You wouldn’t want to damage the merchandise.”

“You fight well,” Jason said, not bothering to respond to her barb. “But you should have finished your training.”

Her eyes narrowed into slits, her mouth little more than a white line. “What does that mean?”

Jason arched a brow. Without taking his eyes from hers, he shifted his boot slightly, kicked it, and then reached out to retrieve the dagger she’d dropped. He held the blade near her face, the tip just beneath her chin.

And still, no fear. No panic. Just the slide curve of her lips.

If only she knew that she’d lost whatever leverage she possessed with that twitch of the mouth, she might not have smiled.

“I could slice you open here,” Jason said almost casually, the blade resting against her skin, just below the curve of her jaw. One flick of his hands and he’d have her life’s blood spouting. “You think me afraid of the Cassadine?”

Amusement flared in her eyes, and the corner of her eyebrow quirked up. “I think you very stupid. Go ahead and try it.” She tilted her head slightly, revealing more neck.

“If I value my life, it will be the last thing I do.” When her eyes came back to his, the arrogance in her eyes fading. “Or were you hoping I wouldn’t recognize the daggers from the House of Nevoie?”

She said nothing, but there was a small flare of alarm now, and his smile only grew. “These daggers are charmed to protect their mistress. They bring no harm to you. They can’t.”

Her lips parted slightly, and now, finally, there was a lick of fear in her eyes. “I know not of what you speak—”

“If I even moved this blade a hair closer, I would be on the ground, fortunate to wake up hours from now with nothing more than headaches and regrets. You think your house has fallen into memory? That no one remembers the Ladies of Nevoie?”

“I think,” she said carefully, “that you have been told stories—”

“Stories?” he scoffed, dropping the blade to his side, but not loosening his hold on Elizabeth. He had no doubt she’d be going for other discarded dagger behind him if he gave her half a chance. And while he was sure she hadn’t completed her time with Alan, there was no telling what she could still pull out from beneath that heavy cloak.

After all, the house of Nevoie was known for more than their bespelled weapons.

“Tell me why you never finished your training,” Jason said again, and she furrowed her brow, not expecting that turn of conversation.

“What makes you think I didn’t it?”

“Because Alan Quartermaine never returned a lady of Nevoie without knowing how to disarm her attacker. This,” Jason said, pressing just a bit closer, pressing her more tightly against the tree. Her chest, still rising and falling with panicked, heavy breathing, had little room to expand. “This,” he said, bringing his face a bit more close so that there was little more than a breath separating them, “was his worst fear.”

“You aren’t going to hurt me,” she said, but her voice was smaller now, almost as if she were saying the words as an affirmation, to persuade herself rather to taunt him.

Jason pressed his lips together, stepped back, releasing her so fast that she was almost spinning. By the time she came back to herself, Jason had scooped up that second dagger and sheathed his sword.

Her eyes were huge now, focused on his hands, on her weapons. She flattened her hands against the tree, her fingers digging into the bark. “Give them to me,” she said, the words bit out from behind her clenched teeth. “They are mine.”

“I have no need to take them,” Jason said, with more warmth in his tone than he’d exhibited their entire acquaintance. “They must be the last of their kind.”

“Very nearly, and—”

“After all, the house of Nevoie has been extinct these last ten years. More,” Jason murmured.  “I was young when it happened, but not a child.”

“Extinct. Is that what your master told you?”

“I have no master, save myself. And no one told me anything. You think Valentin would have let me anywhere near you if I knew who you were or what value you bring? He’d never tell someone who could use that for his own gain.”

“Oh, and you’re so noble? So honorable?” she spat. “Are you so different  that you wouldn’t steal me for yourself?”

Jason raised his brows, then bit back his instinctual response. “I have no taste for the throne,” he said, his words pitched lower. Their eyes met. “Or need to steal a woman for any other reason.”

The shadows hid her, casting her face into nothing more than gray and white. But he would have gambled any amount that she’d flushed with embarrassment.

“But I’ll forgive you that accusation,” he continued, “as we don’t know each other very well and you’ve likely seen more men of that ilk than not.”

“All men are the same.”

“Did the training end when your family died? Did they not send you for another summer because there was left to do so?”

“You would dare to speak of this to me. The audacity,” Elizabeth breathed, “to stand there with the coin of Valentin Cassadine rotting in your pocket, and speak of my family. Of my mother who he slaughtered, my sister, my only blood—”

“Slaughtered?” When she just glared at him, Jason shook his head. “There must be some mistake. The last ladies of Nevoie died in the sickness—” He stopped, looked away as awareness awakened. “A story. A lie. You say Valentin Cassadine murdered the House of Nevoie? How do you know this?”

“I owe you no more answers,” Elizabeth said, lifting her chin. “You have a choice. Return my belongings, allow me to take my mare, and I’ll cease being your concern.”

Jason looked down at the dagger in his hand, turning it to see the end of the hilt, at the small insignia burned into it. The familiar mark of his family.

“I could do that,” he said, slowly lifting his head until their eyes met, held. “But I don’t think you want to leave just yet.”

“Oh, I assure you, I do—”

“Or will it not bother you how a bastard urchin from Wymoor knows who you are? Why I know so many of your secrets?”

Her eyes burned, and if she had the power, Jason was sure, he would have been engulfed by flames on the spot.

“Valentin would have told you—”

“Would he?” Jason demanded. “He would never have risked it. He knows who I am.”

“Who are you?” Elizabeth challenged, stepping forward, then her lips parted when he lifted his brows.

“If you want the answer to that question, you can come inside. Or— ” Jason held out the daggers, and her eyes went to them. “Take these and go.”

+20

Written in 60 minutes.

They made good progress that first day — Elizabeth was a far more skilled rider than Jason had expected, though by now he had few expectations left of the woman he’d been sent to fetch. She must hold some value, he reasoned, to wed the scion of a powerful family, and given the timing of the wedding, perhaps she had some role to play in the growing succession turmoil.

Though this reasoning made sense, it did little to quell Jason’s rising unease as the questions that had been lingering since he’d been given the task had only increased. And, he had to admit, he had Mary Mae’s warnings in his mind. She’d never trusted the Cassadines, Valentin least of all.

Elizabeth Barrett was a curious woman with her skill in not only riding, but handling of her mare. Even as the sun traveled across the sky, slipping behind clouds sending the temperatures plunging, she did not ask to stop or to locate the nearest inn and hearth. She merely tugged the ends of her velvet-lined cloak more tightly around her, the hood obscuring the profile of her face save for the occasional glimpses of the tip of her nose.

Jason had never been one for conversation, but even the quiet was unnerving. No idle chatter, no rambling, no questions, not even a question of where they were going and how long it would take to arrive.

It was as if he traveled with a ghost.

“An hour north of us,” Jason said, speaking for the first time since their departure, his voice rusty. “We’ll stop for the night. There’s a village with an inn. There won’t be another until long after dark. Will that suit for you?”

“Whatever you find necessary,” came the answer in a disinterested tone. Was he escorting her to a wedding or a funeral? One wouldn’t be able to guess, but it was none of Jason’s concern and he’d long promised himself to stay out of other people’s business.

Before long, they reached Ebonhollow, and the front yard of the Black Dragon. Jason turned to assist Elizabeth’s dismount only to see her already on the ground, a valise pulled from the saddlebag in her hand. She handed her reins to a stable boy, then looked at him expectantly.

He exhaled a long careful breath, then handed over his own reins. “Let’s go inside. I arranged for rooms in advance.”

She said nothing, but trailed after him. Their rooms were ready, arranged across from one another in the hall. The innkeeper had no sooner opened her room than Elizabeth had gone inside and closed it behind her, forestalling any conversation.

Jason stared at the wooden door for a long moment. Ignoring that growing concern that something was not right was becoming more and more difficult, but a quiet woman who kept to herself was not committing any crimes.

Jason went into his own room, looking forward to washing off the dust of the road and a hot supper.

—

Across the hall, Elizabeth let out her own sigh of relief, setting her bag on the small table. There was a pitcher of water with a bowl and a dry cloth. She eagerly went to wash her face and hands, unloosening the laces of her bodice slightly so that she could get the dust that had kicked up.

She rinsed the cloth, then left it to dry, returning to her valise. Inside, she plucked out her map of Tyrathenia, eager to locate this village on it and determine how best to proceed. “Ebonhollow,” she murmured, tracing its route from Shadwell. The corners of her mouth dipped down. They’d traveled inland, away from the ports.

She’d hoped they’d hug the coast since Port Tonderah was, of course, on the water, and the eastern portion of the island but he’d taken them towards the center. Surely he had his reasons, but how did Elizabeth convince him to go the other way?

They’d have to come back out to the coast at some point, she thought, but when? Could she take the chance of waiting? The closer they came to Tonderah, the more dense the population. The more chance that Valentin had spies waiting and watching.

She went to the window overlooking the stableyard, making an even more upsetting discovery — the stables were not close to the inn, but more than fifty feet away. Traversing that in the dark, with nothing to light her way—it would be difficult, if not possible to find her way.

With frustration, Elizabeth folded the map, set it back in her bag. She should have run a long time ago. Should never have hoped that every passing year had meant Valentin had forgotten her. Had found an easier path to the power he wanted.

Just as thought bloomed, a spiral of shame came after, just as it always did when she thought of escape. She was the last of her family, the last of her kind. And if she did run, as she planned, then there would be no one left to demand justice.

There would be no vengeance.

She retrieved the box of daggers, opened it, and drew one out, sliding her fingers over the smooth side of the blade. Every woman in her line had been given a set of these. She’d been the youngest, and now they were all gone, sacrificed in the name of power. Her line on both sides had been all but extinguished as two men had vied for control of a hunk of land.

But would the mother she’d never known wish Elizabeth to sacrifice herself? Would the family she had known want this future for her?

She could escape to one of the port cities, board a ship, and go far away where Rhigwyn and maybe even Tyrathenia was nothing but dots on a map. She could have children, maybe tell them the story of her family.

There could be a daughter to give these daggers to. Was that not also honoring the traditions? After eight years of solitude and isolation, Elizabeth finally had a choice before her.

Which would she make?

—

Elizabeth requested dinner sent to her room, so Jason ate on his own in the common room. He should be grateful to have been asked to escort a woman who made nearly no demands on his energy or time, but their first conversation continued to linger in his mind. The dread in her eyes, the sigh she’d made when admitting her identity.

The name she carried. Barrett. It was significant, though he couldn’t place it, and made a note to apologize to Mary Mae for not paying more attention during her lessons.

The storm Jason had feared had gone towards the coast, and they’d avoided it by turning in land. It would add a few hours to their trip to travel back west, but they’d have lost days even weeks if they’d run into the snow and ice.

Still, the sky was a weary overcast with no hint of the sun. The only difference between night and day had been the shades of gray in the clouds. Elizabeth was ready before he was, standing expectantly in the common room, her valise in her hands, her cloak already donned.

“We’ll stop at Elemvale tonight,” he told her while he paid their bill and gestured for her to head towards the entrance. “It’s eight hours of riding. Will that be a problem?”

“No,” she answered, her eyes still not quite looking at him. Looking past him, he realized, and maybe that the source of some of his discomfort. She’d been polite, of course, but she hadn’t really acknowledged him. Hadn’t seen him.

She said nothing else, and Jason had nothing else to offer, so off they went, making their turn back to the coast, and another long day of quiet, unsettling travel.

—

Elemvale. She’d noted it on her map as a possible escape route the night before, a sign that she should seize a chance to have a future. He was taking them back towards the coast, and Elemvale was a sizeable town, much larger than Shadwell or Ebonhollow.

That evening, when Elizabeth saw that stables actually adjoined the inn, she could have wept with joy. She’d have her chance now — able to flee into the night, taking her mare and disappearing. With any luck, she’d be at the coast in the morning, and on the water by the next nightfall.

She requested dinner in her room again, and was relieved when her guard agreed without complaint. Now that her course was set, Elizabeth turned some of her attention to the man who had disrupted her quiet life. He’d accepted her lack of conversation or interest in his person without a protest which was a relief. She’d had all manner of guards before her exile eight years ago, and she never trusted the friendly ones.

But he couldn’t be much older than her, Elizabeth though. Maybe half a dozen years? And he was clean, another improvement over many of her previous guards. His hair fell over his eyes, down to the collar of his shirt, but it, too, was clean and well kept. He bathed, a rarity in the men she’d dealt with.

And he was kind, she thought grudgingly. He’d turned more than once to help her mount or dismount, but never made a sound when his efforts were unneeded or unnoticed. He’d arranged for her to have her own room both nights, not insisting on sleeping on her floor or staring at her while she ate.

In truth, she felt the pull of worry for the man. What would happen to him when Valentin learned she’d fled? Would Jason, as he’d called himself, be held to task for not guarding her more closely?

But just as quickly, that worry hardened. He’d chosen to work for Valentin Cassadine, Elizabeth decided. And whatever punishment came his way was a just one for choosing the side of evil.

She listened at the door once more. The inn was quiet, and she’d heard Jason go into his room across the hall more than an hour ago. Surely by now, he’d gone to sleep.

Elizabeth removed the daggers from her bag, strapped them both into the special pockets of her cloak, then headed to the door, valise in hand.

It was time.

—

Jason had been a light sleeper all his life, and so when the door across the hall creaked open, his eyes had opened. He sat up in the bed, then listened again, very carefully. Was Elizabeth simply restless? Was she intending to go down to the common room? Maybe she’d heard something he hadn’t.

He waited — there wasn’t a sound again for some time. Then, there was the lightest of footsteps, the toe of a boot hitting the wooden floor. Then another. A door easing closed. Footsteps moving towards the stairs.

Jason quietly got out of bed, dressed, and threw on his cloak. He picked up his sword, and then with his boots in his hand not on his feet, he headed for the door.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, and saw nothing. So he took another moment, listened. Heard the creak of the door to the stable yard. When it was closed, he followed again.

In the stable yard, outside the inn, he grimaced — the doors to the stable were closed and locked tight, a fact that the figure standing at the entrance had only just learned. He watched Elizabeth shake it slightly, then sigh. The sound didn’t travel across the stable yard, but the quick rise and fall of her shoulders suggested the disappointment.

Jason started to step back, sure that now she realized she could not retrieve her horse and leave she’d return to the inn and he didn’t want to be seen.

But instead, Elizabeth crept towards the trees, towards the main road. And cursing himself, Jason hurriedly stepped into his boots and followed. Then she ducked into a copse of trees alongside the road, and he lost sight of her.

When he came into a small clearing, he grimaced, looking around, wondering how he’d explain to Valentin that a woman who stood no higher than his chin and could have lifted with one hand had managed to elude him.

The only warning he had for what came next was the cracking of branches behind him. Jason swirled, and just barely managed to draw his sword to block the dagger aimed at his neck.

Elizabeth hissed in disappointment, and then with another flick of her hand, from what looked like the air, she drew a second dagger.

And attacked.

+23

Written in 59 minutes.

When Valentin had laid out the task, Jason had felt the first stirrings of unease. Valentin was the heir to an old title and powerful family. Why was he sending a mercenary to fetch the woman he planned to marry? No carriage or servants to look after her or guard her reputation, just a bag of coins to secure rooms at inns between Shadwell and Port Tonderah.

But the promised price for the job could not be dismissed, and if Jason refused the contract, Valentin would simply turn to another. Perhaps someone with less conscience or morals. Jason had swept aside his concerns, assuring himself that sometimes it was better to travel incognito. No one would expect Valentin Cassadine’s promised bride to sweep into the capital without an entourage to announce her arrival. With the tumultuous tidings in Tonderah, Valentin likely knew best how to secure his future wife’s safety.

So Jason had accepted the task and headed north to Shadwell, a speck that could scarcely be called a village on the other side of Rhigwyn, almost at the border. It was a week’s ride, and would be twice to the capital from there. But the fee would ensure Jason would not have to take any more contracts this winter and could retire to the solitude of his home near Wymoor.

He’d thoroughly convinced himself that this was nothing but a guard duty. No doubt this Elizabeth was the spoiled daughter of a local lord, a minor noble who had coin or some sort of leverage Valentin intended to wield against Faison and his faction in the capital.

Then he’d arrived in Shadwell and realized quickly there was no local lord. No large estates. It was little more than a collection of buildings crowded near a river, and solitary cottages dotting the landscape.

He found Elizabeth, whose surname he was never given, at the end of a dirt road. He’d had to stop at the local inn for directions to Eldia — not the manor house he would expect to be named a goddess who sat in judgment of men, but a one story cottage, set back in a clearing with a kitchen garden and small stable just beyond.

The woman who had stepped outside was nothing like he’d expected, and as far from the spoiled pampered girl he’d already resigned himself to escorting south. She was slight, with pale, porcelain skin, and chestnut hair gathered at the nape of her neck. Though she still looked young, she’d seen more summers than a girl fresh from schoolroom.

And the resignation in her expression when she’d reluctantly admitted to being Valentin’s betrothed stirred that unease again, but Jason forced it down. She’d hardly be the first to contract an unhappy marriage, and judging from her surroundings, it would only improve her lot. Perhaps Valentin had come across her and been lured to make a socially imbalanced match by her beauty.

Whatever the Cassadine’s reasons, Jason did not care. He’d located the woman, and confirmed her identity. All that remained was securing their departure.

“You were not expecting me?” Jason asked, still remaining just inside the gate. There was nothing in her posture, in her still expression that suggested he had permission to go further. “You seem surprised to see. Perhaps you thought Valentin would send someone else?”

“I had hoped he would send no one at all,” Elizabeth said, her voice wry, almost amused. It was a contradiction to the caution he saw in her posture, and it gave him pause. She did not welcome the betrothal? Or perhaps she’d had second thoughts? And Valentin had not arranged this departure in advance?

The unease was growing, a swirling pit in his belly, wondering if this was the straightforward task Valentin had described, or something else. He forced it down, reminding him of the freedom that would be his if he could just complete this task. A reluctant bride was not an unwilling one, and she had until she stood in the temple before the clerics to speak her mind.

“Perhaps a message was lost before it reached you,” Jason said. “When can you be ready to leave?”

Her expression flattened, her lips pressed together so hard that they nearly disappeared. Then she sighed, looked back at the house for a long moment, then up at the sun peeking through the canopy of trees.

“It will be twilight soon, and it is not safe to travel at night. There are brigands and thieves along the border. I can be ready to go in the morning.” Elizabeth stepped forward now, coming fully into the sunlight, stopping just a few feet from him. He saw now that her eyes were a clear deep blue, and the simple green dress she wore had thinning fabric and frayed hems.

Valentin was marrying a woman who lived in near isolation with nothing to her name? Was there some rich relative promising a dowry? Reminding himself it was none of his affair, Jason nodded. “Morning is suitable. I assume you can ride?”

“Better than most, yes. Old Gert in the village runs the inn. She’ll put you up for the night. Do you know the way or shall I direct you?”

“I came through that way. Thank you.” Jason stepped back, nearly turned away, then looked back at her. “Will that be enough time? I was not told that it was urgent, and I am sure Valentin would understand that you had no warning.”

Her lips curved into a smile, but her eyes remained sober. “I’m sure he intended it that way. You needn’t worry about disappointing him. I can be ready by the morning.” She hesitated. “You did not give your name.”

“Jason. Jason Morgan.” He tipped his head. “He did not give me your surname or else I would not have used your given name.”

“Because he did not know it. And never cared to learn. Barrett. Elizabeth Barrett.”

Barrett. The name tugged at him, but he didn’t know why. And he didn’t know what to make of the woman who bore the name or that Valentin was marrying someone whose name he did not know.

But still, he put it away. It was not for him to ask questions. If she was willing to go, then he would deliver her to Valentin, collect his fee, and leave them to their lives.

“Until the morning then, Miss Barrett.”

He nodded at her, then went back to his horse. She remained standing there, not moving, until he’d turned back towards the village, and was on his way.

—

She watched him go, the strange man who was so carefully polite with his words, but had weighed every one of her words and found them wanting. He wasn’t the kind of man she’d expected Valentin to send, but then, as she’d told Jason, she’d hoped never to find out.

Elizabeth returned to the cottage, heading straight for the back room that served as her bedroom. Into a cloth bag she carefully laid pieces of her limited wardrobe. Two dresses, a shift, chemise, and nightgown. Wool socks, a pair of stockings, and a brush for her hair.

Then she went to the large oak cupboard in the corner of the room. Inside was a trio of shelves. The lowest shelf held various jars and boxes of herbs. She sifted through them, thinking of what she might need during the trip.

The second shelf held some of her books and a collection of wax candles of varying colors. She retrieved two white, one red, and a green candle.

On the top shelf, in the corner, Elizabeth found the black box. She took it down and opened it. The box was lined with velvet and held a set of identical daggers with a jeweled hilt. Elizabeth lifted one and tested the tip, wincing slightly when it drew blood.

She tested it in her hand, then with a slight twist of her wrist twirled it in the air, then snatching it back. Her lips curved into a smile, much more genuine than the one she’d given outside.

She laid the dagger back in its velvet bed, then tested its sister for its sharpness and for her reflexes. Gratified, she closed the box and set it next to the bag she’d packed. In the morning, she would strap both to the holster she’d carried since childhood.

She closed the cupboard, then went into the kitchen to gather up perishables that would spoil if they went uneaten. There were families to the south that would appreciate the gift, and as she didn’t expect to return, it would be a shame if it went to waste. She wrote a note to her neighbors telling them to dispose of her belongings if she did not return or send word in a month’s time, and to look after her dairy cow which could be sold if necessary.

Elizabeth looked around her tiny home, every corner of it beloved to her. Precious. It was not opulent, and there was no evidence of the world she’d left behind that terrible day in her eleventh year, but it was her home, and she would miss it terribly.

But there was little point in wallowing in self-pity. It wouldn’t solve her problems or stop what was to come.

She’d enjoyed her exile, but it was unfortunately at an end.

—

There was little sun the next morning, the winter light weak and barely lighting Jason’s way as he left the inn and returned to Eldia Cottage. He half-expected Elizabeth Barrett to have made her escape during the night, and he’d spent some time determining how he would explain such a thing to Valentin.

But she stood in her yard, her hands on the bridle of her mare. She wore a thick velvet cloak with the hood already drawn up over her head, tendrils of her hair curling over her forehead.

Jason swung down from his horse. “I should have asked last night if you’d arranged for things to be sent. Or if you needed a cart. I have room in my saddle bags—”

“I have all that I need,” Elizabeth said. She gestured at her own saddlebags, and Jason furrowed his brow. They looked light, nearly non-existent.

“Oh. Then I suppose we should start south. I don’t like the look of the clouds to the north,” Jason told her. “I want to stay ahead of that storm.”

“Then by all means, let us begin.”

+24

Alternate Universe. Forget everything.

Written in 61 minutes.

The port city of Wymoor had once been a bustling center of trade and commerce, its docks teeming with goods and people from every corner of Tyrathenia. It had been the shining jewel in the tiny kingdom of Rhigwyn, the envy of many.

Those days were long past, with little left but the fishermen and smugglers. The pubs, once packed to the brim with travelers and dockworkers, had dwindled until only the Hare and the Hound stood at the end of Berry Lane, and on a blustery winter night, there were few inside the common room.

But Mother Mary Mae Ward could always be found on a stool in the corner, telling her tales to the lost children of the village. She collected them — one left orphaned when the storms washed her fishermen father away at sea, two more who had survived the sweating that had swept through the region the year before, and another who had no family to call their own and never had. He’d simply showed up one day that summer, and everyone knew to send him to Mother Mary Mae.

Tonight, she told the children their favorite story — of another lost child no different than they —

“But that’s not true, Mother Mary,” little Violet piped up, sitting cross-legged in front of the old woman. The girl spoke with a lisp, her smile revealing the gap where she’d lost her two front teeth. Her sunny blond hair was clean and braided back in twin tails that hung down her back. She was the youngest of Mother Mary Mae’s brood, still believing her father would wash up alive on the shore.

Still young enough to believe in dreams.

“Not true?” Mary Mae said with a laugh. “Why do you say that?”

“She’s not a lost child, she’s a lost princess,” James said with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t know much, Mother, but my father weren’t no king. And who knows what my mother was.”

Mary Mae lifted her brows. “Who’s telling this story, Master James? You or I? You asked for the story—”

“Not me—”

“I like this story,” said the little boy with no family at all. He had no surname, and only answered to Danny. “And it’s my turn to pick!”

“So it is, Master Daniel. It was a night just like this, more twenty years ago,” Mary Mae said, lowering her voice to a hush. “The castle had settled down for the night, and all were tucked in their beds. But almost none of them would see the morning.”

Across the room, a man sat at the long oak bar, a pint of ale in his hand. Locks of dark blonde hair fell across his forehead as he half-listened to the old woman’s story. She’d been telling it nearly as long he could remember — though he liked it no more now than when he’d been one of Mary Mae’s children, crowded around the stool, hanging on her every word.

The story had changed over the years, details emphasized, pauses added for drama, but the facts were true enough. Twenty-four years earlier, the royal family had been slaughtered in their beds, the only survivor the young boy prince, Steven, who had reigned as a puppet king until his death only a few weeks earlier. He’d been three when he’d lost his family, and had never been worth much. Under the weight of his advisors and the rule of the regent, the kingdom had fallen into ruin. Only the capital city prospered — they cared little for the rest of the land, including Wymoor.

No one had ever been held account for the murder of the king, the queen, the queen mother, or their servants.

And no one had ever learned the fate of the youngest member of the family — the six-month-old little girl who had fallen into tales and myth as the lost princess. And one day she’d return to slay the evil dragons to restore Rhigwyn to its glory and take her place on the throne.

It had been nothing but a foolish story when he’d been seven years old, and now that he had seen more than thirty summers, it seemed even more fanciful. The princess was long dead, and there was no one left to help them.

After the story had finished, Mary Mae ushered her children off to their beds. She made her way over to the bar, touched the man on his shoulder. “It’s rare to see you in here on a night like this. Will you sit a while and tell me what brings you here?”

He hesitated, then lifted his mug, followed her to a nearby table. Old habits died hard, he thought, pulling out a chair, helping her to settle. “I’m not here to see you, Mother Mary.”

“I know.” She’d always seemed so old to him, even as a child, but now he saw more evidence of her age. The thick braids she wore had once been a deep coal black, and were now the color of the slate, lines in the corners of her eyes dug more deeply, crinkling when she smiled. But her smile was as warm as ever, as if it had been only hours since they’d seen each other and not months. “You never are, to my everlasting regret, though you’re welcome anytime. All my children will always have a place here.”

“Even though you fill their heads with nonsense?”

Mary Mae tipped her head to the side. “You still think it nonsense? Why? Because it comes from the mouth of a woman and not Valentin Cassadine?”

He pressed his lips together, looked down. “You’ve never cared for their family, but they’ve stayed when others left—”

“Ah, yes, the generosity of the Cassadine family. My boy, did I fail you so miserably that you’d rather throw your lot in with men like Valentin?”

There was an itch between his shoulders. “It was never you, Mother.”

Mary Mae set her hand over his, the dark skin stark against his weathered golden complexion, reminding him again that for all the years he’d called her mother, it was a term of endearment and not of blood. “Then, tell me, Jason, when did I lose you?”

He opened his mouth, then shook his head. “Tell me what you need here, and I’ll see it done. Food, clothes for the children?”

She sighed, drew her hand back. “We’re fine here, though I thank you.”

“Mother—”

“Ah, I see you’ve found a way to occupy your time since I was delayed.”

The new voice broke the spell, and Jason lifted his head to find Valentin Cassadine looming over them, his long coat over one arm. He wore a smile, though it had none of the warmth or comfort of his foster mother. His eyes were cold, not very different than the gray waters of the ocean beyond their doors.

Jason drew back. “Catching up with an old friend. Thank you for the conversation,” he told Mary Mae. “You’ll tell me if you change your mind.”

“Aye, Jason. I’ll keep you in my thoughts.” She rose, and shifted her expression, her back straight, bearing as regal as the royalty whose tales she waved nightly. “My lord Cassadine, please have my seat. My girl will see bring you an ale if you wish.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Mary Mae swept away, and Jason was relieved, through the air was chillier, emptier without her. Some of the light had dimmed in the room, the shadows lengthening.

Valentin took the chair that Mary Mae had vacated. “Apologies for my tardiness. The roads leave a great deal to be desired.” He sniffed, glancing around. “I’d quite forgotten you grew up here. I ought to have selected another meeting place.”

Jason very much doubted that Valentin would forget a detail like that or that he had not been late by design. Though Mary Mae might like to think Jason was in service to the Cassadine lord, the truth was simpler. Jason no had no loyalty to anyone save himself and the coin that paid for his drink, his food, his shelter, and the occasional woman. Tonight, just like other nights, it was coin given by Valentin. Tomorrow it might be another.

“You said that you had a job for me.”

“Yes. I regret that it has to be at this time of year. Ghastly season, winter.” Valentin flicked impatient eyes to the curly-haired blonde who brought the ale, waited for her to leave before returning his focus to Jason. “I’ll be removing to Tonderah tomorrow, and I have something that I require you to deliver to me there.” He paused. “Well, someone.”

It was no surprise Valentin was heading to Port Tonderah, the capital city. Jason was surprised he had not already gone. One of the few redeeming qualities of the Cassadine family was their staunch opposition to Cesar Faison, the royal advisor who had acted as the king’s regent all these long years, and had engineered the marriage of his daughter to the dead king.

With Steven’s body growing cold in his grave, and no heir in sight, Faison and his cronies were looking to secure his daughter’s hold on the throne, but a fight was brewing, and Jason was sure Valentin saw himself on the other side, perhaps taking the throne himself. Jason didn’t care who took the thankless job as monarch, as long the coin continued to flow.

“Where do you want me to go?” Jason asked.

“The far corner of the kingdom, on the other side of the island entirely,” Valentin said. “It will take you several days to travel there and even longer to Tonderah. There’s a village there…”

—

The village of Shadwell was not known for its warm community. Those who called it home did so because no one asked where you were from or cared where you were going. As long as you minded your business, looked after your land, and committed no crimes, a person could become almost invisible.

And that was just the way Elizabeth liked it. She’d called Shadwell home for nearly eight years now — the quaint little cottage at the end of the land with a small stable for her horse and cow, a garden that saw most of her needs met, and enough room and light to earn her keep as seamstress for the local shop.

It was not the life she’d planned as a child, but she’d learned over the years to embrace the quiet and the safe. She’d hoped to be forgotten by the outside world, and for many years, she believed she had been.

But in the days since news had traveled the long distance from Tonderah that the king had died, she’d felt a chill in the air unrelated to the winter winds. A raising of the hair on her neck, an itch between her shoulders, gooseflesh on her arms. Something was coming, and perhaps she ought not be there when it arrived.

She lingered too long, too hopeful that she was wrong, too reluctant to leave her sanctuary, and when something finally arrived, it came with the sound of hoofbeats coming up the lane.

Elizabeth went to the window of her home, saw the horse at her gate, the man hitching the reins to the post. Her heart began to pound, but then she realized it was not who she’d expected. This man was younger, broader in the chest, his hair longer—

Perhaps a lost traveler? Eager to redirect him and send him on his way, Elizabeth stepped out of the house, onto the path, her welcoming smile dimming when he met her eyes, the cold  wintry blue.

“Are you Elizabeth?”

At her sides, her hands fisted, and Elizabeth slowly nodded. “Aye. Have you been sent to fetch me?’

“Yes. Valentin apologizes he can’t escort you personally, but asked me to make sure you reach Port Tonderah safely.”

For a moment, the world was quiet, just the whistling of wind through the nearby branches. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Elizabeth wanted to hope, she wanted to dream —

She had to be sure.

“And once I’m there?” she asked.

The man furrowed his brow, a bit confused. “You’ll be married. You are his betrothed, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said with a sigh. “I suppose I am.”

+23