"I'm sorry, my lady, but the king demands your presence in the throne room—along with the boys," the guard said, stepping into the doorway like a wall of iron as Rowenne tried to leave the palace with Alaric and Edmund.
"I made myself clear yesterday," she snapped, her grip tightening on the boys' small hands. "There was no argument—no hesitation—that I would be leaving today, without hindrance."
"Yes, my lady," the guard replied, a note of apology on his tongue but not in his eyes, "but the king gave his orders this morning."
"I demand to speak with Sir Ronan immediately." Her voice carried the sharp edge of both command and desperation—hope tethered to a single name.
"Unfortunately, my lady, Sir Ronan left only moments ago with some of the knights. I believe he is riding far West and will not return today—or anytime soon." The guard's lips curled into a cheeky smile, the kind that begged to be broken.
Rowenne's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure about that? He returned this morning." Her voice softened into confusion, as if speaking the truth might unmake the lie.
"Yes, my lady. He returned this morning… but left again on another mission."
Her mind snagged on the words, unable to catch its footing. She pressed the boys' hands tighter, as though she could anchor herself through them. Then, without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and strode for the throne room.
Her breath came fast, fury burning in her chest. Each footfall felt like it could crack the marble beneath her boots. The grand doors to the throne room burst open beneath her push, and she stormed inside without bow, without greeting—without permission.
Kaelion sat upon his throne, mid-conversation with Draven the mage, Duke Ronric, and the eunuch Baldric. The words between them withered instantly at her intrusion.
Four sets of eyes fixed on her—surprise, curiosity, and the faint glint of disapproval mingling in their gaze.
Rowenne stood there, breathing hard, her chest rising and falling like a storm tide. Alaric and Edmund stared up at her, their small faces taut with bewilderment. They had never seen her like this—never seen their mother's anger burn so openly. In their young minds, it felt as though they'd stepped into the middle of a story without knowing the beginning or the end… only the sharp, dangerous middle.
"Leave me," Kaelion ordered.
Draven, Ronric, and Baldric bowed low, stealing curious glances at Rowenne and the two boys as they passed, but she did not return their looks. She stood rooted, every muscle coiled tight.
The moment the doors shut, Kaelion's voice cracked like a whip.
"Guards!"
Two men rushed in, spears in hand—then froze at the sight of a woman and two children inside the throne room.
"How," Kaelion's words came slow and deliberate, "did they get past you? I ordered no one to enter."
"Y–Your Majesty, we… we did not see them come in," one guard stammered, his knuckles whitening on the shaft of his spear.
"You mean to say," Kaelion's voice dropped to a dangerous calm, "a woman and two boys walked past you… and you did not notice?"
The guards' silence was answer enough.
Alaric's eyes drifted to the man standing beside him—his trembling fingers, the beads of sweat gathering at his temple. Then he looked back at Kaelion's piercing gaze and instinctively pressed himself closer to Rowenne, clutching her hand. She didn't move—save for the slow, furious rise and fall of her chest.
"I asked a question," Kaelion said, sharper now, "and you dare stand mute?"
Both men dropped to their knees.
"Forgive us, Your Majesty! We won't fail again!"
"Costly mistakes," Kaelion said, letting the words hang in the air. "Mistakes that, in another moment, could have ended with a blade in my heart." He let the silence stretch before delivering his verdict.
"Leave my sight. Consider well the punishment you deserve."
They scrambled out, the echo of their boots fading quickly.
Kaelion turned back to Rowenne, his tone shifting to an unsettling warmth.
"My apologies. Not the finest way to begin a… precious moment."
Her voice was ice.
"What do you want?"
"Straight to the point." His lips curved faintly. "No humor for an old friend? No? Very well." He leaned back in his throne.
"Today is Alaric's birthday. I had planned something grand for him—"
"Thank you," Rowenne cut in, "but we've already celebrated. We're leaving."
Kaelion's eyes slid to Alaric.
"I have a gift for you, boy. Would you like to see it?"
Alaric glanced up at his mother. One look at her face told him all he needed—he shook his head.
"No? You'd love it," Kaelion coaxed.
"He said he doesn't want it," Rowenne said flatly.
He lifted his hands in mock surrender.
"Alright. I only wished to make the day special. Perhaps there's another way I can serve my honored guests before they depart?"
"Yes," Rowenne said. "By letting us go."
Kaelion's smile thinned.
"As king, I could keep you here for as long as I wish. But as king, I must also keep my word." His gaze hardened. "Goodbye, Rowenne. Alaric stays."
"Alaric comes with me," she shot back, her voice like steel drawn from its sheath.
For a heartbeat, it seemed he would challenge her. But his eyes went to the boy clinging to her side, and something shifted—resignation, perhaps, or recognition of a bond he could not break without earning the boy's hatred.
"My apologies if I overstepped, Lady Rowenne," Kaelion said finally, the charm back in his voice. "Of course, they are your sons. You may do with them as you please."
Rowenne did not answer. She turned sharply, took both boys by the hand, and strode from the throne room without looking back.
Rowenne stormed across the outer hall, the boys struggling to match her pace, almost breaking into a run. Her stride was sharp, each step a hammer striking the marble floor. The exit loomed ahead like freedom itself—until the same guards who had stopped her before stepped in front of the doorway, crossing their spears.
She halted, letting go of Alaric's hand. Her fingers curled into a fist.
"What are you doing? I have the king's permission to leave," she said, voice taut, her tone calm but her eyes betraying the storm inside.
"I'm sorry, my lady," one guard replied stiffly, "but the king has yet to inform us of any… change in decision."
"I would never lie about this, and I'm in a hurry," she said, her voice now losing its restraint.
The other guard smirked—slow, arrogant, enjoying himself far too much. "We can never be too sure of that."
Around them, servants paused mid-step, curiosity crackling in the air. None had ever heard anyone speak to Rowenne in such a manner; she commanded a respect that made such insolence unthinkable. Yet this man seemed drunk on his own petty authority.
From the corner of his eye, the smirking guard caught movement in the crowd—a blur, almost like someone running—but the figure vanished as quickly as it appeared. He dismissed it.
Rowenne's fist tightened. She was moments away from striking him herself when—
It happened.
The blur reappeared. A streak of motion slicing through the air. It was Sir Thavion Caidric.
He was upon them before the guard could even draw breath, moving with speed that belonged to no mortal man. The left hand gripped the hilt of his sheathed sword, thrusting it to the ground for leverage as his body launched upward. His legs swept high, head inverted toward the floor, the motion so fluid it felt rehearsed by the gods themselves.
The smirking guard had just enough time to register the sole of Caidric's boot before it struck his face—
—CRACK—
He collapsed without a sound.
Still airborne, Caidric switched his sword from left to right mid-spin. The other guard barely blinked before a right foot snapped into the side of his neck. He crumpled like a felled tree.
Caidric landed with both feet planted, the marble floor trembling faintly under the precision of the impact. His sword now rested, sheathed, in his right hand. His eyes met Rowenne's briefly, unreadable but sure, before he stood between her and the fallen guards like a drawn line that no man would dare cross.
"It is milady" Caidric said to the unconscious guards before turning to Rowenne. He had moved so fast the boys hadn't even registered the strikes—only the sound.
A muffled gasp, a crack of gauntlet on jaw, the solid thud of bodies hitting stone.
Now the men lay still, their weapons scattered like fallen leaves.
Rowenne's fury eased into something colder, quieter—a small, satisfied smile
No wonder he was the Grand Marshal.
The boys stood rooted, mouths open. They had never seen such skill—it was like watching a story from the old ballads spill into life before them.
The thought hit them both at once—if this was Caidric's ability, how formidable must Sir Ronan, the Knight Marshal of the King's Knights, be… or Tyrannis Durnveil, the Sword Sovereign? For the first time, Alaric felt something flicker to life inside him, a seed of resolve, a spark of hunger—to learn, to match them, maybe even come close. At that moment, he hoped that one day, he would learn to wield a blade like that
Caidric's voice snapped them out of their thoughts.
"I'm sorry about that, my lady. They're new recruits."
"It's fine. Thank you. I must leave immediately," Rowenne replied.
"I've prepared two horses for your journey. The only ones I could find on short notice, but they're fast."
"Does the king know of this?"
"I'm sure he'll be fine with it."
Rowenne placed her hand gently on his in gratitude.
"Thank you, Sir Caidric."
"Can the boys ride?"
"No, they've never mounted a horse before."
"This way."
He gestured to the nearby guards, pointing at the two sprawled figures before leading Rowenne and the boys outside.
Two horses waited, saddled and restless. Rowenne swung onto hers without hesitation, but the boys lingered, awkward. Caidric lifted them onto the second mount as if they weighed nothing.
"I'll ride with them until they find their balance. They'll learn quickly enough to hold the reins before we're out of Eryndral."
"Thank you, Sir Caidric."
He vaulted onto the horse behind them, placing the reins in Alaric's hands. Then, with a sharp kick, the horses surged forward.
The palace gates fell away behind them.
The streets blurred.
The sound of hooves thundered through the stone and echoed long after they were gone… fading, fading… swallowed by the distance.
From the shadow of a narrow alley, a figure watched them vanish into the horizon—silent, still, and waiting.