The road ended in silence.

  Beyond the crumbled stone marker that once bore the royal seal, the path gave way to wild, uneven ground. Sparse grass clung to patches of earth. Twisted trees leaned toward one another like old conspirators. The wind cut sharp through Saezu’s cloak, bringing with it the scent of rot, pine, and the iron tang of something long dead.

  Behind him, the Royal Guard made no effort to disguise their disdain. There were three of them—sent to walk him to the edge of the kingdom like they might walk a prisoner to the gallows.

  “This is as far as we go,” said the eldest, a bearded man with a limp and tired eyes.

  Saezu didn’t look at them. He kept his gaze forward, on the wilds.

  “You’re lucky the King gave you exile,” the youngest muttered. “If it were me—”

  “You’d still be standing behind a gate,” Saezu said without turning.

  The eldest guard sighed. “It’s done. Go, and may the gods... whatever.”

  Saezu stepped forward. One boot into the brush. Another. The road behind him disappeared with the wind. He didn’t turn back.

  The Farlands did not welcome him.

  His boots sank into cold mud, the weight of his pack dragging on his back. It wasn’t heavy, but after hours of walking over broken land, it felt like stone. A waterskin. A loaf of travel bread. Two knives. A flint. A roll of bandage. Nothing regal. Nothing royal.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  He walked without direction. The sun dipped fast behind clouds, and shadows crept low. The trees here didn’t rustle; they hissed. Branches reached like fingers. Saezu’s hand rested on the hilt of his dull blade.

  By nightfall, he found a cluster of rocks and crouched beneath them, using his cloak as cover. He didn’t build a fire. He had no traps. No shelter.

  He was a prince of nothing.

  A noise scratched through the brush.

  He froze.

  It passed—a rodent, maybe. Or something watching. He didn’t sleep.

  In the morning, he moved again. His stomach ached from hunger, but he rationed the bread. His throat was dry. He walked until he found a thin stream, dark with leaves. He knelt, tasted, waited.

  It didn’t kill him.

  He drank until he coughed.

  And kept moving.

  His thoughts followed every step. Of the court. Of the trial. Of Elayna’s eyes when she said, Then come back with fire.

  He thought of Hadric’s smirk. Of Varric’s silence. Of Leontes’ cruel, quiet nod. They hadn’t exiled him to protect the kingdom.

  They’d exiled him because they feared him.

  He gritted his teeth. Dug his boots deeper into the ground. Every ache in his body, every hunger pang, every cold breath—it was all fuel.

  He was still alive.

  He would stay alive.

  On the third day, he saw the first mark of others.

  A tree, stripped of bark in a clean circle.

  A sign.

  Hunters. Or worse.

  He kept to the brush. Moved slower. Watched the skies.

  That night, he failed to catch a squirrel that darted from his trap. His hands were too slow. His rope too weak.

  He cursed. Quietly.

  A low chirping sound echoed near his camp. Not a bird.

  He moved silently. Saw nothing. But felt eyes. He didn’t sleep.

  By the sixth day, his body had adjusted to the rhythm: walk, drink, hunt, hide. Repeat. His boots tore at the seams. His fingers blistered. His mind stayed sharp.

  On a ridge, he looked out at the expanse ahead.

  Nothing royal about this place. No towers. No gold. Just sky and dirt.

  And in that space, something opened in him.

  Not peace.

  Purpose.

  He whispered to himself, “They will remember what they cast out.”

  And began again.