It was high noon, the twelfth day since Princess Belara had unexpectedly called off the tournament. Twelve days were enough for the news of her upcoming wedding to spill out of palace corridors and spread across the whole of Dusughbarah.

  At first, excitement ruled. For the first two days, people celebrated the future union of two lands and spoke of it with genuine hope. Festivities broke out in many places—everyone finally believed they would not face the next attack alone. But soon, questions crept in, followed by doubt. Each day grew louder than the last. Enthusiasm shattered against fear, rumors replaced facts, and the land split between those who trusted the wedding and those who had begun to dread it.

  King Velen wanted to know why. On the twelfth day, he summoned a royal conclave to the capital so the people could speak openly. By his original plans, Kelen should have been long on his way back to Terres, but his future father-in-law hinted that leaving now would be unwise. The prince postponed his voyage home. He was not afraid of the people’s voices. He believed he would sit through it, endure it, and finally be free to leave.

  The throne hall was flooded with sunlight and humming with life. The proceedings had not yet begun, and people spoke loudly among themselves. Members of the royal council were present, as were the future newlyweds and nearly sixty others who belonged, more or less, to three groups: nobles, townsfolk, and high-ranking military officers.

  King Velen arrived shortly after the appointed hour. He wanted to give latecomers time to join. But the moment he entered, the doors closed, and no one else was allowed inside.

  “Representatives of all walks of our Dusughbarah, welcome,” the king said. “I also greet an honored guest of our land, Prince Kelen.” The prince bowed, and the gesture was accepted.

  “From the moment my daughter chose her future husband, our land has been restless. Many reports have reached me—most of them contradicting one another. That is why we are gathered here today, at this royal conclave. I want to hear the truth of what my subjects truly think. No rumors. No half-truths. I promise you no changes—only to listen. For once, you may speak without fear. Words that would normally earn imprisonment or death will be deliberately overlooked today and forgiven with the setting sun.”

  Even before Velen’s arrival, several groups had formed in the hall. From one of them, made up mostly of prominent nobles, an elderly man stepped forward, knelt, and bowed deeply.

  “Ruler of the islands, even in my old age I would not dare spit venom at you or your family. But I will speak for the majority and say only what troubles the people of Dusughbarah most.”

  “As I said, speak without fear,” the king urged him. “You have a rare chance to say what you need, in whatever way you choose.”

  The kneeling man struggled to his feet, his age evident, and cleared his throat. “Very well. The people of the Nine Islands have an issue with Prince Kelen.”

  Kelen froze at the words. Fear and uncertainty flashed in his eyes. He was already about to step forward, drawing breath to protest, when his fiancée hissed at him from his left, “Not yet. Let him finish. You’ll have your chance.”

  Kelen forced himself to stay calm, but his heart raced. Why do I bother them? Can they really force Velen to delay—or even cancel—the wedding?

  The old spokesman continued. “We have no objections to Prince Kelen as a man. On the contrary, most voices here have spoken in his favor. We want only the best for our sole princess and for the future of the House of Akhur.” He paused briefly.

  “Our concern lies with the prince’s ruling position in Terres. It is no secret that your father,” the old man turned toward Kelen, “is of unsound mind. He is unfit to rule, yet remains king. We know that in truth, you govern in his stead.” The speaker coughed, a dry, rasping sound. Someone handed him a goblet of water. He drank, inhaled, and went on.

  “Though you rule, Prince, you have no official claim to do so. We take into account that you are the sole and undisputed heir to the throne. And yet, your wedding to our only princess is being prepared. In return, we expect Terres to aid us against Kendelen. But one question has begun to haunt all of our people…”

  Kelen felt as though he might burst out of his skin. He wanted to know exactly what he stood against, but with every pause, the spokesman stretched the tension further.

  “Where does the people of Dusughbarah find certainty that what the prince promises will truly come to pass, when he does not yet speak from a position where his promises carry weight?”

  Belara, standing beside Kelen, heard him exhale sharply and whisper to himself, “So that’s what this is about.”

  “We believe,” the spokesman continued, “that the prince is a man who will keep his word. Sadly, at present, his words feel empty to us. Tomorrow, his father may decide that Terres will not come to our aid. Or someone else may try to seize power and plunge the realm into chaos… In either case, Dusughbarah would stand alone. And we would never forget that we traded our princess’s hand for nothing but the empty promises of an uncrowned prince.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  “Are you afraid that I will not keep my promises?” Kelen asked, unable to stay silent any longer. He stepped forward, stopping near the center of the hall.

  “Yes,” the spokesman nodded after a brief thought. “But we believe you would try to honor them. Still, the future is uncertain. Once again, Prince, we trust you as a man. We fear only the worst outcome—that you lose your footing at home and are unable to come to our aid.”

  “I understand your fears. But the customs of my land are deeply rooted; I cannot change them.” Kelen turned to the nearly sixty people gathered there. “Do you know these customs?”

  “No, Prince. We are not well acquainted with the traditions of your land.”

  “The first problem lies with our hereditary illness. Long ago, when the first mad king appeared on the Terresian throne, his wife, the queen, assumed rule,” the prince began.

  “It was unusual and unexpected, but the people fully accepted her reign. Then three more such cases of madness followed. One thing remained the same each time: the queen was alive to take over, if only for a while.”

  Kelen drew a deep breath before saying the sentence that weighed heavily on him. “But my mother is dead. There is no one to seamlessly fill my father’s place. This has never happened to us before, and no solution was found. We are stuck at a dead end. Now everyone says I rule unjustly in place of my rightful father and king.”

  “And the second custom?” Jhalen asked, though he was nearly the only one in the hall who already knew the answer.

  “It is an unwritten tradition, but one burned into the hearts of everyone in my land.” Kelen paused, then summed up the core of the problem in a single sentence.

  “A king holds his crown until his death.”

  As soon as he said it, his gaze swept across the faces before him. Many of them finally grasped the complexity of his position in Terres.

  “And it is precisely the combination of these two customs—my mother unable to rule in my father’s stead, leaving no one the people would accept, and the rule that the crown belongs to the king until his final breath—that has brought us here.”

  “Your situation saddens me,” the spokesman said, “but it does not change our concern, which stems from your uncertain position. If custom forbids you from taking your father’s crown during his lifetime, you must find another way to strengthen your power, so the people of Dusughbarah can place greater trust in you.”

  “But that changes nothing about our wedding,” the princess cut in. “I insist on marrying Kelen.”

  “We have no power to annul your union,” the old man assured them. “King Velen called this royal conclave so we could speak our minds. I have said everything that weighs on the hearts of the people. What you do with it is up to you.”

  “Have you truly said all that lay on your heart?” Velen asked solemnly.

  “Yes, my king.”

  “Does anyone else wish to speak? Now is your time. If not, I ask you to leave the hall.”

  The representatives exchanged looks, but no one stepped forward or spoke.

  Velen waited a moment, then signaled the guards. The doors opened, and the room began to empty. The king motioned for the council members and the betrothed couple to remain. Once everyone else had gone, the guards closed the doors again at his command.

  Velen sat on the throne, rubbing his beard thoughtfully, staring at the prince.

  “My dear?” the queen addressed him. “Why did you ask us to stay?”

  Velen pretended not to hear her. He let the silence stretch, then finally spoke, his words aimed squarely at Kelen.

  “Everything said here today rests on sound reason and logic. I heard not a single lie. Doubts about your ability to fulfill your promises are entirely justified. I do not know why I turned a blind eye to it before. After this conclave, I can no longer ignore it.”

  He drew a breath, gathering strength for the verdict. “Go home and find a way to strengthen your power. Until you do, do not return. There will be no wedding.”

  “Father!” Belara cried, clinging to Kelen as if the guards might seize him at any moment.

  “Velen!” Queen Asarda exclaimed in shock.

  “Enough, women!” the king barked. “Time is merciless. Kendelen is gathering strength. We do not know the day or the hour when they will appear on the horizon. We need an ally who will truly help us. Or do you wish to see Ghurmaka in flames?” He calmed slightly and added, “Do not fear. I am canceling only the wedding. The engagement still stands. Once the prince sets his house in order, he may return—and for all I care, the wedding can take place the very next day.”

  “I’ll go with you. I’ll help you,” the princess said to Kelen.

  “You will stay home,” the king ordered. Then he turned back to the prince, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “Kelen, I know you are trapped by the customs of your land. Though you are a capable young man and will one day make a fine ruler, you are still inexperienced… barely beyond boyhood. You face a difficult task. But you will not face it alone. I will lend you a hand.”

  King Velen looked to the young diplomat and commanded, “Go with him. You lack neither experience, nor judgment, nor wit.”

  “Kelen. Jhalen,” he said to both young men. “As ruler of Dusughbarah, I order you to find a solution. And as a king weighed down by duty to his people and love for his only daughter, I beg you—find the fastest way out of this.”

  Surprise flickered in the diplomat’s eyes at the unexpected charge. He nodded in understanding and bowed slightly.

  “Kendelen will not wait for us. Act swiftly—whether for yourselves, for me, for the people of the islands, or for my daughter, so the wedding may come as soon as possible.”

  Kelen looked at Belara. His heart felt clenched tight, his throat dry, and no matter how hard he tried, tears welled in his eyes. That morning, he had been happy, looking forward to a life with Belara. Now the people of the islands had taken it all from him. He hated the islanders—and even more, he hated his own land and its foolish customs that placed impossible obstacles in his path.

  He looked at his fiancée. For a moment, he felt that if he reached out, he might grasp this instant and never let go. Instead, his chest grew heavy, a dry, burning knot lodged in his throat, and his breathing broke into short, uneven gasps.

  That morning, he had believed his future lay before him. Now it felt as though a heavy iron gate stood between him and his betrothed—close enough to touch, far too distant for a shared life.

  Resentment toward the day’s conclave churned inside him. It infuriated him that strangers—people from a neighboring land—had decided his fate. And most of all, he loathed his homeland, whose rigid, ancient customs had led him here and torn Belara from his arms.

  For a fleeting moment, he imagined abandoning it all and vanishing with Sumec to some uncharted corner of the map—ideally with the princess at his side. But he strongly suspected his fiancée would not appreciate that plan. So he sighed inwardly, painfully.

  Home, then. Home to fight his own land.