Arrow paced restlessly, his massive paws crunching against the charred and blood-soaked ground. The Kinnarion whined softly, his nose nudging the lifeless body of Ashur sprawled on the ground. His orange and white streaked coat was now singed and dirtied from the chaos. He seemed as lost as his master, his golden eyes filled with a silent grief that mirrored the prince's.
Caelan knelt beside Ashur's body, clutching him tightly as though he could somehow will life back into him. His hands were slick with blood and dirt, his nails broken and raw. His throat was hoarse, his voice long gone from the screams that had poured out of him for what felt like hours. His kingdom, his love, his life—all reduced to ash and ruin.
The sky above was a dark canvas, the glow of Aeryndale's fires painting the horizon a cruel, vivid orange. Smoke rose in thick, choking clouds, blotting out the stars. But none of it mattered to Caelan. Not the roaring flames, not the distant screams, not the faint crash of burning timbers collapsing in the distance.
All he could hear was silence.
And all he could feel was the cold, suffocating emptiness that had taken root in his chest.
The rain began to fall, soft at first, then steady. The kind of rain that might have once soothed him, washing away the day's burdens as he sat by the brooks with Ashur. But now it only added to the chill sinking into his bones, mixing with the blood and tears on his face as it trickled down.
Caelan pressed his forehead to Ashur's, his tears mingling with the rain. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry, Ashur. I should have been faster. I should have tried harder…"
He had not anticipated being present for the after. They were supposed to die together and a part of him resented Arrow for saving him. "I should have…"
But there were no words. Nothing he could say would undo what had been done.
Eventually, the weight of his grief left him numb. Empty. His body moved on instinct as he stood, cradling Ashur's body in his arms. He carried him to Arrow, mounting him carefully onto the Kinnarion's back. Ashur's form slumped against the beast, but Arrow didn't protest. He only turned his head slightly, his nose brushing against Ashur's shoulder, as though bidding him a final farewell.
Caelan took hold of Arrow's reins and began to walk, his steps heavy, the mud sucking at his boots. They traveled in silence, save for the sound of the rain and the faint crackling of distant fires.
The brook was quiet when they arrived, it's usual gentle song replaced by the soft patter of rain against the water's surface. The place looked untouched by the carnage of the city, like the eye of a storm.
Using his sword, and then his own hands when the blade failed to cut deep enough, Caelan dug into the earth. The soil was wet, clinging to his fingers, but he didn't stop. His muscles screamed in protest, his body trembled from exhaustion, his hands bled as he dug into the damp earth, each handful of soil ripped from the ground with a desperate ferocity; but he couldn't stop.
Ashur deserved more—deserved a proper burial, a pyre fit for a king—but all Caelan had left to give him was this. His love. His trembling hands. His broken heart.
So he would not rest until Ashur had a proper resting place.
When the grave was ready, Caelan gently lowered Ashur into it, arranging his limbs as though the man were simply asleep. His fingers brushed against Ashur's face one last time, memorizing every line, every curve. He placed a folded piece of parchment—his last letter to Ashur— along with his ring on him before covering the body with soil.
Caelan knelt before the fresh grave, his head bowed, the rain soaking through his clothes. "Forgive me," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Forgive me for failing you. For failing all of them." He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "But I swear to you, Ashur, I will make them pay. Velentis will burn for what they've done. Edric will suffer."
The words weren't just a promise. They were a vow.
---
Two years later, the kingdom of Aeryndale was nothing more than a memory.
The kingdom had been reduced to a province of Velentis, it was Velentis guards that now patrolled the streets like wolves claiming a carcass. Twice, he'd seen the banners bearing Edric's crest—golden phoenixes rising from crimson flames—flutter above the ruins of his home. Twice, he'd fought the urge to cut them down. But a dead prince could claim no vengeance.
Caelan had heard whispers of Edric's coronation during his travels, tales passed around shady backwoods taverns and merchant caravans. Edric had been named High King of the new province, a title bestowed by his father, the very king that had killed Caelan's father and orchestrated Aeryndale's destruction.
Caelan had grown unrecognizable over the years. His hair, once neatly kept, now fell past his shoulders, and a scraggly beard framed his angular face. He'd grown thinner, his skin tanned and weathered from the road. He was just another drifter now, slipping in and out of towns unnoticed. And that was how he wanted it.
He had no kingdom. No family. No allies. Only the burning rage that kept him moving.
Arrow was his only companion and of course brigands thought they could fetch a pretty penny by cutting the master down and taking the tiger-fox. Caelan had gotten used to satiating his appetite for vengeance by wetting his blade with the blood of thieves.
Tonight, his journey brought him to the edge of a forest, where a small, crooked hut sat nestled among the trees. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the faint glow of candlelight seeped through the cracks in the shutters.
Caelan pushed the door open without knocking, the scent of burnt sage and damp wood hitting him immediately. The interior was cluttered with shelves lined with strange relics: jars of preserved herbs, bones carved with intricate symbols, and candles of every shape and size.
At the center of the room sat a man, ancient and blind, his milky white eyes staring straight ahead. Despite his sightless gaze, he turned his head toward Caelan the moment he stepped inside.
"Prince of a Lost Kingdom," the mage said, his voice deep and resonant. "You reek of death."
Caelan stiffened, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword. "How do you know who I am?"
The mage chuckled softly, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "I see even without eyes. The threads of fate are as clear to me as the stars and it is fate that has brought you to me." He leaned forward slightly. "What is it you seek, prince?"
"I want to change the past," Caelan said, his voice firm.
The mage's smile faded. "You cannot."
Caelan took a step closer, his jaw tight. "Then I want to start over. To prevent this—" he gestured to himself, to the room, to the world beyond the walls— "from ever happening again."
The mage tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "The past is set in stone, and the future is already written. You cannot change what is inevitable."
Caelan's fists clenched. "That's absurd."
"It is fate," the mage said simply. "From the moment we are born, we march toward the day the fates have chosen for us to die. Those who died in your kingdom did so because it was their time. You survived because it was not yours."
Caelan's voice rose, his grief and anger bubbling to the surface. "You expect me to believe that I'm nothing more than a puppet? That we're all slaves to some higher power?"
"It is the truth."
"Fate?" Caelan spat, slamming his fist into the nearest shelf, causing the old walls of the hut to rattle. "Was it fate that Velentis guards dragged screaming children into the streets of my home and cut them down? Was it fate that my father's blood spilled across the great hall? That Ashur—" His voice cracked, the words caught in his throat. "No. They didn't die because it was their time. They died because I wasn't strong enough."
The mage said nothing and Caelan inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to calm his anger. "I have come from a far distance to seek your help. I have lost everything, everything, and I am willing to do anything to get it back. I will not accept that my future has already been decided for me. I will not accept that he died because he was supposed to."
Caelan swallowed hard, leaving the last part unspoken. He died because I failed him and I will not fail him again.
If fate was an unbreakable thread, then he would unravel it strand by strand and weave something new from its remains.
The mage regarded him for a long moment. Then, he reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a small charm. It was no larger than a coin, its surface etched with intricate, glowing symbols.
Caelan stared at it warily, stepping closer. "What is that?"
"When it is your time, you will know," the mage said, pressing it into Caelan's palm. "Until then, I see you have other matters to attend to."
Caelan's fingers closed around the charm, its edges biting into his skin. He didn't care how or when he would die. All that mattered was that, before he did, Velentis would fall, and Edric would pay for his sins.
Fate be damned.