Rain fell like silver needles from the heavens as a lone carriage tore through the muddy trail leading out of Goldhearth Castle. Inside, Lady Mirelle clutched her swollen belly, teeth gritted against the agony of childbirth. Her golden hair was soaked in sweat, and her eyes—green as sunlit moss—were wide with fear and defiance.

  "He comes too soon," she whispered, biting down a scream.

  The midwife beside her, a stooped and silent woman from the village, didn’t reply. She was too busy preparing rags, boiling water, and praying the child would not arrive until they reached shelter. But fate, ever cruel, had different plans.

  Mirelle screamed.

  The horses whinnied and the carriage halted. The driver, a loyal servant paid in gold and silence, jumped down and opened the door. "Here! It must be here!" he shouted over the rain.

  They had reached a decrepit farmhouse, half-collapsed, abandoned since the last winter storm. But it had a roof and four walls, and that would have to be enough.

  The driver lifted Lady Mirelle into his arms. She was light—too light—and trembling. Inside, the midwife laid her on the floor. No bed, no comforts, only the wet stink of wood rot and the moan of the wind.

  Hours passed. Or maybe only minutes. Time bent in the haze of labor. Mirelle screamed until her throat tore. Then silence.

  Then a cry. A baby's cry.

  The midwife held him up. Red-faced, healthy, with a shock of pale blonde hair that would darken with time.

  Mirelle’s vision blurred. "Saezu," she whispered. "Your name is Saezu."

  The storm broke the next morning. Sunlight speared through the cracked roof, casting light on the child swaddled in old linens. Mirelle cradled him on her lap, her voice hoarse as she hummed a lullaby older than the kingdom itself.

  The door creaked open.

  King Alric entered. No guards, no trumpets—just a man in a soaked cloak, face shadowed by sleeplessness and regret.

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  Mirelle didn’t stand. She looked up at him with disdain. "You missed it."

  He nodded. "I know."

  He walked to her side and looked at the baby. The silence between them hung heavy, like the sky before a storm.

  "He’s perfect," he finally said. "Too perfect."

  "Is that what scares you? That he might be more than your other sons?"

  "It scares me because he is a target. The court will eat him alive."

  "Then make them choke," she snapped.

  Alric’s face hardened. "You don’t understand the danger. My sons would see him as a threat, and the Council already suspects my loyalty is... divided."

  Mirelle turned away. "Then let them. I’d rather raise him in truth than behind a thousand lies."

  Alric knelt beside her. "You’ll take him far. Hide him. Raise him in peace."

  "You’re sending me away?"

  "To save him. And you."

  He removed a small pendant from around his neck—a black stone ringed in gold—and pressed it into her palm.

  "What’s this?"

  "Proof. Someday he may return. This will tell him who he is."

  Mirelle said nothing.

  The days that followed were a blur of movement. Mirelle, weak from the birth, traveled under false names and false papers. The king arranged a small cottage in the border village of Thornbend, surrounded by woods and wary neighbors.

  She raised Saezu there alone.

  From the beginning, he was different. Fiercely quiet. Always watching. Always listening.

  By the time he was five, he could track birds by their shadow and throw a stone with enough force to startle wolves. At seven, he beat older boys in stick-fights. At ten, he learned to sharpen blades and read maps.

  Mirelle taught him to speak like a noble and think like a soldier.

  "You’ll need both," she told him one winter night, staring into the fire. "A mind sharper than steel, and a heart harder than stone."

  Saezu had asked once who his father was. She only said, "A man who wore a crown and forgot how to love."

  Still, he dreamed. Not of crowns or gold, but of battlefields. Of people bowing to him. Of fire swallowing the castle he had never seen.

  He dreamed of blood.

  Fifteen years later.

  The village was quiet, but there was unease in the air. That night, Saezu stood alone behind the stable, swinging a wooden practice sword.

  He moved like a shadow. Smooth, calculated, unrelenting.

  A few children watched from behind barrels. An older farmer paused mid-step.

  "He’s not normal," the farmer whispered. "Not from here."

  "Mirelle’s boy. Got the eyes of a wolf."

  Saezu didn’t hear them, but he felt them. Their suspicion. Their fear.

  He had known for years he wasn’t meant for Thornbend.

  As he finished his final strike and brought the wooden blade down with a crack against the training post, he froze. A presence.

  He turned. A raven perched on the fencepost, watching him.

  It croaked once and took flight.

  Saezu narrowed his eyes. Something stirred in the wind.

  He sheathed the wooden blade as if it were steel.

  He did not know it yet, but royal guards rode for him that very moment. His brothers were already sharpening their daggers.

  And far across the kingdom, the King dreamed of a boy with fire in his eyes.

  The storm had passed. But war was coming.