The morning mist wrapped around the stone walls of Eisenwall Fortress. The guards held their positions, gazing intently across the distant landscape, alert for any sign of movement. But even as the weight of the coming battle pressed upon them, murmured exchanges continued to flow through the ranks.
"Hey, did you hear the news?" muttered a bored guard, adjusting his grip on his spear.
"Which one?" his companion replied, unbothered, as they both maintained their steady poses facing the horizon—spears in hand, their free hands resting behind their backs.
"The assassination of the fifth prince, obviously! It happened some time ago in the capital. We're only hearing about it now because we're stuck out here on the border, but it's all anyone's talking about in the kingdom."
"Well, he's not the first to be assassinated since the king died. The battle of succession in the royal family always ends in a bloodbath. Even past kings only ascended the throne after killing all their siblings."
"Yeah, but the reason I'm bringing this up is because of... you know."
"Ah, right—the bastard prince! I'd almost forgotten he was sent here. He never shows himself. Is he even still alive?" The second guard's voice carried dark humor.
"Exactly. And there are rumors that assassins have already infiltrated this fortress city to kill him."
"Oh, so that's why! I wondered why they sent reinforcements to our remote and unpopular posting. They even brought a swordmaster with them."
"Exactly. Mark my words—in the coming days, we'll definitely hear news of his death. The swordmaster is one of the second prince's knights. There's no hope for the bastard prince."
The sound of galloping hooves echoed from the inner courtyard, and both men straightened. A scout, mud-splattered and wild-eyed, was already dismounting before his horse had fully stopped. A captain emerged from the barracks, his weathered face grim as he received the whispered report.
"Sound the horn!" someone bellowed, his voice carrying across the fortress. "Enemy forces sighted in the forest! Everyone to their positions!"
Both guards sighed and hurried to gather their gear.
"Damn invaders! It's Aurianis again ! We can never have a moment's peace!" the first guard grumbled.
"Well, that's just routine here at Eisenwall. With the capital in turmoil, it's their best chance to strike back at us, they attack at least once a week lately," the second replied.
The deep, resonant blast of the warning horn shattered the morning calm. Soldiers scrambled from their quarters, hastily adjusting armor and checking weapons. The fortress, which had seemed almost sleepy moments before, erupted into controlled chaos.
"Do you think the swordmaster will join the battle?" the first guard asked as they began loading the cannons.
"If he did, it would be an easy victory for us, but I doubt such a prominent figure would intervene except in special circumstances."
"You're right. I heard he always stays in his quarters next to the prince's manor."
"They're not even trying to hide that they're watching him. What a sad fate..."
Both guards' eyes drifted toward the royal manor tucked into the corner of Eisenwall's fortress city. Everyone knew the prince lived somewhere inside that building, and everyone also knew it would be where he would ultimately meet his end.
In the courtyard of the prince's manor, beside the well, the atmosphere was thick with frustration and barely concealed disgust. Marta, the head serving woman, wrinkled her nose as she supervised the changing of the bedsheets for the third time that week.
"Sixteen years old and still wetting himself like a baby," she muttered to her assistants, who were struggling with the dirty sheets. "Born of a king's blood, raised in comfort, and this is what we get."
"Shush, Marta. Someone might hear you. If we were at the capital, you'd already be hanging by now," another maid called Hilda replied nervously.
"If we were there, nobody would dare utter a single word. But this manor is different. After all, every single one of us is a spy for one of the princes or princesses. We're all here to monitor him and relay information. We're all complicit." Marta snorted as she continued her slander.
"It doesn't really matter anyway—he only has half the royal blood, right? He's nothing like the true princes. I mean, I saw him nearly faint once just trying to lift a sword."
"No way! How can someone be that weak?" Hilda gasped.
"The poison isn't helping," Marta whispered, though her voice carried no sympathy. "It's been in everything he's consumed for months now. Slow-acting, they said. Makes it look natural."
Marta's expression hardened. "Orders are orders. The throne has enough claimants without adding a bastard prince to the mix, no matter how weak he might be." She bundled the soiled sheets with practiced efficiency. "Besides, it's almost over now. I saw him when I changed the sheets—pale as winter frost, shaking like a leaf. He will be done by tomorrow."
Clang, clang
BOOOM
The sound of clashing steel and cannon fire from the front lines made both women pause. In the distance, they could hear the border army organizing their defenses.
"At least he should have died in battle—that's why he was sent here in the first place," Hilda remarked. "If he had, he wouldn't have to endure such a slow and lonely end."
Marta laughed bitterly. "As if he could. The boy flinches when someone drops a plate. What would he do facing real steel?"
The battle outside the fortress walls had begun in earnest. The sound of clashing metal and screaming men filtered through the windows of the prince's chamber, but Prince Elias barely registered the noise. He lay on his narrow cot, his body wracked with fever and nausea, dark circles shadowing his sunken eyes.
Elena, his attendant, knelt beside the bed with a damp cloth, wiping sweat from his pale forehead. Unlike the other servants, there was genuine concern in her eyes – she had been with him since childhood, one of the few people who had shown him any kindness in his short, miserable life.
"The fever's getting worse, my prince," she murmured, squeezing out the cloth in a bowl of warm water. "Perhaps we should call a priest."
"No," Elias whispered, his voice barely audible above the distant sounds of battle. "No priest. They... they wouldn't help anyway." Elena also knew that the last priest she called was only acting and not actually using any healing spell.
Elena's face crumpled with sympathy and something else – knowledge, perhaps, of truths too terrible to speak aloud. She was aware of the prince's condition steadily worsening in the past few months, how the servants whispered in corners when they thought no one was watching.
"I know what's happening to me," Elias continued, his eyes staring at the empty ceiling above. "I'm not stupid, just... weak. Too weak to fight back, too weak to survive." His voice cracked.
BBRRRAAOUUM
A particularly loud crash from outside, perhaps a spell landing near the walls made Elena flinch while Elias stayed unmoved. Elena dabbed at his forehead again, her touch gentle despite the hopelessness of the situation.
"You should go," the prince whispered.
Elena's eyes filled with tears. Elias had closed his eyes, his breathing shallow and labored. Elena remained for a few more minutes, before finally placing the cloth aside. She leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his fevered forehead.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, though he gave no sign of hearing her. "I'm so very sorry."
Alone in his chamber, Prince Elias drifted between consciousness and fevered dreams. The sounds of battle seemed to fade, replaced by memories that felt more real than the present moment.
He was seven years old again, sitting in his mother's solar while she combed his hair with gentle strokes. Lady Allison had been beautiful once – before the king's neglect and the court's cruel whispers had worn her down. But in this memory, her eyes still sparkled with warmth and love.
"My brave little prince," she had called him, pressing kisses to the top of his head. "You may not have been born in wedlock, but you have a good heart. That's worth more than all the legitimacy in the world."
He had believed her then. Had thought that being good, being kind, would somehow be enough. That his father might acknowledge him, that his half-siblings might accept him, that he might find his place in the world despite the circumstances of his birth.
But then his mother was assassinated and young Elias had learned the first of many hard lessons about the reality of royal bastards.
The memory faded as another wave of nausea gripped him. He curled onto his side, his entire body trembling with weakness and pain. Outside, he could hear the battle raging – men dying for king and country while he lay here, too pathetic to even die with dignity.
Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as he thought of all the things he had wanted to do, wanted to become.
"I want to be strong," he whispered to the empty air, his voice breaking.
But wanting had never been enough for Prince Elias, and it wasn't enough now.
His breathing grew more labored as the hours passed. The camp grew quiet except for the distant murmur of voices and the occasional clank of armor.
As dawn approached, Prince Elias felt the life slip away from his body like water from a cracked vessel. His vision blurred, his thoughts becoming increasingly disconnected. He tried to call for Elena, but no sound emerged from his dry throat.
This was it, then. This was how the bastard prince would die – alone, unmourned, unmissed. Just another casualty of the game of thrones, too insignificant to even warrant a footnote in the histories.
His eyes fluttered closed for what he thought would be the final time. His chest rose and fell in increasingly shallow breaths until, with a barely perceptible sigh, it stilled entirely.
For a long moment, there was only silence in the chamber.
Gasp !
Then Prince Elias's eyes snapped open, suddenly bright and alert in a way they had never been in life. He bolted upright, his movements sharp and coordinated despite the weakness that had plagued him moments before.
"What the hell is this?" he demanded, his voice carrying an authority and strength that would have been utterly foreign to anyone who had known the prince. "Where the fuck am I?"