Smoke curled into the dawn sky, a black smear against the lightening blues and purples

The inn lay in ruins, its front charred and dilapidated from the flames that spread throughout the night. Blackened bodies littered the ash covered ground.

Laurence sat in a nearly catatonic state near the back door of the inn. Each breath he drew tasted of soot and blood, the once welcoming scent of roasted meats and herbs now a distant memory.

"Check over there!" Called one of Moridgale’s local guards, making the prince’s gaze sluggishly trudge upward.

The ragtag band of authorities in mismatched uniforms scurried about the inn, their faces pale with shock as they shuffled between bodies. They whispered counts and names, their voices low and strained as they performed the grim tally of the dead.

"Over here! Another one!" The shout pierced the morning stillness, a harsh reminder of the night's savagery.

Laurence eventually turned away, unable to watch as they draped another cloth over someone else he might have known, someone who might have laughed in these halls just hours before.

After Avril had determined there were no more living enemies around the building —there was no more living period— Laurence had sat himself not far from Barton’s lacerated corpse, and refused to move.

Avril stood over him as a silent sentinel, no longer insistent on leaving now that the danger had seemingly been dealt with. The blonde had scavenged their clothes and a few of their entourage's belongings from inside, but Laurence was in no state to look through them.

The prince’s dull eyes finally fixated on Barton's still face, nearly unrecognizable from how stiff and caked in dried blood it had become. The man who had been a fixture of compassion and positivity in his life lay motionless, the jovial spark forever dimmed in his eyes.

Laurence dragged himself closer, fingers trembling as he gently reached into Barton’s pocket, pulling out the small, smooth stone the man had used to carry his heavy sword.

The sword that now lay just as still, discarded, and covered in gore as its owner.

The sealing stone was deceptively ordinary to the untrained eye, but it was one that Laurence had personally modified to be able to hold far more than the standard issued ones given to Loros knights.

Laurence didn’t know what else might be inside, but he hoped to unseal a more personal belonging he could keep as a memento. Clutching it tightly, the prince felt its cool surface press against his palm—a stark contrast to the warmth that Barton had exuded in life.

"I already miss you so much," Laurence gasped, squeezing his eyes shut and turning away from the gruesome remains of the man who’d been like family to him.

"Your Highness," Avril's voice sliced through the haze of grief. "We must decide our next steps."

Without replying, Laurence rose to his feet, the weight of the sealing stone grounding him to the moment. He tucked the stone into his own pocket, deciding to wait until a better time to discover its contents.

The sun climbed higher, casting a harsh light on the bloodstained inn. The murmurs of the townspeople gathered like storm clouds across the dirt road. Their shock and confusion were palpable, each whisper stoking the embers of fear and suspicion.

"Who would do such a thing?"

"It was one large group. Don’t you see their clothes?"

"Was the prince the target, or was it random?"

"Nothing like this had ever happened before that royal showed up."

Their words slithered through the cracks of the inn's broken walls, carrying the weight of unspoken accusations. Laurence felt them like needles on his skin, each one a reminder of his own vulnerability.

They weren't safe—not here, not anywhere. The prince shuddered with the thought that he might have been the intended victim, yet ended up the sole survivor of an attack meant to end his life.

"Your Highness?" Avril prompted again, his tone bored.

Laurence turned to face the knight, his ruby stare hardening. "Fine, let’s go."

They slipped away from prying eyes, leaving behind the morbid aftermath of the Moridgale inn. The surrounding woods embraced them with a deceptive calm.

Laurence’s mind still reeled with the gossip of the townsfolk, the guilt gnawing at his conscience. He survived while others perished, and for what? A cruel twist of fate, or perhaps something more sinister?

*****

The forest was thick with the music of nature, yet the melody did nothing to ease the tension between the two travelers.

Laurence's gaze seldom met Avril's, his eyes instead scanning the underbrush and the overhead canopy, as if expecting an ambush at any moment. They had been walking for approximately three days since the attack in Moridgale.

Laurence's belongings were few; a change of clothes and a handful of sealing stones recovered from the wreckage. His coin purse, thankfully heavier than it had been in years in preparation for travel, jingled softly with each step—but he knew the money would not last. They would need more to survive now that they were proceeding by foot instead of carriage.

"Are we lost, or do you intend to wander this forest until we're old and gray?" Avril inquired, peering over Laurence's shoulder at the map of Loros unfurled between them.

"We’re not lost. Tellos gave me this before..." Laurence's voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. He had barely spoken to Avril since the massacre, the knight’s presence a constant reminder of his own helplessness during the ambush.

It wasn't just Barton and the others he mourned—it was the loss of his certainty, the destruction of the world he thought he knew.

Attempting to shake off his miserable thoughts, Laurence studied the map, tracing the path to Nelbrek Village with a slender finger. It was the closest haven from Moridgale —besides Dondor— yet still so far away. Their food might run out before they reached its borders.

"We're not lost," Laurence repeated more firmly, folding the map with a snap. Returning home so utterly defeated was not an option; he couldn't bear the thought of his father's disappointment. He had to see the journey through no matter the obstacles in order to learn, grow stronger, and prove himself worthy of his lineage.

Despite his resolve, the ache in his heart still throbbed with each beat, a constant reminder of Barton's absence. The man's lighthearted banter and easy smile were gone, leaving behind a gaping void. And instead of solace, Laurence had Avril's relentless proximity buzzing around him like a gnat.

Laurence's grief was raw, but it was also fuel. Every stride carried the weight of his loss—and determination. 

He would carry this burden. He would reach Nelbrek. And he would not let his father down.

Their trek led them deeper into the wilderness, until they stumbled upon a camp where the scent of pine and sweat hung heavily in the air.

A group of woodcutters, rugged and sunburned, paused in their labor, eyes tracking the newcomers with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

"Travelers?" One called out, his voice gruff, hands frozen mid-swing on a hefty axe.

Laurence nodded, taking in their wide shoulders and the lines etched into their weather-beaten faces. "Yes. Heading to Nelbrek."

"Bit far on foot," another woodcutter said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of sawdust and sap.

"Indeed," Laurence replied curtly, keenly aware of Avril hovering less than a step behind him, tense and ready to act if needed.

Silence stretched between them, making Laurence uneasy as the woodcutters proceeded to confer among themselves with sidelong glances and terse nods.

"Could use some help with the timber," one suggested, jerking his head toward the stacks of logs waiting to be hauled onto a cart that was wider than Laurence’s royal carriage had been. "If you lend a hand, we’ll give you a ride since we’re headed that way.”

Laurence considered the proposal. 

The men more than likely didn’t recognize him, given how casually he was dressed with dirt and mud clinging to his boots, and perhaps that was for the best. Swallowing the last shards of his already shattered pride, Laurence stepped forward and agreed to help. 

"Right then," the woodcutter grunted, turning back to his work. "Let's see what you're made of, son."

Laurence rolled up his sleeves, the untrained muscles in his arms tensing as he prepared to lift the first log. His movements were clumsy and he nearly dropped it on his foot, but he successfully transferred the log onto the cart despite the trembling in his limbs.

Necessity was a stern teacher.

Each log hoisted, each bead of sweat trickling down his temple, was a step away from the helpless prince who watched his entourage fall.

Avril stood apart, arms folded across his chest defiantly. His stance made it clear that such manual labor was not included in his obligation to Laurence. 

"Are you really going to just stand there watching?" Laurence huffed tersely as he started dragging the next log off the pile.

"You are not in danger," Avril observed, his tone laced with that maddening cheerfulness.

"Fine," Laurence gritted out, lifting the log with renewed vigor. Avril's refusal to aid in their immediate needs was just another stone in the great wall separating them.

But for now, Laurence would focus on the task at hand, proving to himself that he was more than just a title and a tragedy.