The Prince of Eryndor

  Kael woke before the cooks. The boys in the training courts teased him for it, but none of them could match his pace when morning came.

  He was twelve, a prince of Eryndor in name if not yet in bearing—narrow-shouldered, wiry from practice, with gray-blue eyes like storm clouds rolling in from the sea. He loved to run until his breath burned and his feet stung. He loved the rough grip of the practice sword and the honest ache in his muscles afterward. The ache meant the day had been used well.

  On the east wall-walk, he paused to watch the twin moons lowering their pale hands over the city. The palace roofs were dark shapes against the dim sky—towers like spears, the edges of great halls, and the wide carved circle where banners would later turn in the wind. He could almost hear the evening’s lutes tuning, though the air still smelled of wet stone and straw.

  Footsteps came from behind—firm, leather-soled, no attempt at silence. Captain Sereth.

  The man looked like a hawk that had taken vows: sharp-eyed, lean, with an old scar at his mouth that made his smiles look accidental.

  “You’ll wear your legs out before you even see a battlefield,” Sereth said.

  Kael grinned, though the captain’s presence always made him stand straighter. He wanted Sereth’s approval in a way that stung.

  “Then I’ll hop on my stumps to glory, Captain.”

  “Glory is a poor crutch,” Sereth said. “Steel, discipline, and stubbornness—that’s the tripod you need.” His eyes read Kael’s stance—the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers rested near the railing as if he expected danger.

  “Your father says you’ll race tonight,” Sereth added. “Try not to trip over pride on the last lap.”

  “Pride lives in other boys,” Kael said, though at once he thought of Varrick—Varrick with his lordling grin, that careless tilt of his chin as if the world owed him thanks for existing so handsomely. Varrick, taller by a head, was beating boys two years older in swordplay because he fought like one who thought he had nothing to learn.

  Sereth’s mouth scar pulled faintly. “Hngh. Even if you win, endure. Especially if you lose, endure.”

  Kael nodded. He liked how Sereth forged advice in iron.

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Do more than remember,” Sereth said, and left him to the morning’s first run.

  By the time the sun spread cloth-of-gold light across the courtyards, the palace had become a great chest being filled.

  Servants carried casks and trays. Musicians argued over tempos. Children ran errands with the serious faces only children can wear. In the kitchens, ovens sighed out heat; in the armory, boys polished trophies until their own faces warped in the shine.

  King Torren moved through these preparations like a storm shaping clouds. Not yet dressed for the feast—no jeweled sword, no heavy cloak—only a plain tunic that made his shoulders look even broader.

  Men straightened when he entered a doorway. His voice could rattle a rack of cups or soften a whole room until quarrels forgot themselves. He called the names of stew-women, scullery boys, gatekeepers—as if each one were a stone the castle could not lose.

  At the long gallery above the east court, Kael was waiting. He tried to stand straight without looking stiff, but his ribs felt too tight for his lungs. He had learned more sword than statecraft, but he knew when to pretend poise.

  Torren laid a hand on his son’s shoulder—heavy but never crushing.

  “You will run tonight, Kael?”

  “Yes, Father.” Kael’s eyes went to the waiting banners stitched with the constellations of Eryndor’s founders—seven heroes of old tales, each with a star-name.

  “And after,” Kael added, “I want to watch the soldiers’ contests. Last year, Senn threw a spear through two hog skulls with one cast.”

  “Men make that tale worse each year,” Torren said with a laugh that made the gallery feel safer. “But remember this instead: whether you win or lose, a prince’s first duty is endurance. Do you know why?”

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  Kael knew the priests’ answers, the tutors’ answers, Sereth’s answers—but his father wanted honesty.

  “Because people watch him,” Kael said. “If he breaks, they break too.”

  Torren squeezed his shoulder. “You mind your tutors better than I ever did mine.” He smiled faintly. “Run well. And afterward, listen. Feasts talk in places where men think no one hears.”

  Kael thought of the west colonnade where boys boasted, the servants’ corridor where gossip braided like rope, the open stair by the east gate where soldiers laughed.

  “I’ll listen,” he said.

  “Good.” Torren looked out over the city as if measuring whether it still fit in his hands. “Smoke over the Vyrn this morning that isn’t from cookfires,” he murmured. “And the rangers say the hounds won’t go past the first stream.” His eyes came back to Kael. “Keep your sister near after sundown.”

  “Liora hates being kept near,” Kael said. “She calls it bird-caging.”

  “Let her call it what she likes,” Torren said. The smile that usually came easily didn’t come this time. “Near,” he repeated. “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  By afternoon, the palace was the center of a storm of joy. Nobles and merchants came in bright trains. Soldiers arrived from drills smelling of leather and oil. Farmers in clean shirts blinked up at the soaring vaults as if the stone itself had turned generous.

  Queen Elara moved among them like balm poured on cuts no one else could see. She remembered whose child had been sick last winter, which old man had lost a son to the river. She listened, touched hands, and took away small weights with the same quiet skill she used on the palace’s ancient harp.

  If Torren was the drum, Elara was the string.

  Liora attached herself to Kael’s arm the moment she saw him. Her wreath lay sideways because she kept turning her head to see everything.

  “You’re running,” she said, hopping in place like a sparrow. “You’ll win. And if you don’t win, it will be because you’re saving your winning for something even bigger.”

  Kael laughed. “Or I’ll trip and land on my nose.”

  “Then pick up your nose, put it back on, and keep running,” Liora said. “Captain Sereth told me endurance is an ugly word for a beautiful thing.”

  “Sereth said that?” Kael asked, trying to imagine it.

  “No,” Liora admitted. “I said the second part. Sereth just blinked like a bug had flown in his eye. That’s how he smiles.”

  They reached the central court where the races would run. The track was a dusty oval marked in lime. Benches circled it in tiers, draped with cloth; above them, banners made a ring in the warm air.

  The smells rose like invitations—plums in the wine, roast meat, peeled oranges. The noise was a living thing, ready to leap.

  Varrick came late to the starting line—because for him, being late was the same as saying he was important. He wore Lord Gorath’s colors, gold-and-ash on his sash. His hair fell across one eye until he tossed it back, which made women in the front benches murmur.

  “You look almost fast enough to keep me in sight,” Varrick said as if discussing poetry.

  “Better hope I’m behind you,” Kael said, “else you’ll eat dust all night.”

  Varrick’s smile sharpened. “We’ll see who eats what.”

  The horn blew.

  The boys crouched. Kael felt the ground alive under his feet, smelled the dust before it rose.

  Liora’s voice knifed through the crowd: “Go, Kael! Faster!”

  They launched with the horn—an explosion of motion that left Kael’s thoughts behind like shed skin.

  He knew only rhythm: the pull of breath, the stretch in calves, the flex of shoulders.

  First bend—safe. Second—tighter line. Varrick ahead. Kael matched his rhythm, then broke it, just as Sereth taught.

  Two laps: the world was only the back of Varrick’s neck.

  Third lap: Kael drew even. Varrick’s smile stayed the same, but his eyes changed—flint-hard. Varrick did not like equality. He liked it before and after.

  Final straight: Kael called on everything he had saved. Varrick found something, too.

  They crossed together—a heartbeat of eternity—and then Varrick’s chest broke the ribbon a thumb’s width ahead.

  Silence for half a breath. Then, there was a noise like a wall falling.

  “Varrick!” the crowd roared. And softer, but there: “Kael!”

  Kael bent, hands on knees, lungs dragging air like drowning men clutching a boat.

  A hot disappointment rose in his throat. He tasted metal. He wanted to be alone.

  A hand came warm on his shoulder.

  “A prince doesn’t always win,” Torren said. His voice carried heat, not pity. “But he must always endure.”

  Kael swallowed, stood, and made himself meet Varrick’s eyes.

  Varrick came forward, hesitated, then offered his hand.

  “Well run,” Varrick said.

  “And you,” Kael replied, meaning it.

  From the stands, Queen Elara clapped—softly, gently, never pitying.

  Liora wrapped herself around Kael’s middle. “Second place is just first place with a lesson inside,” she announced. “I made that up. But it’s true.”

  “Then I’ll keep the lesson,” Kael said. “Maybe I’ll take it down from the shelf whenever Varrick is near.”

  The races went on. Boys ran, men laughed, wagers changed hands. The sun took its time, then left. Torches flared. Fire dancers spun sparks like bees around their ankles.

  Kael watched the banners fill and fall in the evening wind. Watched wine make men’s voices bright. Watched his parents steady a whole crowd without seeming to try.

  Beside him, Liora talked endlessly.

  Near the western gate, two soldiers stood close, heads bent. Kael wouldn’t have noticed if not for his father’s warning. He hushed Liora and leaned to catch their words.

  “—sheep stripped to the bone—”

  “—no tracks where there should have been—”

  “—told the ranger we should—”

  “—and the eyes… gods, the eyes—”

  Then footsteps, laughter, voices passing, and the rest was lost.

  Kael’s skin prickled. He looked toward the Vyrn. At night, the forest was one dark thought, unbroken. No lights. No movement.

  He told himself nothing was wrong. He didn’t quite believe it.

  “Stop frowning,” Liora said. “You frown before you do something brave and possibly foolish. What is it this time?”

  “Standing here and letting you keep talking without throwing you off the balcony,” Kael said, as brothers are required by oath to answer.

  She thumped his arm. He could feel her small pulse against his sleeve.

  He told himself again that nothing was wrong.

  Somewhere beyond the Vyrn, something answered the feast fires—and the sound was wrong.