THE HEIR OF THE WIND ECLIPSEBORN SAGA BOOK 1

The Road North

10: The Road North

Damien rode out at midday under a sky heavy with clouds that refused to break. The palace gates opened without fanfare—no parade, no cheers, only the clop of hooves on cobblestone and the low murmur of guards who knew better than to question orders. He wore the traveling leathers, sword at his hip, a single pack strapped behind the saddle. His face was impassive, eyes fixed on the northern road that wound toward the distant mountains.

Arianna watched from a high balcony, half-hidden behind a curtain of silk. Her black gown blended with the shadows; her hands gripped the stone railing until her knuckles ached. She had played her part perfectly in the hall—tears, composure, the public severing. Now the performance continued in silence, her heart a clenched fist as he passed beneath her without a glance upward.

The Prime Minister stood beside her, hands clasped behind his back, watching with the calm satisfaction of a man who has pruned a troublesome branch.

“He will serve well at the fort,” he said quietly. “Remote duty suits men who need time to reflect.”

Arianna did not answer. She watched until Damien's figure dwindled to a speck against the gray horizon, then turned away.

The Prime Minister lingered a moment longer, then followed her inside.

Mid-afternoon found Damien on the open road, the capital's spires lost behind a low ridge. The path narrowed into a forested stretch—ancient oaks crowding close, their branches knitting a green tunnel overhead. He kept his pace steady, senses alert. The northern fort was three days' hard ride if he pushed; longer if he doubled back as planned. For now, he rode north to sell the deception.

He did not hear the riders until they were upon him.

Hooves thundered from the side trail—six men in plain cloaks, faces masked with black cloth, blades drawn. No insignia, no challenge. They moved like wolves closing on a stag.

Damien reined in hard, hand dropping to his sword. “You wear no colors,” he said, voice calm. “State your business.”

The lead rider—a tall man with a scarred lip visible above his mask—spoke without inflection. “Business is done. Dismount.”

Damien's eyes narrowed. “By whose order?”

The scarred man tilted his head. “The one who gives all orders in Cretin.”

Realization settled cold and certain. Not bandits. Not rebels. The Prime Minister's quiet erasure, begun before the dust of his departure had settled.

Damien drew his sword in one fluid motion. “Then come take it.”

They came.

The fight was brutal, efficient. Damien was no stranger to ambushes; three years on the border had taught him to read the ground, the wind, the flicker of intent in a man's eyes. He parried the first strike, twisted, drove his blade through a gap in the attacker's guard. The man dropped with a gurgle. Another lunged from the flank—Damien caught the wrist, wrenched, heard bone snap. A third slashed low; he leaped back, boot catching the man's knee, sending him sprawling.

But they were six, and fresh. He was one, and already bleeding from a shallow cut along his ribs.

A club cracked against his temple from behind. The world tilted. He staggered, sword slipping from numb fingers. Hands seized his arms, wrenched them back. Rope bit into wrists. A hood dropped over his head—rough burlap, smelling of old sweat and horse.

They dragged him from the saddle. He felt the road under his boots, then nothing—hoisted across a horse like game. The scarred man's voice drifted through the fog: “The Prime Minister sends his regards. He said to remind you: silence endures.”

Darkness swallowed the rest.

When awareness returned, it was to the drip of water on stone and the ache of iron cuffs around his wrists. The hood was gone; he lay on damp flagstones in a narrow cell lit by a single torch beyond the bars. Chains rattled as he pushed himself up. The dungeon was deep—below the palace, judging by the chill and the faint echo of distant boots. No windows. No sound but the drip and his own ragged breathing.

The door at the end of the corridor opened. Footsteps—measured, familiar.

The Prime Minister stepped into the torchlight, alone. No guards. No need.

Damien met his gaze through the bars. Blood crusted at his temple; his ribs burned with every breath. He did not rise.

“You could have let me reach the fort,” Damien said quietly. “Made it clean.”

The Prime Minister regarded him with something almost like regret. “Clean is for public consumption. This is necessary.”

“Necessary for what? Your order? Your silence?”

“For the realm.” The older man stepped closer. “You were loyal once. Then you became a complication. Arianna's complication. The child's complication.”

Damien's blood went cold. “She told you?”

“She did not have to.” A thin smile. “The palace has eyes. And ears. The nausea in the mornings. The hand on her abdomen. The way she looks at you even when she pretends otherwise.” He paused. “A child born of this would be... inconvenient. Prophecy inconvenient. I will not allow another eclipse-born heir to rise under my watch.”

Damien lunged against the chains—futile, but instinctive. The iron held. “You touch her, you touch the child—you'll have nothing left to rule.”

The Prime Minister's expression did not change. “I will keep her safe. Confined, watched, until the child is born. Then... arrangements will be made. Adoption into a loyal house, perhaps. Or something quieter.” He turned to leave. “You, Captain, will remain here until I decide your use has ended. Mercy is a luxury I no longer afford.”

The door closed with a heavy clang.

Damien sank back against the wall, chains clinking softly. Blood dripped from his temple onto the stone.

He closed his eyes. Thought of Arianna—alone now, playing the dutiful daughter while carrying their child. Thought of the prophecy fragment he still carried in memory: From forbidden union shall come the one who refuses the throne...

He smiled—small, bitter, in the dark.

The Prime Minister had miscalculated one thing.

Silence did endure.

But so did wind.

And wind found cracks in even the strongest walls.