The rain had not yet fallen, but the smell of wet earth already floated in the air as the procession left the capital.
The gates closed behind them with a heavy rumble. Calen cast one last glance at the ramparts, at the azure banners marked with Elyndor's golden sun, lazily fluttering in the morning wind. One would never have guessed that to the north, a few days' march away, those same colors were already blending with the red of blood.
He climbed into the carriage without a sound. Inside, Princess Eleanor had her chin propped against the edge of the small window. Her feet swung in the air, too short to reach the floor. She spared only a distracted look for the captain of the guard as he sat down in front of her.
"You're making that face again, Calen," she said after a moment. "The one you wear when you think way too much."
"I'm paid for that, Your Highness," he replied with a faint smile.
She rolled her eyes.
"You're not paid. Father said you were 'too important to talk about money.'"
He let out a brief laugh, which died quickly.
"That's true. Then let's say I think out of habit."
The carriage set into motion, accompanied by creaking wood and the steady rhythm of hooves. The procession was intentionally modest: a small closed carriage, a dozen riders, two scouts ahead. One might have thought it a merchant convoy concerned for its safety. Nothing that resembled a royal escort. Nothing that drew the eye.
Nothing… in theory.
Eleanor pressed her forehead against the window. Beyond the walls, the city quickly gave way to fields, then hills. The sky was shifting to a heavier shade of grey.
"Looks like it's going to rain," she murmured.
Calen leaned slightly, observed the sky through the slit of the window, and nodded.
"Probably."
He then extended a hand, palm up, toward the ceiling of the carriage. His fingers traced an almost imperceptible gesture, as if following an invisible thread. A faint shimmer of pale light rippled briefly across the wood above them, then vanished.
"There," he said. "If it rains, you won't feel a single drop."
Eleanor smiled, delighted.
"Is that a rain-protection spell?"
"Among other things," he replied. "Let's say the roof will be… stubborn."
"You really are the best mage in the kingdom," she declared with childlike certainty.
He nearly answered that he wasn't, that there was the old Master of Arcana, the court mages, the specialists locked in their towers… But he served in only one way: protection. And magic had never truly been his specialty; these days, every good soldier simply needed to know a spell or two.
"I'm the best at protecting you, Your Highness. That's enough."
She accepted that answer as absolute truth.
Silence fell again, broken only by the soft sounds of travel. Eleanor played with the ribbon that held her hair, twisting it between her fingers.
"Calen?"
"Yes?"
"Is war like in the stories? With heroes who always come back, even when everything seems lost?"
He forced himself to meet her gaze. Her blue eyes had not yet gained the shadows his had carried for years.
"Stories leave things out," he said gently. "But sometimes, yes. Sometimes someone returns when they shouldn't."
"Then Father will come back," she concluded. "And you too."
The captain did not allow himself to lie. He only inclined his head.
"I'll do everything I can."
She seemed satisfied. For now, that would have to be enough.
Hours passed. The capital disappeared behind the hills, then the river, then the forest. They had chosen a secondary route, avoiding roads too exposed. The fief of Rochebois was still several days away to the southwest, nestled against a mountain range where the kingdom itself had been born.
At first, everything seemed normal. Birds sang. The wind carried scents of resin and damp leaves. The scouts returned periodically, reassuring.
Then, gradually, something changed.
Calen sensed it before anyone else. His entire life had been guided by a feeling: the flow of mana, that invisible current running through the world, which only mages could truly perceive.
He lifted his head.
"Your Highness?"
"Hm?" Eleanor murmured, half-asleep.
"You're going to stay very close to me. Whatever happens. All right?"
She sensed the change in tone more than the words and straightened suddenly, wide awake.
"All right."
Calen discreetly pulled aside the carriage curtain. The forest had thickened around them, the trees forming a dark vault. One of the riders turned toward him, uneasy.
"Captain? The scouts haven't returned in a while."
He was about to reply when he noticed something else.
Silence.
No birds. No insects. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
A warning screamed inside him.
"Halt!" he shouted. "Form a circle, now!"
The horses neighed, startled by the abrupt order. The carriage stopped with a jolt. Eleanor clung to her seat.
"Calen, what's—"
She didn't have time to finish.
The world exploded.
A first volley of arrows rained down from above—but they weren't ordinary arrows. Their tips glowed with a sickly light, laced with a twisted spell. Calen raised his hand before he even realized it.
The air vibrated.
A dome of clear light burst around the convoy, a transparent bubble streaked with golden filaments. The arrows hit the surface and shattered into metallic sparks, scattered like dust.
The horses reared, panicked. Armored men emerged from the undergrowth, their cloaks bearing Kaldoran's five stars. Some wielded spears, others had flames gathering in their hands.
"War mages…" Calen breathed.
There were many—at least ten.
They had planned for him.
Behind the first line of soldiers, a silhouette stepped forward: dark armor trimmed with silver, a black fur mantle, a long spear resting on his shoulder like a banner. His face was stern, scarred, his eyes frozen.
Calen recognized him instantly.
General Rethan, the Claw of the North. One of the most powerful mages in Kaldoran. Rumor said he commanded lightning itself.
"For a discreet escort, you could have been more modest," Rethan called, his voice carrying unnaturally well through the chaos.
Calen's heart tightened. If Rethan himself was here, this wasn't a simple raid. It was a targeted operation.
"Stay inside," he ordered Eleanor without looking at her. "Do not come out under any circumstances."
"But—"
"Eleanor."
His voice cracked like a whip.
She froze, wide-eyed, then nodded, pale.
Calen opened the door and stepped into the chaos.
The soldiers of Elyndor struggled to repel the Kaldorian charge. Blades clashed, cries mingled with the screams of wounded horses. Bursts of mana streaked through the air, scorching ground and bark.
Calen cast his first spell.
He pressed a foot into the earth, and the entire clearing trembled. Thick roots burst from the ground, twisting like giant serpents to seize the Kaldorians' legs. Three were dragged down, their spells cut off. Another was hurled against a tree with such force he did not rise again.
"Rethan!" Calen shouted, advancing. "You know what it means to attack the princess of Elyndor on our soil!"
"I do," the general replied calmly. "It means I cannot return empty-handed."
He drove the tip of his spear into the earth, and Calen felt the ambient mana twist violently.
A circle of black runes ignited around Rethan, crawling across the ground, leaping from tree to tree, weaving an invisible web.
A mana prison.
Calen gathered his energy to counter it, but it felt strangely heavy, crushed under a monstrous pressure.
"You think you can defeat me by suffocating me?" he growled.
Rethan smiled, cold.
"I don't need to defeat you. I only need to delay you."
Behind him, two hooded silhouettes stepped out of the shadows. Their mana burned bright—trained mages, fast. Hunters.
They marched straight toward the carriage.
"No…" Calen whispered.