The capital was days away.
And yet, as Lysandra, Jael, and their small group of allies rode through the mist-laden valleys, the weight of what had transpired pressed heavier than the journey itself.
The true heir—the prisoner they had freed—was already ahead of them.
Somewhere in the darkness, he was moving.
And he had only one goal: to reclaim the throne stolen from him.
The Silent Tension
Lysandra rode beside Jael, stealing glances at him whenever she could. He had barely spoken since the cavern collapsed.
His jaw was perpetually clenched, his golden eyes fixed ahead like a man walking toward his own execution.
Even the wind, usually sharp with the scent of pine, carried an unnatural stillness.
"Jael," Lysandra murmured, her horse keeping pace with his.
He didn't turn to look at her.
"We need a plan," she continued. "You can't just—"
"I know."
His voice was hoarse.
Lysandra exhaled sharply. "Then talk to me."
Jael finally looked at her, and for a moment, she wished he hadn't.
There was something dark in his eyes—anger, regret, and something else, something she couldn't quite name.
"I grew up hearing about the cursed heir," Jael said, voice low. "The monster who lost his throne because he was too dangerous to rule. My father made sure we all believed it."
Lysandra stayed silent.
"But he lied," Jael continued bitterly. "He knew the truth. He knew what really happened. And he let me grow up thinking I was the rightful heir to a throne that was never mine."
The confession hung between them like a blade.
Jael wasn't the heir.
His father had stolen the throne from the man they had just set free.
Lysandra tightened her grip on the reins. "Jael… what are you going to do?"
He didn't answer immediately. His fingers flexed against the saddle, tension rippling through his body.
"Whatever I must."
A Gathering Storm
By nightfall, they set up camp in a hollow beneath a ridge, far from the main roads.
The fire crackled between them, casting flickering shadows across Jael's face. He hadn't stopped sharpening his sword since they stopped riding.
Lysandra, watching from across the fire, finally had enough.
"You can't fight him, Jael."
Jael's sharpening stone paused.
She leaned forward. "We barely survived freeing him. You saw what he did back there. Do you think you'll stand a chance alone?"
Jael met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "I don't plan on fighting him."
Lysandra frowned. "Then what—"
"I plan on stopping my father first."
The fire popped.
Lysandra's breath hitched. "Jael—"
He stood. "You were right. We need a plan."
The others—scouts, warriors, and survivors from their journey—fell silent as Jael turned to face them all.
"If the true heir reaches the capital before we do, the kingdom will fall into chaos. My father will fight to keep the throne, and the council will turn on itself."
His voice was steady, but Lysandra saw the tension in his shoulders.
"There's only one way to stop a war before it starts."
Lysandra's heart pounded. "You're going to overthrow your father first."
Jael nodded once. "Before the forgotten heir can."
Silence stretched through the camp.
Then—one by one—they nodded back.
The Race Against Fate
Before dawn, they were already moving.
Lysandra had always thought the road to the capital would be long. But now, with the weight of the kingdom pressing against them, it felt too short.
Too inevitable.
Jael rode ahead, his golden eyes dark with determination.
And Lysandra?
She couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how fast they rode, they were already too late.