The mist in the Forest of Veyra was like a living thing. It crawled through the thickets, clinging to the damp bark of the Ironwood trees and muffling the sounds of the small camp. For Basyar and his fifty followers, silence was the only thing keeping them alive. They had set up a temporary camp in a hollowed-out ravine, hidden by a canopy of ancient ferns.
The morning was cold. Basyar sat on a moss-covered log, his fingers tracing the jagged edge of the crown shard. He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Golden Spire falling. He saw the red sails of the Yilmaz fleet.
"You'll wear a hole in your pocket if you keep fiddling with that," a voice chirped.
Basyar looked up to see Langa leaning against a tree, casually tossing one of his spears into the air and catching it by the blunt end. The young poet looked remarkably refreshed for someone sleeping on a bed of wet leaves.
"It's a reminder, Langa," Basyar said quietly.
"A reminder is a fine thing, but don't let it become an anchor," Langa replied, his eyes drifting toward the perimeter where Marissa stood like a statue. "You know, Your Grace, I've seen many things in my travels. I've seen kings who wore gold but had hearts of lead. And I've seen beggars who had the souls of lions. You're somewhere in the middle. A lion cub in a lead cage."
"Is there ever a time you don't talk in metaphors?" Idayu muttered, walking past them with a bundle of rusted scrap metal she had scavenged from a nearby abandoned logging camp.
"Metaphors are the spice of life, my dear! Without them, we are just monkeys with slightly better tools," Langa winked at her. "By the way, that mechanical contraption on your wrist? Absolutely stunning. Almost as stunning as the curve of your—"
Thwack.
An arrow buried itself in the log right between Langa's feet. Marissa didn't even look over, her bow already lowered as she continued to watch the forest.
"Focus, Poet," Marissa said coldly. "The air is changing. Someone is coming."
Immediately, the levity vanished. Hujeena stood up, her hand instantly on her shield's grip. Juhada stepped out from her makeshift command tent, her eyes sharp.
"Friends or foes?" Basyar asked, standing up.
"One man," Marissa reported. "He's riding hard. He's... he's stumbling. It's Kaherd."
The Broken Messenger
Kaherd was the group's "Ghost." A man who could blend into a crowd of three or a crowd of thousands. He was the envoy Basyar had sent toward the Yilmaz border days ago, tasked with finding any trace of the captured Queen.
When he finally broke through the brush into the ravine, he didn't look like a ghost. He looked like a corpse. His horse was foaming at the mouth, its flank covered in dried lather and blood. Kaherd himself was slumped over the saddle, his cloak shredded and his face a mask of exhaustion and dirt.
"Kaherd!" Basyar ran forward, helping Hujeena catch the man as he tumbled from his mount.
"Water..." Kaherd wheezed. His voice was a dry rattle.
Idayu rushed over with a waterskin. Kaherd drank greedily, some of it spilling down his tunic, mixing with the dark stains on his chest. He clutched Basyar's arm with a grip that was surprisingly strong for a man so weak.
"I found them..." Kaherd coughed, reaching into his vest. "The Sunspire... they've taken her to the Sunspire."
He pulled out a small, crumpled piece of parchment. It was stained with a dark, brownish-red smear—blood that had dried into the fibers of the paper.
Basyar took the letter. His hands were shaking so violently he almost dropped it. He smoothed out the parchment. The handwriting was unmistakable. It was elegant, even in its haste—the calligraphy of a Queen who had spent her life signing treaties and letters of grace.
To my son, the light of my soul.
I breathe, though the air here is salt and iron. Do not come for me, Basyar. Not yet. The Sunspire is a fortress of a thousand eyes, and King Manuel looks for you in every shadow. He does not want a prisoner; he wants a legacy to burn.
The crown is shattered, but the people remain. A king is not the gold on his head, but the hope in his heart. Stay hidden. Stay strong. Do not let the fire of Hurbala go out in the dark.
I am a Queen. I will endure. You are a King. You must lead. — Hasha.
The silence in the ravine was absolute. Basyar read the letter once, twice, three times. The bloodstain on the corner partially obscured the word "lead," but the message was clear. She was alive. She was suffering. And she was tellling him to stay away.
"They have her in the High Cell," Kaherd whispered, leaning his head against a stone. "The tower that overlooks the sea. Manuel keeps her there to show the world that the heart of Hurbala is in a cage. He's gathering the other Kings. Zin Baraji, Vectlar, Inferaq... he's inviting them to the Sunspire for a 'Grand Coronation.' He wants to declare a new era under Yilmaz rule."
"A coronation?" Juhada's voice was like ice. "He's going to force the splinter kings to swear fealty over our mother's head."
Basyar looked at the letter. The "lead" he felt earlier wasn't in his heart anymore. It was in his bones. It was a cold, hard weight that anchored him to the ground.
The Vow of the Exile
Basyar stood up. He walked to the center of the camp, where his fifty followers were gathered. They were looking at him, waiting for a sign. They had seen the messenger; they had seen the blood. They expected a lament. They expected their young King to weep.
But Basyar didn't weep. He felt the thorn circlet on his head, the sharp points digging into his skin, and he welcomed the pain.
"My mother is alive," Basyar announced. His voice wasn't the voice of a boy anymore. It was steady. It was dangerous.
A small cheer broke out among the soldiers, but Basyar raised his hand, silencing them instantly.
"She is in the Sunspire. She is a prisoner of the Yilmaz. And she told me not to come for her." He looked at Hujeena, then Juhada. "She told me not to come because she knows what I have. She knows I have fifty brave souls and a shard of gold. She knows that if I march to the Sunspire today, we will all die before we even see the ocean."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over his ragtag group.
"The Yilmaz think they have won because they hold the capital. They think they have won because the Kings of Shadowhold and Zuelda are cowards who would rather sell their people than fight. They think we are a ghost story."
Basyar pulled his sword—the shard-blade—and drove the point into the dirt at his feet.
"We cannot save my mother with fifty men. We cannot retake Hurbala with a forest camp. So, we will do what the Yilmaz fear most. We will not hide. We will not flee."
"Then what will we do, My King?" Hujeena asked, her eyes glowing with a fierce pride.
"We will conquer," Basyar said. The word hung in the air, heavy and impossible. "We will march through the Forest of Veyra. We will take Shadowhold from Zin Baraji. We will take the marshes from Vectlar. We will take the mountains from Inferaq. We will weave the splintered kingdoms back together, limb by limb, until we have an army that can drown the Yilmaz in a sea of iron."
"That is a journey of a thousand miles, Basyar," Juhada warned, though a small, calculating smile played on her lips. "You are talking about civil war. You are talking about attacking three kingdoms while the greatest empire in the world hunts you."
"No," Basyar corrected her. "I'm talking about reclaiming what belongs to the people. Zin Baraji sells his subjects to the Yilmaz. Vectlar poisons his own lands. They are not kings; they are merchants of misery. I will offer the people a choice: serve a traitor, or follow a King who will bring them home."
Langa stepped forward, his flirty demeanor completely gone. He looked at Basyar with a newfound intensity. "You know, poetically speaking, that's a suicide pact. But tactically? If you take Shadowhold, you control the timber and the scouts. If you take Zuelda, you control the alchemy and the trade routes. By the time you reach the coast, you won't just have an army. You'll have a world."
Langa knelt, driving his spear into the ground beside Basyar's sword. "I came for a story, Basyar. I think I've found the one that ends with a new world. I'm with you."
One by one, the others followed. Idayu tossed a wrench into the dirt and knelt. Marissa lowered her bow. Hujeena slammed her shield down with a sound that echoed like a mountain collapsing.
"Fifty against the world," Idayu grinned. "I like those odds. There's more room for traps."