The raven returned at dawn.

  It perched on the roof of the cottage, staring into the open window with eyes too intelligent for a bird. Saezu noticed it before he opened his eyes—some part of him already alert, already watching. He sat up in bed and stared back at it, sensing something in its gaze beyond instinct.

  Mirelle stood by the hearth, already dressed, a steaming cup in her hand. Her back was straight, but her face bore the tightness of dread she hadn’t worn in years.

  "They’ve come," she said quietly.

  Saezu didn’t answer. He rose from bed and dressed in silence. His movements were practiced—methodical. He strapped his sword across his back and tied his hair, black as night, into a loose knot behind his head. His fingers lingered on the pendant beneath his tunic.

  Three riders arrived in Thornbend shortly after the morning mist began to burn away.

  They came on horses bred for war, their hooves churning mud as they entered the village. Their cloaks were dark blue, almost black, and their armor was understated but unmistakably royal—steel polished to a dull sheen with the lion of Goldhearth embroidered in silver across their chests. The lead rider dismounted first. He was older than the others, tall, broad-shouldered, with weathered skin and a jagged scar tracing the edge of his cheekbone.

  The villagers, as always, pretended not to watch. They busied themselves stacking crates, stirring stews, and chopping wood with more vigor than usual. But their eyes followed the strangers.

  Saezu and Mirelle met the riders at the edge of the field near their cottage. Saezu stood straight and silent, his face unreadable. Mirelle, beside him, looked like she had aged a decade overnight.

  The scarred rider removed his glove and bowed. "Lady Mirelle. By order of King Alric of House Goldhearth, we come to escort your son to the capital."

  Saezu kept his gaze locked on the man. He studied every line in the rider’s face, the stiffness in his posture, the tension in his voice. This wasn’t just a soldier—it was someone who knew what it meant to kill and be ordered to do worse.

  "Why now?" Mirelle asked.

  "The King has summoned him," the rider replied. "I am not at liberty to say more."

  "That’s not an answer."

  The man didn’t flinch. "It’s the only one I was given."

  He turned his attention to Saezu. "You are Saezu of Thornbend?"

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  Saezu nodded once. "I am."

  "Then you are to come with us. The road is long. We ride in one hour."

  The next hour passed in strained silence. Mirelle prepared food, gathering dry meat, bread, and water into a satchel. Saezu sharpened his sword—not because it needed it, but because the motion calmed his nerves. Outside, the horses pawed at the earth, restless.

  When the riders weren’t watching, villagers stole glances at Saezu. Whispers spread.

  "It’s true then. He’s royal."

  "A bastard, they say. From the King’s own blood."

  "He never belonged here."

  Mirelle and Saezu spoke one final time behind the house.

  "This will change everything," she said, hands trembling despite the steel in her voice.

  "I know."

  "They’ll smile with daggers behind their backs. Trust no one. Not the guards. Not the nobles. Not even your father."

  Saezu looked her in the eye. "Why now? Why is he calling me back?"

  Mirelle reached into her cloak and produced a folded parchment. The royal seal—an inked lion—was unbroken.

  "He sent this the day you were born. I never read it. Didn’t need to. But maybe you do. Read it when you’re ready. Not before."

  Saezu tucked it inside his inner cloak.

  "Will I see you again?" he asked.

  Mirelle didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped forward and embraced him. Her arms were strong, unyielding, like she wanted to protect him with her bones.

  "Survive," she whispered. "Then rise."

  The journey began without fanfare. No banners. No trumpets. Only silence and the sound of hooves on dirt. The riders took a path that veered from the main roads, weaving through woodland trails and rocky hills. They avoided towns entirely.

  On the second night, as they camped beneath a canopy of old pine, Saezu sat beside the fire, chewing dried venison and studying the lead rider. He finally spoke.

  "Your name."

  The man looked up. "Fenric."

  "You were a soldier."

  "Still am."

  "But you’ve killed."

  Fenric stared at the fire. "Everyone in the capital has blood on their hands. The question is only whether it was spilled in silence or in song."

  Saezu didn’t reply.

  They crossed three rivers, skirted two mountain ridges, and passed abandoned watchtowers overrun by moss and vines. Saezu slept little. He trained in the dark when the others rested, moving through drills like clockwork. He practiced drawing his sword while kneeling, while rolling, while half-asleep. Always ready.

  By the fifth night, he began to hear voices on the wind—shadows of memories, whispers of things to come. Mirelle’s voice. The hiss of steel. A baby crying. A door slamming shut.

  He didn’t tell the others.

  On the sixth morning, the clouds parted to reveal the capital.

  Goldhearth rose like a myth from the landscape—black stone and silver banners, towers like spears piercing the sky. The city sprawled across seven hills, each crowned with temples, guard posts, or noble estates. At its center was the royal keep: a fortress surrounded by a dozen walls, each thicker and taller than the last.

  Smoke curled from chimneys. Bells rang from distant towers.

  Saezu reined in his horse and stared.

  "Home?" Fenric asked quietly.

  "No," Saezu replied. "Not yet."

  They rode through the western gate, past guards who gave curt nods but didn’t bow. The people in the street moved aside, wary of the riders but uninterested in the boy they escorted. To them, he was just another piece of news waiting to spread.

  But in the shadows, Saezu felt it.

  He was being watched. Not just by strangers. By someone. More than one.

  As they passed beneath the great arch of Goldhearth Keep, lined with carvings of past kings and warriors, he saw it again—a raven perched on a gargoyle, head tilted.

  It stared straight at him.

  And he stared back.

  The bastard had returned.

  But this time, he was not leaving quietly.