The palace slept.
It was completely silent.
That alone made the night feel unnatural.
Zach moved through the servants' corridors, a cloak pulled tight around his shoulders and a dull blade hidden at his side. His father's words echoed in his mind, heavy as chains around his heart. Still, he couldn't bring himself to obey them fully.
There's no way he really meant for me to leave with nothing, he thought.
He had packed a small pouch of emergency funds—enough for a few months of travel if he was careful. With that, he was ready to go.
He was halfway to the eastern gate, nearly at the gardens beyond, when the air shifted.
It was too quiet.
No footsteps. No breath. No presence at all.
Zach stopped.
His heart began to pound as unease crept up his spine. Something was wrong, though he couldn't tell what.
A torch suddenly went out.
Steel cut through the air.
Zach twisted aside just in time, the blade slicing through the space where his neck had been a heartbeat before. Pain flared in his shoulder as the edge kissed his arm, leaving a shallow but burning cut.
They weren't trying to kill him.
At least—not yet.
"Move," a calm voice said from the darkness.
Three figures stepped from the shadows. Their movements were precise, practiced—not soldiers of war, but killers shaped by contracts and quiet deaths.
"The King sent me away," Zach said, backing toward the wall, keeping it at his back. "I'm exiled. I'm leaving as he commanded. You have no authority—"
A soft laugh cut him off.
"The King is dying," one assassin replied. "What value do his orders hold now? And the Queen won't tolerate an unfinished threat to the throne."
Zach ran.
The garden rushed past him in a blur—hedges, statues, moonlight glinting off a fountain. Arrows sliced through the night, embedding themselves where his head had been moments earlier.
His lungs burned. His legs screamed.
But deep inside, something stirred.
Not a voice.
Not a miracle.
A tightening in his chest—as if his blood had thickened.
Zach stumbled.
The world sharpened.
He could see the assassins clearly now, even as they melted through shadows. He heard their heartbeats—faint but distinct—and felt the wind bend around their movements, revealing the rhythm of the hunt.
This is wrong, he thought. I shouldn't be able to see this.
One of them lunged.
Everything slowed.
Zach's body moved on instinct. He lifted his arm, redirected the strike, and slashed with his dull blade, tearing a gash across the assassin's side.
The man's eyes widened. "What—"
The pressure inside Zach surged. His blood boiled for a heartbeat, then cooled just as fast. He shoved the assassin away.
The body flew backward, crashing into a stone wall hard enough to crack it.
Zach stared at his hands. They trembled violently as the heat drained from them, the pressure fading—replaced by raw fear.
"Impossible," one assassin whispered. "He's unmarked."
"Unclaimed by any Blood Right," another said. "This shouldn't be possible."
The words Blood Right carried unbearable weight.
They attacked together.
Zach ran again, forcing every ounce of speed from his body as he sprinted toward the outer walls. The assassins followed—but more cautiously now.
He burst free of the gardens and ran for the river.
Blood soaked his sleeves. His breathing turned ragged. The pressure inside him strained to return, but something held it chained deep within his heart.
He reached the riverbank just as an arrow slammed into his thigh.
Pain exploded.
Zach fell forward into darkness and water.
The river swallowed him whole. The current dragged him under, smashing him against rocks and tangled roots. His vision dimmed as panic crushed his chest.
No.
Not like this.
The pressure returned—violent, overwhelming.
In a single breath, it felt as if the river recognized him.
The current twisted, recoiling just enough for Zach to break free. He surged upward and collapsed onto the mud-soaked bank, coughing water and blood.
An assassin stood at the river's edge.
"I hit him," one said. "He can't swim with a cut arm and a pierced leg. He'll die."
"Then we return," another replied. "But… was that magic?"
The eldest turned pale.
"No," he said quietly. "That was blood. His own Blood Right."
Silence followed.
"We don't pursue," he added. "This is something we shouldn't interfere with."
They vanished into the night, returning to the Queen.
Zach lay shaking beneath a tree.
His skin felt tight—burning in some places, freezing in others. Beneath his collarbone, for the briefest moment, he thought he saw a mark: a fracture resembling a broken crown.
Then it vanished.
"I don't understand," he whispered.
The forest gave no answer.
But deep inside him, something ancient and incomplete stirred.
Sometime during the escape, he had lost his wallet and his knife. By morning, the kingdom would declare him dead. By nightfall, the Queen would sleep easier.
Yet somewhere beyond the reach of crowns and law, a birthright long denied had begun to wake.