He did not hear them himself. Children never did. Their lives were rearranged by voices carried through older mouths—priests, kings, cowards hiding behind prophecy. Aurelian was only aware that the castle felt heavier that morning, as if the stone itself had learned to hold its breath.

He was the Third Prince of Veltos.

Not the heir.

Not the spare.

The extra.

Aurelian sat on the cold marble steps outside the eastern hall, legs swinging idly as he traced the grooves in the floor with a wooden sword far too big for his hands. He liked this place. The light came in through tall windows, turning dust into floating stars. It smelled like iron, wax, and old banners—things that lasted.

Inside the hall, the High Conclave had gathered.

Seven priests. Three astrologers. One prophecy tablet pulled from the sealed vault beneath the capital—stone so old it predated the crown itself.

The gods had not spoken in generations.

That was the problem.

“The alignment is absolute,” one of the astrologers said, voice tight. “All markers confirm it.”

“The Third Star,” whispered a priest. “Born under a divided sky.”

Another swallowed. “Raised within the walls… he brings collapse.”

The High Priest stepped forward, hands trembling despite a lifetime of ritual discipline. “The gods’ decree is clear.”

King Aldric Veltos did not rise from his throne. He did not shout. He did not ask for clarification.

He already knew.

“Say it,” the king commanded.

The High Priest closed his eyes.

“The Third Prince must remain within the castle.

If he leaves its walls, he shall be executed.

If he stays… the kingdom shall bleed.”

Silence followed—not the fragile kind, but the heavy silence that marked the end of choice.

The queen’s breath broke first. “He’s five,” she said. “He still counts his steps.”

The priests did not answer her. They never answered mothers.

The king finally stood. His voice was calm, which frightened them more than anger ever could.

“You’re telling me,” Aldric said slowly, “that my son must either live as a prisoner or die as a solution.”

“The gods do not—”

“I did not ask what the gods feel.”

The High Priest lowered his gaze. “This prophecy cannot be undone. Only obeyed.”

Outside the hall, Aurelian stopped swinging his sword.

He didn’t know why—only that something had shifted. The laughter of servants faded. Footsteps slowed. Even the banners seemed to hang more stiffly than before.

Lucien arrived without announcement.

He always did.

Aurelian looked up, eyes bright. “You’re late,” he said seriously.

Lucien, Knight of the Black Oath, did not smile—but his voice softened. “Training ran long.”

Lucien was different from the others. He didn’t kneel too quickly. He didn’t speak to Aurelian like glass. He treated him like someone who would one day need to stand alone.

Lucien noticed the tension immediately. His hand drifted closer to the sword at his side—not in threat, but in habit.

The doors of the eastern hall opened.

The king stepped out.

His gaze went first to Lucien. Then to his son.

“Aurelian,” Aldric said, “come here.”

The boy obeyed, wooden sword clutched to his chest.

The king knelt so they were eye level. He did not touch him. That was deliberate. Touch made goodbyes harder.

“Do you trust Sir Lucien?” the king asked.

Aurelian nodded without hesitation. “Yes.”

Lucien stiffened.

“That may be the most important answer of your life,” Aldric said quietly.

He stood, turning to Lucien now. The weight in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Take him,” the king said. “Now. Use the old routes. No banners. No names.”

Lucien understood instantly.

Exile.

Not punishment.

Not mercy.

Survival.

The queen reached for her son at last, pressing her forehead to his hair. She did not cry. Queens learned early what tears cost.

“Be brave,” she whispered. “You were always good at that.”

Aurelian frowned. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” she said. “You’re being protected.”

Lucien lifted the boy into his arms.

For the first time in his life, Aurelian felt the castle turn its back on him.

As Lucien carried him toward the hidden passages beneath Veltos, the bells did not ring. No decree was announced. No blood was spilled.

History would record that the Third Prince remained within the castle.

History would be wrong.

Because before dawn broke over Veltos, Aurelian Veltos—the child bound by prophecy—was already leaving the only world he had ever known.

And soon, even his name would be taken from him.