Rowan returned to his room for the night, setting his single worn travel bag on the bed. The room was cold, shadows pooling in the corners, and for a moment he simply stood there, looking around at a place he had lived all his life.
He packed only what he truly needed: two changes of clothes, a small pouch of coins, and the most important thing he owned, portraits of his mother. Her face in those portraits was one of the few memories that felt real. Everything else could be left to rot here.
Night settled slowly over the estate, the deep blues of twilight bleeding into black. The shadows lengthened, crawling across the floorboards until the pale moonlight began to replace them.
Rowan lay down but didn't even try to sleep. Every time his eyelids grew heavy, the same thought would creep in: What if i don't wake up in time ? He couldn't risk oversleeping, not today, not when the next sunrise would mean his exile.
So he stayed awake, watching the pale beam of moonlight inch its way across the floorboards like the slow hand of a clock. Hours bled together. Outside, the world was never entirely silent. The scrape of a guard's boots on stone echoed faintly down the hall. Leather armor shifted with the occasional creak. Somewhere far off, a patrol wagon's wheels rumbled over cobblestones. The estate always had its noises, but tonight it felt different, as though the entire place was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
By the time the first fragile light of dawn touched his window, Rowan was already up and dressed. The air was sharp with morning chill. A sword hung at one side of his waist, daggers on the other. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he took one last look at the room, bare, impersonal, stripped of anything that tied him here, then stepped into the gray morning air.
Before heading to the guest quarters where his escorts waited, he made one last detour to the alchemists' quarters. As he expected, Master Harnes was already awake, bent over a workbench littered with dried herbs and glass vials.
Rowan stopped in the doorway. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For helping me when I needed it."
The old man looked up, his lined face softening. "I only wish I could do more," Harnes murmured, his voice low and sincere. "Farewell, child. May the road be kinder to you than this place has been."
Rowan inclined his head in silent thanks, then turned and walked away without looking back.
The guest quarters were a different world from the cold grandeur of the throne room. Here, there was movement and purpose. Lady Velria and Lord Farris stood outside, speaking in low voices, flanked by a group Rowan didn't recognize.
They weren't the polished courtiers from yesterday's sentencing. These were field-worn knights, five from the Crownlands, five from Nirathal, each assigned to guard their respective mage for the escort mission. Their accents and bearing made the split obvious. The Crownlands knights stood with disciplined stillness, their tabards bearing only the faintest trace of their order's sigil, while the Nirathal knights wore plain cloaks in muted colors. None of them carried anything flashy that might draw unwanted eyes on the road—no gleaming plate, no embroidered banners—just practical gear for traveling quietly through unfamiliar lands.
Light armor and weathered cloaks marked them all, boots caked with the residue of long roads. Their weapons—swords, bows, and staves—were carried with the casual familiarity of those who had lived with them for years. Their eyes followed Rowan as he approached, not hostile, but assessing, weighing him the way soldiers do with strangers who will share their road.
Velria gave a short nod. "Good. You're on time."
Farris's gaze flicked to the single bag over Rowan's shoulder. "Traveling light. That will make things easier."
One of the men, lean and weathered, stepped forward and took the bag without comment. "We'll secure this with the supplies," he said curtly, then turned toward the waiting horses.
No more words were wasted. The group moved toward the gates. Rowan's boots clicked against the stone path, the sound ringing sharp in the morning stillness. The black iron bars of the estate gates loomed ahead, the snarling wolf sigil etched deep into their center. Its shadow stretched across the cobblestones, long and sharp in the rising sun.
The gates swung open with a slow, groaning weight. Cold air swept in, carrying the mixed scents of stone dust, wood smoke, and the faint salt tang of the distant sea. They stepped through, and the moment Rowan crossed the threshold, the gates closed behind him with a heavy, final thud.
For years, those gates had been the edge of his world. Now they were nothing more than a wall at his back.
The horses carried them through the waking city in silence at first. Merchants rolled up the shutters of their stalls, setting out baskets of steaming bread whose scent curled into the cold air. Smiths had already lit their forges, the hammer's ring sharp and rhythmic. Children darted between carts, chasing one another through the streets, their laughter free of politics or exile.
Rowan kept his hood low, letting the world pass by. Mist clung to the fields beyond the city walls, softening the horizon. The steady rhythm of hoofbeats against cobblestone was almost hypnotic.
When the city finally thinned into open road, Farris spoke without looking at him. "Ask, boy. Whatever you want, I'm sure you have many questions."
Rowan didn't hesitate. "What does Nirathal want from me? Why do I have to go there?"
Farris was silent for a moment, as though weighing his words. Before he could answer, Velria's voice slipped in, smooth and unhurried. "Don't worry. I can tell you, I'm not bound to Nirathal."
Rowan turned his gaze to her, waiting.
Velria's pale eyes glinted, her mouth curving into a faint, knowing smile. "What does Nirathal want from you? Nothing. But why Nirathal asked for your exile? You're forgetting who you are. Your uncle is the King of Nirathal. He doesn't want his nephew suffering here. He already regrets not acting sooner—he lost his sister, after all. Now he means to see her son live a good life under his protection."
Rowan absorbed the words quietly. He wasn't shocked, he had half-expected the answer, but it still felt strange to hear it spoken aloud.
"How should I address you?" he asked finally.
"Just call me Lady Velria," she replied.
"Farris will do for me," the man said. "You are royalty, your status is higher than mine. My duty is to protect you."
Velria chuckled. "Royalty, hmm? If you remember that, why aren't you calling him Lord Rowan?"
Farris snorted, clearly annoyed. "Neglect my earlier behavior… Lord Rowan."
Rowan smiled faintly. "Just call me Rowan. We're not in Nirathal, no one will care here."
Hearing that, Farris gave a short laugh and glanced at Velria. "Okay, Rowan," he said deliberately, almost teasing.
Velria only snorted in response.
Rowan looked ahead. "Where are we going from here?"
"To the capital," Farris said simply.
Rowan frowned beneath his hood. "Shouldn't we be heading straight to Nirathal?"
"The fastest path isn't overland," Farris explained. "We'll be using the teleportation gate at the Crownlands branch headquarters in the capital."
"Teleportation gate?" Rowan echoed.
Velria half-turned in her saddle, her pale braid swaying against her cloak. "The Crownlands maintains branches in every nation's capital. Each one houses a gate, instant travel across the continent, linking all the capitals together. But the gates aren't open to the public. They can only be used with the Crownlands' permission."
"No nation controls them," Farris added. "And no mage alive knows how they work. Even the most powerful spellcasters can't replicate them. The magic that powers them is special and ancient. Far older than any nation still standing."
Rowan considered that. The idea of stepping through one place and appearing in another country entirely sounded like a fairy tale. "So you could go anywhere, if they allowed it."
"Exactly," Velria said. "But they don't allow it lightly."
The road wound on through low hills dotted with farms, the occasional village huddled in the distance. Somewhere far ahead, past all this quiet countryside, the towers of the capital would rise against the sky. Rowan didn't know what awaited him there, or beyond the gate, but for the first time since hearing his sentence of exile, a spark of curiosity burned under the weight of everything else.
If the Crownlands' gates could take him anywhere, perhaps they could also take him closer to the truth.