Waiting And Watching

Chapter Title: "Toward the Throne"

The morning after Valron vanished into the mist was quiet.

Not peaceful—just silent. Like the forest itself mourned something broken.

The embers of the fire had gone cold. Asteria still sat where he had been the night before, unmoving, his gaze locked on the space where Valron had disappeared.

The others moved around him, packing supplies, checking gear, avoiding words.

Mira knelt beside him, her fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve.

> "We'll find him again," she said softly.

Asteria nodded—but it was empty. The kind of nod people gave when they couldn't afford to fall apart.

---

Cain kicked dirt over the remains of the fire.

> "He's not coming back. Not now."

Seri glanced at him sharply. "You don't know that."

> "I do. That wasn't the Valron we knew. And whatever voice is in his head now… it's not done with him."

Tarn stood quietly, arms folded. The bruise on his shoulder still throbbed faintly—a reminder of the strength behind Valron's near-strike.

> "He didn't go through with it," Tarn finally said. "That counts for something."

Asteria stood at last.

> "He spared me. I believe that was still him. Somewhere."

Cain's jaw clenched, but he didn't argue.

> "Then what do we do now?" Mira asked.

Asteria looked out toward the trees—the path they were meant to follow.

> "We move forward. We press on. If he finds his way back, we'll be ready. But we can't wait."

There was no ceremony to the decision. No vote. Just the soft sound of bags being slung over shoulders, blades checked, and boots crunching against wet earth as they turned back toward the path to the Palace.

---

The road was quiet—long stretches of cracked stone swallowed by creeping moss and forest roots. Birds called occasionally, but even they seemed reluctant to break the stillness.

Seri led the way, eyes always scanning the overgrowth. Cain kept to the rear, blade drawn and balanced loosely in one hand. Tarn walked beside Mira, saying little.

Asteria moved ahead of them all now. Not rushing. Just steady.

Focused.

> "He'll come back," Mira whispered to Tarn.

> "Not if whatever's pulling him keeps pulling harder."

> "You don't believe that."

Tarn glanced at her.

> "I believe Asteria does. That's enough."

---

They crossed an old stone bridge around midday, the river below roaring louder than expected.

Time moved differently in the forest. It stretched and curled, hours vanishing without warning.

But finally—

As the sun dipped low, casting bronze light across the treetops—

They reached the far ridge.

And there it was.

The Palace.

Built into the mountain itself, half-swallowed by mist and stone. Its towers rose like jagged teeth from the cliffs, dark against the dying light. Vines coiled around its broken battlements. The great gate had long since crumbled, leaving only a hollow archway like the mouth of something waiting.

They stopped in unspoken awe.

Asteria narrowed his eyes.

> "Wait…"

The wind shifted, pulling the mist aside for just a moment—and what stood beyond the cliffs made his breath catch.

The outer wall.

The entire eastern tower.

The section they'd destroyed during their battle with the palace prince…

It was standing again.

Not ruined.

Not crumbling.

Perfect.

Whole.

> "That's impossible," Seri muttered, stepping forward. "We leveled that tower. I saw it fall."

Tarn's brows furrowed. "Unless someone rebuilt it."

> "In days?" Cain scoffed. "No stone masons move that fast. Not even palace ones."

Asteria felt the air change—thicker, colder. Not natural.

> "It wasn't rebuilt," he said softly. "It was restored. By something… or someone."

Mira shivered beside him, her gaze locked on the sleek, untouched tower.

> "Then they know we're coming."

> "Or worse," Seri added, her hand drifting toward her blade. "They never stopped watching us."

The castle no longer looked like a ruin.

It looked alive again.

Guarded.

Prepared.

> "If they catch us," Cain said grimly, "we won't get a second chance."

Asteria stared at the towering fortress—its shadow spilling across the valley like a silent warning.

> "Then we don't get caught."

---

The chamber was dimly lit, thick with the scent of herbs and bitter medicine. Heavy drapes muffled the morning light, and a fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows on the polished stone floor.

Prince Caelen sat propped against silken cushions, a bandage wrapped tightly around his chest. His face—once proud and chiseled—was bruised. His right arm trembled with even the smallest movement.

His eyes, though, burned with shame.

He couldn't meet her gaze.

Not hers.

The Queen stood at the foot of his bed, clad in a flowing gown of obsidian velvet, her crown casting jagged reflections in the firelight.

Her expression was unreadable.

Cold.

Disgusted.

> "You let one boy," she said, voice like ice over broken glass, "bring you to ruin."

Caelen flinched.

> "He had help. The Prime—"

> "Don't say his name," she snapped, her tone low but venomous. "Do you know what you've done? The damage you've caused to our name? To the throne's authority?"

Caelen's mouth opened, but no words came.

> "You were raised as a weapon," the Queen continued. "Forged for this kingdom. And yet you lie here, broken, while your enemies walk free beyond our walls."

She moved closer, her gown whispering across the floor.

> "I should have given command to your younger brother. At least he wouldn't have bowed to emotion."

Caelen's eyes welled—not with sorrow, but with rage.

> "You speak of vengeance," the Queen said, turning her back to him, "but you act like a child nursing a scrape."

She paused at the door, her voice quieter but colder still.

> "Either heal… or disappear."

Then she was gone.

The silence that followed her departure pressed down like a weight.

Caelen trembled—his fists clenching, his jaw tight.

> "I need to get stronger," he whispered, eyes glowing faintly with restrained fury. "I need to find them. I need to crush them."

From the shadows at the far side of the chamber, a voice answered smoothly.

> "Then perhaps, my Prince…" the voice purred, "it is time we speak of... alternatives."

Caelen looked up.

His personal attendant—Dren—stepped into the firelight, face half-hidden beneath a dark hood, eyes gleaming with something ancient.

> "Strength comes in many forms. Not all of it... royal."

Caelen frowned. "You speak in riddles."

Dren gave a thin smile.

> "Not riddles, my Prince. Offers."

He leaned in closer.

> "The throne gave you power. But there are older things… things that never kneel to kings. If you truly want revenge…" "…you must be willing to become something more than a prince."

Caelen stared into the flames.

And for the first time since his defeat, his heart beat not with shame—

—but with possibility.

---

Valron stood beneath a half-buried arch of stone, cloaked in forest shadows, eyes narrowed against the fading light.

From his vantage point, he could see them—Asteria, Mira, Tarn, the whole group—moving carefully along the outer slope of the valley, just a few hundred paces from the crumbling courtyard ruins.

> "There you are," he murmured, voice barely more than breath.

His cloak fluttered slightly as a cold breeze swept through the mountain trees. He didn't move, didn't speak again. Just watched.

Measured.

Waited.

They were heading toward the lower grounds—where the hidden passage was said to be sealed beneath the roots of the old throne chapel.

Asteria didn't know the exact way in.

But he would find it.

And when he did…

Valron's eyes darkened, a glint of violet flashing faintly beneath the edge of his hood.

> "Lead me to it, Asteria," he whispered. "Unlock the gate… and I'll do the rest."

Then he stepped back, swallowed once more by the misted forest.

Waiting.

Watching.

Like a shadow following a flame—never far behind.

---