193

193
Bastard Prince Cael pov

The ink on the paper is dry, has been for months and maybe even longer.

Or at least, long enough for the seal to grow brittle and the scent to fade. Long enough for the name at the top to feel like a taunt instead of a kindness - Cael.

There’s no line that says “my son,” “the heir” or even “child.” It’s just my name, plain and simple, final. It feels like she was already washing her hands of me as she wrote it.

My dearest Cael,
If you are reading this, then things did not go as planned. That’s unfortunate.
I had hoped, truly, that the decoy would serve his purpose well enough to protect you. That his death, or reign, would grant you the freedom you were too young to seize for yourself. But if he has failed, and you are now exposed… then I cannot risk the rebellion turning soft. Your blood may be royal, but that makes you dangerous. You are a child of power and power without control invites destruction. If the day comes that you are found… You must disappear, willingly, or not.
With all my coldest affection,
\- O

My hands don’t shake as I read the words over and over again, although I know they should. The problem is that this kind of betrayal doesn’t reach the skin - it carves its way deeper, past flesh and logic, down into the marrow, where the first crack was already waiting, patient and ugly.

I sit for a long time after reading it, gripping the paper as if I hold it hard enough, the words could change just because I want them to. The tent is too still and quiet, making me feel like something inside here had been dead for far too long and no one truly noticed it and maybe still keeps ignoring the fact.

I stand slowly, eyes catching on the map still pinned above my makeshift bed. The rebellion’s last known positions, Arvin’s last sighting, the routes marked safe and the ones marked questionable. All of it lies.

Not one mark leads to truth, because the rebellion isn’t here.

They left me behind, almost all of them, and they did it quietly, so completely I feel like they took a part of me with them simply because they knew they could.

No one woke me, I didn’t find even a note pinned to the darn flap of a tent and not even a stolen saddle to suggest they’d worried what I might do once I realized.

I step outside and find nothing. I look around and see only flattened grass and scratched-out prints of what might’ve been a dozen horses. Or twenty.

Gone, all of them are fucking gone. They didn’t just leave me behind like yesterday’s trash, they abandoned me and made it very darn clear.

Instead of panicking, screaming and raging, I decide to walk the perimeter and check if anything’s but me is left behind after all.

I don’t rush anywhere, at least not yet. I’m waiting for the anger to settle, I need it sharp, not flailing.

I find an old flagpole snapped in half beside the treeline, the colors are faded and the emblem stitched there isn’t the crown - it isn’t anything, just a symbol they made up once to feel like they had a cause.

I kneel next to it. Not because I want to show it any honor but to simply feel the dirt and touch something that hasn’t lied to me.

My fingertips dig in - the dirt is cold and dry, unpleasant to touch.

I think I was six when Orna first taught me to read, seven when she started calling me her project, nine when she told me the Court had no place for half-bloods.

But she never called me unwanted - never until now.

After a moment of too tense silence, I return to the tent. I don’t plan to, but my body moves before I think.

I think it’s because somewhere deep inside, I still want to find someone around here and prove myself wrong. A scout, a note I might have missed, any proof that this wasn’t what it looks like.

But it is, it’s exactly what it looks like and the cursed letter still waits on the table. I light a match, the flames eat it quickly, faster than I wanted. Ash curls up between my fingers and I whisper to it: fuck you.

I suddenly recall that when I was fifteen, I asked Orna if she ever loved me. That time she said yes like she truly meant it only to turn the next moment and remind me not to ask questions that couldn’t be answered in public. That was the last time I mistook affection for safety.

Shrugging off those awful memories, I start grabbing everything of use and drop it onto the makeshift bed before I grab a bag dropped into the corner of the tent. Then, I start packing slowly.

I grab the map first, then toss in a blade and add three vials of tonic I’d stolen two weeks ago, not because I thought I’d need them, but because I wanted to know if I could take something without anyone noticing.

Turns out, I could and it seems that I wasn’t the only one doing it.

When I leave the tent for the last time, I look around the abandoned camp once more and start moving with a brand new purpose to my steps. The last horse is tied to a post like someone forgot him, or like they knew I’d need him and someone actually took pity in my situation after all.

The horse got good legs, but bad eyes and his muzzle nicked up from barbed reins. Seems like we make a perfect pair after all, the same as me, this horse comes with good and bad while he’s trapped in painful chains that aren’t of his own choosing.

I don’t name him - I’ve learned that names are nothing but illusions. The truth is that names are only temporary, the same as causes are. And in some cases, the same like crowns, especially one that was promised to me far too many times, sadly.

By the time I ride out, it’s near dusk. I don’t leave anything behind and let them think I vanished and wonder if I truly left if they ever return to check if I’m still alive.

And most importantly, I want Orna to think she broke me so well I disappeared like a well-trained ghost.
But I don’t plan to disappear, I plan to hunt, because I know something they forgot: no one watches the bastard until it’s too late.

At night, I sleep under nothing but branches, the stars don’t speak, the wind doesn’t carry answers, but I dream of Lester.

His crown is made of ash, eyes are red with loss and he holds Arvin in his arms, but it’s not Arvin. It’s a corpse - a prophecy, a child with no mouth.

He looks at me and says: You’re too late.

I wake up with dirt on my face and guilt in my chest, I don’t know who I’m trying to save anymore or if anyone deserves it.