The walk back from the castle to Krystian's home felt like a blur. One moment he was kneeling on the cold floors of the Throne room and the next he was standing in the middle of the familiar crowded streets. The scent of spices, meat and fruits hit his nose with full force. Children were running from one shop to another, occasionally stealing an apple or two.
Krystian joined the crowd, greeting familiar faces as he passed by. He took a turn into a less crowded alleyway dotted occasionally by a stall or two. Eventually, He reached an area full of small houses camped together.
He found his house—small, painted a faded green, and tucked between two larger merchant stalls. His mother was inside, kneading dough, beads of sweat pouring from her face. His father was sharpening his sturdy fruit knife, and his older sister, Elara, was meticulously cleaning the wooden cart. The scene was perfectly ordinary, perfectly safe.
"If you do not prove your worth, the boy's entire family will pay the price."
Krystian forced a smile onto his face, the muscle-memory of his sunshine persona kicking in. "Mom! Pa! Elara! Guess who got accepted into the Royal Cadet program..ehh..sort of!"
His father, a broad man with hands tougher than bark, looked up, skepticism painting his face. "You got in? But the notice said you failed the training requirement."
"It was a formality!" Krystian dropped his sack and threw his arms around his mother, inhaling the comforting scent of yeast and lavender. "I went back and I begged. And the King," he lowered his voice dramatically, "gave me a private, top-secret mentorship with Prince Miles Rivenhart himself."
His fathers eyes toughened with Krystian's words, A mixture of disappointment and embarrassment resting in his eyes, "Why did you go and beg to the king? We shouldn't stoop so low just for a position in the Palace." Krystian pouted at his father's words, "Aww, come on Pa! You know it's always been my dream to be a soldier."
Elara had stopped wiping the cart at Krystian's words. "You'll be mentored by The Prince himself? I heard he's really cold to people like us...Are you sure being mentored by him is a good thing?". Elara's eyes filled with fear and concern for the well-being of her dear younger brother.
Krystian laughed, trying to make his words sound genuine. "Exactly! He's gonna be my personal observer and mentor for a whole year. It's an unheard-of opportunity. I get to live in the palace, study in the Royal Library, and travel on missions with him to investigate the troubles on the border." Krystian held Elara's hands in reassurance to provide her some peace of mind even though he had none of his own, "Don't worry sis, I won't be bothered by him at all! You know me."
His mother stepped back, her flour-covered hands resting on his cheeks. "Live in the Palace? Krystian, that's… wonderful. But you have to leave?" This was the hard part. He looked at his father, meeting his steady, earnest gaze. He couldn't tell them the King's terms. He couldn't tell them that if he was disobedient, if he was reckless, or if the cold Prince simply decided he was "unworthy," the whole family would disappear.
"It's an immediate posting, Mom," Krystian said, keeping his voice light, masking the desperation with pride. "Miles needs a keen set of eyes who understand the common people-that's me! I need to pack my essentials, just some small things like my best clothes and my lucky dagger. It's only for a year, then I'm formally accepted as a warrior and I will visit often."
His father studied him for a long moment, a furrow in his brow. "You are excited and that is good. But the Rivenharts… they live by different rules than we do. You are not a boy of titles, you are a boy of heart. Promise me you won't forget that up there."
"Never.. Don't be too worried about me dad!" Krystian vowed, meaning it more deeply than his father could know. If he forgot his heart, he forgot what he was fighting to protect.
He spent the next hour gathering his few possessions—Some articles of clothing, the dagger, his notebook of jokes, a worn copy of ancient folk tales, and a small, smooth river stone he'd kept since he was a child. He tried to memorize every detail of the kitchen: the chipped pottery, the smile on his family's face with his small jokes, the safe, familiar presence of his family.
When it was time to go, his mother clung to him for a long, silent minute. Elara handed him a loaf of fresh bread, wrapping it carefully in cloth.
"Be safe on the roads, little brother," Elara whispered. "And don't let the Prince turn you into a statue."
"Never," Krystian repeated.
He stepped back into the street, his small bag on his shoulder, and turned his back on the only life he had ever known. He was leaving his safe and familiar life to travel into the unknown. He had to be Miles Rivenhart's perfect project, or his entire world would burn.
Krystian took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and headed toward the dark, imposing silhouette of the palace—where his new life, and his greatest danger, waited.