Ryn didn't slow as he left the palace district.

The meeting replayed itself only once, enough to catalogue reactions and file away what mattered. He'd learned long ago that lingering on conversations didn't change their outcomes.

Still, Taylor Gremory lingered in his thoughts.

He had served the Kingdom for years in his previous life. Long enough to know how its bureaucracy breathed. And yet, in all that time, he had rarely ever met the crown princess.

She had been sheltered, kept far away from the public eye. Present when ceremonies demanded it but never more.

Tonight had not matched that memory.

Taylor Gremory had listened carefully. She hadn't dismissed him, nor had she accepted his words at face value.

Ryn considered the meeting to be a success. He had planted the idea, and in the process learned more about her than he'd expected.

However, what unsettled him was something else.

She doesn't become queen.

The thought surfaced without warning.

In the future he remembered, the throne passed cleanly to her brother. No succession war nor scandal that shook the Kingdom apart. Just a transition that happened, absolute and unquestioned.

Ryn had never known why.

He slowed briefly at the edge of the estate grounds, considering the discrepancy. The version of the princess he had met tonight did not align with the absence he remembered from the future.

For a moment, the question tempted him.

Then he pushed it aside.

There were too many variables already in motion. He had to focus on what's on his plate first before looking at more.

Ryn exhaled and stepped through the gates.

Maria's estate was quiet at this hour, lanterns casting steady light across trimmed stone paths. Familiar footsteps sounded ahead.

His party was waiting.

Ryn stopped in front of them.

"It might go through," he said.

No embellishment or fancy words, just the hard truth.

They absorbed that in silence.

"But," he continued, after a brief pause, "we'll just have to wait and see."

That, at least, was honest.

Ryn turned his gaze back toward the estate, already thinking several steps ahead.

Waiting was never passive.

So he set his objective on something else.

Finding Fritz Calder.

***

Sunlight spilled between the buildings in thin, uneven bands, catching on stone and glass along with the lingering dampness from the night before.

Fritz adjusted the strap of his bag as he walked, shoulders still sore in a way that reminded him yesterday had existed.

How long ago was his last off-day?

He shrugged and wiped the thought away.

Today, there was no route to follow or corners to check. Just a stretch of time before the city fully woke, when people moved slower and the smell of fresh bread was clearer.

Fritz exhaled, letting his pace settle.

He hadn't planned much for the morning. Maybe food. Maybe find somewhere quiet to sit for a bit. He told himself he was allowed that, even if he didn't quite believe it.

Then, a sharp voice cut through the street.

"Hey—wait!"

Shifting his attention without much thought, Fritz slowed.

A man stood a few steps back, one hand hovering near his side like something was missing. His satchel hung open, strap torn clean through.

Another figure was already moving away.

Not running. Not yet.

Just walking faster than everyone else.

That was what made Fritz stop.

The thief didn't look panicked. Didn't shove past anyone. He weaved through the morning crowd with relative ease.

Fritz turned fully now, eyes following him.

"Sir," he called, raising his voice just enough to carry. "Please return what you took."

The man broke into a run.

Fritz sighed—and ran after him.

So much for his off-day.

The street narrowed ahead, early pedestrians scattering as the chase became obvious. Fritz steadied his breathing as he took even longer strides.

He should have been closing the distance faster.

Instead, the gap stayed stubbornly the same.

That was when Fritz frowned.

He pushed even harder.

The street curved sharply, morning giving way to narrower lanes where the light didn't reach as easily. The thief ducked past a cart, kicked off a crate without slowing, and landed in a smooth roll that barely broke stride.

He was experienced.

Fritz exhaled sharply and centered himself, letting his focus narrow. He couldn't catch up while holding back, not against this person.

[Determination]

The familiar pressure settled into his chest, subtle but unmistakable. His muscles responded first. Each step he took left a small dent in the stone path, his balance aligning as if a gear had just shifted into place.

The world didn't slow.

He simply moved better.

The distance began to close again.

Fritz lunged, catching the man's arm this time. Their shoulders collided, hard enough to rattle his teeth. For a split second, they locked together, boots skidding against stone.

He felt it immediately—the way the man resisted just enough, shifting his weight to keep balance instead of breaking free outright.

Then, with a sharp twist, the man wrenched himself loose and struck him square in the chest.

Fritz staggered back two steps before he could stop himself.

He blinked once, surprised more than hurt.

The thief turned smoothly, one hand already moving. Steel caught the light as a knife slid into view, held low and steady.

Not shaking or rushed.

Fritz slowed to a halt several paces away.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

The knife wasn't waved. It wasn't used to threaten. It was simply there, an unspoken line drawn between them.

Fritz felt the shift immediately. He wasn't intending to run anymore.

He glanced down, then around, scanning the street. He wasn't armed—and found himself wishing, not for the first time, that he carried at least a dagger.

His eyes landed on a length of metal half-hidden beside a stack of crates, a broken support bar left behind from some half-finished repair.

He stepped sideways without breaking eye contact and picked it up.

The weight was awkward and uneven. Not made for fighting.

It would have to do.

"You don't need to do this," Fritz said, voice steady despite the tightness in his chest.

"Put it down. We can end it here."

They stared each other down, both holding still—each searching for the moment the other would commit.

But Fritz moved first.

Not because he was quicker to react.

Because he was faster…by a margin that should've ended the fight.

The distance collapsed in an instant. His footwork snapped cleanly into place, weight driving forward as the metal bar cut a sharp arc downward on the man's shoulder.

It should've connected.

The thief wasn't fast enough to retreat. Fritz could feel it—his timing was right.

And yet…the man shifted anyway. Barely enough for his metal bar to strike the ground instead.

He adjusted instantly, pivoting into a second strike, then a third, pressure building as he pressed the advantage.

Steel rang. Stone chipped.

The thief kept giving ground, but only just.

Every movement was efficient, each step placed where Fritz wasn't about to be.

Almost as if…

He's predicting me.

Fritz surged forward again, faster this time, the bar whipping down in a brutal overhead strike.

The thief ducked under it.

Too early.

Fritz corrected mid-swing, bringing the weapon around in a tight horizontal sweep aimed for the ribs.

The man wasn't there.

Fritz's eyes widened a fraction as he felt the air shift beside him. The knife passed close enough that he felt the edge graze his sleeve, but never touched skin.

He glanced down at his arm to check for damage.

That was a mistake.

When he looked back up, the thief was already running.

Fritz gave chase.

The thief turned the corner hard, boots striking stone as he vanished into the narrow alley beyond. He followed without hesitation, pace surging as he rounded the bend a heartbeat later.

The alley was shorter than he expected.

Too short.

The thief stood at the far end.

So did someone else…

An arm snapped around the bystander's chest, hauling them back, and steel flashed once more as the knife settled just beneath the jaw.

The victim stiffened, breath hitching.

Fritz stopped.

The thief's gaze never left him.

"Stop."

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