The forest beyond the river was a world apart from the glittering palace halls Mutasa had called home. Here, the moon barely pierced the thick canopy, and the cold damp of night clung to his skin like a curse. Every twig snapping underfoot sounded like a trumpet announcing their location to Maleeq's hunters.
Rhygar kept his voice low as they trudged through mud and roots. "We need shelter before dawn. If they send their army, the open ground will betray us. We will be caught ."
Mutasa agreed with Rhygar. His throat still burned from river water, and his limbs ached from the fall and the fight, but he said nothing. Every step was a battle between exhaustion and the voice in his mind screaming for revenge with anger.
Behind them, faint howls cut through the night and a strange sound suddenly appear.
"Wolves ! Wolves!!," Mutasa murmured.
"Or worse," Rhygar replied. "Keep moving."
They pressed on until the trees thinned slightly, revealing a cluster of mossy boulders and a shallow overhang. It wasn't much, but it broke the wind and gave some cover to them.
Rhygar collapsed against a rock due to exhaustion, pulling a dagger from his belt. He began slicing strips of his own cloak to bind Mutasa's bleeding forearm. "You'll need to learn to dress wounds yourself next time," he muttered. "No palace medics where we're heading to, you have to take care of yourself."
Mutasa flinched as the cloth tightened. "Where are we heading to?"
"North, if we can make it. Beyond the mountains and survive, there are lords who hate Lord Maleeq like we do. Maybe even enough to shelter us. But first, we must survive tonight."
Mutasa leaned back against the cold stone looking terribly exhausted. His father's death replayed behind his eyelids like a brand burned into his soul. The bolts striking, the crown rolling. He wondered if Maleeq wore it already.
Mutasa clenched his fists. "I should have died with him."
Rhygar's eyes snapped to his. "Don't speak like that again. You hear me? You're alive because Quban would have wanted you to live. Your father believed you would rule the kingdom one day. Don't waste that trust he had for you."
Mutasa swallowed hard. He wanted to argue with Rhygar, but deep down he knew Rhygar was saying the truth. Living was the harder path. The one that demanded more of him than death ever could.
The howls came again, closer than the last time. These weren't just wolves. There was something unreal in the tone — too shrill, too eager.
Rhygar's hand went to his sword slowly. "They smell the blood. Stay close."
Wolves, but gaunt and wild, ribs jutting under matted fur.
One let out a guttural snarl. The pack crept closer.
Mutasa's heart hammered. He had fought men, poorly, but animals were different. They didn't hesitate to hurt. They didn't listen to words or reason, they lack sense. They smelled weakness, and tonight he reeked of it.
Rhygar stepped forward, shield raised. "Back, beasts!"
The first wolf came low and fast, a streak full of grey fur with sharp and snapping jaws. Rhygar defended it with his shield, the impact jarring Mutasa's teeth. The beast yelped but circled back, lips curled in a bloody snarl.
Two more darted in from the flanks. Mutasa raised his ceremonial blade just in time to deflect a bite aimed at his throat from the beast. The wolf's teeth scraped the steel and clamped on the sleeve of his cloak instead, jerking him sideways. Mutasa stumbled, slashing wildly. By some miracle and luck, the edge bit into the creature's neck. Hot blood sprayed his hands as the wolf collapsed with a whimper and died
Mutasa was scared and froze. He had killed before in the hall during his time in palace, yes—but that was panic, reflex. This was different. The animal's lifeblood soaked into the earth before him, and he had ended it.
"Mutasa! Mutasa!!" Rhygar's shout snapped him out of the haze. Rhygar was locked with two wolves at once, shield braced, sword flashing like sharp ray of light. Another leapt for his back—Mutasa lunged, driving his blade through its flank. The wolf shrieked, thrashing, before it fell still.
The Wolf pack hesitated, yellow eyes glinting in the dark. They circled, hackles raised, uncertain now.
Then a deep voice rolled from the shadows. "Enough."
The sound carried like a command. The wolves froze, ears flattening and stopped. A cloaked figure stepped from the treeline, staff in hand, hood shadowing his face. His presence seemed to ripple through the beasts; one whimpered and slunk back into the woods, the others soon following, until only silence remained.
Mutasa panted, he stared at the stranger, suspicion sharpening his grief. "Who are you?"
The man lowered his hood. His face was lined with years, hair a wild mane of white streaked with silver. His eyes, though, burned with strange light—an intensity that unsettled Mutasa more than the wolves had.
"An old man who's lived long enough to know when fate changes its course," the hermit said. He dig his staff on the earth and studied Mutasa as though measuring him. "And tonight, boy, fate has set its eye on you."
Rhygar stepped in front of Mutasa, sword raised. "Keep your riddles. If you mean us any harm—"
"I mean no harm," the hermit interrupted. His gaze shifted past Rhygar, focusing Mutasa "You are Quban's son. The blood of kings flows in you, though you do not yet know what that means. But you will as times goes on."
Mutasa's mouth went dry and hot. "How do you know my father, who are you?" Mutasa said surprisingly.
The old man's eyes softened, if only slightly. "I knew him when he was young, before crowns weighed heavy on his brow. And I swore I would watch for the day when his line would be tested. That day is now."
Rhygar narrowed his eyes. "You expect us to believe you just happened upon us in the forest while wolves tore at our throats and tried to kill us?".
The hermit smiled faintly. "I did not happen upon you. I waited and observed."
Mutas felt a shiver crawl down his spine. The stranger's words sounded like prophecy, and though Mutasa longed to dismiss them, something deep in his blood seemed to stir at the sound.
"What do you want from me?" Mutasa asked.
"Not what I want," the hermit replied. "What destiny demands. You will not survive long in these woods with that ornamental blade and your grief. But if you would learn—truly learn and work hard—you may yet rise from these ashes stronger than the traitor who cast you down in disgrace."
Mutasa looked at the wolves' bodies, then at his bloodstained hands. His father's death replayed in his mind, the crown rolling across marble, Maleeq's mocking voice calling him coward. His heart burned with rage, but beneath it , the faintest ember of hope and believe
"What must I do?" Mutasa asked quietly.
The hermit's eyes gleamed like firelight . "First, survive. Then, endure. And only then may you conquer the traitor." He extended a hand, gnarled but steady. "Come with me, Prince of Ashes. Your road is long, but it begins tonight and now."
Mutasa hesitated only a moment before taking the hermit's hand. His grip was cold, but steady.
The hermit pulled him to his feet. "Good. Then let us begin."