The trail faded wherever magic touched the earth.

Eidan stared at the blackened path before his horse—branches twisted as if burned from within, stones coated in soot that carried no scent of fire. His scouts had stopped there for the third time in two days.

“This isn’t natural,” the captain said, dismounting. “My men swear the path was clear just hours ago.”

Eidan climbed down and crouched, pressing two fingers to the ground. The ash was cold.

“It wasn’t fire,” he murmured. “It was sorcery.”

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.

“Dark sorcery?” one asked quietly. “My grandfather used to say that when shadow touches the road—”

“Enough,” Eidan cut him off, rising to his feet. “I don’t want superstition. I want facts.”

He looked to the horizon. The merchant city wasn’t far. He could feel it in his bones—Sven had passed through there.

“Split the men,” he ordered. “One group follows the trail toward the town. The other returns to the cave we found last night. I want answers about that eclipse symbol.”

The captain nodded.

“Do you think the prince is allied with a sorcerer?”

Eidan clenched his jaw.

“With every step, I feel like I know less about who he walks beside.”

They had circled the outskirts of the town twice before admitting the trail was slipping through their fingers. The scouts returned with boots stained in cold ash, with incomplete reports and weary eyes. Dark magic had twisted the paths again, confusing the men as if the road itself refused to be followed.

Eidan remained upright in his saddle, but his posture no longer hid the strain. The shadows beneath his eyes had settled deep. His hands trembled as he tightened the reins. He hadn’t slept in days.

Gilliard, captain of the royal guard, dismounted beside him.

“Your Highness,” he said quietly. “Allow me to speak to you not as a soldier, but as a man who has served your family all his life.”

Eidan did not answer at once.

“We can’t afford to lose time,” he said finally. “Every hour we remain here, he gets farther away.”

“And every hour you refuse to rest,” Gilliard replied without harshness, “you come closer to falling from that horse before you ever reach him.”

Eidan’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t need rest.”

“You may not need it,” the captain conceded. “But you deserve it. And I ask you as a friend, not as your subordinate.”

The king fell silent. The wind stirred the fabric of the camp with a rough whisper. For a moment, Eidan felt the weight of his own body as if it no longer belonged to him. Rage kept him standing—but rage did not sustain him.

“One night,” he yielded at last. “Just one.”

Gilliard inclined his head.

They made their way to the largest inn in the city. The torches in the courtyard lit a constant flow of merchants and travelers from different kingdoms. The moment the golden banner was recognized, the murmur died—as if the place itself had held its breath.

“It’s the King of Diodain…”

The owner rushed out, wiping his hands on his apron, and bowed with exaggerated reverence.

“Your Highness,” he said nervously. “It is an honor. You will be attended as you deserve.”

Eidan gave a slight nod. He was not there for honors.

“I’m looking for information,” he said. “About something I found on the road.”

He pulled out a parchment and spread it across the table. On it was the symbol he had seen in the cave: the moon devoured by shadow.

The owner went pale.

“That…,” he swallowed, “I’ve seen that sign before.”

“Speak.”

“Some dark sorcerers wear it—on pendants or as markings,” he said. “They don’t usually come through here, though a few days ago one stopped at this very place.”

Eidan felt his pulse quicken.

“Was he alone?”

“No, Your Highness. He was accompanied by two young men of noble bearing. They looked Delphenian.”

The world narrowed.

“Bring me the person who attended them,” Eidan ordered. “Now.”

The owner gestured nervously toward the interior.

“Badra!”

The young man appeared from the back of the inn, drying his hands. At the sight of the king, he froze. His eyes moved from the golden banner to Eidan’s face—and then, for a second too long, to the parchment bearing the symbol.

Eidan studied him—his features, his age. Something about him echoed the shadow he had been chasing so relentlessly.

“Do you remember them?” the king asked, his voice controlled. “A young man with light hair—like yours. Noble bearing. And a sorcerer from the Black Forest.”

Badra felt his heart slam against his ribs. He saw Sven’s eyes again. Heard the lunar tongue in his memory. Felt the weight of something he wasn’t supposed to carry.

“I…” he swallowed. “No, Your Highness. Many travelers pass through here. I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.”

The owner frowned.

“Are you sure? I recall that you attended them.”

Badra shook his head, lowering his gaze.

“I truly don’t remember them.”

Eidan watched him closely. Something in his instinct told him the boy wasn’t entirely honest—but it wasn’t worth pressing.

“Very well,” he said at last. “You may go.”

Badra bowed and stepped away with controlled movements, feeling each heartbeat like a drum in his chest.

When he disappeared behind the door, Eidan closed his fist around the parchment.

“He’s close,” he murmured.

Gilliard heard him.

“Then rest tonight, Your Highness,” he said. “Tomorrow, we’ll catch him.”

Eidan lifted his gaze to the moon beginning to emerge between the clouds.

“I hope so,” he whispered. “Before the shadows change him completely.”

The king did not fall asleep right away.

The inn had gone quiet. Outside, the city breathed in distant murmurs—travelers still drinking, animals settling in the stables, late footsteps searching for shelter. Inside, the king’s chamber lay in shadow, lit only by the moon slipping through the curtains.

He sat at the edge of the bed. He thought of the road. Of the traces of sorcery that had twisted the trail. Of the eclipse symbol. Of the name of a dark sorcerer, spoken with fear on чужed tongues.

He thought of Sven. Of his silence in recent days. Of the way he had grown distant without ever saying why. Of the things he had kept to himself—his dreams, his fear, his calling, his purpose.

Every truth Eidan uncovered along the way did not bring him closer.

It drove him farther away.

He didn’t understand why Sven hadn’t told him. Why he had chosen to run instead of trust.

Why he had walked into the darkness without taking his hand.

How far was Sven willing to go to fulfill what he believed was his duty?

Eidan closed his eyes.

He remembered the boy who clung to his hand before facing the world—the one who promised to stay, the one who believed everything could be done together.

And suddenly, the anger faded replaced by disappointment.

The slow, cruel realization that perhaps he was chasing a memory. A version of Sven that only existed in his mind.

And he wasn’t sure he could love the reality.

He opened his eyes.

“Did I lose you before you ever ran?” he whispered into the dark.

It was the first time since the pursuit had begun that he truly felt the weight of his solitude.

And that silence hurt more than the betrayal.