Chapter 11 Return to the Lion’s Den
Into Enemy Territory
The sanctuary disappeared behind them just before sunrise.
Neither Rowan nor Caelan looked back immediately.
The old mountain retreat had sheltered them through fear, discovery, healing, and love. It had become more than stone walls hidden among ancient pines. It had become the first place where Rowan had lived as himself instead of the prince everyone expected him to be.
Leaving it felt strangely similar to leaving home.
Their horses followed the narrow mountain trail at an unhurried pace, each carrying modest supplies packed carefully the previous evening.
Fine clothing and royal possessions remained locked inside the sanctuary.
They now wore the simple garments of traveling merchants, faded cloaks hiding both their faces and anything that might betray their identities.
Rowan adjusted the leather satchel hanging across his shoulder.
"I never imagined I would leave the sanctuary wishing I could stay."
Caelan smiled faintly.
"It served its purpose."
"It reminded us what we're fighting for."
The captain nodded.
"A kingdom isn't only its throne."
"It's the people living ordinary lives."
Rowan looked toward the valley below.
"And those ordinary lives deserve better than what they're living now."
The journey south unfolded more slowly than their desperate flight into the mountains weeks earlier.
Then, survival had demanded speed.
Now, caution demanded patience.
They avoided military roads and official checkpoints, following forgotten shepherd paths, abandoned logging trails, and narrow forest routes known mostly to hunters and traders.
Whenever they approached villages, they entered separately before meeting again on the opposite side, careful never to attract unnecessary attention.
For the first day, everything appeared almost unchanged.
Farmers worked their fields.
Children played near streams.
Smoke rose peacefully from cottage chimneys.
It wasn't until they reached the village of Ashbrook that Rowan noticed the difference.
The marketplace stood nearly empty despite the harvest season.
Several stalls remained closed.
Those that had opened displayed noticeably fewer goods than they should have.
More troubling still...
People rarely smiled.
An elderly woman hurriedly gathered her vegetables the moment a group of mounted soldiers entered the square. Nearby merchants lowered their voices until conversations became little more than whispers.
The entire village seemed to hold its breath.
Rowan quietly purchased a loaf of bread from an older baker whose tired eyes rarely left the street.
"Has business been poor?" Rowan asked casually.
The baker hesitated.
"It has been... different."
Before Rowan could ask another question, the sound of approaching horses echoed through the village.
Every conversation stopped immediately.
Four mounted guards rode slowly through the square wearing unfamiliar black armbands embroidered with Lord Varric's silver hawk crest.
Not the royal wolf.
The hawk.
One soldier dismounted before the grain merchant's stall.
"Tax records."
The merchant quickly produced a ledger with shaking hands.
"We paid last week."
"Inspection."
The guard barely glanced at the book before pointing toward several sacks of grain.
"Those."
"But they're reserved for winter."
"The Chancellor requires additional provisions."
"My children—"
"The Chancellor requires additional provisions."
No argument followed.
The merchant silently surrendered nearly half his remaining grain while nearby villagers watched without daring to intervene.
Only after the patrol disappeared did quiet conversation slowly return.
Rowan's hands tightened around the loaf of bread.
"That isn't taxation."
"No," Caelan said quietly after joining him outside the village.
"It's confiscation."
They continued south in thoughtful silence.
Over the following days, similar scenes repeated themselves.
Military patrols questioned travelers far more aggressively than before.
Village notice boards displayed lengthy lists of new emergency regulations issued in the Council's name.
Curfews.
Travel restrictions.
Mandatory grain quotas.
Rewards for information concerning "enemies of the realm."
The kingdom Rowan remembered had ruled through trust.
This new one relied upon fear.
Late one afternoon they stopped beside a small roadside inn to water the horses.
While Rowan remained outside, Caelan quietly entered the stable.
A young stable hand looked up from brushing a mare.
"Looking for a stall?"
Caelan answered without hesitation.
"Only if winter arrives before the harvest moon."
The young man's expression changed almost imperceptibly.
"The harvest moon already passed."
"So it did."
The stable hand glanced toward the open doorway before lowering his voice.
"The oak still stands."
Caelan nodded.
"The roots?"
"Deep."
The coded exchange lasted less than thirty seconds.
Meaningless to anyone listening.
Everything to the Royal Guard.
The young man disappeared briefly into a storage room before returning with fresh water for the horses.
As he adjusted the saddle straps, he quietly slipped a folded piece of parchment beneath Caelan's saddle blanket.
"No one saw me."
"I know."
"Good luck."
Caelan offered only a grateful nod before leading the horses away.
Several miles later, Rowan noticed him unfolding the hidden message.
"Someone loyal?"
"One of Lucien's recruits."
"What does it say?"
Caelan read silently before passing him the parchment.
The wolves remember their oath. Not all wear the hawk willingly. Seek the old bell tower. Three nights before the Council session. Trust only those carrying the silver knot.
Rowan folded the message carefully.
"Lucien's doing."
"It has his methods."
"He built a network."
"He prepared for something like this."
Caelan smiled faintly.
"He always believed loyalty should outlive commanders."
The realization brought Rowan quiet hope.
They weren't returning to the capital alone.
Some members of the Royal Guard had remained faithful to the Crown rather than those temporarily controlling it.
The journey continued.
Each village revealed another piece of the kingdom's decline.
Some people lowered their voices whenever Lord Varric's name appeared.
Others refused to say it at all.
Several shrines honoring the royal family had been neglected, while new banners bearing the Chancellor's crest appeared beside official buildings.
Power had shifted remarkably quickly.
Not because the people welcomed it.
Because grief had left them vulnerable.
One rainy evening they shared supper with an elderly shepherd who knew nothing about their true identities.
"The kingdom feels colder," the old man said while stirring vegetable stew over the fire.
"Not the weather."
"The people."
He sighed heavily.
"When the prince died..."
His weathered eyes lowered toward the flames.
"...it felt like hope was buried with him."
Rowan remained perfectly still.
The shepherd continued quietly.
"I saw him once."
"The prince."
"He visited our village years ago."
"My granddaughter fell from a wagon."
"He carried her himself to the healer."
A tired smile appeared.
"He remembered her name the next year."
The old man's voice grew softer.
"We needed a king who remembered names."
Rowan stared silently into his bowl.
Long after the shepherd had gone to bed, neither he nor Caelan spoke.
Some truths required silence.
By the seventh day, the walls of the capital appeared on the distant horizon.
Tall stone towers still rose proudly above the surrounding countryside, but black banners of mourning continued to hang from several gatehouses despite weeks having passed since Rowan's supposed funeral.
"We can't use the main gates," Caelan said.
"Too many inspections."
Rowan nodded.
"I know another way."
After sunset they circled the city until reaching the abandoned ruins of an old monastery overlooking the eastern river.
Centuries earlier, monks had secretly supplied the palace during sieges through underground waterways connecting directly to the oldest foundations beneath the capital.
Most people believed those passages had collapsed long ago.
They hadn't.
The concealed entrance waited beneath a weathered stone altar.
Together they lifted the heavy slab aside before descending into cool darkness.
The tunnels smelled of damp stone and flowing water.
Lantern light flickered across walls carved generations before either of them had been born.
They walked in silence.
Every step carried them deeper beneath the city Rowan once called home.
Eventually the passage widened into an abandoned storage chamber beneath the eastern palace district.
Caelan quietly climbed a narrow ladder leading toward a concealed iron grate.
He pushed it open only enough to study the alley above.
Clear.
For now.
As they emerged into the shadows, muffled voices drifted from a nearby street.
Two city guards stood beneath a lantern reading freshly posted notices nailed to a wooden board.
Caelan instinctively pulled Rowan farther into the darkness.
One guard laughed bitterly.
"They've raised the reward again."
"The captain must be impossible to catch."
"What captain?"
"The traitor."
The second guard tapped the notice.
"Captain Caelan Draven."
"He murdered the Crown Prince, fled the capital, and conspired against the Council."
Rowan's eyes widened.
Caelan remained perfectly still.
The first guard shook his head.
"I heard Lord Varric wants him alive."
The other laughed.
"Not according to this."
He read aloud from the proclamation.
By authority of the Royal Council, former Captain Caelan Draven is hereby stripped of all rank and titles. Found guilty of high treason, conspiracy against the Crown, and the murder of Crown Prince Rowan Ashbourne. Sentence: Immediate execution upon capture.
Silence settled between Rowan and Caelan after the guards finally walked away.
The proclamation fluttered quietly in the evening breeze.
Rowan looked toward him.
"They blamed you."
Caelan's expression hardened, though his voice remained calm.
"No."
He looked toward the palace rising beyond the rooftops.