The stables of Ironholt Keep smelled of damp hay, old leather, and smoke from the forges that never seemed to rest. To most, it was a place of muck and hard labor, but to Darian Solace, it was the only corner of the kingdom that felt like home.
He was used to being overlooked here. A boy without name or title, he lived in the silence between hoofbeats and the soft rustle of straw. His hands, rough with calluses, worked with quiet patience, brushing down the restless horses and repairing worn harness straps by the dim flicker of torchlight. He kept to the shadows, speaking little, always careful not to draw attention. In Aeldenwyr, being noticed was dangerous.
The kingdom beyond the stable walls was a rotting thing. King Aldric Valebright ruled with a clenched fist, his subjects more fearful than loyal. His advisor, Archon Veyric, whispered counsel like poison in his ear, weaving influence through the court with a silken smile and eyes as cold as iron. To the people of Aeldenwyr, the old songs of light and hope were little more than fading echoes. Farmers prayed only for bread, soldiers for pay, and the poor for survival.
Darian had grown up listening to those songs of old—the ballads of the Emberborn, men and women who had once wielded firelight magic. The tales spoke of their power to ignite the night and heal the sick, of their pride, and of the terrible wars they had unleashed when their gift turned to arrogance. They had been hunted, purged, their fire stamped out until none were said to remain. The last of them had vanished a century ago, leaving only fear and ashes behind.
Or so the stories said.
Darian never believed them. He was no hero, no chosen one. He was a stablehand who cleaned stalls and dreamed, sometimes, of the world beyond Ironholt's gray walls.
Tonight was no different. The night was damp and restless, the air heavy with the promise of storm. Darian worked quietly, soothing a nervous mare, when the stable doors slammed open with a crash that startled the horses into a frenzy. He spun around, heart hammering.
A figure staggered inside.
The man was tall and broad-shouldered, though bent with pain. His armor was torn and scorched, his surcoat in tatters. A broken sword hung at his side, dripping with rain and blood. His breath came ragged, every step unsteady. He collapsed against a wooden post, clutching his ribs, blood seeping through his gauntlets.
"By the gods," Darian whispered, rushing forward before his sense could catch up. "You're wounded—"
The knight's head lifted, eyes sharp even in pain. They locked on Darian with startling intensity.
"Boy," he rasped, voice harsh with urgency. "No time. Listen."
Darian froze as the man fumbled inside his breastplate and drew out a leather packet. Dark wax sealed it, marked with an insignia Darian didn't recognize. The knight pressed it into his hands with trembling force.
"This letter," he gasped, "must reach the High King… across the mountains. Do you hear me? Swear it."
Darian stared, the packet burning heavy in his hands. He was no knight, no messenger. Just a boy who knew the smell of manure better than the scent of battle. His tongue stuck in his throat.
"I—I don't understand. I can't—"
The knight gripped his wrist with surprising strength, forcing the words into him with every ounce of will he had left.
"You can," he growled. "You must. If this fails… Aeldenwyr burns."
Before Darian could reply, voices split the night outside—shouts, the clatter of boots on cobblestones. The knight stiffened. His gaze shot to the doors, then back to Darian, fierce and desperate.
"Hide it!" he barked. "They're coming."
The doors banged again.
"Step aside."
The voice was calm, commanding, not at all like the chaos outside. A cloaked figure entered, her hood drawn low against the rain. She moved with a confidence no servant could ever muster. Darian felt his stomach twist with recognition as her face lifted in the torchlight.
Princess Serenya Valebright.
He had seen her only from a distance in the castle courtyards, regal even among nobles. Tonight, mud spattered her boots, her cloak was travel-worn, and her eyes gleamed with something that looked far more dangerous than fear.
Her gaze darted from the knight slumped against the post to Darian holding the sealed packet. For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy, broken only by the restless stamping of hooves.
"Rowan," Serenya breathed, striding forward. She knelt beside the knight, gripping his hand. "What happened?"
The knight—Rowan, Darian realized—coughed blood. "Ambush. Veyric's men. The letter—" His eyes flicked to Darian. "I gave it to him."
Serenya's head snapped toward Darian, her expression sharp enough to cut. "You?"
Darian flushed, clutching the letter instinctively against his chest. "He forced it on me. I didn't—"
"Good," Serenya interrupted, standing swiftly. Her eyes, though weary, burned with determination. "Then you'll keep it. And you'll deliver it."
Darian blinked at her, stunned. "Me? I'm no rider. No knight. I'm—"
"You're no one," she said bluntly, pulling back her hood. Her dark hair clung to her damp cheeks, but her voice was steady. "That's what makes you perfect. Veyric's men will hunt knights and couriers, not stablehands. No one will suspect you."
Her words struck like a hammer. Darian opened his mouth to protest, but the shouts outside grew louder—closer now. The scrape of steel echoed against the keep's walls.
Rowan struggled upright, gripping Serenya's arm. His face was pale, his strength nearly gone, but his voice was fierce.
"Princess… trust the boy. He has more to him than you know."
Serenya hesitated, studying Darian again. For the first time, he saw uncertainty flicker in her eyes. Then she nodded, as if answering some silent question.
"Very well," she said. "But he won't go alone."
The doors shook under pounding fists. Darian's breath caught, his pulse racing.
"What do we do?" he whispered.
Serenya drew a dagger from her belt, the blade glinting in the torchlight. Her expression hardened into steel.
"We run," she said. "And pray the shadows don't catch us."
The doors cracked open, torchlight spilling in from outside. Dark figures surged through, cloaked and armored, their faces hidden. The horses screamed in terror.
Rowan staggered forward, drawing his broken sword with a defiant roar. "Go!" he thundered. "Now!"
Serenya seized Darian's wrist, yanking him toward the back of the stables. He clutched the packet tight against his chest as they stumbled into the dark, the knight's roar and the clash of steel ringing in his ears.
As they burst into the storm-lashed night, Darian glanced back one last time.
Through the stable doors, he saw Rowan standing tall against the shadows, firelight from a fallen torch glinting off his battered armor. For a heartbeat, Darian thought he saw the knight's eyes blaze with something fierce and unyielding—like the last spark of a dying flame.
Then the shadows swallowed him whole.
And Darian Solace, stablehand of Ironholt, fled into the night with a princess at his side and the fate of kingdoms burning in his hands.