The ancient forests of Lunaris guarded their secrets as mothers might guard lost children. Low-hanging branches arched overhead like the rafters of a dark cathedral, weaving a tapestry of green and shadow that defied the darkening sky. Twilight was once a cherished hour in this moon-worshipping land—a time of gentle gatherings, soft music, and the sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine drifting through the royal city. But tonight, that same floral perfume clung to the air like the foretaste of dread.
The western horizon glowed an unnaturally fierce orange, too abrupt and violent to be a mere sunset. Usually, the sun eased its way down in Lunaris, its light gracefully yielding to the moon's soft radiance. Instead, the fire in the sky betrayed the doom that had come at dusk. Beneath the dense canopy, a young man of nineteen—dirt smeared on his cheeks and half-dried blood caked on his brow—pressed himself against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak. His breathing came in short, ragged bursts. His once-elegant tunic and trousers were reduced to tatters, and though he tried not to think about it, he could still feel the warmth of fresh bruises swelling across his ribs.
This young man was called Lucas—a name so rarely spoken in the castle that it felt foreign on anyone's lips. The royal household kept him as a servant, or so nearly everyone believed. In truth, he had been born of a secret tryst between the King of Lunaris and a dancer from the far provinces. To avoid scandal, the king and queen had devised an elaborate ruse: the dancer left quietly after giving birth, and the boy was raised in the castle's shadows. Staff and courtiers whispered that he was just another nameless orphan with nowhere else to go, thrown scraps of education and lodging by the royal family out of pity. Only a small handful knew the real story. The secret was so guarded that even Lucas himself sometimes questioned whether he had imagined his lineage—except for the unmistakable sign of his father's blood: his pale purple eyes, a color rumored to run through the royal line.
Tonight, those distinctive eyes were wide with fear. It was that cursed lilac hue, glimmering in the torchlight, that might yet give him away. Armored footfalls scraped through the undergrowth, and voices barked orders in the harsh accent of the Vulkarian Empire—the force that had overtaken Nocturne Castle with terrifying speed earlier that day.
"Spread out! The servant boy came this way—I saw him!" one soldier growled, the metallic jangle of chainmail rattling at his every step.
"What's so special about a servant?" another soldier muttered. "The castle's ours, the city's as good as fallen. Let the runt run."
"Captain's orders," hissed a third. "No survivors who overheard anything in the royal quarters. Besides, a pretty thing like that could fetch a good price on the slave market."
Lucas's chest constricted with nausea. Hours ago, the castle library had sheltered him from the day's tension; rumors of Vulkarian banners appearing on the horizon were swirling, but no one expected the invasion to crash upon them so swiftly. He had spent the morning copying military treatises—a chore given to him by the steward who believed him to be no more than a literate servant. Perhaps ironically, those treatises had detailed how the kingdom's defenders might coordinate in a siege. They never got a chance to implement such knowledge. The city's gates fell within hours of the first alarm.
He shut his eyes, recalling the sight of the marble halls spattered with the blood of royal sons—princes he had served daily. They were his own half-brothers, though not a soul (beyond the late king, queen, and a few faithful retainers) knew of that connection. All dead now, strewn like broken dolls across the floor.
A scream echoed through the forest, distant but clear. A woman's voice, keening in terror. Lucas's throat tightened. A part of him feared it might be his mother, the dancer who had once entranced the king. She had returned to the castle only rarely, sneaking in and out under cover of night to check on the boy. He shook his head; if she had been present at court today, he prayed she'd already fled. She was always adept at protecting herself. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Dwelling on her fate would break him apart.
A branch snapped, too close. One of the soldiers was near. Instinct took over: become nothing, remain unseen. He tucked himself deeper into the tree's thick roots, heart hammering so loudly that he worried the soldiers might hear it. If they discovered his eyes, they might suspect something far more troubling than a mere servant's presence. He glanced over his shoulder through the shadows—too late.
"There! By the old oak!"
Fear seized him. He lunged away from the tree, crashing through ferns and prickly vines. Adrenaline gave him speed, but he was nearly spent. Having fled the castle ever since the Vulkarian banners rose against the ramparts, he had run himself ragged. Every bruise and cut screamed in protest as he forced his legs to move.
His foot caught on a root, and he sprawled down a slope, rolling through a bramble patch that tore more holes in his already shredded clothes. Thorns bit into his skin like tiny claws. He forced himself to his feet, trying to scramble deeper into the old forest. Memories of childhood teased his mind—stories of the Night Goddess's favor lying thick among these ancient woods. Perhaps it was foolish to place faith in old myths, but desperate men would latch onto any hope.
An arrow zipped past, thunking into a nearby trunk. He flinched, swallowing a sob of panic. The underbrush parted ahead, revealing a small clearing bathed in pale moonlight, the bright orange glow of flames at his back. He almost let out a whimper of despair. Standing in the clearing was a semicircle of Vulkarian soldiers, arms and armor glimmering in the eerie luminescence. Their eyes, wolf-like with the empire's arcane blessing, picked him out instantly.
He spun to retreat, only for strong arms to wrap around his torso from behind. He lashed out, catching someone's ribs with a blind elbow. A grunt of pain rewarded him, but another pair of hands clamped down, yanking him to his knees.
"Feisty little runt, aren't you?" rasped a soldier, black-steel gauntlets pressing bruises into Lucas's arms. A second soldier grabbed a fistful of Lucas's dirty hair, tugging his head back.
"What's a pretty thing like you doing, running from the emperor's peace?" The soldier spoke with a sneer, the torchlight painting cruel lines across his face.
Lucas tried to mask the trembling in his limbs by feigning a terrified, servile posture. That was how he had survived all these years—keeping his head down, avoiding eye contact, saying "yes, my lord" to everyone who might suspect anything more. As a rule, he never allowed strangers to gaze too long at his eyes. Not that many people in the castle paid attention; he was "just a servant," not worth a second glance. Yet one direct stare now could reveal too much. With breath hitching in his chest, he forced himself to appear petrified beyond speech.
"Sir!" another soldier barked, jogging into the clearing. "Castle's secured. The old king is dead—found in the throne room. Three princes dead, most of the court taken or killed."
Their words rained down like hammer blows on Lucas's psyche. In one day, the royal line was extinguished. He was the only one left, the final shred of the king's blood—and no one even realized it. Part of him felt a bizarre flash of guilt. His father was an aloof man to him, but there had been times, fleeting though they were, when he thought the king might soften. Now that chance was gone. And his half-brothers, who had never acknowledged him except to torment him in the corridors—gone as well. The dull ache of grief and confusion washed over him. He could hardly process it. He managed to keep silent, suppressing any telltale reaction.
"Good riddance," spat the soldier pinning Lucas's chin, a hateful glimmer in his wolfish eyes. "Decadent moon-worshipping fools. The empire will bring proper order."
He shoved Lucas's head away. Lucas's skull throbbed from the force. Rough hands twisted his arms behind his back, ropes biting cruelly into his wrists. A soldier kicked at the back of his legs until he nearly fell face-first into the mulch.
"Bind him. Captain can decide what to do with this one. Looks tidy enough underneath all that filth—he'll fetch a decent price once we're back in the empire." The soldier's mocking tone made Lucas's stomach churn.
The young man said nothing, fighting to calm the pounding of his heart. He stared at the forest floor, eyes flicking to the side where he glimpsed the raging orange glow of Nocturne Castle being devoured by fire. A lump formed in his throat. Memories of pacing the castle's dim corridors, quietly listening to gossip he was never meant to hear, danced through his mind. Now those corridors and hidden alcoves were gone—or soon would be, crumbling beneath Vulkarian steel and flame.
He felt the ropes tighten, felt himself hauled to his feet, barely able to stand on trembling legs. One soldier grabbed him by the arm and pushed him forward.
"Move," the soldier growled.
Lucas forced himself to take one step, then another. Despair fluttered in his chest, but a strange calm overlayed it. All his life, he had been forced to hide who he was. Tonight, that secrecy might be his only salvation. Let them think him a mere servant, an insignificant prisoner. They would never guess the truth—that their newest captive belonged to the very bloodline they had worked so ruthlessly to extinguish.
Still, fear gnawed at him. If they somehow discovered his heritage, he would be tortured for secrets or executed as a potential threat. Already his fate looked grim—a life enslaved, or worse, taken to the empire's capital as a spoil of war. Yet he clung to the knowledge that none of them knew who he was. None of them suspected. If he kept quiet, if he played his part, there might be some sliver of hope to survive.
The clearing gave way to a trampled path wending through the forest. The soldiers marched with brutal efficiency, forming a ring around him. Their weapons clanked softly, and the torch flames highlighted the dried blood spattered across breastplates and gauntlets. Lucas tried not to stare; the metallic tang of old gore and sweat made his stomach roil.
As the group pressed on, the glow of the burning castle receded behind the dense canopy. He risked a glance over his shoulder at the distant inferno lighting the sky a sickly orange-red. Nocturne Castle—once the nexus of the Night Goddess's devout worship—would soon be ash. And along with it, the illusions of normalcy that had allowed him to exist quietly in the shadows.
Through breaks in the treetops, Lucas saw the moon, pale and uncertain behind drifting smoke. People in Lunaris claimed that under the moon's gaze, illusions fell away. The faithful said the goddess laid bare all secrets in her light. But the only secret that mattered now was his lineage. Silently, he prayed to remain overlooked for as long as possible.
They eventually emerged at a Vulkarian encampment hastily erected among the pines. Lanterns hung from freshly pounded stakes, and a half-dozen tents were scattered in disarray. The acrid scent of pitch and charred wood filled the air; the empire's war machines must have torched the outlying villages. Lucas's heart clenched. An icy chill brushed over him as he glimpsed a row of prisoners chained together at the edge of the camp. Some wore peasant garb, others city guards' uniforms. Their eyes were dull, faces streaked with soot and tears. The rest of Lunaris's survivors, he realized grimly.
A soldier shoved Lucas toward them. He stumbled, his bound wrists slamming into his lower back. Though he wanted to protest, to beg for mercy, he knew better. Servants did not speak out of turn. Staying silent would keep suspicion away from the lilac glow in his eyes. That was all that mattered now—survival.
He was forced onto his knees beside a couple of shackled guards from the city. The man next to him, a middle-aged guard with a bleeding temple, caught Lucas's gaze for a fleeting second. There was recognition in his eyes—though not the recognition of Lucas's hidden identity, more the shock of a castle servant being dragged among them. The guard said nothing, just averted his face and stared at the ground.
From the corner of his vision, Lucas could see a black-cloaked figure step out of the largest tent near the center of the encampment. Torchlight revealed a man with broad shoulders, his armor etched with a silver wolf's head—the Vulkarian emblem. He was clearly an officer, perhaps the captain they kept mentioning. His amber eyes flicked over the prisoners with a calculating coldness. Lucas suppressed a shudder.
"Line them up," the captain commanded in a low, steely voice. "We'll sort them before dawn and bring them back to Ironfang. The Prince wants no loose ends." He paused, glancing at Lucas's slender form. "Any able-bodied man or woman will be put to labor. The rest…" He didn't finish. Instead, his lips curved in a thin, humorless smile.
Lucas felt a hand wrap around the ropes tying his wrists. He bit back a cry as the soldier jerked him to his feet. One by one, more prisoners were shoved into the line—an elderly steward, a young kitchen maid still dressed in soot-streaked serving clothes, a pair of stable boys not much older than Lucas. Some captives whimpered or sobbed; others seemed beyond feeling, eyes hollow and distant.
Night deepened, yet the encampment buzzed with movement. Lucas's mind drifted, recalling old rumors about Ironfang Outpost. He had copied enough military documents in the castle library to know Ironfang was one of the empire's primary strongholds. People taken there rarely returned. The fortress lay deep in the northern mountains, rumored to have a labyrinth of underground dungeons. The empire used it as a staging ground to break captives before sending them into forced labor or worse fates. Lucas's stomach twisted. If he ended up in that fortress, any hopes of revealing the truth of his lineage—or surviving at all—would dwindle to nothing.
But he had no choice. His wrists were raw from the ropes, and the cold night air stung every open wound. Terror weighed on him like a wet blanket. If he drew attention, they might inspect him more closely. They might notice his uncanny eyes.
He kept his head bowed, breathing shallowly. The queen and king had engineered his obscurity for years, ensuring the staff believed him to be a common child taken in out of royal "charity." Even the queen herself had fiercely supported this deception; the shame of a bastard son was too great a scandal. Courts were full of gossip and knives hidden behind pleasantries. By burying Lucas's identity, the queen protected her own children's inheritance—and ironically, that decision now shielded Lucas's life from imperial scrutiny.
It was a fragile shield, but he clung to it.
Night wore on. The Vulkarians organized the campsite with the practiced precision of a conquering army. Some soldiers set about sharpening weapons by lanternlight, while others looted possessions from crates. Occasionally, one would peer at the line of prisoners, appraising them like livestock. The hours crawled, punctuated by the moans of the wounded and the whispers of fear among the captured.
Lucas's shoulders ached fiercely, and each shallow breath rattled in his chest. He used the time to gather what scraps of courage he had left. He didn't know where his mother might be. He didn't know if anyone who knew his true parentage had survived. All he knew was that he remained chained, hidden in plain sight. The fact that the Vulkarians saw him as nothing more than a servant was perhaps the only advantage he had in this nightmare.
Near dawn, the captain reappeared. Lantern light revealed the lines etched into the man's face. He scanned the prisoners dispassionately, then nodded to one of his subordinates—a stocky officer with a scar running from his eyebrow to his jaw. The officer cleared his throat, stepping forward.
"We leave at sunrise for Ironfang," he announced. "All prisoners will march in formation. Any attempt to run, and you'll be cut down on the spot." His eyes roamed over the line of terrified captives. "We have orders: no stragglers, no exceptions."
Lucas swallowed. The thought of a forced march to Ironfang made him shudder. But he tried to keep his face a mask of obedience. A mere servant. A worthless captive.
With gruff efficiency, the soldiers jerked the rope that connected the prisoners in a chain. They began leading the line deeper into the forest, away from the flaming castle. The night-blooming jasmine's scent clung to the air, mingling with the tang of ash. In that dawn gloom, Lucas had one last glimpse of Nocturne Castle's spires, half-shrouded in smoke. He wished it were all a nightmare, that he might wake up in the library with a quill in his hand, an unread tome on his lap. But the biting rope around his wrists proved otherwise.
As they trudged forward, the forest parted to reveal a rough path carved out by the Vulkarian advance. Broken branches and churned earth showed where siege equipment had rolled through. Birds stirred from slumber with the first hints of pale grey in the sky. Lucas's legs trembled with exhaustion, but he forced them to move. He had to survive. If word ever spread that any member of the royal family had lived, the empire might descend upon him with renewed vengeance. But as long as they believed the line was extinguished, he was safe—or at least safer. A secret inheritance that might someday matter.
The forced march commenced. Each step carried him closer to the empire's clutches and further from the only home he'd ever known. A bitter, hollow ache took root in his chest. He had always been lonely in the castle, scorned by the princes he silently called "brother," isolated by the staff who saw him as an awkward outsider. Yet it was still the place he grew up, the place that housed memories, good and bad. Now it was gone, swallowed by the empire's flames.
A rough tug on the rope nearly sent him sprawling. The officer with the scar snapped at him: "Eyes forward, boy. No daydreaming."
Lucas grimaced and obeyed. He dared not risk confrontation. The group was marched through the forest, the pine needles crunching underfoot. Smoke from distant fires clung to the rising sun. Sleep-deprived soldiers barked orders, driving them onward at a punishing pace. Hunger gnawed at Lucas, but his thirst was worse, his tongue already dry and sticking to the roof of his mouth. Sunlight gradually pierced the canopy, revealing the exhausted faces of fellow captives, some limping, others too shocked to speak.
The path wound along the forest's edge and eventually curved onto a broad dirt road. That's where Vulkarian soldiers had gathered more wagons—looted from the city stables or noble estates—piled high with spoils of war. The prisoners were herded forward like cattle, roped together in lines that ended at the wagons. The cold knot of dread in Lucas's stomach tightened. This was the road leading north, out of Lunaris territory and straight toward the empire's contested borders. He could almost see the far-off mountains in his mind, the ones that cradled Ironfang Outpost in their rocky arms.
A soldier with dark braids and a wolf's-head insignia on his cloak approached, evaluating each captive in turn. His gaze swept over Lucas—twice. Lucas's heart began to hammer. The soldier frowned, stepping closer, perhaps noticing the faint tinge of purple in Lucas's eyes. The boy lowered his face, letting his matted hair fall forward. For a terrible moment, he expected the soldier to seize his chin and demand answers.
But the soldier's attention was drawn away by the officer with the scar, who muttered something about the wagon wheels and the next stop. With a dismissive grunt, the braided soldier moved on. Lucas exhaled through clenched teeth, relief mingling with a new wave of terror.
The lines of prisoners marched until the pale sunrise gilded the road in an eerie hush. A hush that would break soon enough, once the Vulkarians resumed their conquest elsewhere. Lucas wondered if any pockets of Lunaris knights or city guards had survived, if there was any hope of rescue. But from what he'd witnessed at the castle, the empire's victory seemed total. No rebellious faction would form quickly enough to rescue these prisoners before they crossed the border.
Somewhere behind them, Nocturne Castle still burned, spires crumbling. The realm of Lunaris—its old gods, its proud traditions—lay in ruins. Lucas felt tears threaten at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away. Crying now would accomplish nothing. He would endure, just as his mother had taught him to do in the castle's shadowed corridors. She always told him, "Fear is a dance we must master." If she had survived, he hoped fate would guide them together. For now, all he had was the hush of secrecy surrounding his royal blood.
His wrists burned under the rope, and the world spun for a moment. Weariness crashed over him, but he forced each step. If he stumbled, he'd be dragged along the ground, and the soldiers would show no mercy. So he marched, head down, body numb.
By mid-morning, the sun climbed high enough that its rays pierced the smog of distant fires. The Vulkarian column halted near a creek, letting the horses drink. The prisoners were grudgingly offered a ladle of water. Lucas drank the lukewarm liquid with trembling hands. Already, he heard the soldiers joking about auctions, bragging about how many gold coins they might earn from "property" like him. The words stabbed at his pride, but he couldn't retaliate. He had to remain invisible. A powerless servant was exactly what they thought he was.
When the march resumed, the path sloped upward. The empire's banners flapped in the breeze, their crimson wolf heads stark against the pine trees. The next stretch of road would lead them through the pass and eventually to Ironfang. For Lucas, the hours blurred into a haze of pain and exhaustion, each step anchoring a new weight on his soul.
He found himself praying silently to the Night Goddess, even though the moon was no longer visible in the sky. In the old faith, the goddess could hear prayers at any hour. Perhaps she would grant him a shred of mercy. He barely dared to ask for more than survival. Vengeance was too large a concept to dream of now, though anger flickered in his chest whenever he thought of the empire's cruelty.
As the Vulkarian soldiers prodded the prisoners onward, Lucas let his eyes roam the surrounding forest. If there was any chance to slip away, it would come outside the immediate supervision of the guards. But for now, their watchful ranks and drawn swords left no room for escape. Besides, his condition was dire—he doubted he could make it more than a few hundred yards on foot, not in these ropes, not with so many injuries.
And so he marched, a captive in chains, a secret heir to a kingdom in ashes. If the empire discovered the truth, he was doomed. If they remained ignorant, he might at least survive to see another dawn. Either way, the path stretched ahead for miles and miles, leading him farther from the life he'd known—and deeper into a fate he could barely comprehend.
At the crest of a hill, the group paused for the soldiers to reorganize. The vantage revealed the valley below, where the Vulkarian main force sprawled in neat rows of tents and siege engines. Smoke from campfires wafted upward, meeting the dark plumes rolling from the direction of Lunaris. The empire was efficient, unstoppable. Lucas stared, overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. How could anyone stand against such an army?
He lowered his gaze, recalling the final image of Nocturne Castle lit by flames. The memory seared itself into his mind, forging an iron brand of quiet resolve. He might be half-dead with fear and exhaustion, but he was still alive. So long as breath remained in his lungs, hope was not entirely gone. He promised himself that the empire would never fully stamp out Lunaris. If fate ever offered him a chance to reclaim even a shred of what was lost, he would do so.
The soldiers barked for the prisoners to move again. The line lurched forward, descending the hill. Lucas closed his eyes briefly, letting the jostling rope pull him along. His father, his half-brothers, the entire court—they were dead, the monarchy shattered. He alone carried the king's blood, hidden behind the elaborate lie that he was nothing more than a servant. In that moment, the weight of his secret heritage pressed down on him. His identity had never felt so lonely—or so potent.
Shackled in body and spirit, he continued down the winding road, step by agonizing step, toward the empire's waiting strongholds. The Vulkarian standard fluttered overhead, a wolf's head swallowing the moon. With each breath, Lucas told himself to endure. He had survived the horrors of a court that despised him, the night of fire and bloodshed that razed his home, and now he would survive this forced march into captivity. Someday, he might face the question of what it meant to be the last prince of Lunaris—and what he might do with that birthright.
But for now, under the empire's watchful gaze, he remained a silent prisoner, bound to an uncertain destiny.