The nine days that followed felt like a march. One long, unbroken stretch of vigilance, sleeping with one ear open, waking before dawn with cold dew on their cloaks, watching every tree line as though it could sprout teeth. Edmund set the pace, and no one argued it.

  When they all realized, after the attack, that even their own territories were not safe, the rules changed. They stopped wandering, stopped taking the scenic route, anything that wasn’t necessary to reach the stone walls of the capital.

  “We ride three hours longer,” Edmund ordered on the first morning, voice flat. “We camp in open ground only. No forests. No detours. No wandering off for water unless you’re with four men.”

  No one questioned him. Not even Aristide.

  And even Gualter, someone who always had something to say, some harmless complaint or joke, kept his mouth shut more often than not. He rode with his shoulders stiff, eyes scanning the roadside, and whenever the wind shook the branches, his hand drifted to his blade like it moved on instinct. No one wanted to be the one to miss something. No one wanted to be the one to die because he blinked at the wrong time.

  Militia joined them from nearby towns. Men with sun-darkened faces, cheap spears, and the kind of hard practicality that came from having mouths to feed. They didn’t talk much. The prince bought more horses, too, so the coaches could be rotated. Fresh teams harnessed before the old ones began to foam. And still, even with all that, Edmund felt the road under him like a drawn wire. When they camped at night, the fires were small. When they ate, they ate quickly. When they slept, their weapons lay within reach, and the men on watch didn’t talk to keep themselves awake. They stared into darkness and listened.

  Once, on the fourth night, a militia boy on watch flinched at a sound and raised his spear so hard his knuckles went white. Edmund was on his feet before anyone else, blade half-drawn. It was only an owl, wings beating through branches, the sound sharper than it should’ve been. No one laughed after. Not even when the boy’s face went red and he stammered an apology.

  Edmund only looked at him and said, quietly, “Better to be ready.”

  The boy nodded like he’d been given permission to breathe again.

  By daybreak, they moved.

  Then, on the ninth day, the horizon changed. The trees broke apart into fields, the fields into roads, and the roads widened into stonework. Towers rose in the distance. Old, proud silhouettes against a pale sky, and the air itself began to smell different. Less wet earth, more smoke from hearths and bread.

  The capital.

  Edmund’s horse stepped onto cobblestone, and the sound of hooves changed from muffled thuds to crisp, ringing clacks. The city gates loomed ahead. Massive, iron-banded, flanked by guards in polished helms. The banners above them stirred in the wind like familiar hands waving.

  Edmund’s chest tightened. Not with joy, not yet, but with something closer to relief that he didn’t want to admit.

  Aristide exhaled beside him, a sound that was almost a laugh. “I forgot what it’s like to ride without expecting the road to bite back.”

  Edmund’s jaw worked once. “Don’t jinx it.”

  As the gates groaned open, the city swallowed them. And then the people did, too. A crowd had formed in front of the gates. Citizens packed shoulder to shoulder, craning, smiling, calling out names. Some cheered as though the princes had returned from a victorious campaign. Some simply stared, eyes wide, as if seeing Edmund and Aristide with their own eyes was proof that rumors of disaster had been exaggerated.

  “The princes are safe!” someone shouted.

  “They’re all safe!”

  Hands waved, hats lifted, and flowers were tossed. Edmund’s gaze swept the crowd on instict, a habit now, not choice. But no one here looked like a threat. No one reached for a hidden blade. They reached for him instead, for Aristide, for their soldiers. Edmund breathed deep. “I’m home,” he whispered to himself. “This is home.”

  A little ways ahead, Gualter’s attention snapped sharply to the left. His mother stood at the edge of the crowd, cheeks flushed from the cold. Beside her was his younger sister. Small, grinning, balancing a pot on top of her head like a crown. His mother was pointing at it with a wide grin.

  Gualter’s eyes widened. No words were needed. His favorite stew was waiting. He swallowed hard, warmth blooming in his chest so sudden it almost hurt. For a heartbeat, he forgot the road, the fear, the nights of listening into darkness like they were being hunted. Then he remembered procedure. His duty. He couldn’t go home yet, not until the princes were in the palace, and not until the formalities were done.

  He leaned slightly forward in the saddle and murmured, barely audible, “Just a little bit more.”

  Leif heard it anyway. He rode up half a step and said under his breath, “If you fall off your horse the moment we’re dismissed, I won’t judge you.”

  Gualter’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.

  They didn’t stop in the streets. Edmund kept them moving, steady through the city, past familiar storefronts and narrow lanes, past windows where faces pressed close to glass to see them pass.

  Then the palace came into view, the gates already open. Beyond them, King Renault waited. Even from a distance, Edmund could see the tension in his father’s posture. It wasn’t dramatic. He stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared. Beside him stood Minister Horace, unreadable as always.

  When Edmund’s party passed through the gates, Renault’s lips curved into a smile. The king took a few steps forward. Edmund dismounted and approached until he was a few paces away, then bowed. “Your Majesty,” he said, voice clear despite the fatigue sitting behind his eyes. “We have returned.”

  Aristide followed, bowing with less stiffness but equal respect. The companions behind them lowered their heads.

  Renault’s gaze swept over them all, lingering on Edmund’s face, Aristide’s shoulders, the general state of their men. He exhaled, as though he’d been holding that breath since the first report arrived. “I’m glad to see you are all safe.”

  He stepped closer and, in a gesture that was both kingly and painfully fatherly, tapped each of his sons on the shoulder. “Welcome back, my sons.”

  Edmund’s throat tightened. “We’re happy to see you again, Father.”

  Aristide echoed it.

  Renault’s smile deepened for a heartbeat, then duty reclaimed him. He turned to the soldiers and militia. “You have my thanks for escorting my sons.”

  A cheer rose from the men. It wasn’t loud, but it was sincere.

  Renault lifted a hand to quiet them. “Rest and eat at the palace. You will receive your additional payment afterward, and then you will be sent home.”

  That earned him a louder response. A few grins broke through the exhaustion. Some men looked at the palace as though it were a promised land.

  Then Renault’s attention shifted to Leif and Serena. “Thank you both for accompanying my sons. I was told the road was rough. Please return home and rest. Your mother should be there.”

  Leif bowed with practiced calm. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  Serena bowed too, but her posture was rigid.

  Edmund watched them, brow faintly knitting. “See you two later.”

  Leif nodded once, already turning to go.

  Serena hesitated, just a fraction of a moment, then dipped her head again, formal to the point of distance. “Have a pleasant day, Your Highness.”

  Edmund watched her go, head tilting slightly.

  Serena had always been polite. Always careful with titles.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  But this was different. This felt… like armor. Even while on the road, he noticed it too. She barely spoke, even less than normal… even to him.

  Renault’s voice cut through Edmund’s thoughts. “Come. Let me walk you to your rooms.”

  They moved into the palace halls—warm stone, polished floors, tapestries that smelled faintly of dust and old incense. Ministers clustered in pockets, talking quietly. Servants hurried with trays. The palace was alive in the way a body is alive. Busy, pulsing, and functioning.

  As they walked, Renault’s concern returned. It sat in his words, weighed them down.

  “The monster that attacked you,” he said, voice low, “it appeared after you entered the kingdom?”

  Aristide’s nodded. “Yes, a day after we crossed the border.”

  Renault looked at Edmund. “Do you have a clue as to what it was? Any familiar attributes?”

  “We have guesses, but—” Edmund said quickly. Then, before he could stop himself, he added, “A lot more happened, actually.”

  Renault’s eyes sharpened. “More?”

  He studied Edmund for a beat, then nodded once. “We will save it for later. Rest first. Eat. Sleep. Then you will tell me everything, and I will listen without interruption.”

  Edmund’s shoulders eased slightly at that, as if permission to stop had been granted.

  Aristide, ever observant, glanced around. The ministers were talking with lighter faces than he expected. There were no tight knots of whispered panic. No air of imminent crisis.

  “You all seem to be in good spirits,” Aristide said.

  Renault’s expression shifted into something almost amused. “Is that surprising?”

  “I was expecting tension,” Aristide admitted. “Before we left, Trinovantes was… looming over everything.”

  Minister Horace walked a step behind, listening.

  Renault slowed slightly. “We received correspondence two days ago.”

  Edmund’s attention sharpened immediately. “From Trinovantes?”

  Renault nodded. “They are pulling out some of their men from Ruscholt. To be more specific, the areas they recently occupied.”

  Aristide blinked. “Just like that?”

  “Yes. And the Grand Duke,” Renault continued, “has accepted my invitation for a peaceful dialogue to settle territorial disputes.”

  For a moment, neither prince spoke.

  Aristide’s mind ran through possibilities. Trap, delay, trick, coercion, hidden leverage. Einon did not strike him as the type to grow suddenly reasonable. “It’s barely two months since he occupied those parts.”

  “And he changed his mind,” Edmund murmured, “in the span of days?”

  Renault’s smile faded into something more guarded. “I have no guesses. None. The letter was… polite. Almost cordial.”

  Aristide scoffed softly. “That’s suspicious.”

  Renault didn’t argue. “When Horace read it to me, I felt relief.”

  His gaze flicked to Edmund and Aristide. “Not because I trust Einon. Because I had been told you were attacked on the road, and for days my thoughts were filled with nothing but that. The letter offered some ease, at the very least.”

  Edmund felt a pang of guilt twist in his gut.

  Renault continued, “It is not all joy. Einon pulled his men out only from the lands he seized recently. Those he has held for more than a year remain occupied.”

  Aristide’s eyes narrowed. “So he’s offering limited peace.”

  “Exactly,” Renault said. “We cannot celebrate yet. We listen. We negotiate. We prepare.”

  They reached the corridor that split toward their rooms. Renault stopped, then placed a hand briefly on each of their shoulders again.

  “You are home,” he said quietly. “Rest. Then we speak.”

  Edmund and Aristide nodded and spoke in unison. “Yes, Father.”

  The two princes retreated into their rooms, and for the first time in their lives, doing so felt like a luxury.

  The Alvarynn home was warm in the way the palace could never be. Not because the palace lacked comfort, but because warmth here meant something else. It meant familiarity. It meant the steady, comforting hum of a humble place that did not need to impress anyone.

  Leif and Serena stepped inside and were greeted immediately by the scent of herbs and flower bundles hanging from rafters—dried leaves tucked into strings—and underneath it all, the rich, earthy smell of soup.

  Idun had made it, of course. She appeared almost instantly, as though she’d been standing behind the door listening for their steps. Her arms were around them before they could say more than, “Welcome back.”

  She squeezed hard, then pulled back and immediately began inspecting them. Hands on cheeks, fingers at wrists, a quick check of pulse, a brush along forearms for hidden bruises, a sharp look at their sides.

  “Are you hurt?” Idun demanded. “Any injuries? Any pain when you breathe? Are you dizzy?”

  Leif caught her wrists gently. “We’re fine, Mother.”

  Serena stood rigidly beside him, eyes lowered.

  “We got help on the road,” Leif added.

  Idun’s shoulders sagged with relief. She exhaled as though she’d been holding her breath for days. Then she patted their faces briskly. “Sit. Eat while the soup is hot. Both of you.”

  The soup steamed in bowls on the table. Thick, fragrant, studded with vegetables and herbs. For a moment, Leif allowed himself to just… be. To hold the spoon. To feel the warmth seep back into him.

  Idun watched them eat quietly, but her gaze kept snagging on Serena—the way she held herself too straight, the way her hands didn’t quite relax even around a spoon.

  Leif started talking. He told her about the ride. The cave. The strange monsters. Danuville. He left out the parts that made his skin crawl even in memory. The parts that didn’t have neat explanations.

  Serena barely spoke. She listened, but her gaze seemed fixed on something inside herself, something sharp and raw.

  Idun finally spoke. When the bowls were half-empty, she leaned closer to Serena and softened her voice. “What’s wrong?”

  Serena’s fingers tightened around her spoon. Her eyes stayed on her bowl. “I need to learn…” she said quietly.

  Idun blinked. “Learn?”

  “How to fight better,” Serena said. “To get stronger.”

  Leif’s spoon paused midair.

  Serena’s voice shook just slightly, controlled, but strained. “I watched Edmund get tossed around. I watched him—” Her throat worked. “And I could barely do anything.”

  “You fought beside him and healed him afterward,” Idun said quickly. “You did exactly what you must.”

  “It wasn’t enough,” Serena snapped, then immediately looked down, ashamed of the sharpness. She swallowed. “It wasn’t—”

  Idun reached across the table. Her hand hovered, then settled back, careful as if she might startle her. “You don’t need to shoulder everything.”

  Serena’s jaw tightened like a door locking. “I do. If I let him get hurt, I’m… worthless…”

  The word hit the air and didn’t move.

  Leif’s throat tightened. “Serena—”

  She stood abruptly, chair scraping. “Good night,” she said, and her voice was too even, too controlled. Then she retreated into her room without another word. The door closed softly, but the silence it left behind was loud.

  Leif looked at Idun, then down at his own hands. “I tried to comfort her, but she won’t stop blaming herself for the prince getting nearly killed.”

  “Let’s give her some space,” Idun replied. “The road kept you all on edge. Perhaps the warmth of the house can let her mind settle.”

  Leif’s expression changed. He hesitated, unsure if it was the right time to say it, but he willed himself to speak. “Mother… I want to learn too.”

  Idun’s gaze snapped back to him. “Leif?”

  “I mean it,” Leif said, voice quiet but firm. “I can’t keep standing there, powerless, while they fight. While Serena tries to protect him and I just… watch.”

  Idun’s expression softened, but worry lived in it. “You are not powerless.”

  Leif let out a humorless breath. “It didn’t feel like that.”

  Idun stared at him for a moment, then reached over and ruffled his hair, as she had when he was a child. “If that’s what you want, I can only support your choice. But don’t think it’s because you are powerless.”

  She pulled him into a hug. “Do it because you care for them, nothing more.”

  And for a moment, Leif let his eyes close. Then the memory returned.

  The vision.

  White cloak.

  The Sacrament.

  Elleina.

  Leif’s eyes opened. He pulled back slowly. “Mother.”

  Idun hummed, still holding him. “Yes?”

  “Where was the village you came from again?”

  Idun’s hands paused. “Far in the east.”

  Leif repeated what she always said, but pressed anyway. “But where exactly? Which kingdom?”

  Idun’s gaze sharpened. “Why are you asking?”

  Leif hesitated. The words felt strange in his mouth, like they didn’t belong in this warm kitchen. “Did you ever live in a castle?”

  Idun frowned. “A castle?”

  Leif’s heart began to thud harder. The air felt tighter. Like the house itself was listening. He hesitated again, then pushed forward anyway. “Are you familiar with something called… the Sacrament?”

  Idun’s face went still.

  “And a woman named Elleina,” Leif added softly.

  Idun didn’t speak. Her eyes fixed on him with something unreadable. Fear? Grief? Warning?

  Leif felt his skin prickle. “Mother?”

  Idun’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “No, I’ve… never heard of those names, son.”

  Leif stared at her, brows knitting.

  “I don’t,” Idun said, firmer now. “Leif. You are tired. You have been frightened, and… you have been on the road too long. You are putting pieces together that do not belong together.”

  Leif’s jaw tightened.

  Idun stood abruptly, turning away. Leif watched her pour a cup with hands that did not tremble, her movement too controlled. She brought it to him like an offering. “Drink this tea. Rest. Sleep.”

  Leif took it slowly, eyes never leaving her face. “Mother…”

  Idun’s expression softened just a fraction. She lifted her chin. “Drink. Please.”

  He drank because he didn’t know what else to do. The tea was warm. The house was warm, but the questions remained, burning like coals under his tongue.

  Leif wanted to ask more, but his eyes suddenly fluttered. He tried to keep them open, tried to fight it, but sleep took him faster than he expected.

  Idun walked him to his room, and as soon as Leif lay down, his eyes closed.

  Idun sat beside him. She paused, listening. Moonlight spilled through the window. Leif lay on his side, breathing evenly, face peaceful in a way it hadn’t been since before the road.

  She placed her palm on his forehead. Her eyes closed. A faint glow gathered under her skin—soft, pale, almost like embers turned white.

  Outside the window, a white dove perched on the sill, silent as snowfall. Then it spoke, its voice small and sorrowful. “I’m sorry, Idun. I couldn’t deliver the cure on time.”

  Idun’s face tightened, but she didn’t look at it. Her attention remained on Leif, on something beneath the surface of him that only she could feel. “It’s my fault,” she murmured. “The Abyss… I should have realized sooner… that traces of Thalpheria’s venom lingered.”

  She searched him, slow and careful, like a healer tracing a wound without reopening it. Her expression shifted. “And that Serena could have passed it to someone.”

  The dove dipped its head. “It is no longer present.”

  Idun’s gaze flicked sharp. “But he heard enough… and…”

  “Elleina had found him…” the dove added, its voice trembling.

  It kept its gaze on Leif, studying him. “It was only a matter of time. We’ve only delayed it, but her ghost… Elleina’s ever-restless spirit will always find its way to him.”

  Idun’s hand glowed brighter, a soft wash of light over Leif’s brow. Her voice lowered, and for a moment it wasn’t only a mother speaking. It was someone older. Someone tired.

  “Not yet,” she whispered, smoothing Leif’s hair back from his forehead. “Someday, when you’re ready…”

  Her eyes glistened, not with tears, but with something like restraint. “I will tell you everything.”

  The dove remained still, watching, then flew off. Idun held her palm there a moment longer. She withdrew, and she left the room as quietly as she entered, closing the door behind her.