CHAPTER 465: THE LITTLE PRINCE

At the palace training grounds, the thrum of bowstrings and the solid thud of arrows sinking into wood echoed in the air. Aramis and Agilus stood several paces apart, locked in their usual contest of archery—a pastime they had taken up since the mourning period had ended, something to fill the restless hours as they waited for word on when they would return to Calma.

"You missed the bull’s-eye again, Agilus. This round is mine." Aramis’s grin carried both triumph and mischief.

Agilus muttered a curse under his breath. "You’re not skilled—you’re just lucky." His jaw tightened as he nocked another arrow, drew back, and released. The shaft flew fast but veered just slightly left, grazing the edge of the inner ring.

Aramis wasted no time. He raised his bow in one smooth motion, released, and his arrow struck the bull’s-eye cleanly once more.

But before he could savor the victory, another arrow cut the air with a sharp hiss. It struck his arrow dead-center, shattering the triumph as his own shot was dislodged from the target.

"What in the—!" Aramis spun around, startled and irritated.

Standing behind him was a figure with a calm, self-assured smile: a young woman with her hair pulled into a topknot, a green cloak flowing lightly around her. Her bow was already lowered, but her presence commanded the space.

"Kane!" Aramis exclaimed, his irritation melting into familiarity. He always called her that whenever she wore her hair in a topknot.

Lara laughed softly, her eyes sparkling as she studied him. "How are you, Aramis? When did you arrive? Is everything okay in Fereya?"

"Just this morning," he replied, brushing dust from his sleeve. "And Fereya is so boring."

"Wait, wait! Am I invisible now?" Agilus protested, waving his arms. "I’m here too, you know. Why did you only greet him?"

Lara flicked her gaze at him, unimpressed. "We already spoke this morning."

Then, ignoring his sputtering, she turned back to Aramis, her expression shifting as though she had just discovered something. "So... you are Prince Vaskar of Estalis." Her voice softened, though her words carried weight. "I should have guessed. No wonder you carry yourself like nobility. If only you didn’t spoil it with that childish grin of yours."

Aramis’s smile faltered. The brightness in his eyes dimmed, shadows creeping into his expression. "That was long ago. I am no prince anymore," he said quietly. "Now, I am only a soldier."

"A commander," Lara and Agilus corrected in unison, their tones colliding.

But Aramis wasn’t listening. His gaze had turned inward, fixed on memories he wished he could banish. His eyes clouded, his thoughts pulled unwillingly back to that night—the night Aegir Palace fell.

*** Flashback ***

The palace was burning.

Seven year old Vaskar jolted awake to the acrid scent of smoke seeping under his chamber door. At first, he thought it was a dream—but then came the scream. A maid’s voice, high and terrified, cut short with a sickening thud. His heart hammered as he stumbled into the hall, bare feet slipping on the cold stone.

What greeted him was not safety, but betrayal. The guards he had trusted all his life now move like predators, blades dripping red. Then he saw his father’s captain fall with a sword through his chest. The doors to his mother’s chamber splintered beneath an axe, his sister’s cries piercing the night before they vanished into silence. Blood stained the marble, glowing cruelly in the firelight.

"Run, little prince," a voice snarled. He turned—only to see the man who trained him, his own sworn protector, lunging forward, sword raised to kill. Little Vaskar stumbled back, too slow, the blade grazing his side and burning hot across his flesh. His mind cannot grasp it—the betrayal, the treachery—until pain forced the truth upon him.

Then, a hand grabbed him. "Vaskar!"

It was Aragon. His elder brother’s face was grim, set in steel. His sword dripped scarlet as he pulled Vaskar forward, half-dragging, half-shielding him from the carnage. They raced through smoke-choked corridors, stumbling over bodies, the clash of steel echoing like thunder behind them.

"This way!" Aragon shoved him toward a narrow door hidden behind a tapestry. The secret passage. Their last chance. But as they neared its mouth, dark figures blocked the way—enemy soldiers, blades already drawn.

Vaskar’s breath hitched. This was it. Here, the bloodline of the Delmars would end.

And then Ismael burst from the shadows. Aragon’s most trusted guard, his cloak torn and face streaked with soot, fought like a storm given form. His sword arced, each strike a vow, each movement fueled by desperate loyalty. He carved a path through the enemy, his roar carrying over the clash of steel.

"Go!" Ismael shouted, forcing them forward. His blade flashed, and the soldiers fell. By his strength, by his sacrifice, the brothers slipped into the tunnel, out into the cold night, away from the inferno consuming their home.

But survival carried no triumph. When dawn rose, Estalis was no more. Aramis was no longer a prince, but a fugitive, burdened by ashes and ghosts.

The wound that haunted him most was not the one delivered by an enemy’s blade, but the treachery of someone trusted.

A new king was crowned—his father’s most trusted general!

The new king’s banners unfurled by noon the following day. Black and crimson, they snapped in the wind above the smoldering ruins of Aegir Palace, blotting out the golden sun of the Delmars. Whispers spread like wildfire through the villages: the royal family was dead, slain in the chaos of the rebellion. None dared to speak otherwise. None dared to hope.

But hope lived—in secret, in shadow.

Aragon staggered along the muddy forest path. Leaning heavily against his back was his little brother. His side burned, the cut deeper than he had realized, each step sending jolts of fire through his body. Vaskar said nothing, his face hard and hollow, as though words themselves would shatter him.

When they finally collapsed in the shelter of a moss-cloaked cave, silence pressed in heavy. Only the crackle of a weak fire dared to break it.

"Brother, why?" Vaskar rasped, clutching at his bandaged wound. His eyes stung, not from smoke, but from the memory of betrayal. "How could he—? He was father’s brother-in-arms. He swore his life to us."

Aragon did not answer immediately. He sat across from him, sword across his knees, staring into the flames as though they might offer the truth. At last, he spoke, voice low and edged with iron.

"Power is a blade sharper than loyalty. He coveted the throne, Vaskar. And he took it."

"But our people—" Vaskar’s throat caught. "They will believe us dead."