Caidric and Draven marched into the throne room where Kaelion awaited on his throne.
"Your Majesty," they said in unison, bowing low.
"Sir Caidric," Kaelion's gaze lingered on him, sharp and unyielding, "where have you been? I received reports this morning that you were out riding."
"I rode with Rowenne and the boys until they were clear of Eryndral," Caidric replied. "The boys are still a little new to the saddle."
"They made it beyond Eryndral safely, thanks to you," Kaelion said, his voice measured. "But the world outside these walls is far more dangerous, and now they must face it alone. Who can say what will become of them?" His eyes drifted downward, his tone softening for a moment as though lost in thought. Then he looked up again, his expression unreadable.
"Of course, we do not wish harm upon them. I only hope they reach… wherever they are going."
"With your permission, sire," Caidric said, stepping forward, "I would ride after them. Their safety troubles me."
"And why is that?" Kaelion asked, his voice low and probing.
"On my return, I saw a band of travelers at the gate—seeking passage just moments after Rowenne had left. It may only be instinct, but I fear they followed her."
"Tell me, then—why would anyone be after her?" Kaelion's words cut sharply. "Has she wronged someone? Left debts unpaid? Enemies behind?"
"I do not know, sire," Caidric admitted.
Kaelion leaned back, resting an elbow on the carved armrest of his throne. He seemed to weigh the words in silence before exhaling heavily. "It could have been nothing more than coincidence—simply a group on their own journey. Yet… when so many seek refuge within these walls, for others to leave so suddenly, at that precise hour… it is suspicious indeed."
He straightened, decision hardening in his voice. "Still, this is too small a matter for the Grand Marshal himself."
"Sire," Caidric pressed, "we do not know who these people are—or their strength. It would be unwise to underestimate them."
"You are right," Kaelion said, his gaze shifting to Draven. "And that is why he will go."
He let the words hang, heavy and final.
"Any objection?"
"None, Your Majesty," Draven replied firmly.
"Your Majesty…" Caidric began, but Kaelion cut him off.
"Listen, Sir Caidric. Rowenne is just another citizen to me—nothing more. I grant this favor only in gratitude for her years of service, both to Asher and to this kingdom."
"I understand, Your Majesty. That is why I volunteered to go myself. But sending a mage on such an errand may be too demanding of him."
"You underestimate a mage?" Kaelion asked, his tone laced with disbelief. A brief chuckle escaped him before his expression hardened.
"Guards!"
Two guards burst into the throne room, spears raised, awaiting orders. Kaelion's eyes locked with Draven's; a subtle nod passed between them.
"Bring me Draven's head," Kaelion commanded.
The guards advanced without hesitation. They barely managed a step before their bodies stiffened as though seized by invisible chains. Only their eyes moved, wide with terror. Without so much as a gesture, Draven's magic hurled them across the hall, crashing through the doors. Still silent, he stood before the king, making no effort, yet radiating unshakable power.
Kaelion grinned, clearly pleased. He turned to Caidric.
"You were saying?"
"Nothing, Your Majesty," Caidric replied, his face unreadable.
"With your permission, I'd like to leave at once," Draven said.
"The earlier, the better," Kaelion nodded.
Draven bowed and strode toward the exit with deliberate haste. Passing the groaning guards, he quipped, "Sorry, lads. Nothing personal."
Now alone with Caidric, Kaelion's voice sharpened.
"You rode with them to the gate. What was that all about?"
"Your Majesty, I simply wished to see them safely out of Eryndral. As you know, the lower streets are far less secure than the palace."
"Understandable. Seeing off a friend, worrying for their safety—that is human. But, Caidric…" Kaelion leaned forward, his tone darkening. "You are not merely human. You are the Grand Marshal—my general. You stand at a height no ordinary man can reach. Never forget that. I will not."
"I don't understand, sire."
"You are one of the kingdom's faces. When you lower yourself, you lower us all. You have knights, an army at your disposal, yet you chose to go yourself? Compassion is not weakness, but appearances matter. The Grand Marshal does not run errands. Do I make myself clear?"
Caidric lowered his head, the weight of Kaelion's words pressing heavy on him. He did not agree entirely, yet the king's perspective was law.
"I understand, Your Majesty."
Kaelion gave a final nod and stepped down from the throne, leaving Caidric standing alone. The Grand Marshal lingered only a moment before turning to follow, his expression unreadable.
________________________________________
"...And with every passing second, the distance between the prince and his father grew. Two boats, drifting apart on opposite currents, powerless to return. Both knew it. Both felt it. And the harder they reached, the more painfully it struck them: their paths had long since diverged.
The prince did not know what awaited him. He only knew it was the price of his own choice—the burden of breaking free from the peace his father had offered. He sought not comfort, but truth, and once he chose, he never looked back. Even when each step drew blood upon thorns, he did not falter. He loved the journey, for it was his own.
One might think that such pain must surely lead to happiness at the end... but life is cruel. It teaches us that nothing is owed to us, that even breath and peace are privileges, not rights. When the prince finally reached the end, he saw it for what it was—his end. Yet this was no surprise. He had always known where this path would take him.
Knees sinking onto the last of the thorns, chest heaving, blood pooling beneath him, he looked back at the trail he had carved. Every thorn that once pierced his flesh was broken now, buried deep in the soil. His feet carried the scars, yet he had cleared the way. For others who would come after him, the path might be survivable—perhaps even victorious.
In his final hour, as memories, choices, and regrets burned like fire through his mind, he smiled. Choosing this path had never been a mistake. He had served a purpose none other could fulfill. His legacy might be forgotten, his name erased, but the lives saved by the road he paved would carry him in silence.
And thus ended the prince who never became a king—the phoenix heir who lived and died only as a heir."
Rowenne's voice softened as the last words fell from her lips. Silence hung heavy in the air. Across from her, Alaric and Edmund sat still, eyes wide, faces touched by a depth beyond their years. Sadness lingered there—pity, too—but more than that, she saw it. The shift.
They were no longer the carefree boys who thought only of food, games, and sleep. They had stepped across an unseen threshold, their hearts forever changed by the tale of the prince.
"It's all so sad," Alaric finally voiced, his tone heavy. "I wish the prince had lived. He suffered so much, only to die at the end. It's not fair."
"The prince would have thought otherwise," Rowenne replied gently. "He wasn't sad when his end came—always remember that. Yes, he died, but to him it was worth it. And that is all that matters."
Yet her words did little to ease Alaric's sorrow.
Edmund looked at her intently, his eyes shadowed with immense sadness—as though the tale had stirred a wound of his own. His voice was low and solemn, as if he feared the answer.
"Do you think he made the right choice, Mother?"
Rowenne's gaze lingered on him. "That is a question for debate, Edmund. To the prince, it was the right choice. To the father, the wrong one. It depends on whose eyes you choose to see it through."
Edmund pressed further, his tone soft but unyielding.
"And you, Mother? What would you have done, if you were the prince?"
Rowenne paused, then spoke slowly, her voice carrying the weight of conviction.
"The prince died for what he believed was right. He lived the dream of many. You see, those born with destinies—princes, heroes, seers—often have paths handed to them. Lives not their own, dictated by fate, by prophecy, by others' voices. They live as though their years are rented out, never truly theirs to choose. But it takes great courage to refuse that script, to carve a path of one's own, even if it means forsaking comfort and safety. To suffer from choices that are yours is far better than drowning in choices made for you. The prince understood this. Every sorrow, every joy, every scar—he claimed them as his own. And in that, he was free. The father's worries were real, yes. But if I could have even a taste of what the prince had… I would have lived my life to the fullest, no matter the cost."
Her words fell into silence, and she suddenly noticed the puzzled looks on both boys' faces. She softened her tone.
"Think on it later. Tell me what you believe was right—after dinner."
Neither answered. Rowenne's eyes turned to Alaric, whose expression was still gloomy, lost in thought.
"Alaric… what troubles you?"
"The Battle of Ashes, and the Phoenix Heir… they're both such sad stories," he murmured. "It's the first time I've heard tales that don't end well. I still wish the prince had lived."
Rowenne studied him, then let a faint, almost secretive smile touch her lips.
"Perhaps he will."
The boys' eyes lit up instantly, their sorrow dissolving into wonder. "Really?" they asked in unison.
"Yes," Rowenne said softly. "He is the Phoenix Heir. And phoenixes always rise from their ashes. Legends say he will return when the world teeters on the brink of ruin and flame."
That was all Alaric and Edmund needed. Their faces brightened, grins spreading wide as their imaginations raced.
"When will he rise?" Alaric asked eagerly.
Rowenne's gaze lingered on them, her voice quiet, almost mysterious.
"I do not know. Perhaps… he already has."