Farewell to a Prince

The heavy, iron-bound doors of the council chamber slammed shut behind Caelan.

The sound echoed through the high stone corridor like the solemn toll of an executioner's bell.

Servants scattered from his path, bowing hastily as he stormed through the polished halls. None dared speak. They recognized the haunted look in his eyes, It was the look of a life torn away. Only this grief had arrived without a corpse.

At least, not yet.

His boots struck the marble floor in a sharp, furious rhythm. Every ancestral portrait he passed seemed to stare down at him with cold, immortal grace, generations of Aster’s rulers draped in ermine and gold, smiling painted smiles of triumph.

None of them had ever been bartered away. None of them had ever been bred like prize livestock for peace.

"Caelan!"

His sister's voice cut through the cavernous hall.

He pressed on, accelerating his stride. "Not now, Lyra."

"Caelan, stop!"

A firm hand clamped around his wrist, jerking him backward. He spun around so abruptly that Princess Lyra nearly stumbled over the hem of her sapphire gown.

She was two years his senior, with their mother’s warm gray eyes and a spirit that usually carried a sharp, teasing wit. Today, her face was drained of color, her eyes blazing with raw, unadulterated fury.

"You walked out," she breathed, her chest heaving.

"What was I supposed to do?" Caelan snapped, tearing his wrist from her grip. "Stay and toast to my own execution?"

Lyra’s jaw set into a hard, unyielding line. "I stood behind the gallery screen. I heard every word."

"Then you know."

"I know Father has lost his mind."

For the first time since leaving the chamber, a humorless, ragged laugh escaped Caelan’s chest. "So it isn't just my imagination."

"No," she said fiercely, stepping closer. "They cannot do this to you. I won't allow it."

"It's already done, Lyra."

"Then we tear up the parchment!"

"And sign the death warrants of another ten thousand soldiers?" Caelan’s voice dropped, laced with bitter clarity. "You know what happens if that treaty rots."

Lyra’s fiery posture faltered slightly. 

The shadow of the war hung heavy between them.

Neither of them needed a reminder. Lyra remembered the months spent staring out the high tower windows, praying for news from the northern border. Caelan remembered the day Lucien’s warhorse had walked back through the castle gates alone, its saddle slick with dried blood.

"I won't let them send you into the wolf's den," she whispered, her voice cracking as her anger slipped into terror. "You won't survive Varek."

Caelan offered a sad, fragile smile. "You can't stop them, sister."

"Watch me."

Before he could answer, raised, chaotic voices echoed from the far end of the corridor.

The heavy doors of the council chamber swung open once more. King Rowan stepped into the hallway, his face ghastly pale, his crown sitting heavily upon his brow. A swarm of panicked ministers hurried after him, shouting over one another.

"—Your Majesty, the Varek delegates demand a formal signing ceremony before nightfall"

"I said enough!" Rowan’s roar reverberated off the stone, cutting the councilors short. He waved a dismissive, trembling hand. "Leave me."

The ministers scattered like frightened corvids.

Lyra didn't hesitate. She marched straight toward her father, her gown rustling violently against the floor. "How could you?"

King Rowan looked up, his eyes hollowed by decades of war. "Lyra—"

"Don't." She stopped a foot away from him, her hands trembling with rage. "You don't get to use that gentle tone with me. Not after what you just did."

The King closed his eyes, looking small beneath his velvet cloak. "I am doing what must be done."

"You promised Mother!" Lyra shouted, caring nothing for the guards stationed along the walls. "When Lucien’s armor came back empty, you swore to us, you swore on his memory, that no more of your children would be fed to this war!"

"I remember every promise I have ever made and broken, Lyra," the King said softly, his voice trembling with an ancient, unbearable pain.

"Then break one more!" Lyra pleaded, tears finally overflowing her lashes. "Break the treaty! You are the King!"

"And because I am the King, I must care for more than just my own blood," Rowan replied, his voice barely audible. He looked past her, his tear-filled eyes finding Caelan standing silent in the shadows of the corridor.

"So that's all he is to you now?" Lyra’s voice was venomous as she gestured toward her brother. "A piece on a chessboard? A trade for a truce?"

Rowan didn't look away from Caelan.

"No," the King whispered, his chest heaving with a silent, ragged sob. "He is the boy who is saving everything I failed to protect."

The words settled into Caelan’s ribs like cold steel.

Saving the kingdom.

At the cost of his body, his title, his freedom. His entire life.

Unable to stomach the crushing guilt in his father's eyes or the sorrow in his sister's, Caelan turned on his heel. He hurried down the intersecting hallway, leaving the quiet sobs of his family behind.

He walked blindly until the stifling stone corridors gave way to the sharp, sweet air of the royal gardens. Summer lilies bloomed around him in vibrant white and soft violet, bathing in the serene sunlight.

At the heart of the courtyard stood a tall, pale marble cenotaph.

Carved into its face were hundreds of names of House Aster. Caelan stepped up to the cool stone, his trembling fingers reaching out to trace a deeply etched line of text near the top.

PRINCE LUCIEN ALARIC OF ASTER

Beloved Son. Beloved Brother.

Fallen at the Battle of Ashmoor.

Caelan rested his forehead against the cold marble, the sun hot on his neck.

"You gave your life fighting them, Lucien," he whispered into the quiet air. "And now they expect me to lie in their beds."

The morning breeze rustled through the lilies, offering no comfort.

Standing beneath the brilliant summer sun, surrounded by the blooming flowers of a realm he had just been forced to save, Prince Caelan finally wept.