THE ABANDONED PRINCE

chapter 7: alone in the dark

The forest had never felt so vast.

Cael stood trembling beneath the towering pines, their branches whispering in the night breeze. The firelight of the cabin flickered in the distance, orange tongues devouring the only home he had ever known. Smoke rose into the star-swept sky, carrying with it the laughter of his childhood, Mira’s lullabies, Edrin’s booming tales by the fire.

It was gone. All of it.

His small hands shook as he wiped the tears streaking his cheeks. He wanted to run back, to throw himself into the flames if it meant clinging once more to Mira’s warm embrace, to hear Edrin’s voice one last time. But the trapdoor was sealed. The cabin swarmed with men who would cut him down without hesitation.

Alone. That word beat against his heart like a cruel drum.

For the first time in his ten years of life, Cael understood what it meant to have nothing but himself.

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The forest groaned around him—owls calling, branches creaking, unseen creatures slithering in the underbrush. Every sound sharpened his fear. He stumbled forward, desperate to put distance between himself and the burning cabin, but the forest was a maze of shadows.

His stomach twisted with hunger, though he had eaten only hours before. Hunger born not of emptiness but of terror. His legs shook, refusing to carry him far. Finally, he collapsed at the base of a gnarled oak, curling into a ball, clutching his knees to his chest.

And there, the tears came again. Hot, helpless sobs that shook his small body.

“Mama… Papa…” His voice was broken, raw.

He cried until his throat burned, until his tears ran dry. Then came silence—heavy, suffocating.

But as the silence deepened, something shifted inside him.

He remembered Mira’s last words: “Do as I say. Live.”

He remembered Edrin’s roar as he faced the intruders: a wall of strength, unyielding until the end.

They had not given their lives so he could weep in the dirt. They had fought so he could live.

And live he would.

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Cael rose unsteadily to his feet. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, though his eyes still burned. His gaze lifted to the stars peeking through the canopy. Mira used to say the stars were the eyes of the Ancients, watching over the children of Elandor.

“Watch me, then,” Cael whispered to the sky, his small voice trembling but steadying with each word. “I’ll survive. I promise.”

It was a fragile promise, spoken by a boy with no food, no weapon, no family. Yet it was all he had. And in that moment, it was enough.

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He wandered deeper into the forest, each step heavy with exhaustion. The night air was cold, his breath visible in the pale moonlight. Once, he thought he heard movement behind him—the snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves—but when he spun, nothing stirred.

Still, he felt eyes watching him.

At last, his legs gave way again. He found a hollow at the base of a fallen log and crawled inside, shivering. The earthy scent of moss and soil wrapped around him like a rough blanket. He curled tightly, whispering Mira’s lullaby to himself in a broken tune.

Sleep claimed him in fits, broken by nightmares of flames, steel, and Mira’s voice calling his name.

But dawn did come.

When the first pale light touched the forest, Cael opened his eyes. He was alive. His stomach ached, his throat was parched, but he was alive.

And though he was small and trembling, though he had nothing left, a spark burned within him.

He had endured the first night.

The journey of the abandoned prince had truly begun.