The south border — the Stormcoast. Somewhere that news is not easy to reach.

  The sea wind bit at Alaric’s face, carrying the brine of Stormcoast’s jagged shores to his nostrils. Waves pounded the cliffs below, gray and restless. The rocks rose like frozen sentinels, dark and streaked with white where gulls had nested for generations. He had long since learned that the frontier was no place for softness.

  Alaric paused on the narrow cliff path. His polished oak hair whipped across his forehead. Sharp green eyes, like his mother’s, caught the fleeting sunlight. High cheekbones. A straight nose. A jawline that seemed to command attention far beyond his years. People whispered that he resembled Lysandra, the first queen, whose beauty had been spoken of in hushed tones across the kingdom. Sometimes he wondered if anyone truly saw her in him.

  Below, the rough camp clung to the cliffs. He scanned the faces of those who had chosen him—or whom he had chosen through hardship and exile.

  Matthis Caelmont sat on a crate, pale and lanky, carefully sharpening a wooden practice dagger. Fragile, always, in the eyes of his family from Greenfall. A boy who could not eat meat, who refused to harm animals, perhaps still a disappointment to them—but now he stood on his own.

  Beside him, Garric tossed a stone from hand to hand. Illegitimate son of House Rhydan. Strong, fast, sharp-eyed. His grin hinted at charm, but his gaze measured every shadow, every movement. Abandoned by family, he had learned to command respect on his own terms.

  Alaric’s chest warmed. These were his first true friends. Not assigned companions. Not court pawns. Outcasts who had survived alongside him. He had left the palace at ten with nothing but tattered clothes and the bitter memory of his mother’s death. He had expected loneliness. Instead, he had found loyalty, camaraderie, family.

  “Got enough stones to keep practicing, or planning to throw the cliff into the sea next?” Alaric called, striding over.

  Matthis glanced up, faintly annoyed. “Better me than the gulls.”

  Garric laughed, tossing the stone back. “At least one of us has aim. You’d miss even if the sea moved.”

  Alaric caught it with ease. Familiar. Here, among them, no one cared about names or titles. They had known him as a hungry, abandoned boy, and they knew him now: forged by storms, exile, and survival. He could not imagine returning to the capital—not yet. Here, he was simply Alaric.

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  Then the wind shifted. Stronger. Different. Horse sweat, leather, and ink reached his nose. From the cliffs below, riders appeared—horses thundering, dark cloaks snapping, banners embroidered with the royal seal fluttering in the rising gusts.

  Alaric narrowed his eyes. The capital remembered. After ten years, someone had finally remembered the boy they had left behind.

  The riders reached the camp as the sun sank behind the horizon. A tall man dismounted, cloak falling back to reveal a polished seal on his chest.

  “Prince Alaric of House Eryndor,” the captain said, voice stiff. “By order of the late King Rowan, you are summoned to the capital to assume the throne.”

  Alaric’s hand tightened on the crate beside him. Heart hammering, mind sharp. The crown was his by law—but after ten years in exile, who would think he would still be the chosen one?

  He knew his father had remarried. Another prince now. A family grown without him. Alone—or not entirely. Matthis and Garric. Could they come? Would the court accept them? How would soldiers and ministers judge these outcasts from Stormcoast?

  He stepped forward. “Tell the council I will come. But not empty-handed. I have friends. Loyal men who know the land, who have fought beside me. I cannot leave them behind.”

  The captain hesitated. “It… might not be permitted, Your Highness. The capital may insist on your arrival alone.”

  Alaric’s green eyes flared. “Then I will speak for them. If they refuse, I will find another way. But I will not return alone.”

  Garric emerged, stone still in hand. Matthis followed, dagger resting across his lap. The camp watched silently. No formal bows, no grand words—just quiet respect. The men who had survived the frontier with Alaric would follow him, whatever the court decreed.

  “Alaric,” Garric said, “we will follow you wherever you go.” He paused. “But you’re not crowned yet. Everything can change. Don’t wait and miss your chance just because of us.”

  “Go where you belong,” Matthis added. “Claim everything that is yours, Alaric. No matter where you are, you are not alone.”

  “Take care of yourself first, Alaric,” Garric said again.

  Alaric went silent.

  The captain stepped forward. “Yes, Your Highness. The safest way is simply to follow us to the capital.”

  He looked out at the cliffs, at the gray waves, at the camp that had become home.

  The night is long.

  The darkest moment comes just before dawn.

  They are right—he is so close to the light.

  If he survives, they will have a future.

  The capital was far. The politics tangled. His claim could be challenged. But he had survived Stormcoast.

  He would survive the court. And Matthis and Garric would not be left behind.

  “Yes, Captain. We will set out tomorrow.”

  He turned to look at Garric and Matthis. “We will meet again as my right and left hand.”

  Both bowed.

  “Yes… we have a king now.”