"For five thousand years we have defended our shores from all who would conquer us. Even in our darkest hour, when our own kin rose up and betrayed us, we fought with such determination and martial skill that they were vanquished. But before you do this, you must understand how to command your army. To conduct its many diverse parts into a symphony of destruction. To weave the potent sorceries of your battle mages with the rain of deadly shafts from our archers. To form an impregnable line of spears from which the armoured might of your cavalry can leap to smash the foe. And if you learn all these things, then and only then, will you be a true prince..."

  —Unthwe Windrider, Herald of the Phoenix King

  A small procession traveled down a road, with a finely made carriage pulled by two horses. The door of the carriage depicted a white lion on a red field. The driver of the wagon was armored, with a pointed helm and spear resting alongside him while he handled the reins. Alongside the wagon were mounted soldiers. Armored similarly, while the lead soldier had a white lion pelt draped over his shoulders, and a mighty axe strapped to his back. They moved unhurriedly, but maintained an alert attentiveness.

  Within the carriage sat two individuals one would quickly recognize to be High Elves, with their pointed ears and fair skin. They sat across from each other, occupying themselves with their chosen tasks. One read while the other appeared to be knitting, their silence companionable and comfortable.

  Esilya spoke up, “Cale, what do you think would be a good gift for your sister?” She looked up from her knitting, eying Calethor.

  Closing his book and sighing, Calethor said, “Truly, I am a bad brother. I had been hoping to ask you that question. We have about a week before her birthday. She’s always been hard to get gifts for, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to top last year’s gift.”

  She smiled at his words. “It would be hard to best last year’s performance—people still talk about the fire dancers. That’s why you should always save the best gifts for last. You don’t want to lead with your best right away.”

  He hummed thoughtfully at her words. Shaking his head, he replied, “I disagree. I think one should always strive to give their best in the moment—otherwise, there may not be a chance. But you are right, it does make beating it hard. This year, however, I think she will receive something more personal. Less flashy, but I hope more meaningful.”

  Nodding her head in agreement, she looked back down at her knitting project.

  “Well, I’m sure whatever you end up getting her, she will love. She always does. I’m nearly certain you could give her a rock and she would find some sort of meaning in it.”

  Calethor laughed. “Well, it’s good that I dote on her then, so she has no worries in that aspect. I want to make sure she’s all set. I will end up leaving sooner or later. I’ve got to make sure she’s been pampered. But I’m sure Father will do enough of that.”

  Though Esilya smiled at his words, her eyes appeared saddened by them. “It’s not a necessity to go on your journey around the world. Most don’t, in fact.”

  “I feel it’s necessary for me. Besides, I’m only thirty-five. I plan to leave here in my fortieth year, so we all still have some time.” His words were firm and practiced. He looked her in the eyes. “I must go. I need to do it.”

  “Besides, I still have to complete the rite. Otherwise, who would take a Prince of Chrace who hasn’t earned his pelt seriously? No one.”

  Now staring at Calethor, Esilya scoffed at him. “Truly, your humility knows no bounds,” sarcasm heavy in her tone. “I believe sixty is considered early—anything younger is exceptionally rare. I’d say almost unheard of. Don’t get yourself killed early, Cale. Pride and overconfidence are the supreme killers of the Asur.” Her final words ended spoken with an extreme familiarity.

  Calethor and Isilya continued their discussion, moving on to happier topics. They still had some time before they arrived at Tor Achare, the capital of the Kingdom of Chrace. The two of them had attended a feast that Cale's family had been invited to.

  They had been on the road for three weeks since departing Tor Saroir, where the party had been hosted. Both were ready to be home. As much as any Elf enjoyed intrigue and court affairs, they also loved the comfort of their loved ones and home. They had left through the Phoenix Gate, thus leaving the safety of the Inner Kingdoms, but traveling well-known roads still kept them in relative security.

  Both were nobles belonging to the Outer Kingdom of Chrace. Calethor and Isilya, while extremely close, were not related—Isilya was part of another noble family close to Calethor’s. There was talk of having them betrothed, but no High Elf would want to close off that potential bargaining chip while they were both still so young.

  A quiet knocking on the carriage door interrupted their conversation.

  “My Prince,” a voice addressed Calethor from the other side. “We will be stopping soon to set up camp.”

  Calethor stood up and opened the door as the carriage moved, peering out. Some of his white hair fell down in his eyes.

  In front of him was the Elf who wore the lion pelt, his pointed helm glinting in the waning sun. Calethor smiled at him before speaking. “Maerthas! How many times must I tell you? Call me Cale. How long have you been with my family? You’ve known me since I was a youngling.”

  Maerthas rode alongside them on horseback, cutting a dashing figure. The lion pelt on his shoulders marked him as someone who had accomplished the traditional rite of Chrace, a warrior who had killed the beast and lived. Different from the White Lions, who were the personal bodyguard of the Phoenix King. However, both had to accomplish the same thing.

  Broad shouldered beneath his armor, sitting his mount with an easy confidence as if it was second nature. He carried himself like a man who had seen violence up close and had not been impressed.

  “My Prince, as long as I draw breath, I shall maintain the proper courtesies. We will be upon a small clearing shortly, where we can make camp. Gods willing, we should arrive home early tomorrow morning.”

  Sighing dramatically at Maerthas’ words, Calethor looked around at their surroundings as they moved. Their procession rode along a white stone road, a thick forest hemming them in, the Annulii Mountains towering in the distance. While the wilderness of Ulthuan was legendary in beauty, it was also extremely dangerous—a place of boundless splendor and peril.

  “How you wound me. One day I shall overcome your forced decorum, and that day shall be worthy of being chronicled by every Loremaster.”

  While Maerthas did not respond, Calethor could have sworn he saw him roll his eyes.

  A loud THUNK sounded somewhere in front of the carriage, the noise confusing Calethor as he looked around for its source. Maerthas had a far more extreme reaction. He shoved Calethor back into the carriage using his boot, grabbed his axe, and yelled, “AMBUSH!”

  His voice stirred the Elven soldiers around them. They quickly snatched up their spears and lifted their shields before kicking their horses to move. maerthas quickly closed the carriage door and rushed toward the woodline on his horse.

  “Protect the Prince and Lady!”

  Calethor quickly picked himself up and began to arm himself with a sword that sat on the wall of the carriage. But he did not leave—no need to make his guards’ job more difficult by being undefended. He looked to Isilya, who sat across from him. She had begun to string her bow, her quiver already beside her.

  As he looked at her, he noticed something glittering above her head: a black arrowhead had pierced through the wood. Its tip appeared to be coated with some sort of red liquid. Blood. A dawning realization of what the noise had been—and what it had hit—came to Cale. Their carriage driver would have sat where that bolt now rested.

  Druchii. The Dark Elves had ambushed them.

  Isilya stood, her bow in hand. “Let us help.”

  He agreed—now that both were armed and it was time to help their fellow elves, it would be unacceptable to sit uselessly within the carriage. They could hear screams and the clash of blades not far off. Isilya and Cale both quickly exited.

  Multiple of their guards lay dead, bolts sticking from their bodies, while others fought on. Maerthas could not be found, which alarmed Cale, but he knew the warrior would not be far.

  While Cale lacked a ranged weapon, Isilya made herself known to the enemy immediately. Drawing her bow in a practiced motion, she let loose two arrows into the Dark Elves, killing one immediately while the other distracted a Dark Elf from his battle with their guards, allowing them to finish him off.

  The guard drove his spear up under the Dark Elf’s ribs and wrenched it free. The Druchii sagged, then collapsed into the white stone of the road.

  More of them were already coming.

  They moved out from the treeline in a loose line. Dark armor of blackened steel and barbed edges caught the light in thin, sharp glints. Their helms were high-crested and angular, some flaring back like predatory fins. Repeater crossbows were leveled with practised ease, the mechanisms clicking as they were cocked, their bolts ready.

  Cale’s own guards looked almost bright by comparison. Chracian soldiers in pale mail and fitted plates, polished to a cold gleam, they raised their shields in a tight wall. Their helms only showing grim, set mouths. They appeared to be outnumbered.

  A crossbow snapped.

  Bolts hissed through the air and struck hard, ugly sounds. One of the guards took a bolt high in the shoulder and staggered, his shield dipping. Another bolt punched into a shield face.

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  Isilya did not stand behind them idly.

  She stepped into a clear line, drew, and loosed again. Her arrows flew clean and fast. One struck a Druchii crossbowman in the throat where the collar plates met, and he dropped without a sound, fingers still locked on the stock. The second arrow glanced off a curved pauldron and still tore enough to make its wearer flinch back, snarl, and lose his rhythm.

  Cale moved with the guards, staying just behind their shield line. His sword up and ready. He could hear the Druchii shouting, could see their pale faces between black helms, eyes bright with something eager and cruel.

  Then one of them came in close.

  A Druchii warrior slipped around the edge of the shield wall. In his hands was a curved blade, wickedly thin, and he wielded it with the speed of a whip.

  Cale turned toward him, blade rising, but the Druchii did not meet the sword.

  He struck with the pommel. Taking Calethor completely off guard.

  The impact landed high and violently, right across Cale’s temple. White sparks burst across his vision. For a heartbeat there was no sound at all, only a dull pressure became everything. His knees buckled. The sword slipped, weightless, from his grip. He went down hard, and the world tilted sideways into dirt, stone. Things began turning dark.

  Isilya’s breath caught.

  “Cale!”

  She pivoted toward him, bow half-raised, and the Druchii warrior turned on her with a sharp smile, already lifting his blade.

  A new sound cut through the clash.

  Hooves. Fast and heavy. That sounded like they were closing in rapidly.

  Maerthas came out of the treeline, his now bloodstained lion pelt flaring behind him, axe in hand. He leaned low in the saddle, eyes locked on the Druchii, and brought the axe down in a brutal, committed arc.

  The Druchii tried to twist away, but was too late.

  Steel met steel, then bit through. The axe head cutting deeply into shoulder and collar plate, driving the attacker sideways and down. Maerthas followed the blow immediately, boots hitting the ground as he dismounted, and finished it with a second strike.

  He rounded on Isilya at once, positioning himself between her and the treeline, axe held ready, shoulders squared beneath the lion pelt.

  “Lady,” he snapped, quick and controlled, then glanced down at Cale’s sprawled form.

  For a terrible moment, Cale did not move.

  Then a shallow breath dragged in, faint, but there. A twitch of his fingers against the white stone. Blood at his hairline, eyes unfocused, but life still stubbornly present.

  Maerthas lifted his shield arm, stepping over Cale as if his own body could serve as cover, and barked to the nearby guards, “On me!”

  The Chracian soldiers responded immediately. Moving into a half circle around their Prince. Another volley of bolts hissed from the treeline, several thudding into shields with sharp cracks. One glancing off a rim and spinning away. The Druchii pressed forward quick and confident.

  Isilya moved with the guards, bow already in hand again. Her eyes not lingering on Calethor for more than a heartbeat. She drew and loosed, each arrow sent with the calm precision of someone who had done this before. One Druchii crossbowman dropped as an arrow punched into him, the breath leaving him in a harsh choke. Another took an arrow through the side of his helm.

  Maerthas waded into the space the shields created, axe rising and falling. A Dark Elf lunged in, blade flashing for a gap under his arm. Maerthas turned the strike with his axe head and quickly answered with a blow that crumpled black plate and sent the Druchii into the road motionless.

  The last of them tried to retreat.

  He broke from the press and sprinted toward the woodline, their sea-dragon cloak snapping behind them, boots striking stone in quick, desperate steps. Isilya’s bowstring sang once more. The arrow caught him low in the back. He stumbled, tried to keep going, then dropped to his knees. A guard closed the distance and drove his spear down and forward, ending it.

  For a moment, there was only the sound of breathing and the restless stamp of horses.

  Maerthas did not savor it. He turned immediately, dropping to one knee beside Calethor. The blood at Calethor’s temple was bad enough, but it was not what made Maerthas’ expression sharpen. His gloved hand moved, tugging at Calethor’s cloak and tunic, searching.

  Then he found it.

  A shallow puncture near the ribs that was small and deceptively clean. A wound that came from a thin knife. Maerthas’ fingers came away dark. His eyes narrowed as he sniffed it. The scent smelled of bitter herbs with something metallic beneath it.

  Poison.

  Maerthas swore furiously under his breath before looking up at Isilya. “He has been poisoned.”

  Isilya was already at his side, face pale beneath her composure. Her gaze dropped to the wound, and fearful eyes staring at her childhood friend.

  Maerthas’ voice turned into iron. “We leave now. Forget the carriage. We must ride hard for Tor Achare.”

  One of the guards started to speak, looking back toward the horses, toward the scattered dead, toward the road ahead.

  Maerthas cut him off. “We can afford no delays if we want him to live. Get the Prince on a mount.”

  The Chracian soldiers did not argue. They moved, snapping into action with grim resolve. A horse was brought close, reins yanked tight. Two guards lifted Calethor carefully, trying not to jostle him, though his breath came thin and unsteady. His eyelids fluttered and made a faint sound that might have been a word, then was quiet once more.

  Maerthas took the reins himself. He looked once more to the treeline, axe still stained, then back to Isilya.

  “Stay close,” he said.

  Then they rode.

  By the time they arrived at the gates of the city, Calethor was barely breathing, his time in this world fast approaching its end. Isilya was near manic as she watched his condition deteriorate during the ride, her hands hovering over him as if sheer will could hold him together.

  They were quickly led through the gates and rushed to the Stormvaine villa. Word had traveled faster than they did. By the time the doors were thrown open, a crowd of mages and healers were already waiting—High Elves in pale robes stitched with subtle runes. While others wore fitted tunics with ceremonial sashes. Rings of gold and silver glinted on long fingers, and small talismans hung at throats—carved stones, beads, and charms that pulsed faintly with power.

  They descended on him at once. Hands pressed to his brow, to his chest, to the wound. Soft words were spoken in quick, controlled tones. A bowl appeared, then clean cloth. Someone drew out thin vials of clear liquid and darker tinctures. A mage traced symbols in the air and a faint shimmer settled over Calethor’s skin like a second layer.

  Isilya and Maerthas were pulled aside and questioned quickly. Maerthas answered with blunt efficiency. While Isilya’s attention was constantly snapping back toward Cale's body lying on the bed.

  Then Calethor’s parents arrived.

  His mother entered first, moving with a terrible speed that did not suit the elegance of someone of her rank. Her hair was a pale fall of silver-white, braided back with fine clasps that trembled slightly as she came to a halt. She was beautiful in the way High Elves were, almost unfairly so, but the moment her eyes found her son, something in her expression broke. One hand went to her mouth as if to keep a sound from escaping, and the other reached for him without thinking, fingers trembling as they brushed his hair back from his face.

  His father followed, he was tall and rigid. The lines of his face were hard, the kind one got through years of service, and his eyes were bright with barely contained fury. He looked over the assembled healers with a gaze that demanded answers. His jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumped, but he spoke little.

  What there was to say did not matter until Calethor was healed and healthy.

  Unfortunately, despite their greatest efforts, Calethor Stormvaine died.

  His heartbeat stilled permanently. The room fell into a sudden silence, so complete it made the soft crackle of a candle sound loud. Their presiding healer, an elderly Elf with calm eyes turned toward them, grief at his failure carefully suppressed.

  “I’m afraid the poison was too far in his system.”

  Calethor’s mother could not stop her tears. They slipped down her cheeks without restraint as she leaned closer, as if proximity could undo death. Isilya stood stunned, her face blank. Maerthas remained still, but his grip tightened until the leather of his glove creaked.

  Calethor’s father gazed at his son’s form lying on the bed, unmoving, and for a moment his anger drained into something colder.

  Then flames burst from Calethor’s body for a heartbeat—bright and sudden. It seemed like something alive. The gathered mages recoiled, hands rising instinctively, their wards half-formed. Before anyone could act the fire vanished entirely from their Prince's body.

  When their eyes returned to Calethor, there it was.

  The small rise and fall of his chest.

  For two days, the villa did not rest.

  Calethor now lived but He laid unmoving beneath clean linens, skin too pale against the dark spill of white hair, his breathing shallow and measured. The healers came in shifts, all working hard to figure out what had happened and to ensure he remained alive. Mages renewed the spells that kept the remnants of the poison at bay, faces drawn tight with concentration, hands steady even when their eyes betrayed fatigue. The servant moved around the room like it had become a temple to Isha, voices lowered, as if noise alone might break whatever fragile thing kept him tethered.

  Isilya did not leave at all the first day but soon after was implored to rest by Cale’s family. His mother pulled her away with understanding eyes.

  Sleep came in brief, broken pieces, her attention snapping back to Calethor’s chest every time it rose a little too slowly. Maerthas kept close—watching everything. Doors, windows, and shadows. His failure to protect his Prince eating him away.

  When Calethor finally woke, the household came alive.

  His breath had hitched. Fingers twitched against the linen. Cale’s eyes opened to the ceiling.

  A healer noticed immediately and was out of the room in an instant. The entire place growing loud, maids scurried and chattered as they did their task. Servants dashed around informing their masters of the news.

  Word reached Calethor’s parents like a shot from an eagle claw bolt thrower.

  His mother arrived as soon as she could, her hair half-braided and disordered in a way no noble elf would ever allow to be seen in public. Her eyes were red-rimmed from sleeplessness.

  Calethor’s father followed close behind, composed only by force of will. He stopped at the foot of the bed for a heartbeat, as if unwilling to believe until he saw it himself.

  Isilya came with them. Her eyes searching Calethor’s.

  Calethor’s gaze drifted.

  It passed over his mother’s face. Paused.

  His mother smiled through trembling lips. “Calethor,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  His eyes returned to her, but there was no recognition. Only confusion, as if she were a stranger speaking a language he almost understood.

  His father tried next, voice low and controlled. “Cale.”

  Nothing. Not even a flicker.

  A healer leaned in carefully, testing his pulse again, watching his pupils, listening to the rhythm of his breath. Questions followed quickly.

  “What is your name?”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “Do you know who these people are?”

  Calethor’s mouth worked as if words had to be assembled piecemeal. His voice, when it came, was thin and uncertain.

  “I am…” He stopped suddenly, wincing as if in great pain. It passed momentarily and he seemed to rethink what he was going to say. “I don’t know.”

  The room seemed to tighten around that admission.

  Isilya’s hand rose to her lips, fingers pressing hard as if to keep herself from speaking. Maerthas, near the doorway, went utterly still, something in his eyes dimmed.

  Calethor’s mother’s breath caught, and her hand trembled as it cupped his cheek. “No… Cale, please.”

  Calethor blinked at her touch, startled by it, then looked away again, appearing to search for something familiar and finding only strangers filled with grief. He soon looked extremely uncomfortable.

  A quiet dread resettled over the bedside—almost worse than before. The healers exchanged restrained looks, with dawning understanding.

  Calethor had survived.

  But their Prince’s mind had not.