By dusk, Eryndor itself seemed to breathe in time with the drums. Lanterns flared along the palace walls like a chain of suns; ribbons cracked in the wind; smoke from the roasting pits climbed into the violet sky. The great gates stood open, and the people poured in—farmers with earth still lining their palms, pearl-peddlers with bell bracelets chiming as they walked, children craning over shoulders to glimpse the high tables where King Torren and Queen Elara sat side by side.

  Kael ran along the colonnade with Liora skipping at his heels, her ribbons flicking like small banners behind her.

  “Slow,” he hissed, though he was smiling despite himself.

  “I can’t,” she said, eyes shining. “The dancers, Kael—look!”

  In the yard below, the Master of Games cracked his staff against the stones for silence.

  “By our ruler’s grace, the feast begins! First trial—fleet of foot!”

  Boys and young men took their marks on a chalked ring. Varrick sauntered to the line, chin tilted upward, the easy arrogance of a boy certain the day belonged to him. When his gaze caught Kael, his mouth tilted just enough for the words to slide in under the noise.

  “Second place suits you,” he said lightly—just for Kael’s ear.

  Kael rolled his shoulders and set his feet. The drum popped three times. They flew.

  He and Varrick broke ahead at once, pounding the dust in perfect mirror. The crowd’s noise thickened into a long, bright rope of sound. Kael’s lungs burned sweetly. At the final curve, a child stumbled from the rope barrier into the lane. Kael swerved without thinking, scooping the boy up and setting him on his feet. Varrick shot by and crossed first to a wave of cheers.

  “Mercy runs slow,” Varrick called back, grinning like a lord already crowned.

  Let mercy be slow, Kael thought, if it lets a child keep his breath.

  The Master of Games lifted Varrick’s wrist high before the crowd, but the boy Kael had saved clung to his leg and mouthed a tiny “Thank you.” Across the yard, Torren caught his son’s eyes, pride warm as a hand on the shoulder.

  Endure, the king’s glance said again. Endure, then outlast.

  The next trial was the staff-ring—sparring to three clean strikes.

  A stable boy named Tam waited at the edge, bare-knuckled, shivering in a threadbare coat.

  “You’ll split your hands,” Kael told him quietly. He slipped off his own gloves and pressed them into Tam’s palm.

  Tam blinked. “But—”

  “Win them back,” Kael said simply, stepping into the circle before the boy could protest.

  His first opponent was older, heavy in the shoulders. The first clash rang through Kael’s ribs; he yielded, turned his hips, and let the man’s weight crash by.

  Tap—tap—tap. Clean. Quiet. Undeniable.

  Three neat strikes landed before the man could recover. The crowd roared with surprise and laughter.

  Kael bowed, cheeks hot, and left the ring to Tam, who fought with the gloves on and scraped a narrow, shining win before throwing his arms around Kael’s waist in gratitude.

  Varrick watched the scene with a storm brewing at the edges of his smile.

  Elsewhere, the palace ran like a living thing. In the kitchens, Cook Jana cursed a blue streak as a vat of honeyed carrots tipped toward the hearth. Kael dove in alongside her, muscles straining, and together they saved the batch from spilling into the fire.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Prince’s hands,” Jana muttered, half awe, half scold. She shoved a sugared fig into his mouth. “For your trouble. And take another for your sister.”

  On the terrace above, courtiers drifted like bright fish in wine-colored robes. Lord Gorath bowed low before King Torren, smooth as silk, deep as a stage bow.

  “Border news,” he said with a note of polite sorrow. “Three shepherds missing by the River Bend. Wolves, likely. Or bandits. The patrols should be strengthened.”

  Torren’s jaw worked once. “They will be.”

  Kael lingered at the rail, half listening, half watching Liora braid a girl’s hair with a sprig of rosemary.

  Elara crossed to him, her hand light on his shoulder. “Your kindness,” she murmured, “is a quieter strength. I prayed for a son who would not mistake noise for courage.”

  Kael laughed softly. “I’m trying to be both brave and fast. Tonight I was only fast enough to save a child and slow enough to lose a race.”

  “Then I’m twice as proud,” Elara said, eyes warm. “Eat. And keep your sister close. There’s a… taste in the air tonight.”

  “What kind?”

  Her gaze slid to the treeline beyond the walls. “Like iron, before rain.”

  Cold as a nail before the storm.

  The night deepened with music and riddles. Rowi, the youngest bard, cocked his hat and sang out, “I walk without feet and speak without a tongue. I devour kings’ crowns and peasants’ rakes the same. What am I?”

  “Time!” Liora cried before anyone else could speak.

  Rowi clutched his chest with a groan. “Ah, I am slain.” He tossed her a bronze token.

  Varrick’s friends laughed. “Riddles are for old women.”

  “Then answer one,” Kael said mildly.

  Varrick stepped close enough that Kael could smell wine on his breath.

  “Your palace burned years ago,” he murmured through his smile. “But you still play at prince. How charming.”

  Kael kept his face still. “We both play something.”

  The archery contest followed. A silk ribbon dangled from a turning wheel; the task was to strike it twice before it stopped spinning. Varrick clipped it cleanly both times to a roar of approval. Kael breathed deep, missed the first by an eyelash, then kissed the second arrow through the ribbon’s edge. Not glory, but not shame either.

  Rowi called from the dais, “He’s drawing patience to the string!”

  At the temple niches along the north wall, the priest Sovan lit bowls of oil. The flames burned steadily—until one folded inward and began to draw heat instead of giving it.

  Sovan stiffened, beckoned an attendant, and sent for Marna, the old seer with her milk-blind eye.

  She came leaning on a twisted branch, sniffed the wind once, and made a face like she’d bitten a green persimmon.

  “Wind from the west,” she said. “But colder than the river.”

  Sovan grimaced. “He won’t dismiss a feast.”

  “Then lengthen the blessings,” Marna said, “and keep the little ones inside the ring of fire.”

  Down in the yard, Tam tugged Kael’s sleeve. “Something spooked the hounds,” he whispered.

  Indeed, the dogs had pressed their bellies to the ground, ears flat, eyes locked toward the treeline.

  No growls—just the kind of fear that doesn’t waste noise.

  Kael crouched, hand hovering over a heaving ribcage. “Easy,” he murmured.

  The hound’s gaze flicked to him once—wary, grateful—before snapping back to the dark.

  Liora darted past, chasing a palace cat with a tail banded like the moons.

  Kael followed her through a service arch and found himself on a narrow balcony facing the outer ditch.

  A handful of leaves lay there, dusted with something fine and gray. He rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. Not hearth ash. Too cold. Too strange.

  Sovan joined him at the rail. Kael opened his palm.

  “Not ash,” the priest murmured. “Fall-dust.”

  The word was colder than the dust itself—something that belonged to winter, not to music and lanterns.

  A horn sounded from the gate—only the low, friendly note that called folk to the main toast.

  Torren stood, lifted his cup, and the yard stilled until even the banners seemed to hold their breath.

  “Eryndor,” he said, voice rolling like distant thunder, “is not stone and sword. It is the hands that lift the fallen, and the hearts that do not break when the wind leans hard.”

  The cheer that followed shook the walls. Gorath smiled through it like a man who’d bitten his tongue.

  Marna muttered into her sleeve.

  Elara rested her hand against her heart, eyes still on the treeline.

  Kael edged back to the temple niche where Sovan studied the strange dust.

  “The dogs won’t look at the forest,” Kael said softly. “And this… It’s cold.”

  Before Sovan could answer, a crash broke from the kitchens and a thin scream followed. Cook Jana’s voice rose, furious and shaken:

  “Who shoved the door? Who—?”

  People laughed uncertainly, then laughed harder to drown their own unease.

  Kael’s gaze drifted back to the trees.

  The night had clarified to hard crystal.

  Between the trunks, far back, two red pricks hovered.

  Not lanterns.

  Not fire.

  Eyes.

  He reached for Liora’s hand without looking and found it, small and warm and sticky with honey.

  “Stay close,” he whispered.

  Above them, a cloud slid across the moon like a hand closing over an eye.

  The drums skipped into a quicker measure.

  Somewhere beyond the walls, a bell clanged once.

  The dogs made no sound. That silence felt like a door unlocking in the dark.

  Tonight would be remembered for music and firelight—because it was the last night before the screams.