The campfire crackled softly, throwing sparks into the cool night air. Cael sat at its edge, the Sunstone shard resting in his hands. Its glow had dimmed since the trial, yet it still pulsed faintly, as if alive, as if waiting. He could not look at it without feeling the weight of what had happened. The knights had bowed. They had called him prince. And though his lips had spoken acceptance, his heart still battled with doubt.
Lyra sat nearby, sharpening her daggers with deliberate strokes, the rasp of steel against stone steady and calming. Garrick snored against a tree trunk, arms folded, his axe never far from reach. The knights had spread their tents in a disciplined half-circle, banners planted, guards already rotating watch.
It all felt… different. For months, Cael had walked as an
