Inside the royal study, a heavy silence lingered.
King Augustus stood before a grand oak desk, parchment scrolls and leather-bound documents scattered across its surface. His fingers sifted through them with precise intent-eyes sharp, face unreadable.
A discreet knock echoed against the thick wooden door.
"Your Majesty," came a soft voice. It was his aide, stepping inside with a respectful bow. "Are you looking for something? Allow me to assist you."
The king didn't look up. His hand paused mid-search, resting on a weathered scroll.
"No need," he said, his voice low but firm.
A beat of silence.
"You may go."
The aide hesitated for a moment, then bowed deeper.
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
The door clicked shut behind him. Silence returned, broken only by the rustle of paper and the quiet exhale of a burdened king.
King Augustus turned from the desk and crossed the room with calm, deliberate steps. In the far corner stood a tall, dust-laden bookshelf-seemingly filled with forgotten files and irrelevant tomes.
But the king knew better.
He reached for the fifth row, third column, and pressed the spine of a plain black book. Weathered, unimpressive-intentionally unremarkable.
Click.
A soft mechanical sound echoed. The bookshelf trembled slightly, then creaked open, revealing a narrow stone passage beyond.
A hidden chamber. A king's secret.
Without hesitation, King Augustus stepped inside. The shelf sealed shut behind him, leaving no trace.
---
The chamber was small-humble, almost suffocating-compared to his grand halls. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and time itself.
Shelves lined every wall, filled with things long buried in memory: ancient scrolls, worn journals, trinkets from distant lands, rusted keys, faded ribbons. A table and two modest chairs stood in the center, awaiting a meeting that would never come.
A narrow window high above let in a sliver of moonlight. Its silver beam illuminated the far wall-and the portrait that hung there.
Queen Elaria.
Graceful, serene, seated on her royal chair. In her arms, a tiny swaddled Octavio, his tiny fist curled as if reaching for the stars. Beside her stood King Augustus-youthful, strong, a ceremonial sword in hand. The eyes in the painting were proud, but softer-untouched by war and loss.
Now, the real king stood silently before them.
Not as ruler.
But as husband.
As father.
His hand rose, trembling, to the painted cheek of his queen-stopping just before touch, as if afraid the oils would smear.
"...Elaria," he whispered, the name breaking past his lips like a prayer. "Our son is walking the path you once feared. But I had to let him go. For the kingdom... and for who he must become."
The moonlight flickered as clouds passed overhead. But the portrait remained lit, as if time itself dared not touch it.
King Augustus crossed to a narrow drawer beneath the table and opened it.
Inside lay sealed letters-some old, some new. Each bore the insignia of the Wind Guard: a silver feather pressed into dark wax.
He reached for the most recent one.
Crack.
The seal broke.
He unfolded the parchment.
His eyes scanned it once.
Then again, slower.
His jaw tightened.
---
To His Majesty, King Augustus of Obelion
-Eyes Only-
As per your command, our shadow wing has followed the Crown Prince and the Second Prince of Rala since their departure.
They have entered the forest path, northbound.
As feared, they are being pursued.
A group of twelve assassins followed. We have neutralized seven.
One has been captured alive. He claims not to be part of them.
Name: Rayel
Behavior: Skilled. Suspicious movements. Hidden weapon found.
Carries no documents. Refuses to explain his purpose.
He insists he's a traveler, not an assassin.
Awaiting your command for interrogation or release.
The princes remain unaware of our interference.
Threat level remains high.
The Crown Prince is injured, but still moving.
He is being protected-by the other prince... and perhaps by fate itself.
-Commander Vireon
Leader of the Wind Guard
Loyal to the crown, unseen by all
---
King Augustus lowered the letter slowly.
"...Rayel," he murmured. The name hung in the air like a shadow.
His fingers tightened, creasing the parchment.
Seven assassins down. Five remain. His son-bleeding, but alive.
And now, a nameless man. A mystery cloaked in silence.
He crossed back to the portrait and tapped the hilt of the ceremonial sword carved beneath its frame.
"We were right, Elaria," he whispered. "They're not just chasing him. They're afraid of what he'll become."
Then softer, barely more than a breath:
"But I wonder... who sent Rayel?"
---
And far beyond the palace walls, beneath a restless forest sky,
Octavio stirred in his sleep-
unaware that fate, and more than one man's shadow,
was watching in silence.
The fire cracked softly in the cold hush of the forest night, its amber glow flickering across the stone walls of the cave. Outside, the world was veiled in darkness-thick, silent, and waiting.
Fabale had meant only to rest his eyes.
But exhaustion had claimed him.
Slumped beside the fading fire, his posture was tense even in sleep-muscles taut, hand resting near the hilt of his sword. His breath was shallow, chest rising and falling with wary rhythm.
Then-
A sound.
Subtle. Almost nothing.
Crack.
Dry leaves, breaking under careful weight.
Fabale's eyes snapped open.
For a moment, he didn't move.
He listened.
There it was again-a low, guttural breath.
Heavy. Animalistic. And close.
The forest outside the cave, so far peaceful, now felt hostile. Alive.
Fabale gripped the hilt of his blade.
His gaze flicked to Octavio-still sleeping, still pale, his bandaged wound barely visible under his cloak.
Another crunch. Closer. More deliberate.
Something was moving through the underbrush. Not stealthy enough for a hunter, not clumsy enough for an animal just passing by.
It was approaching.
Fabale rose silently to his feet, positioning himself between the cave's mouth and Octavio. The fire cast long shadows on the wall behind him, the warmth no longer comforting.
He exhaled slowly, steadying his heartbeat.
Then came the sound again-this time unmistakably a snort, deep and rough. Followed by the brush of branches against something massive.
Fabale's grip tightened.
Whatever was out there... wasn't small.
And it wasn't alone.
Many eyes blinked open in the dark.
Reflections. Low. Watching.
Dozens of them-flickering golden, pale blue, sharp green.
Not one. A pack.
Fabale narrowed his gaze.
Wolves.
He knew it even before the shapes emerged from the shadows-silent paws brushing against the forest floor, muscles coiled with primal tension. Their fur shimmered in the dim moonlight. Some snarled low, others remained utterly still, ears pinned forward, eyes fixed on the cave.
Drawn by blood.
The metallic scent of Octavio's wound hung faint in the air, but to the wild... it screamed.
Fabale's mind raced.
This wasn't some heroic tale where the forest protects the noble from danger.
This was real.
And in reality, the forest had its own laws.
Its own hunger.
And tonight-it had come to collect.
He slowly bent his knees, lowering his center of gravity, blade drawn but not raised. No sudden movements. No threats. Not yet.
The lead wolf stepped closer-larger than the rest, its breath rising in soft clouds, eyes locking with Fabale's.
Behind him, Octavio stirred, murmuring faintly in sleep.
Fabale didn't look back.
He couldn't afford to.
He knew... if they attacked, he'd only have seconds.
This wasn't about courage. This was about calculation.
And survival.
He whispered under his breath, more to himself than the gods:
"This forest doesn't care for princes... only balance."
Then-
One of the wolves stepped closer.
Just a paw. Just a test.
Fabale's grip tightened.