The council chamber filled before the sun reached its highest point in the sky, as if the palace had awakened with an open wound. The flowers meant for Elios’s altar still perfumed the air, but no one looked at them with hope anymore—they were an uncomfortable reminder of the day that never came.

The councilors took their seats, faces tense, and at the center, beneath the golden stained-glass windows, the king’s throne seemed to burn with a light too harsh for a heart that had just been broken.

“This cannot be handled as a personal matter,” one of the councilors said, his voice edged with impatience. “The city is murmuring. A wedding canceled without explanation is an affront to Elios and to the people.”

“It is a betrayal,” another added. “We cannot allow a noble without a kingdom to humiliate the crown in this way.”

Queen Catherine kept her hands folded on the table. She did not raise her voice. She did not need to.

“Choose your words carefully,” she said at last, with quiet firmness. “You speak of someone who was welcomed into this house as a son.”

“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” replied the councilor in the dark robe, “the kingdom cannot afford to treat this as a family wound. The absence of the consort affects alliances, stability, and the image of the crown.”

The chamber doors opened, and the king entered without announcement.

The stained-glass light fell fully upon him, gilding his hair and sharpening his features. He did not wear the adornments of the wedding day. His tunic was simple. His steps, heavy.

“Have you already decided which version of the abandonment you’re going to sell to the people?” he asked, without preamble.

The murmur died at once.

“Son…” the queen began, rising to her feet.

“No, Mother,” Eidan interrupted. “Let me hear them. Betrayal? Political mistake?”

He approached the council table but did not sit.

“Because if you’re going to turn what happened into an issue of image, at least have the decency to say it to my face.”

“It is an issue,” another councilor insisted. “Never in hundreds of years have we been insulted like this.”

“After everything Diodain has done for the people of Delphen, this is the ingratitude we receive.”

“I propose we pursue the fugitive and judge him before the masses,” said another.

“And it is imperative that we secure another alliance through marriage to cover this failure,” added a third. “There are several offers that would benefit the kingdom…”

The crash of goblets shattering against the floor cut through the diplomatic voices.

The silence that followed was sharp enough to slice the air.

“I will go after him,” Eidan said, his voice low, laced with venom. “Prepare my best men. Saddle the horses.”

He lifted his gaze, fixing it on each of the councilors in turn.

“I will bring him back so he can look me in the eyes and tell me why it was so easy to leave me behind.”

The queen rose from her seat.

“Do not turn your pain into a hunt,” she pleaded, her voice strained. “I do not recognize you when you speak like this.”

Eidan looked at her. His eyes were red with restrained fury.

“Do as I ordered,” he said. “We will pay a visit first.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” they answered in unison.

The councilors dispersed quickly. The chamber fell silent, leaving only Queen Catherine standing there, her hands trembling, surrounded by the lingering scent of flowers from a wedding that never was.

The farm north of the village stood amid crooked fences and parched fields. The horses grazed beside the stable, their backs marked with old scars from labor.

Dyro assessed them in silence.

“They’re not pretty,” he murmured, “but they’ll get us far from here.”

The farmer came out to meet them, a hoe resting on his shoulder. His wife appeared behind him, a child peeking out from behind her skirts.

The man’s gaze hardened at the sight of them.

“We don’t sell to your kind,” he said bluntly. “Not even for a thousand coins.”

Sven froze, taken aback.

“We’re not here to cause trouble,” he began. “We just need—”

“I’ve heard that before,” the farmer cut him off. “Your people take what they want and then forget we even exist.”

Dyro stepped forward.

“We’ll pay you well.”

“I don’t want your gold,” the man spat. “I want you to stay away.”

Dyro’s jaw tightened. His hand moved toward the hilt of his sword.

Sven noticed and touched his arm.

“Dyro…”

“Let me speak,” Nox intervened, stepping forward.

The farmer looked at him with suspicion at first… until his eyes widened slightly.

“You?” he muttered. “The potion boy?”

“The same,” Nox nodded. “I swear we’ll care for your horses as if they were our own. We only need them for part of the journey. When it’s over, we’ll return them safely.”

The farmer’s wife stepped forward.

“Your brews helped my sister get back on her feet,” she said softly.

The man hesitated. He looked at Sven. At Dyro. Then at Nox.

“I hope I don’t regret this,” he grumbled at last, leading three young horses toward them.

Dyro handed the farmer a handful of coins, which the man took stiffly. His wife, on the other hand, gave Nox a brief smile before letting them leave with their new mounts.

As they rode away, Sven remained silent. The weight of the encounter pressed on his chest.

“Why do they hate us?” he finally asked in a low voice, once they had put some distance between them.

Nox adjusted one of the horse’s straps.

“They don’t hate you specifically,” he said. “They hate what your kingdom represents. To people out here, Diodain is a light that doesn’t reach their path. They live without guards, without knights to protect them, without gods who answer. When something attacks them, no one comes. Diodain has only given shelter to the people of Delphen.”

Sven lowered his gaze.

Dyro cleared his throat.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “But…” he glanced at Nox. “You were useful.”

Nox raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose I should feel honored.”

“That’s the closest you’ll get from him,” Sven said.

Dyro rolled his eyes.

“So you conjure visions and heal villagers,” he said, circling Nox on horseback, sizing him up. “Why haven’t I heard of this ‘wonder boy’?”

“I don’t usually leave my cabin,” Nox shrugged. “And it’s not like anyone wants to come near me.”

“Except Sven and Nébula,” he added, casting a brief glance at the floating creature.

Sven nodded, eyes forward.

“I still don’t trust you,” Dyro admitted. “But I’ll let it slide for now.”

“That must come naturally to you,” Nox replied. “You are Sven’s guardian, after all.”

Dyro pressed his lips together.

“If there’s one thing I learned from my family, it’s not to trust dark mages.”

“That’s enough, brother,” Sven said, tired. “We get your point.”

“For now, we should find a place to spend the night.”

The horses let out soft whinnies.

They rode over low hills until they found a clearing where they could set up a makeshift camp, just as the sun began to sink below the horizon.

The clearing they chose rose atop a gentle hill, open enough to offer a wide view of the valley. From there, any movement in the darkness would be visible. The sky was clear; the moon, high.

Dyro was the first to dismount.

“From here we’ll see if anyone approaches,” he said, scanning the horizon. “I don’t like camping in blind spots.”

They lit a small fire—barely an orange eye in the middle of the night. The wind carried the scent of dry grass.

“I’ll take the first watch,” Dyro announced, adjusting his sword belt. “Rest. You’ve had a long day.”

Sven wanted to protest, but the exhaustion weighed too heavily in his bones.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Dyro stepped away, positioning himself at a higher point from which he could watch the road. His silhouette stood outlined against the star-filled sky.

Only Sven and Nox remained, with the fire between them.

For a while, the crackling flames were the only sound.

“You didn’t run away just because of a vague call,” Nox said at last, without looking at him. “Something pushed you to flee like this.”

Sven toyed with a small branch, nudging the embers.

“I saw her,” he confessed. “At Zelene’s altar.”

“Not in dreams. There. In front of me.”

Nox tensed immediately.

“The goddess?”

“A woman,” Sven corrected. “She said she was her emissary. She spoke to me about Delphen… that it still lives, that it needs me.”

The fire crackled. Nox said nothing for a moment.

“Mentioning Zelene is never a good sign,” he admitted at last. “Her messages are rarely kind to mortals.”

“Do you think I’m wrong?” Sven asked, a thread of anxiety in his voice. “Tell me. I need to know if… if I’m chasing an illusion.”

Nox took a slow breath.

“If you ask me as a sorcerer, I’d say apparitions are beautiful traps. They promise meaning when all they bring is ruin. If you ask me as someone who knows what remains of Delphen… I think going back is dangerous.”

Sven tightened his fingers.

“Are you going to tell me to go back too?”

“No,” Nox replied. “I’m telling you to be careful. There are things waiting for you there—things far greater than you. Things that don’t bend to the will of a prince. If you returned home, you would be safe… and you could be happy.”

Sven looked into the darkness, where the road disappeared.

“My true home is in Delphen anyway.”

He fell silent for a moment.

“Besides… I don’t know if he could forgive me.”

Nox felt the sting in his chest before he fully understood who he meant.

“How could he not?” he said, with forced gentleness. “How could anyone not forgive you, whatever it is?”

Sven shook his head slowly.

“Because I hurt him. I broke a promise.”

The firelight illuminated his face just enough for Nox to see the tremor in his expression.

From the hilltop, the night watched them—silent and inquisitive.