CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The road south from the eastern training outpost wound through mist-shrouded valleys like a vein pulsing with the kingdom's fading heartbeat.
Guwayne rode alone, his destrier's hooves muffled by the damp earth, the beast's breath fogging in the chill autumn air that had supplanted the summer's warmth.
No fanfare accompanied him this time—no trumpets blaring from the hilltops, no banners snapping in the wind, no throng of apprentices cheering his name as they had when he'd returned from the breached village a moon past, bloodied but victorious.
That triumph had been a spark in the gathering dark, a ballad half-formed on the lips of bards.
Now, the world seemed to hold its breath, as if the very stones sensed the fracture in the Ring's soul.
Guwayne's cloak, once a vibrant crimson edged with gold, hung sodden and gray, its colors leeched by relentless drizzle.
He had received his mother's raven at dawn, the parchment sealed with the MacGil crest, its words stark and unyielding: Return at once, my son.
The Ring needs its prince. Your father..
. would want you by my side. He had heard the whispers of scouts who'd passed the outpost two days prior, murmuring of beasts and blood and a king dragged into the snow.
He refused to believe them.
Then he had had confirmation from his mother. He had read her words three times before hurling the parchment into the fire, watching as the flames greedily devoured the words, as if they also destroyed the message they contained.
The dreams had been relentless since the breach, vivid tapestries woven from shadow and light.
In the latest, just before the raven's arrival, he had seen Thorgrin not fallen, but rising—wounded, yes, his druid's robe torn and bloodied, but alive, staggering through a blizzard-veiled waste, the Destiny Sword a lone star in his grip.
Shadows pursued him, faceless and relentless, but Thorgrin's eyes—those stormy gray mirrors of Guwayne's own—had locked onto his son's in the vision, a silent command: Find me.
Trust the ring. Guwayne had woken drenched in sweat, the chamber's stone floor cold beneath his bare feet, his heart pounding with a certainty that defied parchment and proof.
Fathers like Thorgrin did not die in gorges, slain by rock-skinned horrors. They endured. They returned.
He had to believe that.
The spires of King's Court emerged from the haze, their once-gleaming tips dulled by low clouds that wept ceaseless rain.
The city gates stood closed but unguarded in the traditional sense—no phalanx of Silver knights to salute the heir's approach, no heralds to proclaim his name.
Instead, a lone sentry in sodden leather nodded grimly from his post, his eyes hollowed by grief or fear or both.
"Prince Guwayne," the man rasped, voice barely rising above the patter of rain.
"The queen... she's in the solar. Go swift, m'lord. The court's a powder keg."
Guwayne dismounted in the outer courtyard, water sluicing from his boots as he tossed the reins to a stableboy who emerged from the shadows like a wraith.
The lad's face was streaked with mud and tears, his hands trembling as he took the horse.
No questions, no awe—just a whispered, "Gods keep you, sire," before vanishing into the gloom.
The inner palace loomed, its halls quieter than Guwayne had ever known them.
No clatter of armor from training yards, no laughter echoing from the kitchens, no merchants hawking spices in the arcades.
Servants moved like ghosts, heads bowed, carrying trays of untouched bread and ale, their whispers trailing Guwayne like smoke: The King's cloak.
.. blood to the elbows... beasts from the cracks. ..
He climbed the spiral stairs to the royal wing, each step echoing hollowly, his short sword bumping against his thigh—a reminder of the training grounds he'd left behind, where Toren and the others still drilled under Sir Eldric's bark.
Aiden. Chosen for the north while Guwayne had been bidden to stay.
Now, irony's blade twisted: Aiden might be among the fallen, his lanky frame lost to the wastes, while Guwayne rode home to a throne draped in mourning.
The thought fueled a low simmer in his chest, not despair, but a forge-hot anger that sharpened his resolve.
If Thorgrin was gone, the Ring would need more than ballads.
It would need a prince who charged, not one who waited.
The solar door stood ajar, a sliver of firelight spilling into the corridor like blood from a wound.
Guwayne pushed it open without knocking, the hinges creaking in protest. The room, once a haven of sunlight and strategy sessions—maps unrolled across oak tables, tapestries depicting the Day of Seven Weddings glowing in afternoon warmth—now felt like a crypt.
Heavy drapes choked the windows, muting the rain to a dull murmur, and the hearth's flames danced low, casting long shadows that clawed at the walls. Gwendolyn sat by the fire, not on her cushioned throne-chair, but on a simple stool, her hair unbound and tangled, falling like a veil over her shoulders. She wore the deep blue gown she had at the festival, its silk creased and stained at the hem with what looked like mud—or worse. In her lap lay her husband’s cloak, folded but not hidden.
Beside it, on a side table, sat the remnants: a torn pack, a splintered dagger sheath, a snapped amulet chain, glinting accusingly.
She looked up as he entered, her gray eyes—mirrors of his own, of Thorgrin's—red-rimmed but dry, as if the tears had been spent in private fury.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just them: mother and son, bound by blood and legacy, standing on the precipice of a kingdom's unraveling.
Gwendolyn rose, placing the cloak onto the throne, and crossed the room in three strides.
Her arms enveloped him before he could speak, pulling him into an embrace that smelled of lavender and smoke and the faint, metallic tang of old blood.
Guwayne stiffened at first—fifteen years old, broad-shouldered and trained to stand tall—but then he melted into it, his own arms wrapping around her, burying his face in her shoulder.
She was smaller than he remembered, fragile in a way queens and even mothers were not supposed to be, her frame trembling not with sobs, but with the quiet rage of a woman who had buried dreams before.
"My son," she murmured into his hair, her voice a threadbare whisper, one hand stroking the wavy blond mop that so mirrored Thorgrin's.
"You've come. Thank the gods. I... I couldn't bear another raven, another delay.
" She pulled back slightly, cupping his face in her hands, thumbs brushing away raindrops that mingled with the mist of unshed tears in his eyes.
Her gaze searched his, fierce and probing, as if willing him to be the anchor she needed.
"You heard, then. The scouts... they couldn't soften it. "
Guwayne nodded, his throat tight, the words clawing their way out like thorns as his eyes went to the throne, empty apart from his father’s cloak.
"The cloak. The blood. Mother, I—" He faltered.
Anger flickered then, hot and unbidden, chasing away the vulnerability.
"It's not him. It can't be. I dreamed it, Mother.
Last night, clear as dawn. He was wounded, aye—bleeding from gashes like these stains—but alive.
Staggering through snow, the Sword in hand, shadows at his heels.
He looked at me, through the dream, and said—Find me.
The ring burned on my finger when I woke. It's not over. Father's not gone."
Gwendolyn's hands dropped to his shoulders, gripping tight, her expression fracturing—a mother's hope warring with a queen's pragmatism.
She shook her head slowly, silver strands catching the firelight like fractured moonlight.
"Guwayne... oh, my boy. Dreams are cruel thieves in times like these.
They dangle what we crave, twist truth into torment.
I know the ring speaks to you, amplifies the old magics, but this—" She gestured to the cloak, voice cracking like thin ice.
"Proudlock brought it himself. He saw it all.
The beasts... they tore through the company like reapers.
Reece, Erec, Alistair—gone or scattered.
Aiden, that brave lad who sparred with you so fiercely, stood his ground with bow and blade, loosing shafts into the fray until the end.
Thor fought like the legends say, saved them long enough to flee.
But the venom, the claws... no man endures that in the wastes. Not even your father.
Her words landed like blows, each one fanning the anger in his chest to a blaze. Guwayne pulled away, pacing the room's confines like a caged wolf, his boots thudding against the woven rugs.
"Thor's men were joined by other forces, but even so, they weren't enough.”
"Was Proudlock the only survivor?” Guwayne asked, not pausing his relentless pacing.
“From the initial expedition? We think so. We can’t be sure, but even if they escaped the attack…”
“And you believe him—this over the ring? Over what I know?" He whirled, eyes stormy. "There would have been chaos. How do we know Proudlock didn't flee? He may be confused. Lying even to protect his name, ashamed of leaving his King, deserting his men!"
Gwen shook her head. She went to say something, but held her tongue.
She knew it was her son's way of dealing with the devastating news.
If it softened the blow she would let it go, as long as it didn't turn into something else, something darker.
Eventually, he would have to face the truth.
She wanted to let him do it in his own time, in his own way. But she knew that may not be possible.