The morning after was gray and cold. Mist clung to the treetops, and the forest seemed to breathe uneasily, as though it too sensed the storm approaching. The villagers busied themselves repairing what the Ravens had destroyed, patching huts, burying their dead, and tending the wounded.
But Cael? He had vanished into the woods at dawn.
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The Prince in the Woods
Cael pushed through the undergrowth with no destination in mind, his thoughts a storm louder than the birdsong. Every word from the night before rang in his skull: Prince. Heir. Stag-born.
He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms. “It’s not true,” he muttered to himself. “It can’t be.”
But denial grew weaker with each step. The dreams, the mark, his strength—they all pointed toward the truth he dreaded.
At l
