The wind howled down from the northern cliffs as Mirelle stood at the edge of Thornbend, a bundle of supplies at her feet and her infant son wrapped tightly to her chest. Her face was pale, drawn from the pains of childbirth and the poison of heartbreak. Behind her, the driver who had once ferried her from the castle stood in silence, unwilling to meet her eyes.

  "Is this the end of it?" she asked, not turning.

  The man shifted uncomfortably. "My orders were to get you this far. Beyond here... you're on your own."

  Mirelle nodded. She didn’t expect more. Loyalty bought with coin was brittle as dry bark.

  The driver hesitated, then reached into his coat and handed her a small parchment. "From the king."

  She took it. The seal was unbroken.

  She didn’t open it.

  The road to Thornbend was rough, winding through thickets of bramble and across narrow bridges of crumbling stone. Mirelle traveled mostly at night, sleeping in caves and abandoned shepherd huts by day. Her milk was barely enough to feed Saezu, and more than once she woke with him crying, her body too cold to provide.

  Once, she was nearly robbed by two hunters who mistook her for a traveling widow. They saw the sword at her side and laughed.

  She slit the first one’s throat before his laugh died.

  The second ran.

  The days turned to weeks. Her hands grew calloused. Her cheeks thinned. But she made it.

  Thornbend was a small village at the edge of the eastern border, closer to the Farlands than any map dared show. It was a place for exiles and ex-soldiers, quiet folk who minded their business. A perfect place to disappear.

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  She bought a cottage with the last of the gold the king had given her. A crooked thing with a slanted roof and a door that screamed when it opened. But it had a fireplace, and it had walls. And when Saezu slept, she would sit by that fire and hold the unopened letter in her lap.

  She never read it.

  Years passed. Saezu grew like wildfire, untamed and swift. By age five, he could climb the roof without a ladder. By age eight, he could hit a target with a thrown stone from fifty paces. Mirelle trained him not only with blade and bow, but with silence and observation.

  "Watch before you strike," she told him. "People reveal their weakness if you wait long enough."

  The villagers began to notice. Some admired the boy. Others feared him. He didn’t play with the others, didn’t smile like children should.

  "A wolf cub raised by a lioness," said old Garrick, the blacksmith.

  Mirelle paid him no mind.

  She taught Saezu about herbs, about stars, about steel. She taught him to speak three languages—common, royal dialect, and the broken tongue of the Farlands. She trained him like a knight. Loved him like a mother. Protected him like a queen.

  But the past always hunted.

  One summer, a wandering bard came to Thornbend. He stayed at the inn for three nights, and each night, he sang songs of Goldhearth.

  One night, he sang a forbidden song—the Ballad of the Bastard King.

  Mirelle listened from outside. Her blood ran cold.

  "A child born from love, not crown, In shadows cast, the blood ran down, The rightful heir, the silent flame, Will one day rise to claim his name."

  She approached the bard after the song, hood up, eyes sharp.

  "Where did you hear that song?"

  The bard smiled. "From a man in the capital. Said it was banned, so I knew it must be worth hearing."

  She offered him gold to forget it. He took it. But the damage was done.

  The next day, she began packing.

  That night, she took Saezu into the woods.

  "You’re old enough to know," she said.

  He watched her, quiet.

  "Your father is King Alric."

  He blinked once. Twice. Then nodded. "I always knew."

  She gave him the pendant. "This is the proof. One day, someone may come for you. Maybe to crown you. Maybe to kill you. But never forget what you are."

  Saezu gripped the pendant. "What am I?"

  "The future," she said.

  And from then on, Saezu trained not just to survive—but to reclaim a throne he had never seen.

  Back in the capital, whispers began to surface. The king grew more distant. His sons more ambitious. And in the shadows, a name returned to the lips of spies and soldiers alike.

  Saezu.

  The bastard prince.

  The storm was forming again.

  And this time, it would not pass quietly.