The southern road was a winding path, cutting through the arid wastes toward the lush lowlands where the rivers of Caeroth converged. Once, this land had been the heart of the kingdom—a place of bustling trade and sprawling cities. But now, it was scarred by war and neglect. Villages lay abandoned, their fields choked with weeds, and the few travelers Alric passed kept their heads low, as if the very air carried danger.

  Kaelion walked beside him in spectral form, his presence solid enough to cast faint shadows on the ground. Though Alric still struggled to accept the Echo’s guidance, he couldn’t deny the warrior’s knowledge of the land.

  “The south has always been restless,” Kaelion said, gesturing toward the distant ridges. “Even when the First Line ruled, these lands were hard to hold. Too many factions, too many rivalries. But if there’s rebellion brewing, they’re your best chance at building an army.”

  “Assuming they’ll listen to me,” Alric muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. “Why would anyone follow a banished prince with nothing to his name?”

  Kaelion gave a sharp laugh. “Because you’re more than that. You carry the blood of kings—and if you show them what that means, they’ll follow. But don’t expect loyalty for free. You’ll need to earn it.”

  The weight of those words sat heavy on Alric’s shoulders. He’d spent most of his life as a prince in name only, his uncle Mordain ensuring that he remained in the shadows of the court. Now, he had to become something more. A leader. A symbol.

  And, perhaps, a weapon.

  The first sign of rebellion came at dusk, as Alric approached the small village of Dranholt. Unlike the lifeless settlements he had passed before, this one was alive with activity. Fires burned in makeshift pits, and the air was filled with the clatter of weapons being sharpened and the low murmur of voices.

  But it wasn’t a welcoming sight. The village was surrounded by makeshift barricades, and armed guards patrolled its outskirts. As Alric drew closer, one of them spotted him—a young man with a spear and a patchwork leather vest. He raised the alarm, and within moments, a dozen weapons were pointed in Alric’s direction.

  “Halt!” the young guard barked, his voice shaking slightly. “State your business, stranger!”

  Alric raised his hands, keeping his dagger sheathed. “I’m here to speak with your leader,” he said. “I mean no harm.”

  The guards exchanged wary glances. One of them, an older woman with a scar across her jaw, stepped forward. Her eyes narrowed as she looked him over, lingering on the hilt of the dagger at his side.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “And why should we trust you?”

  Alric hesitated, glancing at Kaelion, who remained invisible to everyone but him. The Echo smirked. “This is your moment, boy. Show them strength. If they smell weakness, they’ll gut you where you stand.”

  Drawing a steadying breath, Alric squared his shoulders. “My name is Alric Valen,” he said, his voice firm. “I am the rightful heir to the throne of Caeroth, and I’ve come to join your fight against Mordain.”

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  The reaction was immediate. The guards stiffened, their expressions shifting between shock, disbelief, and something darker—resentment. The woman with the scar stepped closer, her spear lowered but still ready.

  “Rightful heir?” she scoffed. “We’ve heard that one before. What proof do you have?”

  Alric hesitated, his mind racing. Proof. What proof did he have? His bloodline, his memories—but none of that would mean anything to these people. He reached for the dagger, drawing it slowly and holding it aloft.

  The reaction was subtle but telling. The air around the blade seemed to shift, a faint ripple of energy emanating from its obsidian surface. The guards instinctively stepped back, their eyes wide with unease.

  The woman narrowed her eyes. “What is that?”

  “The dagger of the First Line,” Alric said. “It awakened the Echoes of my ancestors. It’s proof of who I am—and what I can do.”

  For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air. Then, the woman lowered her spear, though her expression remained guarded.

  “If you’re lying, we’ll find out soon enough,” she said. “Follow me.”

  The village leader was a woman named Iridia—a former officer in the royal army who had turned rebel after Mordain’s coup. She was tall and broad-shouldered, with weathered features and piercing blue eyes that seemed to see through Alric’s every word.

  She studied him for a long moment, her fingers tapping against the hilt of the sword at her side. “So,” she said finally. “The banished prince returns, claiming to be our salvation. I have to admit, I didn’t expect this.”

  “Neither did I,” Alric replied honestly. “But here I am. And I want to help.”

  Iridia snorted. “Help? Do you know what we’re up against? Mordain’s army is twice the size of ours, better equipped, better trained. Half our people are farmers with no idea how to hold a sword. And now you want me to throw my lot in with you? A man with a name but no army?”

  Alric felt frustration rising, but he forced it down. “I may not have an army,” he said, “but I have power. And I have knowledge. With your people and my bloodline, we can stand a chance.”

  Iridia raised an eyebrow. “Your bloodline?”

  Kaelion’s voice rumbled in Alric’s mind. “You need to show her. Words won’t be enough.”

  Taking a deep breath, Alric closed his eyes and focused. He reached for Kaelion’s presence, feeling the Echo stir within him. Heat surged through his veins, and when he opened his eyes again, they glowed faintly with golden light.

  A gasp rippled through the room as Kaelion’s spectral form appeared beside him, towering and radiant. Iridia’s hand went to her sword, but she didn’t draw it. Instead, she stared, her expression a mix of awe and suspicion.

  “This is what I mean,” Alric said, his voice steady. “The Echoes of the First Line. They’re with me. And with them, I can turn the tide of this war.”

  Iridia was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, she lowered her hand.

  “You’re either the answer to our prayers,” she said, “or the biggest mistake we’ll ever make.”

  Her eyes locked on his, hard and unyielding. “I’ll give you one chance, prince. Prove yourself, and you’ll have my loyalty—and the loyalty of my people. But fail, and you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

  Alric nodded, his jaw tight. “What do you need me to do?”

  Iridia leaned forward, her gaze sharp. “Mordain’s forces have been pushing south, burning villages and slaughtering anyone they suspect of aiding us. There’s a supply convoy heading toward their camp two days from here. It’s heavily guarded, but if we can take it, we’ll have enough weapons and food to hold out for weeks.”

  Kaelion’s voice cut in, cold and calculating. “A bold plan. But it won’t be easy. You’ll need more than brute strength to pull this off.”

  Alric met Iridia’s gaze, determination hardening his resolve.

  “Tell me everything,” he said.

  And so, the next chapter of his journey began—not with a throne, but with a fight for survival and a gamble on trust. The flames of rebellion burned bright, and Alric was ready to stoke them higher.