The Border Town of Oakhaven, Empire of Qesh.
The last thing Arthur saw of his uncle was a silhouette of defiant fury against a blinding Sun-Flare. The last thing he heard was the roar of his own name, a command that was also a prayer: "GO, ARTHUR! LIVE!"
He did not want to obey. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to fight, to die alongside the only father he had ever truly known. But Tybalt's command had been forged with the authority of a lifetime of love and lessons.
Arthur was now in Qesh
He left the body of his friend and started to walk.
The forest was behind him, but the open grasslands of Qesh offered no comfort. Here, the sky was a vast, empty canvas, and he was a single, tiny figure crawling across it. There was nowhere to hide. Every gust of wind across the plains sounded like the hoofbeats of pursuing riders; every hawk circling high overhead was a potential spy.
The past five days had been a blur of cold dread, and the nightmares of the battle did not need the dark woods to haunt him. He moved in a daze, one foot in front of the other, clutching the small, worn pouch of coins Tybalt had pressed on him—a lifetime ago, it seemed. He was no longer in the green-and-black cage of the forest, but in a new, larger prison of open air and endless horizons.
He walked for what felt like an eternity, but could only have been hours. Finally, as the sun began to dip low, a smudge of smoke on the horizon resolved itself into the walls and rooftops of a town. Oakhaven.
It was a shock to the system—the sight of people going about their lives, of merchants hawking their wares, of children laughing. It all felt like a profound, personal insult. His world had ended, but the world itself had not noticed.
He was a ghost, haunted by the memory of a crown. He kept to the shadows, his cloak pulled low, sleeping in the gaps between buildings. The gnawing ache in his belly was a sensation he had become bitterly acquainted with in the woods. There, it had been a simple, wild thing—a problem to be solved with a snare or a bitter root.
But here, in the city, surrounded by the smells of roasting meat and fresh bread from a hundred stalls, the hunger was different. It was a constant, humiliating reminder of his poverty. Its relentless frequency was an infuriating insult to the prince he used to be. It was this grinding, relentless hunger that finally drove him from the shadows and under the meager overhang of a baker's shop.
The rain in Qesh was a miserable, intimate thing. Back in the capital, the rain had been a grand performance, a clean, sharp drumming against the high palace windows, but the air here was thick and heavy, tasting of coal smoke and damp earth. This rain wasn't a cleansing force; it was a cold, persistent drizzle that seemed to seep into his very bones, tracing paths down his spine like icy fingers.
Arthur huddled under the meager overhang of a baker's shop, a ghost haunted by the memory of a crown. Oakhaven did not have a sound; it had a roar. It was a chaotic symphony of a hundred languages he didn't understand, the rumble of iron-shod wheels on slick cobblestones, the shouts of merchants, and the ceaseless, shuffling press of bodies. The air was an assault, a thick stew of smells—exotic spices, damp wool, roasting meat, and the sour tang of unwashed desperation.
He pressed a hand against the gnawing ache in his belly, a torment made worse by the warm, maddening scent of fresh bread. For two days, he had been a phantom in this alien world, propelled only by the ghost of his uncle's final sermon—a desperate, whispered command that was his only anchor in the storm.
He pressed a hand against his tunic, feeling the hard, circular shape in the hidden pocket. His father's signet ring. The ring was heavy, crafted from the old gold of his dynasty. It was set with a dark oxblood ruby, into which the royal golden phoenix was intricately carved, its wings spread in silent triumph. Worn smooth by the hands of kings, it felt less like jewelry and more like the concentrated, dangerous weight of his entire heritage. A king's legacy, now a dangerous secret. A thought, cold and sharp as the rain, cut through his hunger. My father is dead. He waited for the grief, but it was still just a cold, confusing void. He could only picture his father's sneering face, and the relief he felt at the man's death made him sick with shame. The real grief, the raw, tearing agony, was for Aethon and Tybalt .Tybalt, who had been both betrayer and savior. The world was a murky, treacherous swamp, and Arthur was sinking. Steeling himself, he clutched a single copper coin from the pouch. He stepped out from the overhang, into the drizzle.
"Boy! Out of the way!" the baker grunted, not even looking at him.
Arthur froze. He had never been told to get "out of the way" in his life. He swallowed, the knot of pride in his throat feeling like a stone.
"I… I would like to purchase some bread," he said. The words felt foreign, clumsy.
The baker finally glanced down, his eyes scanning Arthur's ill-fitting clothes and mud-caked boots. He grunted again. "With what? Wishes?"
Arthur's hand trembled as he held out the copper coin. The baker snatched it, squinted, and then tossed a small, day-old roll onto the counter. It was dark, hard, and probably cost half a copper. Arthur didn't care. He grabbed it and scurried back into the alley, clutching the roll to his chest like a treasure.
He ate in the cold, leaning against the wet brick. Each bite was a struggle to chew, the stale bread scraping his throat. Yet it was the most satisfying meal of his life, earned with his own will. He finished it in moments, the ache in his stomach dulled but not gone. The emptiness inside him, however, remained.
I want my home back, he thought, the desire a fierce, hot thing in his chest. I want my name back.
But the lie he'd been living his whole life whispered back in the patter of the rain. Your name means nothing without the throne. Your father was a failure, and you are just his son. You are worthless. He closed his eyes, the weight of a name he could no longer use threatening to crush him.
Survive, his uncle had ordered. For the first time, Arthur began to understand what that word truly meant. It was the hardest, heaviest, and most bitter thing in the world.