.....
"Your physical training time."
The voice came from somewhere near the door.
Darian groaned and rolled onto his side, face pressing into silk pillows.
"Do me a favour," he muttered, eyes still closed. "Kill me instead."
There was a sharp intake of breath.
"Your Highness," the maid said immediately, "please don't joke like that. You know how much trouble I'd be in if someone overheard—"
"I'm joking," Darian said, sitting up slowly. His head throbbed. "Mostly."
She was already fussing, pulling curtains open just enough to let light in. "You shouldn't say things like that at all. If the steward hears, or the instructor, or—"
"Alright, alright," Darian interrupted, holding up a hand. "I get it. You're right. I'm terrible. Truly."
She narrowed her eyes. "Don't use that tone."
"What tone?"
"That one."
Darian smiled despite himself. "Yes, my goddess. Forgive me."
Her eyes widened in panic. "Don't—don't say that! If anyone thinks I encouraged that—"
He was already on his feet.
The training yard was already occupied when Darian arrived.
Lucian was in the middle of a form...sword moving in precise, controlled arcs. His movements were fluid, practiced, the kind that came from years of daily repetition.
He finished the sequence and turned, grinning when he saw Darian.
"You're late."
"I'm not late," Darian protested. "You're just....."
"Devoted? Disciplined? Naturally gifted?" Lucian suggested, wiping sweat from his forehead. "All true, thank you for noticing."
Darian rolled his eyes.
Lucian was his cousin—he knew that much. Two years older, son of his father's younger brother, and absolutely insufferable about being good at everything.
Somehow, despite that, Darian liked him.
Maybe because Lucian didn't treat him like he was broken.
"You ready to get your ass kicked?" Lucian asked cheerfully, tossing Darian a practice sword.
"I'm ready to make you work for it," Darian replied, catching it.
Lucian's grin widened. "That's the spirit. Wrong, but spirited."
They took positions.
"Hey," Lucian said, his tone shifting to something more serious. "How are you doing? Actually."
Darian adjusted his grip on the sword. "Fine."
"Darian."
"I'm fine," he insisted. "Stop worrying."
"Can't help it," Lucian said. "You're family. Worrying's in the job description."
He raised his sword.
"Besides, someone has to keep you alive long enough to remember how annoying I am."
Despite himself, Darian smiled.
"Pretty sure I remember that part clearly."
"Good," Lucian said. "Now block."
He struck.
They sparred in silence for a while, the rhythm familiar and grounding.
Then Lucian spoke.
"Big brother's wedding is next week."
Darian parried a strike. "I know."
"How do you feel about it?"
Darian stepped back, resetting. "About what?"
"Meeting your new mother," Lucian said.
The words hit strange.
New mother.
Darian's sword dipped slightly. "What happened to..."
He stopped.
What was he asking?
What happened to who?
The thought slipped away before he could catch it.
Lucian noticed the pause. His expression softened.
"You really don't remember her, do you?"
"Remember who?"
Lucian opened his mouth. Closed it.
"Never mind," he said quietly. "Doesn't matter."
But it clearly did.
Darian lowered his sword. "Lucian. Who...."
"The wedding's going to be massive," Lucian interrupted, his cheerful tone forced now. "Every kingdom's sending representatives. Even the elves."
He swung again, harder this time.
"A whole week of ceremonies. Nobles everywhere. Should be interesting."
Darian blocked, but his mind was elsewhere.
Who had Lucian been about to talk about?
And why had he stopped?
"Hey," Darian said, catching Lucian's blade. "What aren't you telling me?"
Lucian held his gaze for a moment.
Then he pulled his sword back and stepped away.
"I'm not supposed to talk about her," he said finally. "Dad's orders. Uncle's orders. Everyone's orders."
"About who?"
"Your mother," Lucian said quietly.
The word hit like a physical blow.
Mother.
Darian tried to grab onto it, tried to remember—
Pain lanced through his skull.
He staggered, dropping his sword.
"Shit—Darian!" Lucian was at his side immediately. "Are you okay?"
The pain faded slowly, leaving Darian breathless.
"What..." He swallowed hard. "What happened to her?"
Lucian's jaw tightened.
"Lucian."
"I don't know," Lucian said, and he sounded genuine. "No one will tell me either. All I know is she's gone, and no one's allowed to talk about it."
He helped Darian sit down.
"But the wedding..." Lucian continued slowly. "Representatives from all the kingdoms. Old families. People who might have known her."
He met Darian's eyes.
"If you want answers? That's probably your best chance."
-
That night, Darian couldn't sleep.
He lay in the too-large bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking.
His mother.
The word felt foreign. Like a language he used to speak but had forgotten.
Every time he tried to remember her face, there was just... nothing.
Smooth emptiness where a person should have been.
But now he knew for certain—she'd existed.
She'd been real.
And someone had decided he shouldn't remember her.
The wedding was in one week.
Representatives from every kingdom. Old families. Nobles who'd known the royal family for generations.
Someone there would remember.
Someone would know what happened.
And if they wouldn't tell him willingly...
Darian's hands clenched in the silk sheets.
Then he'd find another way.
The Academy library had restricted sections....records that required special permission. Genealogies. Historical accounts. Royal archives.
He'd tried to access them before. Been denied.
But with the wedding, security would be stretched thin. Attention elsewhere.
It wasn't a plan.
Not yet.
But it was a possibility.
Darian turned onto his side, facing the window.
Outside, the moon hung pale and distant.
He thought about his father....Kaiden—and the way he'd apologized.
*I'm sorry.*
For what?
Darian's jaw tightened.
He didn't know what he'd find.
Didn't know if the truth would be worse than the not-knowing.
But he was going to find out.
One way or another.
Even if he had to tear down every wall they'd built to keep him from it.
....
(POV: Vesperyn)
"Okay," Vesperyn said between breaths. "That makes three."
He straightened, chest heaving, then lifted both arms above his head.
"Hoo—hoo."
The sound came out half-laugh, half-disbelief.
Three full circuits without stopping. The last marker Harlen had set was behind him now.
Five days.
Five days since the scorchroot incident. Since Harlen had sat him down and explained exactly how close he'd come to not waking up.
Five days of throwing himself into training with something that felt less like discipline and more like punishment.
But it worked.
His body was adapting. His mind was quieter. The memories still came—they always came, but they didn't freeze him anymore.
He could breathe through them now.
Vesperyn lowered his arms and turned to Harlen, expecting the usual grunt of acknowledgement.
Instead, Harlen just stood there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on him with an expression Vesperyn couldn't quite read.
Not approval.
Something closer to concern.