The Farlands did not welcome him.

  Each morning came colder than the last. The wind had teeth, and it bit at Saezu’s fingers, his cheeks, and the back of his neck where his cloak no longer reached. His boots were falling apart. His hands were red and raw from pushing through brush and climbing jagged ridges. And the silence—worse than any pain—wrapped around him like a second exile.

  He had eaten nothing for two days.

  The dried meat from the royal pack was long gone. A few berries he'd found made his stomach cramp. Once, he tried spearing a rabbit with a sharpened stick—but his aim was off. The rabbit darted into a hollow tree, leaving only tracks behind.

  He sat down under a cluster of thorn-twisted shrubs, breathing hard.

  This place wants me dead.

  But so had the court.

  So had his brothers.

  And he was still here.

  The terrain changed fast in the Farlands.

  One moment it was a dead forest of ash-gray trees with cracked bark that smelled of dust. The next, a sprawl of open rock, wind-carved and sun-baked. No direction was safe. The north was too steep. The east led into swamp. The west seemed quiet—but Saezu had learned that in the Farlands, quiet usually meant something was watching.

  By the third night, he’d found a small cave tucked into a slope. It wasn’t deep, but it kept out the wind. He huddled near the back, clutching his cloak, too cold to sleep, too tired to move. His dagger sat at his side.

  Outside, the sounds came again—thin whistles, not wind, not quite voices. Once, a howl.

  He didn’t light a fire.

  The next day, he woke with a start.

  There were footprints in the dirt. Not his.

  Smaller than his, bare—clawed.

  He stepped outside slowly, eyes scanning the clearing.

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  Nothing.

  But he knew something had come close.

  His pace quickened after that. He drank from stagnant puddles and chewed bark to keep his jaw moving. A headache pressed behind his eyes. He slipped more often. A thorn tore open his right forearm. It bled down into his sleeve.

  Still, he moved.

  Keep walking, he told himself. You die if you stop.

  By dusk, he stumbled into what might’ve once been a village—or a watchpost.

  Crumbling stone walls stood in a half-circle. A well sat near the center, covered in weeds. Three small huts, roofless and empty, offered shelter from the wind.

  Saezu limped to the well. He pulled up the rope. It snapped.

  He cursed under his breath, then leaned over and looked down.

  Water. Filthy, but water.

  He tied the remains of the rope to his pot and lowered it in. When he pulled it back up, he strained, arms shaking.

  The water was bitter and yellow, but he drank anyway.

  And then he heard it.

  Bootsteps.

  Three men emerged from the trees.

  They looked like shadows wrapped in rags—patchwork armor, rusted weapons, dirty cloaks. One had a spear. Another, a short axe. The third—clearly the leader—carried a curved sword with a chipped edge. His eye was white, scarred blind.

  “Well now,” the one with the curved sword said. “Didn’t think we’d get a gift today.”

  Saezu stood, slowly.

  “I’m just passing through.”

  “That so?” the blind-eyed one said. “Wearing royal boots, are you? Cloak looks fresh. Maybe you’re more than just a drifter.”

  “I have nothing worth taking.”

  “Wrong answer,” said the one with the spear.

  They spread out.

  Saezu gripped his dagger. His hands shook. His legs were weak. He was outnumbered. Outarmed.

  But he had no choice.

  When the spear-man lunged, Saezu ducked. The point missed his head by inches. Saezu slashed up and caught the man’s arm. Not deep, but enough to make him drop the spear.

  The man howled.

  The axe-man came next. Saezu blocked with his forearm—pain shot through him like fire. The axe cut his sleeve and opened skin. He shoved forward, drove his shoulder into the man’s gut, and slammed the dagger down.

  The blade hit the man’s chest—didn’t sink deep enough.

  A boot slammed into Saezu’s ribs, sending him flying.

  He rolled, gasping.

  The leader stepped in, sword raised.

  “You don’t move like a beggar,” the man said.

  Saezu coughed, spat blood, and stood.

  “I’m not,” he said.

  Then he threw the dagger.

  It missed.

  The man laughed—then stopped when Saezu tackled him. They hit the ground hard. Saezu grabbed a rock and brought it down again and again.

  The man stopped moving.

  The axe-man was crawling away. Saezu didn’t chase him.

  The spear-man was gone.

  Saezu stood there, panting, blood on his hands, arms shaking.

  His lip was split. His ribs felt cracked. But he was alive.

  He limped back to the well, sat down, and finally let himself breathe.

  That night, he boiled water and cleaned his wounds.

  The dagger was bent. His cloak was torn. But he had the curved sword now.

  He sat in one of the ruined huts, firelight flickering against stone.

  He thought of Elayna. Of Fenric. Of Mirelle.

  Of the throne.

  And of what it would take to survive long enough to take it back.

  The Farlands weren’t just wild.

  They were a test.

  And Saezu wasn’t failing.

  Not yet.