CHAPTER 466: THE LITTLE PRINCE 2

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

"That is our strength," Aragon said, finally raising his eyes. The firelight caught in them, fierce, unyielding. "He thinks the bloodline ended last night. He thinks he has won. But so long as we draw breath, the throne is not his. One day, we will return."

Vaskar swallowed hard, his chest tight with fear and grief. He wanted to believe. He needed to believe. Yet the image of their mother’s chamber doors splintering beneath an axe, of trusted blades turned against them, burned behind his eyes.

Aragon reached across the fire, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. "You are Delmar," he said, firm as steel. "Do not let him steal that from you. Our time will come."

Outside the cave, the forest whispered. Somewhere beyond, the usurper’s soldiers hunted, their boots scouring the land for stragglers and survivors. But deep within the shadows, beneath grief and ruin, a spark endured—faint, fragile, yet unquenchable.

The line of the Delmar lived.

In the dark cave that smelled of damp stone and moss, Aragon checked Vaskar’s wounds. He applied crushed herbs and rebandaged them, tearing his cloak in the process, then he coaxed his little brother to sleep, before tending to his own wounds.

But every time Vaskar closed his eyes, he saw fire reflected on marble, heard screams echoing through the halls. Sleep gave him no peace; when he jolted awake, the firelight of their meager camp seemed too much like the inferno that had swallowed their home.

Aragon did not sleep. He sat at the cave mouth, sword drawn across his lap, every muscle coiled like a hunting cat. His eyes tracked every shadow, every shift in the wind.

Vaskar studied him in silence. His brother looked older than he had the night before—etched with something hard and grim. That steel was all that held them together now.

"Brother, you should rest," Vaskar murmured, his voice weak.

"I cannot." Aragon’s reply was flat, final. "Not while they hunt us."

The word they hung in the air like poison. Guards who once swore oaths of loyalty. Men who had trained in their father’s barracks. Faces once familiar, now warped by betrayal.

Vaskar’s hand strayed unconsciously to his wound, feeling the crude bandage Aragon had wrapped around him. He had crushed some herbs, and somehow the salve helped the wound to heal faster. His brother was older than him by a few years, and so he must have been taught survival skills.

When dawn crept through the canopy, gray and cold, Aragon roused Vaskar. "We can’t stay. The smoke from our fire will draw them."

Vaskar struggled to his feet, teeth gritted against the pain, and followed his brother out into the forest. The world beyond their kingdom was harsher than he had ever known—unfamiliar paths, the gnaw of hunger, the endless ache of loss. Once, they stumbled across a village, but Aragon pulled him back before they could draw close. "Too dangerous," he warned. "A single wrong word, and we’ll be delivered to the usurper in chains."

The days blurred. Rain soaked them to the bone. Hunger carved hollows into their faces. Aragon picked wild fruits for them to eat. One time, he got lucky and caught a rabbit.

At night, Vaskar sometimes thought he heard his mother’s voice, soft as when she once sang him to sleep. Other times, it was the crash of doors breaking, his sister’s cries. He woke shaking, gasping, his body remembering the fire even when the forest was cold.

One night, when the moon was thin and pale above the trees, he finally broke. "Why did we survive?" His voice cracked. "Why us, when everyone else—"

Aragon’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His silence was an answer in itself.

For survival was no triumph. It was exile, and grief, and a crown of ashes neither brother could yet bear.

The betrayal still cut deeper than steel. "How do we know who to trust?" he whispered. "If even Father’s general—"

"We don’t," Aragon said sharply. Then, softer, as though the fire had stolen his strength: "We don’t."

Silence fell again, broken only by the sigh of wind through the trees.

On the seventh night, as the brothers huddled beneath a tangle of roots to escape the rain, the forest betrayed them.

A branch snapped nearby—too sharp, too deliberate to be the work of wind or beast. Aragon was on his feet in an instant, blade flashing in the pale moonlight. Vaskar’s heart thrashed in his chest as shadows stirred between the trees.

Figures emerged. Five of them, armored but ragged, their cloaks scorched and torn. Steel glinted in their hands. For a heartbeat, Vaskar thought the usurper’s hunters had found them at last.

Then came the voice. Rough, exhausted, but unmistakable.

"Lower your sword, my prince."

Aragon’s breath caught. "Ismael?"

The man stepped forward, soot still streaked across his weathered face, his beard grown wild in just days. His eyes burned with the same fierce fire as when he had carved them a path through the soldiers in the palace. He dropped to one knee, sword planted in the earth. Behind him, the others followed.

Aragon did not lower his blade at once. His voice was taut, sharp with suspicion. "How do we know this isn’t a trap?"

Ismael raised his eyes, steady, unflinching. "Because I bear the scars of their steel." He pulled aside his cloak, revealing a deep gash stitched roughly across his ribs. "I would not bleed for your enemy. I bleed only for my king."

For a long moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the dripping rain. Then Aragon let his blade fall, just enough to ease the tension. Vaskar sagged with relief, though the pain in his side flared anew.

"Come," Ismael said, rising to his feet. "We cannot linger here. The usurper’s hunters scour the land. But we have carved a safe path to the border. There, at least, his reach is weaker."

The journey that followed was a blur of exhaustion and fear. Ismael and his surviving men moved like shadows through the trees, guiding the princes along hidden trails, always listening, always watching. Twice they heard distant horns and saw torchlight, but each time Ismael led them away, deeper into the wild.

At last, after days that stretched like a lifetime, the forest broke open to rolling hills. Beyond them lay the gray ribbon of a river—the border of Estalis.

Vaskar stood staring at it, weak and hollow, the weight of what they had lost pressing down on him. The land of his birth lay behind him, swallowed by smoke and betrayal. Ahead lay exile.

Ismael placed a hand on his shoulder. "You live, little prince. That is hope enough—for now."

But as they crossed into foreign soil, Vaskar could not shake the dread gnawing in his chest. For even surrounded by loyalty, even with Ismael at their side, mistrust lingered like a shadow.

If a father’s general could betray them, then who was safe?