THE ABANDONED PRINCE

chapter 9: eyes in the dark

The night dragged on, colder and longer than the last.

Cael barely slept. Every sound pricked at his ears—the rustle of leaves, the hoot of an owl, the groan of the trees shifting in the wind. But most of all, his thoughts returned to the figure he had seen.

Had it been a man? Or a beast standing upright in the moonlight?

The image of broad shoulders, motionless and watching, burned itself into his mind. Whoever—or whatever—it was, they knew he was there.

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By morning, his hunger gnawed deeper than before. The berries he had eaten the previous day had done little more than tease his stomach. His body ached from exhaustion, but he forced himself to move.

Stay still, and you die, Mira had once said. Keep moving, and you might just live.

He returned to the stream. This time, instead of plunging his hands hopelessly into the water, he searched the bank for something—anything—that might help. His gaze fell on a branch lying half-buried in the mud.

It was straight, sturdy, a little longer than his arm.

An idea sparked.

Dragging it free, he searched for a stone sharp enough to scrape its end to a point. His fingers blistered, his nails split, but slowly the wood thinned into a crude spear.

When he crouched by the stream again, spear in hand, he felt the faintest flicker of hope.

The fish flashed beneath the surface. Cael waited, his body still, eyes sharp.

Then—he thrust.

The water exploded, droplets spraying his face. He missed.

Again. Again. Dozens of times. Each failure left him trembling with frustration, his stomach twisting in despair.

But on the thirteenth try, his spear struck true. A small silver fish writhed, impaled upon the sharpened tip.

For a heartbeat, Cael simply stared. Then laughter—shaky and breathless—burst from his lips. “I did it…”

He was no longer just a helpless boy. For the first time since the fire, he had won something back from the world.

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But triumph quickly turned to challenge. He had food—but no fire.

Dragging the fish back to his hollow, Cael tried once more to spark flame with stones and twigs. His hands bled from effort. No matter how hard he struck, no fire came.

In the end, he ate the fish raw, choking back the slimy flesh, gagging at the taste. Yet with each bite, his strength returned.

It was not a feast—but it was survival.

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That night, curled inside his hollow, Cael felt the eyes again.

The hairs on his neck bristled. Slowly, he turned his head toward the crack in the log.

The figure stood there once more—closer this time. Its outline was clear now: a man, cloaked in fur, with something gleaming at his belt. He did not move, did not speak. Only watched.

Cael’s chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. Fear clawed at him—but mingled with it was something else. Curiosity.

Why hadn’t the man attacked? Why had he just… watched?

As the boy’s eyes fluttered shut, pulled under by exhaustion, one thought lingered in his mind:

If he wanted me dead, I’d already be dead.