Kael
The trees press in tighter as we follow Marwen deeper into Deepwood. The last slivers of sunlight drip through the branches, casting the world in hues of gold and rust.
Shadows stretch long across the forest floor, twisting like grasping fingers. The air is thick here. The smell of damp earth and pine fills my nose and thoughts.
This Deepwood is unnervingly silent. No birdsong, no rustling in the undergrowth, no distant crack of hooves against earth. Just the crunch of our footsteps, too loud in the hush that surrounds us.
Karin walks beside me, silent, watchful. Ahead, Marwen moves like she was born from the forest itself, her steps light, effortless. She doesn't need to slow down for us—she does it anyway.
"How much farther?" I ask, my voice low.
Marwen glances back. "Not long now."
I steal a glance at Karin. Her arms are locked across her chest, shoulders drawn in tight, as if bracing for a blow she can't see.
She keeps her distance from Marwen, every step measured, hesitant. I could feel the tension emanating off her. It's coiled like a wire, waiting for the snap.
Marwen keeps moving ahead, her back to us, weaving effortlessly through the trees. The moment she's a few paces out of earshot, Karin leans in.
"I don't trust her," she whispers, her voice thin, stretched tight. "She helped us, but… why?"
I glance at Marwen. She doesn't look back.
"I'm a prince, apparently," I whisper, flat, almost flippant. But the words settle like stones in my gut.
Karin shakes her head. "Sure, but what about me?" Her arms draw tighter around herself. "She could've let me die in that carriage, but she didn't. Why?"
I don't have an answer for that.
"She scares me, Kael," she admits, so quietly I almost don't hear it.
I don't know what to say to that, either. Because she scares me, too.
Marwen's golden eyes flicker back to us, catching the dim light. I open my mouth, hesitation curling at the edges of my words.
"How much farther?" My voice is quiet, steady.
"Not long now," she says, turning forward again.
She's been vague on the details, careful with her words. But we already know what waits ahead—a hidden camp, three survivors.
"You said you've been bringing them supplies," I say. "For how long?"
"Since the war ended," she replies. "Food. Medicine. News."
"And they just stayed here?" Karin's voice is edged with skepticism. "All this time?"
Marwen exhales through her nose. "Where else would they go?"
The question lingers.
I already know the answer. The same reason we're running. There is nowhere else.
Still, the thought sits uneasily in my chest. "And now they're ready?"
Marwen doesn't hesitate. "They've been ready." She looks back at us.
"And what about you?" Marwen asks, her golden eyes piercing through me once more. "Are you ready?"
The cold weight in my stomach turns to stone. I don't answer.
Ready.
No. I am far from it. I don't want to fight with anger curling in my gut, don't want to wield my power with blood boiling in my veins. I don't want to kill with my emotions again.
I don't want to raise the dead again.
We walk in silence after that, the forest stretching taller, darker around us. Then, without warning, the trees part.
The clearing is bigger than I expected, tucked away beneath towering trees whose thick branches stretch overhead, forming a dense canopy. The air is heavy with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke, the quiet pressing in around us.
Four canvas tents stand in the clearing, their fabric worn and weathered. A soft yellow glow seeps from within each light, casting faint light against the growing darkness around us.
The largest tent is open just enough to show wooden chairs and a table inside. At the center of it all sits a fire pit, ringed with smooth, blackened stones. There's no fire this time, but the smell of burnt wood lingers, as if it was burning not long ago.
And beside it, waiting, stand three figures.
They don't move. They don't speak.
But the moment we step into the clearing, their eyes lock onto me.
Marwen steps forward, her voice calm but firm.
"Liora. Rowan. Torren." She motions toward me. "This is Prince Kael Thaneborn."
The three figures remain still, their gazes unreadable.
Then, the first of them steps forward, and the weight of her presence alone makes my chest tighten.
A young woman stands by the fire pit. Unlike Marwen, she looks remarkably young, maybe just a few years older than me.
The sunset casts a faint glow around us, but the light doesn't quite reach her,like even fire knows better than to get too close.
Her black eyes sweep over me, sharp and measuring, like she's taking me apart piece by piece.
Strands of short, dark hair fall unevenly from beneath the hood of her cloak, framing high cheekbones and a mouth set in something close to disapproval.
Her dark clothes are wrapped tightly around her: layers of dark fabric strapped to her slim body, belts and buckles securing weapons I can't see but know are there.
Three swords rest against her back, hilts wrapped in worn leather. The steel glints faintly in the low light. Red accents run through her outfit, like dried blood on black cloth.
She stares at me like a snake would eye its prey. I gulp hard, immediately understanding why she survived.
Marwen's voice is steady as she speaks. "Liora is Daevrin. Or what's left of them."
I glance at her, but Marwen keeps her gaze on the woman before us.
"The Daevrin were the first to fall," she continues. "Slaughtered before they even saw the war coming. Now, only a handful remain, scattered across the kingdom, hiding in whatever ways they can."
Liora watches me, unblinking.
"She survived through me," Marwen says. "I wove her into different skins, let her shift when she needed to disappear. But the body isn't meant to hold too many faces. A sickness took root in her, and she chose to remain as she is."
Liora tilts her head, a ghost of a smirk playing at her lips. "I think I preferred being someone else," she muses, her voice curling through the air in dark maroon—almost black, like dried blood.
Then she twirls a finger through the air.
The shadows around us from the setting sun suddenly begin to coil like living things.
Karin stiffens beside me. My own breath stills as I watch them slither across the ground, stretching, shifting, until Liora lowers her hand and they settle once more.
"The Daevrin didn't just serve the Thaneborn," Marwen continues. "They were their closest allies. Shadows to the Veyrn's power. Assassins, spies, bound together in war, in council, in blood."
Liora's gaze flicks over me, slow, measuring. "And now, here you are," she drawls. "A Veyrn prince, back from the dead."
She takes a step forward, angled just slightly, like she's always ready to strike.
Liora steps forward, her movements slow, deliberate—like a blade sliding from its sheath. There's something almost playful in the way she carries herself, a kind of dangerous ease that makes my stomach tighten.
"Tell me, princeling," she purrs, the word rolling off her tongue like she's amused by it. "Are you really the one we've been waiting for?"
Her gaze drags over me, lingering just long enough to make my skin crawl. She doesn't just look—she studies, peels me apart with her eyes as if she's already figured out all my weaknesses and is deciding which one to sink her knife into first.
"Kael, right? Prince Kael?" she muses, circling slightly, voice as smooth as silk pulled taut. "Let me tell you something. Blood alone doesn't make you strong. The rest of your kind burned, and the world kept turning."
She tilts her head, a slow, knowing smirk curling at the edge of her lips. "So tell me, princeling: what makes you so special?"
I force myself to hold her gaze, but my pulse hammers against my ribs.
"How does a boy, even one with Thaneborn blood," she murmurs, stepping just close enough to unnerve me, "intend to finish what they couldn't?"
The second figure clears his throat, cutting through the tension with effortless ease. "Alright, Liora, let's not scare the princeling off just yet," he says, his voice unfurling in dark green.
"Besides…" He tilts his head, appraising me with a lopsided smirk, his left hand on his waist. "He might still be a little too young to grasp just how deep he's in."
Liora scoffs but doesn't argue.
Marwen gestures toward him. "Rowan of tribe Vaelyrn."
Rowan steps forward with a fluid ease, tilting his head as if already sizing me up.
His dark brown hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, strands falling free around a tanned face that looks like he's one second away from telling a sarcastic joke.
The fur lining his cloak shifts as he moves, making him seem both regal and rugged at once, though the well-worn leather of his doublet tells me he's spent more time in the field than in any grand hall.
With a sweeping, exaggerated bow, he smirks. "At your service," he drawls, voice carrying just enough humor to sound almost sincere.
But there's something sharp in his eyes, something watchful beneath the charm. He's testing me. Just like Liora, only with a lighter touch.
"You've heard of us, haven't you?" Rowan says, his gaze steady, amused, but not careless. "We were called windcallers. We took flight like birds, patrolling the skies with our powers and our gear."
His smirk deepens, but there's a weight behind it, something testing. "We were the eyes of the Veyrn. We built the machines that let us soar, and in return, your people made sure we never fell."
His voice dips, just slightly. "Until, of course, we did."
I swallow hard.
He exhales through his nose, considering me. "So tell me, princeling: how does an amnesiac Veyrn boy plan to lead us? Because from where I stand, you've got a hell of a gap to fill."
My stomach tightens. They know. Somehow, they already know I don't remember. And worse, that just makes me look even more useless.
Marwen shifts her attention to the last figure, her voice steady.
"And finally, this is Torren of tribe Skorren."
The third figure, an absolute giant of a man, steps forward, his heavy boots crunching against the dirt.
He's built like a fortress. Broad, solid, every inch of him honed for war. His armor is dark, mixed with leather and metal, adorned with bone-like designs that make him look sculpted from the earth itself.
A tan cloth drapes from his waist, moving slightly with each step. His head is shaved save for a short strip of dark hair, and his face is set in a grim, unwavering expression. I had no doubt that this man has seen more than enough of true, actual war.
"The Skorren," Marwen continues, "were the shield of the Veyrn. They could harden their bodies like stone, becoming unstoppable in battle. It made them invaluable soldiers." She pauses. "But their gift had limits. They could only sustain it for an hour before their strength faltered. And in the end, they fell like the rest."
Torren doesn't hesitate. He moves with purpose, stopping in front of me before bowing deep, bending his large waist.
"My lord," he says, his dark brown-colored voice deep, unwavering. "I swear my blade and my life to you. The Skorren have always served the Veyrn, and I will not break that vow."
I stare at him, stunned.
Liora lets out a quiet scoff, and Rowan snorts, crossing his arms.
"Oh, that's rich," Rowan mutters under his breath.
Liora tilts her head, unimpressed. "That was fast."
Torren doesn't even flinch. He stays where he is, head bowed, waiting for my response.
I shift uncomfortably, the weight of Torren's unwavering devotion pressing down on me. It feels wrong—like I haven't earned it, like I don't deserve it.
"Torren, sir, you don't have to do that," I say, rubbing the back of my neck. "I don't want anyone bowing to me. If we're going to do this, we do it together….as equals."
Torren straightens himself up instantly, his expression unreadable. He doesn't argue, but he doesn't move either.
Behind him, Rowan exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Well, isn't that nice?" he says, his smirk returning, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "An equal, huh? That's a bold stance, princeling."
Liora crosses her arms, unimpressed. "Admirable," she says, voice flat, "but you might be the only one here who believes it."
Their gazes linger on me: assessing, waiting, expecting me to crack under the weight of it all.
Marwen steps forward before I can say anything else, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Enough."
She looks at each of them in turn, sharp and steady.
"From this moment on, we work together," she declares, her voice steady, unyielding. "We have two weeks—and only two weeks—to strengthen each other, to sharpen our skills, and to prepare for what's ahead. We will not just slip into Drakewall like thieves. We will strike hard, tear through their defenses, and leave them reeling. We will remind the humans of the strength of our tribes. And we will save the human who kept Prince Kael alive."
My stomach twists.
I don't care about chaos. I don't care about making a statement. I just want Elias back.
I open my mouth to say as much, but Marwen doesn't give me the chance.
"You may not like it," she cuts in sharply, as if reading my thoughts. "But war does not wait for those who hesitate. If we do this, we do it right. And we do it together."
Rowan hums under his breath, amused. Liora nods, satisfied. Torren's expression remains unreadable.
I feel the weight of it all pressing down on me.
Two weeks.
Two weeks to become something I don't know if I can be.
Her gaze flickers to me. "And in doing all of this, we will also strengthen ourselves. Not just our powers, but our fighting and teamwork skills. Each of us has lost something, but we will not remain broken."
I open my mouth, aching to tell them that I don't want to rely on my necromancy, that I'd rather train my physical skills instead.
But then, without a word, Marwen steps beside Liora, curls her right hand into a fist, and strikes it firmly against her chest. She drops to one knee, head bowed, eyes fixed on the ground.
My breath catches.
Without hesitation, the others follow.
Torren kneels in the same way Marwen did, head bowed in complete deference. Rowan follows suit in silence, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen, his expression unreadable. Liora hesitates for just a second, then follows, her movements slow, deliberate.
Beside me, Karin looks at me, wide-eyed, awestruck.
I barely feel the night air.
I swallow hard, the sight twisting something deep inside me.
All four of them, kneeling before me.
Like loyal soldiers to their king.