The moon was high by the time Carlos stood at the East Gate, the scent of lilies still clinging to his coat.
He wore no crown, no sigil. Only a black cloak clasped at the throat with silver, and the Eastern sword slung over his back—one he had never drawn in this life.
But it fit his hand like memory.
The Eastern cohort waited for him at the base of the stairs. No more than thirty men. Veterans, every one of them. Loyal to the bloodline, not the throne.
They looked at Carlos with questioning eyes—he was only fifteen. Unblooded. Silent. The king's little brother.
But something in his stance gave them pause.
Carlos didn't speak like a prince.
He spoke like a commander reborn.
"Mount up," he ordered. "We ride to the border before dawn."
The gate captain stepped forward. "We don't have clearance for the woods, my lord. The elves—"
Carlos met his eyes. "We're not asking."
No one argued again.
As the gates groaned open, Carlos looked once over his shoulder.
The palace behind him gleamed gold and white, a perfect dream of power.
But within its walls: a brother fading, a traitor hiding, and lilies blooming still.
He turned his back to it.
And rode into the night.
---
Meanwhile, inside the palace:
Kave stood at the top of the ballroom steps, watching the nobles pace in their silks and fury.
None were permitted to leave.
Not the merchants. Not the old generals. Not the foreign envoys in their brocade.
The doors were shut. The halls were guarded. And word was spreading fast:
Carlos had left.
The king was dying.
Someone had poisoned the crown.
It wasn't said aloud, but it was felt in every glance:
"Who did it?"
"Who knew?"
"Who benefits?"
Kave moved among them like a shadow. Listening. Watching.
And quietly, the palace began to fracture.
Some wept. Some whispered. Some bargained with gods Kave didn't believe in.
And some… smiled too easily.
He made note of them.
---
In the healer's chambers:
The king stirred only once, barely breathing, fingers twitching at the edge of consciousness.
The scent of lilies still filled the hall outside.
The healer had burned some. Removed what she could. But it lingered. It always lingered.
She looked at the boy-king's pale face and whispered, "Hurry, Carlos."
---
Beyond the palace, into the deep woods:
Carlos rode without stopping. Sleep was a thing for people without deadlines.
He remembered the map. The forest paths. The warnings.
The elves will not grant mercy.
He knew.
But he also knew this:
He had turned back time.
He had bent fate.
And now it would bend him back.
The Elves' Mother Tree lay days ahead.
And if death waited there—
Then he would meet it sword-first.