Chapter 97 THE PRINCE
Far beyond the kingdom of Arrandelle—past guarded roads, quiet villages, and even the forests Athalia once crossed unseen—rose a mountain range no map dared name.
Its peaks jutted like broken teeth against the sky, jagged and ancient, as if the earth itself had grown weary of carrying them. Storms gathered there, heavy with promise, yet rain rarely fell. Wind circled endlessly, whispering secrets into stone.
Hidden among those mountains was a cave.
It bore no symbols. No wards. No guards. To an untrained eye, it was nothing more than a narrow fracture in the rock. Inside, however, it widened into a vast, seamless chamber—its walls smoothed not by tools, but by something far older. Something patient.
At its center sat a young man.
He was cross-legged on the cold stone, spine straight, hands resting loosely on his knees. His eyes were closed. His breathing slow. Measured. He wore no crown, no armour, no royal colours—only simple dark clothes, worn but carefully kept. His hair fell past his shoulders, dark like his mother’s once had been. His face held no trace of fear or doubt.
He had been born in silence, far from palace halls and celebration. No bells rang. No herald spoke his name. His first breath had been drawn beneath stone instead of sky—and yet, from that moment, the world had shifted.
He had been meditating for hours. Perhaps days. Time bent strangely here. The air was heavy, threaded with a low, steady hum that seemed to rise from the mountain itself. Each breath echoed faintly, as if the stone were listening.
His mind was far from the cave.
He felt the kingdom’s pulse without seeing it—fear, grief, longing, all pulled tight and fraying. He felt his mother most of all: her restlessness, her sorrow, her refusal to surrender hope.
He did not open his eyes.
Footsteps echoed at the edge of the chamber.
Another presence entered, slow and deliberate, respectful of the silence. The man was older—though not old—with silver at his temples and a posture that held despite the climb. His dark cloak was lined with pale fabric, marked faintly with moon symbols.
It was Alaric.
The General, a he was called. But his Messenger. One of the few who knew the truth.
He stopped several steps away and bowed his head.
"Greetings Master." Alaric said softly.
“I realise you are deep in meditation,” Alaric continued. “But i bring a message and will not disturb you unless you wish it.”
The Master did not move.
“Speak, Alaric. You have been expected.”
Alaric lifted his gaze. “I believe you know why I’ve come, Master.”
“Speak, Alaric,” the prince replied. “Words still matter to me as much a time.”
Alaric stepped closer, stopping where he always did. “Arrandelle stirs. The kingdom is uneasy.”
The prince said nothing at first.
“What has changed?” He asked.
Alaric hesitated. “Nothing much. However, for one. Your mother. Queen Athalia has still not been found. Some still call her missing while others regard her as dead..”
“Dead! Wo unto those who want her dead. She can never dead.” He said. "And the children?”
Alaric’s jaw tightened. “More have been taken and returned days later as usual. Without memory.”
The Master said nothing.
The hum beneath the stone deepened, vibrating through Alaric’s boots.
“You should know that the people speaks the queens name openly now,” he continued. “They say the Queen searches for her son.”
“She is not wrong if she's alive and doing so.”
“But fear grows regardless in the city.”
“And the King?”
Alaric drew a careful breath. “King Adrian convened the council again. He has decided—he will not take another queen. Not now, not ever. But he has lost hope in searching for the Queen.”
The air tightened as the cave shook.
“The council agreed?”
“The King sticks to the belief his heir is going to be of the late Queen or no heir at all. So, the throne beside him will remain empty.”
Silence stretched between them.
“And here i thought he no longer loved us,” the prince said at last.
“He chose a promise at the cost of stability. It is noble indeed, Master.”
The Master 's eyes were still closed.
“Master, for years they have waited for you,” Alaric said. “Some doubt you ever existed. Others believe you died with her. And some...”
“Fear me.”
Alaric did not deny it.
“They only fear who they have seen, my Lord.”
The prince inhaled slowly. The stone beneath him warmed. The hum swelled, deeper now—alive.
“They will fear me soon.”
“But its been too long,” Alaric said. “Your mother’s grief is shaping the kingdom. Your father wears sorrow like armour. And you remain hidden.”
“Did Selene send you to me?.”
“No, However, she just believes the kingdom needs a new dawn not a weak king.”
“It is time.”
The air shifted.
The Master turned outward as he stood facing beyond the cave, beyond flesh and stone, beyond the mountains themselves. He reached for the echoes bound to him before birth, summoned in dreams and blood and moonlight. They were his creation and they had risen because of him.
Now they felt his power.
Across distant lands, they paused.
A soldier let his blade slip from his fingers.
A scholar fell silent mid-sentence.
A shadow peeled itself from a wall.
One by one, they turned toward the mountains.
Toward him.
The prince opened his eyes.
Light spilled softly across the chamber. Stone cracked—not breaking, but reshaping, as if yielding. Alaric staggered back.
“Master,” he breathed bowing. “We have waited long enough,”
“So have I.” The Master said.
From every direction, they came—by road and shadow, by paths Alaric could not name. They arrived outside the cave, and they bowed.
Warriors knelt.
Mages lowered their heads.
Creatures neither wholly human nor entirely other turned their faces to the stone.
All who had risen before his birth.
All who had waited.
The prince stood and walked toward the entrance—toward the waiting world.
“Send word to everyone,” he said. “And to my father.”
Alaric swallowed. “What shall I tell them?”
The prince looked out as dawn spilled across the peaks.
“Tell them,” he said, “that the son Athalia searched for is alive.”
The wind rose.
And far away, in Arrandelle, something ancient stirred—answering at last.