THE ABANDONED PRINCE

chapter 2: into the darkwood

The forest was alive with whispers.

Garrick held the swaddled infant close to his chest as he plunged into the shadows of the Darkwood Forest, the horse beneath him galloping hard over uneven ground. The night was thick with mist, branches clawing like skeletal hands as if the trees themselves wished to keep intruders away. Every snap of twigs underfoot, every distant howl of wolves, made him clutch the baby tighter.

The child stirred, whimpering, his tiny cries cutting through the silence like fragile bells. Garrick bent low, whispering through gritted teeth.

“Shh, little prince. You must not cry now. The darkness has ears.”

Behind him, faint but relentless, came the echoes of pursuit—distant horns, the voices of men shouting orders. The traitors had discovered the king’s ploy. They were hunting him.

He spurred the horse faster. Branches whipped at his cloak, scratching his arms, drawing blood. But Garrick did not falter. He had sworn his loyalty to King Theon, and though the task before him broke his heart, he would see it done.

At last, after what felt like hours, the forest opened into a small clearing where a humble cabin stood, its smoke curling faintly against the moonlight. The smell of pine and freshly cut wood hung in the air. It was the home of Edrin the Woodcutter, a man Garrick knew well—a simple soul, kind-hearted, who had once saved Garrick’s life during a skirmish years ago.

If anyone could raise a child in secrecy, it was Edrin.

Garrick dismounted swiftly, the baby still in his arms. He knocked urgently upon the wooden door.

Moments later, the door creaked open, and Edrin appeared, broad-shouldered, bearded, his eyes heavy with sleep. But when he saw Garrick—and the bundle in his arms—his face hardened with concern.

“Garrick? By the gods, what are you doing here at this hour? And… is that a child?”

“There is no time to explain,” Garrick said urgently, pushing past him into the cabin. “But hear me well, old friend—this child’s life must be kept secret. You must raise him as your own. Tell no one where he came from, not even your wife.”

Edrin frowned, confused. “You bring me a babe in the dead of night and speak of secrets? Garrick, whose child is this?”

Garrick hesitated, his loyalty pulling him in two directions. He could not reveal the boy’s true heritage—not yet—but neither could he speak outright lies to a man he trusted. Finally, he spoke carefully:

“He is… a child of great danger. If he remains in the palace, he will die before dawn. The kingdom itself depends on him surviving.”

Edrin studied him for a long moment. His eyes, though weathered by years of labor, held a spark of wisdom. Slowly, he reached out and took the infant into his arms. The boy stirred, opening his tiny eyes for the first time. They were a strange, piercing shade of blue—like shards of the winter sky. Edrin felt a shiver run down his spine.

“My wife has prayed for another child,” Edrin said softly. “Perhaps the gods have answered in a way we do not yet understand.”

Garrick clasped Edrin’s shoulder tightly. “Raise him well. Teach him kindness, but also strength. One day, his destiny will find him.”

From outside, the distant baying of hounds shattered the moment. Garrick stiffened.

“They are coming. I must lead them away.”

“Garrick,” Edrin said firmly, “if you leave him here, he will be my son. Whatever past he bears, I will bury it deep. You have my word.”

The soldier’s throat tightened. He looked one last time at the infant prince, now resting peacefully against the woodcutter’s chest. Then, with the weight of duty pressing down on him, Garrick turned and strode out into the night. Moments later, the sound of hooves thundered once more into the darkness as he rode off, drawing the hunters away.

Inside the cabin, Edrin’s wife, Mira, emerged from the small backroom, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her gaze fell upon the child in her husband’s arms, and her face softened with wonder.

“Edrin… whose babe is this?”

“A gift,” Edrin said quietly, his eyes never leaving the boy’s. “A gift we must protect with our lives.”

Mira touched the child’s tiny hand. At her touch, the baby smiled—a small, innocent smile that lit the room. Mira gasped softly, tears filling her eyes.

“He is beautiful,” she whispered. “What shall we call him?”

Edrin hesitated, then remembered the way Garrick’s voice had trembled when speaking of the child’s importance. Finally, he said:

“Cael. His name shall be Cael.”

And so, on that fateful night, the abandoned prince was given a new home, a new family, and a new name. The world would know him as the son of a woodcutter. But destiny had not forgotten him.

Far away, in the palace, steel clashed, and blood was spilled. The cries of betrayal rose into the night as King Theon and Queen Seraphina fought desperately against their enemies. Their sacrifice would be whispered about in sorrowful tones for generations.

But in the quiet cabin at the edge of the Darkwood, an infant slept peacefully in the arms of those who would love him as their own.

And thus began the childhood of Cael—the prince who did not yet know he was born to be king.