The gates of Virelden opened slowly as Rowan's column approached.
Guards along the wall recognized the banners immediately.
"The northern patrol has returned!" one shouted.
The heavy gates swung wide.
As the soldiers marched through, cheers rose from the streets.
People gathered along the road.
Merchants stepped out of their stalls.
Children ran alongside the horses.
"Rowan's unit!" someone called.
"They drove the Rhaedor back!"
Applause spread through the crowd.
Soldiers straightened with pride as they passed. Some even smiled.
Rowan rode at the front of the column.
Elowen sat on the saddle in front of him, his arm steady on the reins around her.
She gripped the front of his coat tightly, unsure where to look.
She had never seen so many people in one place before.
The city was alive.
Hopeful.
Grateful.
For a moment, she almost forgot who she was.
Then someone noticed.
A woman near the front of the crowd leaned forward slightly.
Her eyes fixed on Elowen's hair.
Bright red beneath the sunlight.
The woman's smile faded.
She leaned toward the man beside her and whispered something.
His head turned sharply.
More whispers followed.
A murmur began spreading through the watching crowd.
"The hair…"
"Red…"
"Is that…?"
One voice, softer than the rest, slipped through the murmuring.
"The curse."
Elowen felt the shift instantly.
"They captured the curse!"
The cheers around them began to fade.
People stepped back as the horse passed.
Some crossed themselves.
Others simply stared.
Rowan noticed.
His arm moved slightly, pulling the reins closer, guiding the horse forward.
But the movement also shifted him closer behind Elowen—his shoulder almost shielding her from the crowd.
A silent gesture.
Protective.
His eyes swept across the watching faces, sharp and warning.
No one dared step closer.
Rowan's voice remained calm.
"Keep moving."
The soldiers continued through the street.
But the whispers followed them all the way down the road.
"The curse…"
"The red-haired girl…"
And though the city welcomed its soldiers as heroes—
It watched her like an omen.
Rowan's horse slowed as the streets of Virelden grew narrower.
The crowds slowly thinned as they moved deeper into the city, leaving behind the loud markets and cheering voices.
Elowen still felt the weight of those whispers clinging to her like smoke.
The curse.
Rowan guided the horse down a quieter street lined with stone houses and shuttered windows.
Finally, he stopped in front of a small two-story building tucked beside the inner wall.
He dismounted first, then offered his hand to help Elowen down.
She hesitated, but when she looked into his gray-blue eyes, she felt certain enough to take it.
Her legs felt unsteady when they touched the ground. Perhaps she should ask Rowan to teach her how to ride a horse next time.
Rowan knocked on the door twice.
The door swung open, and a woman stood there wiping her hands on a cloth.
Her dark hair was tied back in a loose braid, and her sharp eyes immediately took in the sight of Rowan—and then Elowen.
Her gaze lingered on the strand of red hair escaping from Elowen's hood.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then she sighed.
"You've brought me trouble again."
Rowan almost smiled.
"Mira."
The woman stepped aside.
"Come in."
The house smelled faintly of herbs and dried roots.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars, bandages, and small glass bottles.
Mira closed the door behind them.
"Sit," she said, pointing to a wooden chair.
Elowen obeyed quietly.
Mira crouched in front of her and began examining her hands.
Her movements were quick and practiced.
"You're thin," Mira said.
"Undernourished."
She glanced toward Rowan as if blaming him for it.
Her fingers moved to Elowen's arm, checking for injuries.
"No broken bones."
Rowan leaned against the table behind them.
"She's been traveling alone."
Mira glanced up at him.
"And?"
"And she predicted two Rhaedor ambushes before they happened."
Mira paused. Her eyes slowly returned to Elowen.
"Did she?"
Elowen shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.
"You can remove your hood, dear," Mira said, noticing how Elowen was still trying to keep her unruly hair hidden.
Elowen hesitated before lowering it.
Mira reached up and gently lifted a strand of her red hair between her fingers.
The color caught the light like flame.
"You realize what people in this city will say if they see this."
Rowan's voice was calm.
"They already have."
Mira let the hair fall and stood up.
"Well," she said, brushing dust from her hands, "you've certainly made my day more interesting."
She winked briefly at Elowen.
Rowan pushed himself away from the table.
"I have to report to the War Council."
Mira crossed her arms.
"That means Alaric."
"Yes."
Mira's expression hardened slightly.
"He won't like this."
Rowan glanced briefly at Elowen.
"He'll like it even less if Rhaedor wins the war."
Elowen looked between them.
"Who is Alaric?"
Rowan adjusted his coat.
"Lord Alaric Thorn. The head of the War Council."
"The man who decides what will happen to Virelden," Mira added with exasperation.
A brief silence filled the room.
Heavy with uncertainty.
"Stay here with Mira," Rowan said.
Elowen frowned slightly.
"You trust me enough to bring me into the city… but not enough to bring me with you?"
Rowan considered that for a moment.
Then he shook his head.
"No."
"It's not about trust."
He gestured toward the door and left before the conversation could continue—as if looking back would make leaving more difficult.
The War Council chamber sat inside the old fortress at the center of Virelden.
Stone walls lined with banners surrounded a long wooden table.
Several officers stood waiting.
But only one man sat.
Lord Alaric Thorn.
He was older than Rowan had expected when he first met him years ago.
Silver threaded through his dark hair, and his sharp eyes seemed to measure everything in the room.
Including Rowan the moment he entered.
"You're late," Alaric said calmly.
Rowan stopped before the table.
"My patrol encountered two Rhaedor ambushes on the northern road."
Alaric leaned back slightly.
"And yet you returned with no casualties."
"Yes."
Alaric's fingers tapped slowly against the table.
"That is unusual."
Rowan nodded.
"It is."
Silence lingered for a moment.
Then Alaric spoke again.
"Explain."
Rowan took a breath.
"There was… assistance."
Alaric raised an eyebrow.
"From whom?"
Rowan's voice remained steady.
"A girl."
The room went quiet.
"A girl?" one of the officers repeated.
Rowan continued.
"She predicted both ambushes before they happened."
Alaric's gaze sharpened.
"Predicted."
"Yes."
"And how exactly did this girl accomplish such a remarkable thing?"
Rowan paused.
Then answered.
"She says she has seen it before."
Alaric leaned forward slightly.
"And what is this girl's name?"
Rowan didn't hesitate.
"Elowen."
Alaric's fingers stopped tapping.
"And what does she look like?"
For the first time since entering the room, Rowan hesitated.
But only for a moment.
"She has red hair."
Silence fell across the chamber.
One of the officers shifted uneasily.
Alaric's expression didn't change.
But something cold flickered in his eyes.
"Red hair," he repeated quietly.
Then he leaned back in his chair.
"Interesting."
Meanwhile, across the city—
Elowen sat by Mira's window, staring out at the stone streets of Virelden.
She could still hear the whispers from earlier echoing in her mind.
The curse.
She touched the ribbon tied in her hair.
For the first time since arriving in the city, she wondered if those whispers would reach the War Council.
Would they believe the curse?
Or would they believe Rowan?
And her?