The forest did not like steel.
Aurelion felt it the moment the expedition crossed the old boundary stones — the way birds thinned, the way the air grew tight around the armor despite the cool, the way even the horses quieted as if something had passed ahead of them and taken the sound with it. He told himself it was nothing. He told himself that because a prince learned early how often fear dressed itself as instinct.
He rode at the front, where he always rode, helm tucked beneath one arm, reins loose in his hand. He had refused the ceremonial escort. This was not a parade. It was a survey. A show of presence. He wanted the villages to see him without banners, without distance.
That was his first mistake.
The second was trusting the quiet.
They had just reached the ravine when the sound vanished.
Not gradually. Not like dusk. It was gone in a single breath — the cicadas, the wind through leaves, even the clink of metal as a guard shifted behind him. Aurelion's horse stamped once, hard, then stilled beneath him, muscles locked.
He did not turn.
He felt the pressure instead. A presence close enough that the space behind his shoulder seemed to compress.
"Prince," a voice said, low, almost respectful.
Aurelion twisted out of the saddle as the blade passed through the space his neck had been. He hit the ground rolling, came up with his sword half-drawn and his balance already wrong. The assassin was fast. Not frantic. Not eager.
Careful.
The kind that counted breaths.
They moved together, blades catching and slipping, the silence barrier pressing against Aurelion's ears until his own breathing sounded like thunder in his skull. The assassin was taller than he was, broader, armor dark and unmarked. No sigil. No flourish.
This one had not come to be seen.
Aurelion parried once. Twice. Nearly lost the third. The impact shuddered up his arm, numbing his fingers. He staggered back, boots scraping stone, and the assassin pressed, relentless, blade always angled for kill, never show.
"You fight like a scholar," the man said quietly, almost amused.
Aurelion bit back the urge to answer.
He ducked instead, rolled under a sweeping cut, felt steel kiss his hair, and came up hard against the ravine wall. His back struck stone. His breath left him in a sharp, useless burst. The assassin closed the distance in a blink.
Too fast.
Aurelion barely got his sword up in time. The impact rang through him, sent pain screaming down his shoulder. He dropped to one knee. The assassin leaned in, strength bearing down, and for a moment — just a moment — Aurelion thought of his father standing in a doorway, bloodied and unbowed.
Not yet, he thought. Not like this.
He shoved sideways, letting the pressure slide past, and slammed the pommel of his sword into the assassin's knee. Bone cracked. The man grunted, surprised more than hurt, and that was enough. Aurelion surged to his feet, slashing low, then high, driving the assassin back step by careful step.
They circled.
Sweat blurred Aurelion's vision. His arm burned. His breath came ragged despite his effort to control it. The assassin's movements slowed — not much, but enough to notice. Enough to mark.
"You're better than they said," the assassin admitted.
"Who is 'they'?" Aurelion snapped, then cursed himself for it.
The assassin smiled. A thin thing. Private. "Dead men."
He lunged.
Aurelion met him head-on.
Steel screamed. Sparks flashed. The force of the collision knocked them both off balance, and they went down together in a tangle of limbs and armor. The assassin's weight crushed the air from Aurelion's lungs. A hand slammed against his throat. Fingers tightened.
Aurelion clawed at the grip, vision darkening at the edges. He kicked, struck stone, twisted his hips and drove his knee up hard into the assassin's ribs. Once. Twice. The grip loosened just enough.
He drew his dagger blind and drove it into the man's side.
Not deep enough.
The assassin roared then, the sound stolen instantly by the barrier, and slammed his forehead into Aurelion's face. Pain exploded white. Aurelion tasted blood. He rolled, gasping, barely avoided the follow-up strike that would have ended it.
They rose again. Slower now. Blood marked both of them.
"You should have stayed in the palace," the assassin said. His breathing was heavier now. Irritation edged his voice. "You wear the weight badly."
Aurelion laughed. It came out broken, breathless, wrong. "You'd know about weight," he said, and stepped inside the assassin's guard.
The move was reckless. It should not have worked.
It did.
Aurelion took the blade in the shoulder — felt it bite, deep and hot — and used the moment of surprise to drive his sword up under the assassin's chin. The man stiffened. His eyes widened. His mouth opened as if to speak.
No sound came.
Aurelion twisted the blade and tore it free.
The assassin fell.
The barrier collapsed a heartbeat later.
Sound rushed back in — shouting, horses screaming, steel clattering as guards surged toward him, weapons raised, faces white with shock. Someone shouted his name. Someone else tried to grab him.
Aurelion waved them off, staggering a step before catching himself. He stood there, blood dripping from his armor, shoulder burning, lungs still refusing to find a steady rhythm.
"Search the perimeter," he ordered hoarsely. "Now."
They obeyed.
He looked down at the body.
Strong. Skilled. Close enough that he could still smell the man's sweat, the oil on his armor, the faint trace of something herbal — a salve, maybe, for endurance. Someone had prepared him well.
Someone had expected success.
As they bound his wound, Aurelion's hands shook despite himself. Not from pain. From the realization settling into his bones.
This was not random.
This was not isolated.
As the forest slowly found its voice again, Aurelion stared into the ravine and thought of his father's chambers. Of silence used as a weapon. Of messages delivered without witnesses.
He mounted his horse with help he pretended not to need.
"Return to the capital," he said. "At speed."
And as they turned back toward the road, Aurelion understood, with a clarity that left no room for comfort, that whatever had begun in the palace was no longer contained there.
It was following them now.