The Prince Who Ran

Chapter Three: The Trial Of Fire And Bone

Chapter Three: The Trial of Fire and Bone

The morning of the trials dawned cold.

Even in summer, the hills around Durn’s Hollow held their chill like a secret. Mist clung low to the grass, and a thin wind stirred the banners hung from the main square’s timber poles. Children gathered with woven flower crowns. Traders lined the road with roasted nuts and cider. Drums echoed from the hills.

Caelan stood beside Garrin and the other contenders in the soft light, shoulders squared, breath even. His tunic, plain brown linen, clung damp with early sweat.

Thirty-four young men and women. Only six would pass.

Caelan wasn’t nervous. He was afraid.

Not of losing. But of being seen.

He had buried Caelan of Elaren beneath sweat and silence and the work of his hands. But as he waited for the judges to arrive—knights from across the valley, retired lords, mercenaries-for-hire, and one famed commander from Dalan’s Reach—he felt the crack in his armor.

He could almost hear his brother’s voice.

“You think you can just vanish? That being a peasant makes you free?”

Caelan clenched his fists.

He wouldn’t run this time.

◇

The first trial was strength and stamina. A race through the woods with obstacles built by cruel minds—nets to crawl under, ropes to climb, logs to lift, boulders to haul uphill.

Caelan didn’t win.

But he didn’t falter.

And when the captain from Dalan’s Reach raised a brow at the way he carried a stone twice his size without a grunt, Garrin just grunted back, “He’s stubborn. Not special.”

The second trial was archery.

That’s where Lyra shone.

She entered not as a full contender, but a demonstration archer, chosen by the village elders. She took her place beside the range in front of a dozen judges and three hundred villagers. Without a word, she loosed five arrows in five seconds—all direct hits.

Then she shot blindfolded.

Then from horseback.

The crowd roared.

Caelan couldn’t stop watching her. The way her shoulders moved with intent. The way her lips parted slightly as she released. The way she looked toward him—not for approval, but with fire.

Later, as he prepared for his turn, she passed him a bow and whispered, “Remember—exhale before the release. Quiet heart, steady hand.”

He nodded. “Any other secrets?”

She smirked. “Don’t miss.”

◇

He didn’t miss.

Not every arrow struck dead center, but enough found their mark. Enough to earn a nod from the commander. Enough to stay in the top ten.

That night, there was music.

Lyra found him at the edge of the barn, away from the bonfires.

“You surprised them,” she said, sitting on the fence beside him.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Exactly why you did.”

He looked down at his hands. Rough now. Strong. Callused from training, not privilege.

“You’re not from here,” she said softly. “I don’t care who you were before. But one day, someone will.”

Caelan looked up sharply.

“I know a runaway when I see one,” she added.

“I’m not going back.”

“Good,” she said. “But the past doesn’t stay buried forever.”

She turned, then paused. “I hope you pass. Not for Garrin. Not for the judges. But for you.”

And then she was gone.

He stood in the moonlight alone, heart thudding like hooves in his chest.

◇

The third trial was swordsmanship.

This was what he feared most—and knew best.

Each fighter faced two opponents. Wooden blades. Padded tunics. No death, but bruises were trophies, and broken noses earned respect.

Caelan faced a boy named Tommen first—a brute with arms like ox legs and a loud, mocking laugh.

The first clash shook Caelan to the bone.

But he moved quickly. Ducked low. Watched Tommen’s hips, not his blade. He sidestepped and struck with precision, not force.

It ended in under a minute.

The crowd exploded.

The second fight was harder. A twin-sword wielder, wiry and fast. Caelan took two sharp blows to the ribs. But when he feigned a stumble, the swordsman lunged—too eager.

Caelan parried high and swept low.

The other boy hit the dirt, breath knocked out of him.

Caelan didn’t cheer. He helped him up.

The crowd grew silent at that.

◇

He made it to the final round.

Lyra waited at the edge of the arena. Her face unreadable.

“I’ll be watching,” she said simply.

“Am I worth watching?” he asked, almost teasing.

Her gaze softened. “You scare me a little.”

That stole the words from his mouth.

Before he could reply, the final bell rang.

◇

The last trial was not combat. Not archery or endurance.

It was questions.

The six finalists—Caelan among them—were led into the meeting hall, where four judges waited. They asked about honor. Duty. Sacrifice. Justice.

One judge, a lean, sharp-eyed woman in military blue, leaned forward.

“You find a spy in your ranks. He claims he knows the names of others if you let him live. But the law says all spies must hang. What do you do?”

Caelan felt the world tilt. The weight of the crown he once fled returned in a whisper.

He could almost hear his father’s voice. “You cannot rule with feeling. Only with judgment.”

But then he remembered Garrin’s firewood calluses. Lyra’s arrow scars.

He answered slowly. “I ask why he became a spy. If I understand that, maybe I prevent the next one. Then I get the names. Then I let him go.”

“Let him go?” the judge blinked.

“I’ll have him followed,” Caelan added. “People who feel seen often betray less.”

The judge didn’t smile.

But she nodded.

◇

At sunset, they gathered in the square. The names of the three chosen were read aloud.

Tommen’s wasn’t called.

Caelan’s was.

The village erupted.

Caelan stood frozen until Garrin’s hand clapped his back.

“You did it, boy.”

Lyra pushed through the crowd. Her face lit with something he hadn’t seen before—hope and fear tangled.

“Cale—”

Before she could speak, a horn blew from the far road.

Everyone turned.

A rider galloped into the square, dirt flying behind his stallion. He bore a crest—an eagle split by fire.

Garrin’s face paled. “That’s the mark of the Black Court.”

The rider leapt down. “The crown prince is dead. Elaren is fractured. There’s talk of rebellion. And there’s a bounty for a missing royal.”

He held up a parchment.

Caelan felt the blood drain from his face.

His own portrait stared back at him—regal, clean, younger, but unmistakably him.

Lyra stared between the paper and his face.

She stepped back.

“Tell me this isn’t true,” she whispered.

He opened his mouth.

No words came.

Only silence.

Only fate, crashing in.