Dawn came softly upon Aethelgard, the capital of Veridia.
At first it was but a pale glow, brushing faint fingers along the high towers and the battlements of stone. Then it grew, stretching across the heavens, chasing away the fading stars until the sky was a canvas of crimson and amber. The bells rang from the cathedral spires, their chimes rolling through the city like the voice of the morning itself.
The city stirred.
Merchants lifted wooden shutters with groaning hinges, shaking the sleep from their eyes. Children scampered barefoot through cobbled lanes, chasing after the scent of fresh bread carried by the wind. Bakers stood proudly at their stalls, loaves steaming in baskets, crusts golden as the rising sun.
Armour clinked as guards began their rounds, spears in hand, visors lifted to greet the day.
It was a scene of life, ordinary and unshaken. Yet beneath the calm, whispers of unrest lingered. The nobles had quarreled in court, rumors drifted from village to village, and still the shadow of Ardon's army stretched across the border. Few in Aethelgard wished to speak of it aloud, but all felt the weight pressing down upon their shoulders.
And so, while the people of the capital began their day, two figures prepared to leave it.
In the stables near the eastern gate stood Kai, prince of Veridia.
He was young, not yet worn by the years of rule, but the golden light in his eyes betrayed a burden older than himself. They were eyes that marked him different, eyes that set whispers among the people: cursed eyes, some said; blessed eyes, others whispered.
To Kai, they were simply his, though every time he caught his reflection in the polished steel of his sword, he wondered if they belonged to him at all or to something far greater, and far more dangerous.
His beast-horse pawed the ground, nostrils steaming in the cold air. Larger than any common steed, it was bred of ancient stock, veins thrumming with spirit energy that gave it unnatural speed and endurance. Its mane rippled like black smoke, its hooves striking sparks even against the dirt. The beast's eyes glowed faintly red, as though embers burned within.
Kai tightened the strap of his cloak and laid a hand upon the creature's neck.
"Steady, Ashmane," he murmured. "Steady. We ride soon enough."
The beast snorted, tossing its head as though it understood.
From the shadow of the stable doorway emerged Blackwood.
He was a man of stone and shadow, broad of shoulder, his presence filling the space like a mountain fills a valley. His armour was dark, its edges scarred by countless battles. Unlike many warlords who wrapped themselves in jewels or ornaments of conquest, Blackwood bore no such pride. He needed none. His silence and his gaze were enough to remind men who he was: a soldier who had seen more winters than he cared to count, who had walked through battlefields where others fell and risen each time unbroken.
"You are restless, my prince," Blackwood said, his voice deep as shifting earth.
Kai glanced at him, the corner of his mouth twitching. "And you are observant, as ever."
The warlord gave no answer, save a grunt. He moved to his own beast-horse darker even than Kai's, its eyes glimmering like coals beneath ash and swung into the saddle with the ease of long practice.
Kai mounted Ashmane with less grace, but with enough determination. He tugged his reins, steadying the beast as its muscles quivered beneath him, eager to run.
The gates creaked open.
A shaft of morning light fell upon them, casting their shadows long across the stones. Guards stood aside, their spears raised in salute, though their eyes followed with curiosity. It was not every dawn that the prince of Veridia rode out without fanfare, without escort, with only the warlord at his side.
"Keep low," Kai muttered, his voice low but edged with excitement, like a boy playing at secrecy though his heart burned with sincerity. "We ride swift, and unseen."
Blackwood's gaze flicked to him, calm and steady. "So be it."
And then they were gone.
The sound of their departure was thunder.
The beast-horses surged forward, hooves striking stone with a force that sent sparks flying. They streaked through the cobbled streets, faster than common steeds could ever hope to match. Cloaks whipped behind them like banners caught in a storm.
Merchants cried out in surprise, clutching their wares. Chickens scattered, wings flapping in panic. Children gasped, some cheering, others clutching at their mothers' skirts as the prince flashed past like lightning loosed from a cloud.
To the common folk, it was a sight both wondrous and strange. The young prince, golden-eyed and reckless, riding as though the wind itself obeyed him. Beside him, Blackwood, grim and unyielding, a shadow to his flame.
"Was that—?" gasped a cobbler, dropping his awl.
"The prince!" answered another, voice trembling with awe.
"What business has he at such an hour?" muttered an old woman, crossing herself as though to ward away ill omen.
No answer came. For by the time the words left their lips, the riders had already vanished, swallowed by the streets ahead.
As they neared the gatehouse, Kai's thoughts whirled as swiftly as Ashmane's pounding hooves. His sister's words returned to him — words of chains, of curses, of the Golden Eyes that could see truth but not bear it.
Words that had struck him like a blade drawn across his pride.
He clenched his jaw.
"Elara would keep me bound," he muttered under his breath, the wind whipping his words away. "But I am no child to sit idle while the world moves around me. If she will not tell me the truth, I will seek it myself."
The walls of Aethelgard rose before them, towering high, crowned with battlements. The gate stood open, its iron teeth lifted to the morning. Guards stepped aside, saluting, though their brows furrowed at the sight of the prince without escort.
Through the gate they passed, and the city fell behind them.
The road stretched wide, lined with fields kissed by dawn, forests looming beyond like watchful sentinels. Birds scattered from the trees as the riders thundered past, their cries sharp against the morning stillness.
Freedom.
Kai felt it surge within him, hot and wild, as the wind tore through his hair and the earth flew beneath Ashmane's hooves. For a moment he was not prince, not heir, not brother bound by eyes he did not ask for. He was simply himself — a rider upon the wind, racing into the unknown.
Beside him, Blackwood rode silent, his face unreadable. Yet in the warlord's gaze there was the faintest glimmer — of understanding, perhaps, or of patience long-worn. For he had seen princes before, and kings after, and he knew well the fire of youth when it burned too bright to be smothered.
But for now, he said nothing.
The gates of Aethelgard groaned as they shut behind the departing riders, their iron teeth clanging into place with finality. The echo rumbled through the walls like a drumbeat, marking the prince's absence from the capital. To most who heard it, it was nothing but the morning toll of duty guards changing, gates closing. Yet to those who knew, to those who waited, it was a sign.
And high above, upon the slanted rooftops where the first gold of dawn painted the stone, a figure watched.
The city was stirring below, full of merchants calling, carts rolling, and hounds barking, but upon the roof there was only silence. The figure knelt upon the tiles like a shadow clinging to shadow. Cloaked from head to foot, its face was hidden deep within a hood. No light touched it, though the sun shone freely upon all else.
It watched Kai and Blackwood with a stillness unnatural. The beast-horses thundered out, swift as storm winds, but the watcher's gaze did not falter. A gloved hand clutched an amulet — a disk of blackened metal, etched with faint sigils that shimmered only when the light struck at the right angle.
The rider's laughter — Kai's laughter — drifted faintly upon the wind as the prince urged Ashmane faster upon the open road.
The figure tilted its head. There was no sound of breath, no sigh, no murmur. Only that stillness, broken when the watcher raised the amulet.
It held the thing aloft, and in that moment the very air stirred.
At first, the sky was clear, painted with the red fire of dawn. But then, as though stirred by invisible fingers, a thin wisp of cloud gathered. It drifted slowly, then joined by another, and another still. To the common man who might glance upward, it was nothing — a natural shifting of weather. But to eyes trained in the hidden arts, the formation was no chance of nature.
The clouds spread in a shape — faint, delicate, yet deliberate. A curve here, a spiral there, threads weaving together like ink upon parchment. It was not a sign of storm, nor of rain, but of message. A signal written in sky for those few who knew the ancient tongue of cloud-craft.
It lingered only moments, yet long enough. Far away, unseen eyes would read it, and the word would pass. The prince was gone from the city. The prince had ridden into the open world, away from his sister's gaze, away from the shield of Veridia's heart.
The watcher lowered the amulet. The shimmer faded, and the sky seemed again as any morning sky.
Below, life went on. Merchants shouted of fresh pears, guards quarreled with drovers at the gate, and children played with sticks, blissfully unaware that above their heads, threads of fate were already being drawn.
The cloaked figure rose. For the first time it moved, and its motion was unnerving in its grace — no sound of foot upon tile, no scrape, no stumble. It was as though the shadow itself had chosen to shift.
From the edge of the rooftop, the figure cast one last glance at the open road, where dust already rose in the distance from Kai and Blackwood's passing. A glimmer passed through the hood, faint but sharp, like the gleam of an eye reflecting the sun.
Then, with a step, the figure dropped.
It landed in the alley below without sound, the cloak settling about it like smoke. A beggar muttered as he shuffled past, but when he turned, the alley was empty.
The watcher was gone.
But though it vanished, its trace lingered.
A boy in rags, barefoot and dirty, sat upon a broken stair not far from the eastern wall. He had seen the shadow fall from the rooftops, though he dared not follow. He had seen, too, the clouds shift in strange shapes above.
The boy squinted, scratching at the dirt upon his arm. "Strange… too strange…" he muttered. But his muttering was swallowed by the noise of the city, and none listened.
The truth was seldom heard when spoken by the lowly.
Far beyond Aethelgard, miles distant where the hills rolled into forest, there were those waiting for such a sign. Hidden camps, veiled travelers, cloaked merchants that were no merchants at all — all looked to the sky, reading patterns others dismissed.
When the clouds curled in that secret shape, when the spiral turned as taught by old masters, the message was known.
The prince rides. The prey leaves the nest.
The signal was carried, whispered mouth to ear, hand to hand. By noon, riders unknown to Veridia's people would already be spurring their horses, and others would sharpen blades in silence.
The watcher had done its part.