Eria gripped the reins of her horse tightly, the wind cutting against her cheeks as the forest path blurred past her. The coronation ceremony...
She recalled the rumors whispered at the edge of the great hall earlier that morning—
"The Second Prince of Nyvarra was ambushed near the Frostbane borders... assassinated, they said."
Around 7:30... if I hurry, maybe I can still make it in time. Maybe I can save him.
The deeper she rode into the forest, the stronger the scent of blood and ash grew. Soon, the remnants of a shattered carriage came into view—splintered wood, overturned wheels, and lifeless bodies scattered like forgotten puppets.
Eria dismounted swiftly, boots sinking into damp soil as she approached the scene. Her eyes narrowed at the footprints—multiple sets—leading away from the road and into the denser forest.
"These prints..." she muttered. "Men. At least five. No return tracks. If I hurry—no—I must save him."
A sharp, acrid scent caught her attention. Smoke. Fire. She didn't hesitate.
---
Second prince's POV
They circled him like wolves. Their movements were calculated—far too fluid, too trained to be mere highwaymen.
Not Aetherwyn soldiers. Mercenaries? No... too clean, too fast.
If he were in his real form, this would've ended quickly. But now? Now was not the time.
He clenched his small fists. The flames from the burning underbrush flickered across their blades. I just need one opening...
A sudden blur of silver shot past his vision—then another.
Steel clashed with steel.
By the time he blinked, three of the men lay in the dirt, unmoving. The last one stumbled backward, caught Eria's glare—and ran. She didn't chase him.
Instead, she turned to Therion.
That child... that must be him. She extended her hand. "You're safe now."
Therion hesitated. Who is this woman...? And how did she find me?
But now wasn't the time for questions. He grasped her hand.
I'll think about the ceremony later.
---
By the time they returned to the Frostbane estate, Therion rode beside her in silence. He looked barely eleven, maybe twelve, his princely garb torn and stained.
"Were you headed to the imperial palace for the coronation ceremony?" Eria asked gently, though she already knew the answer.
The boy looked away. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, he gave a silent nod.
"I see." She smiled softly. "I'm Eria, daughter of the late Duke of Frostbane."
She looked at him expectantly. "And you are?"
He remained silent.
Is he frightened? she wondered. After what happened, of course he would be.
She sighed lightly, softening her tone. "Don't worry. I only asked so I can inform your parents you're safe."
His eyes flicked to her—measuring, wary. Then, reluctantly, he said, "Therion. Second Prince of Nyvarra."
Eria blinked and then widened her eyes in mock surprise. "Then I should send word to the Emperor of Aetherwyn. After all, your brother will be attending the coronation too."
Therion didn't answer, but he seemed to relax slightly in the saddle.
They went directly to a room in the frostbane estate. Eria crouched to his level. "Wait here a moment. I'll bring you something more suitable to wear. You can call the maid if you need anything."
---
She found Mira waiting nearby.
"Fetch a formal outfit for a young boy," Eria instructed. "Our little guest needs to be presentable for the coronation. Something royal—but subtle."
"Yes, my lady," Mira bowed and left.
Eria sighed and stepped out of room, then went to her chambers. A bath first. Then I'll prepare to escort him to the palace...
---
Eria's POV
Warm water filled the marble tub as Eria sank into it, letting the silence soothe her thoughts.
I'll hand him over to the emperor of Nyvarra, i can't trust anyone from Aetherwyn. That was the plan. I've done my part.
But the thought of the boy's haunted eyes clung to her like wet fabric.
Still... who exactly were those assassins? And why did he look like he was about to fight them himself?
After drying off, Eria slipped into a soft robe and made her way to check on her guest.
She opened the door to his room—
—and froze.
There, standing in front of the mirror, was not the boy.
But a man—broad-shouldered, dripping wet from the bath, wearing nothing but a towel.
Her eyes widened.
Wait... where's the prince?