Far across the palace, in a chamber veiled in shadow and silken drapes, a servant bowed low before a tall-backed chair.
"…and so, Your Grace," the servant was finishing, "the boy now trains under Sir Marek Bors by order of His Majesty himself."
Berengar Thalnor, Duke of Nirathal, raised his goblet, the silver catching lamplight. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, streaked faintly with gray, though his eyes gleamed sharp and cold. The wine in his hand swirled as he turned the cup slowly, watching the surface ripple before speaking.
"The boy," Berengar said at last, his voice slow and deliberate. "Rowan Vexlaar."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Berengar's gaze lingered on the dark red liquid before flicking to the servant. His expression gave nothing away. "You've done well. Leave us."
The servant bowed again, retreating with quick, careful steps. The door closed softly behind him, and silence filled the chamber. Only the faint hiss of the lamp and the crackle of the hearth disturbed the stillness.
From the far corner, a hooded man stepped forward, his movements soundless. His presence felt as if it had always been there, waiting.
"Why trouble yourself over the boy?" the man asked. His tone was quiet, flat. "He's nothing."
"Nothing?" Berengar let the word hang, a slow, cold smile curling at the edge of his lips. "His mother was a princess, the old king's only other legitimate child. That makes Rowan far more than a forgotten whelp. He carries the blood of the main line and has a rightful claim to the succession. And should he show even a hint of brilliance, my rivals in court will rally to him."
The hooded man tilted his head, the shadow of his hood hiding his eyes. "No. No matter how much support he gathers, in the end, personal power will decide everything. His magical talent is meager. He may have some gift with the sword, but knights rarely rival mages. Unless he climbs to Tier Four, he poses no true threat to your nephews' claim."
He stepped a little closer, voice dropping. "You're nervous. I can get rid of him."
Berengar's gaze hardened. He set his goblet down on the table beside him with a soft click. "Killing him would point straight to me. The King is not a fool. The consequences would not be worth it."
The hooded man studied him in silence, as if weighing the Duke's resolve.
Berengar leaned back into his chair, the faintest curve at his lips. "For now, we simply keep an eye on him."
"Very well." The man's shadow stretched long across the silken drapes as he turned slightly. "Seeds that never sprout need only be watched, not cut down."
It had been a week since Rowan first trained under Marek. His hands were blistered, his arms sore each morning, but his grip no longer slipped as it once had. His stance held longer. His steps were steadier.
Today he stood in the practice yard, facing Aelric. The prince's blade gleamed faintly in the sunlight, his posture loose yet assured. Rowan exhaled, lifted his own sword, and braced himself.
Aelric struck first. The blow was quick, almost playful, but the force behind it still rattled Rowan's arms. He staggered back, boots scraping against the dirt, yet he kept his footing. Aelric pressed forward, his strikes flowing in smooth rhythm. Rowan caught the next swing, teeth clenched, his blade trembling beneath the weight.
Another strike. Then another. Rowan's arms burned, his breath sharp in his chest. His knees bent, nearly buckling, but he held. He had fallen countless times in that first week—yet today he refused.
He tried to push back. His swing was late, clumsy, but it was still an attack. Aelric's guard shifted with ease, deflecting the blow, but his grin widened all the same.
"That's better," Aelric said, circling him. "Keep at it."
Rowan grit his teeth and pressed forward again. His blade scraped against Aelric's, weak but stubborn. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. His arms felt heavy, every motion dragging, but still he moved.
Aelric's counter came swift, sharper than before. Rowan caught it, his grip slipping, then tightened it with sheer will. His shoulders shook. Sweat blurred his vision, stinging his eyes.
The last strike came too fast. Aelric's blade slid past his guard and tapped hard against his shoulder. The match was finished.
Rowan let out a rough breath, lowering his sword slowly. He had lost—but not the way he once did. This time he had held his ground. This time he had fought back.
"Better," Marek said from the edge of the yard, arms crossed. His face was unreadable, but the weight of his tone carried something like approval.
Aelric rested his sword against his shoulder, grinning. "At this rate, you'll beat me soon."
"Why does it feel like you want to get beaten, Your Highness?" Marek's dry voice cut across the yard.
Aelric scoffed. "I don't!"
Rowan gave a tired smile. His body ached, sweat running down his back, but his chest felt lighter. The sting of defeat was still there, but it no longer crushed him.
Training ended at noon, the courtyard ringing with the last clatter of wooden blades. Rowan wiped sweat from his brow, his arms heavy but steadier than a week before. He had improved—he knew it—but still, he was far from winning.
Aelric bounded over, his energy untouched by the spar. "Come on," he said, tugging Rowan's sleeve. "Mother wants to see you."
"The Queen?" Rowan asked, startled.
"Yes," Aelric grinned. "And she told me not to let you dawdle."
They wound their way through the cool stone corridors, sunlight spilling through tall windows. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and incense. The halls gave way at last to the palace gardens, where roses bloomed in clusters and the fountain's soft trickle broke the quiet.
It was the same place Rowan had first met her, but this time, the sight of Queen Selianne waiting by the fountain did not feel daunting.
She turned as they approached, her poise serene, her smile touched with warmth. "Rowan," she greeted, extending a hand not with formality, but as though to family. "I trust you are settling in."
Rowan bowed, less awkwardly than before, though the stiffness of training lingered in his movements.
"There will be a small ceremony in the palace hall two nights from now," the Queen said, her tone gentle but firm. "It is to honor Prince Cyrus before his departure to the Crownlands. As one of this house, you will attend."
The words struck him heavily. Rowan inclined his head, but tension curled in his shoulders. Though he had met Queen Selianne and Aelric, he had never encountered Prince Cyrus, the princess, or any of the distant kin who shared his blood.
Aelric leaned close, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Don't worry. I'll be there too."
The Queen's words lingered in Rowan's mind long after he left the gardens.
The next two days passed in a blur of quiet preparation, with Aelric dragging him into mock conversations to practice greetings and courtesies. He moved through it all with a strange sense of detachment, as though stepping into a life that wasn't meant for him.
And yet, when the evening arrived, there was no more delaying.
Before the tall mirror, Rowan fastened the clasps of his doublet. Silks and velvet hung neatly in carved wardrobes He adjusted the collar, frowning faintly at the weight of it.
A knock came at the door. "Enter," he called.
A servant bowed. "Your Highness, Prince Aelric is here. He asks for your presence."
Rowan exhaled. "Tell him I'll come." One last glance at the mirror, then he followed into the corridor.
Aelric waited in deep blue trimmed with silver. His grin widened. "Not bad," he said, circling Rowan once. "You actually look the part."
Rowan offered a thin smile, nerves coiling in his chest.
"Come on," Aelric said, clapping his shoulder. "Stop looking like you're marching to the gallows. They won't eat you."
"Easy for you to say."
"Of course. I was born for this." Aelric winked, tugging him forward. "You'll manage."
They walked through winding halls, past courtiers drifting toward the great hall. The hum of voices grew louder with every step.
At last the doors swung wide, and the chamber unfolded before them. Crystal light spilled across polished marble. Nobles clustered in silks and velvets, their laughter and whispers rising like a restless tide.
Rowan's throat tightened. For a moment, he thought he might rather face a hundred beasts than step into that hall.