The courtyard of the High Palace lay under the pale shroud of a winter dawn. The stones were slick with frost, their edges rimed white, and the air was so cold that each breath rose in clouds that drifted upward and vanished against the gray morning sky. Rows of guards in polished breastplates lined the walls, their spears held perfectly upright, frost clinging to the steel tips.
At the center, the royal stables opened their great oak doors. The smell of hay and horseflesh rolled into the courtyard, mingling with the scent of woodsmoke from the palace chimneys. The warhorses stood ready, their coats brushed until they gleamed despite the dim light. Kaelen's own mount—a black destrier named Veyran—pawed at the stones impatiently, the breath from his nostrils hanging in the frigid air like dragon-smoke. The saddle was deep blue leather with silver tooling, the reins tipped with the Valeryn crest.
Kaelen stood beside him, already dressed for the journey: a heavy riding cloak of wolf fur over layered mail and leather, the hawk of Valeryn embroidered in silver thread at his chest. His sword belt sat snug on his hips, the weapon's pommel catching faint glints of light.
The air was thick with the sound of muted preparations—leather creaking, hooves shifting, the quiet orders of the stablemaster. But around Kaelen, there was a hush. Everyone knew the weight of this ride: he was not merely traveling; he was leaving his kingdom to join another's court, bound by the ink and blood of the treaty signed only days before.
Before departure, Kaelen had gone to his father's chamber.
The room smelled faintly of medicinal herbs and old parchment. Heavy curtains kept out most of the morning light, leaving the place steeped in dim amber from the fire in the hearth. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting the victories of Valeryn kings past—hunting scenes, battles, the crowning of the first monarch in the great square. But the bed, once a place of strength, was now occupied by a man diminished.
King Aldren lay propped against pillows, his once-broad shoulders now narrow, his hair more silver than black. His skin was pale and drawn tight over the bones of his face. Yet his eyes—steel gray and sharp—were the same as they had been when Kaelen was a boy.
Kaelen approached slowly, each step sinking into the thick woven rug.
"You are dressed for the road," the king rasped. His voice was weaker than Kaelen remembered, yet still carried the tone of one accustomed to being obeyed.
"I leave within the hour," Kaelen replied, stopping beside the bed. "I wanted to see you before—" He hesitated, swallowing. "Before I go."
The king's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Your mother would scold you for that tone. As though you were riding to exile rather than to your future."
They spoke quietly, the crackle of the fire the only other sound in the chamber.
"You know this path will not be an easy one," Aldren said, his gaze fixed on his son. "Seraphina is as cunning as she is beautiful. She will test you in every way. So will her court. You must remember who you are, even when they try to tell you otherwise."
Kaelen nodded, but his jaw was tight. "I remember. But I don't want to leave you like this."
Aldren's eyes softened, and for a moment, the king was simply a father. "You think I've not seen war, Kaelen? I have faced death on the field. This illness is a quieter enemy, but no less worthy of respect. You ride today not to abandon me, but to arm yourself with the power to save me. If the Demon Lord's heart is truly the cure, then you will need the alliance this marriage brings."
Kaelen lowered his head briefly, the weight of his father's words pressing down like the winter sky. When he looked up again, Aldren reached out a thin hand. Kaelen took it, feeling the chill of his father's skin.
"Do not return until you have what you seek," the king said firmly. "And when you return, do so as a king who has conquered all that stood in his way."
The moment stretched. Kaelen, who had stood on battlefields without flinching, found his throat tightening now. He leaned forward, embracing his father. Aldren's grip was surprisingly strong for one so ill.
When they parted, Kaelen stepped back, saluted in the old way—fist over heart, head bowed. The king returned the gesture, though his hand trembled slightly.
Kaelen turned to go, but paused at the door, looking back once more. His father was watching him with that same steel-gray gaze, as if trying to memorize his son's face before the parting.
Leaving the warmth of the king's chamber, Kaelen walked the cold corridors of the palace. Torches sputtered along the stone walls, their light catching in the frost that crept in around the leaded windows. Servants he passed bowed or curtsied, their expressions subdued. Every step echoed on the flagstones, the sound almost too loud in the stillness.
At the main stairwell, Sir Renic was waiting in full travel gear, a thick cloak over his armor and a longsword at his side. His expression was the grim mask of a soldier about to ride into uncertain lands.
"The men are ready," Renic said. "The Empress's escort waits at the city gates."
Kaelen gave a curt nod and together they descended into the courtyard.
The palace gates opened with a deep groan of iron hinges, and Kaelen's party rode out into the capital's streets. Word had spread—people lined the main road, wrapped in wool and furs against the bitter cold.
Some faces were solemn, others curious. A few called blessings for his journey, but there were also those who stood silent, their eyes wary or resentful. Many still saw this union with Saerath as surrender, no matter the king's assurances.
Snowflakes drifted down, catching in Kaelen's dark hair and clinging to his cloak. The city's spires rose behind him, their rooftops already dusted in white. Market stalls were shuttered for the day, the only sound the clop of hooves and the low creak of wagon wheels carrying supplies.
The gates of Valeryn were massive, reinforced with bands of steel and flanked by towers topped with banners that whipped in the cold wind. Just beyond, the road stretched into the wintry countryside, vanishing into the mist.
Seraphina's escort waited there—a column of Saerath riders in black-and-silver armor, their banners bearing the phoenix sigil. At their head was Captain Virel, a tall woman with hair bound in a tight braid, her expression cool and unreadable.
Kaelen halted before the captain. "I trust the road to your capital is clear?"
Virel inclined her head. "Clear enough, Your Grace. Though snow may slow us by a day."
The combined column set out. Hooves crunched over the snow, and the air grew sharper with each mile from the city. The countryside was a landscape of bare trees, their branches black against the white fields. Here and there, farmhouses stood with smoke curling from their chimneys, the sight of them stirring a faint ache in Kaelen's chest.
He did not look back at first. Only when they reached the rise beyond the river did he turn in the saddle. From there, the city of Valeryn lay spread beneath the winter sky, the palace spires rising like spears above the clustered rooftops. Snow was falling more heavily now, softening the sharp lines of the walls and towers.
Kaelen watched until the city began to fade into the white, and only then turned forward again, Veyran's steady gait carrying him toward the road ahead—and the court of the Empress he would soon call wife.
To be continued…