The Prince Who Ran

Chapter Twelve: Thorns In The West

Chapter Twelve: Thorns in the West

The banners above the western gate were unfamiliar — not the old Vire lion, but crimson fields sewn with black thorns: the crest of House Nendral.

Caelan studied the sigils from a ridge overlooking their encampment. A rebel banner. Bold. Brazen.

Lyra rode up beside him.

“They’ve gathered near Alderfen,” she said. “Three hundred men. Trained, angry, and well-fed.”

“Then they’ve got backing,” Caelan muttered. “We were fools to think Vayne acted alone.”

Sareth spoke behind them, his face hard. “Lord Ryven Nendral. He’s waited years to make a move. Saw your ascension as weakness.”

Caelan didn’t look away from the valley.

“Then we’ll show him mercy is not weakness.”

◇

They sent an envoy first — a knight named Berrin, steady and respected. He carried Caelan’s seal and a message:

Lay down your arms. Come to the capital. Let the new order hear your grievances — and return in peace.

He returned hours later, bruised and furious.

“They spat on the seal,” Berrin said. “Called you a coward’s son. Said a ‘forger’s bastard’ wasn’t fit to speak of peace.”

Caelan took the words silently.

He turned to Lyra. “Ready the horses.”

Sareth blinked. “You’re going in?”

Caelan nodded. “They want a king who hides behind emissaries. Let’s disappoint them.”

◇

The next morning, Caelan rode into Alderfen’s camp under a white banner — with Lyra on one side, Sareth on the other, and only ten guards behind him.

The camp parted around them like water around a blade.

They dismounted at the rebel tent.

Ryven Nendral awaited them — grey-bearded, tall, with a cruel smile and polished armor.

“So the runaway returns,” he said.

“I returned weeks ago,” Caelan answered evenly. “While you planned to steal what isn’t yours.”

Ryven laughed. “The throne belongs to those strong enough to take it.”

Caelan stepped forward. “Then try. But understand this: I am not the boy who ran. I am the man who came back.”

A hush fell.

Nendral looked past him at Lyra. “And what is she? Your pet peasant? Or the warm body in your bed?”

Caelan’s hand twitched — but Lyra held him still.

“I won’t rise to bait,” Caelan said. “Not today.”

“Then why come at all?”

“To give you a choice.”

Caelan raised his voice so all nearby could hear.

“Lay down your arms, Ryven. Let the kingdom mend. Or I will defend it — not with fear, but with resolve. You won’t win a war against the people.”

“And what of your own people?” Ryven asked.

He tossed a scroll to the dirt.

Caelan bent to pick it up.

The seal was his own.

And the message inside was worse than any blade.

To Lord Ryven Nendral,

Strike now. While he plays at mercy. The palace is ours within the week. When Caelan falls, you will be king in the west.

— Sareth

Caelan froze.

He looked up, eyes wide.

Sareth had not moved. His face, for the first time in Caelan’s memory, was unreadable.

“It’s a forgery,” he said.

Ryven raised a brow. “Is it?”

Caelan’s pulse roared.

He stepped back from them both.

“Sareth?”

“I would never—”

Caelan dropped the scroll.

He turned to Lyra. Her face had gone pale.

“We’re leaving,” he said. “Now.”

◇

Back in camp, Caelan paced like a caged animal.

“He could’ve forged it,” he said. “Tried to turn us against each other.”

Lyra sat silently, then said, “Could he have?”

He stopped.

Her voice was too calm.

Too pointed.

“You think he did it?”

“I think you’re not asking the question you fear the answer to.”

Caelan slumped into the chair.

“He was my father’s advisor. He taught me half of what I know.”

“That doesn’t mean he wants you to succeed.”

Silence.

Then:

“Have him followed,” Caelan said. “Quietly. I need to know if I can still trust the men I’ve built this with.”

“And if you can’t?”

He looked up at her.

“Then I’ll build it again. From ashes if I have to.”

◇

Two days later, Ryven’s camp broke.

Whether out of fear or fury, they retreated — scattered by Caelan’s show of calm resolve and the whispers of doubt among their ranks.

But the real threat remained inside the walls of Andar.

When Caelan returned to the palace, he did not rest.

He walked the halls with his sword sheathed but his senses sharpened. He watched Sareth’s movements. Tracked his meetings. Read the minutes of every private Assembly.

And then, in a locked chest beneath the council chamber — a second scroll.

Identical to the one Ryven had shown.

Same handwriting. Same seal.

But this one was real.

Not forged.

Not planted.

Real.

◇

That night, Caelan stood at the window of his chambers.

Lyra stood behind him.

“Will you arrest him?” she asked.

“I can’t,” Caelan whispered. “Not yet. If I move now, the court will fracture. Half still see him as the pillar of this kingdom. I need proof they’ll believe.”

“And until then?”

“I let him stand beside me,” he said. “And I learn how to wear a crown with a knife at my back.”

Lyra came to him. Held his hand.

“I’m still with you,” she said.

“I know.”

His voice cracked.

“I just don’t know if it’s enough anymore.”

She pulled him close.

“It will be.”

But in the quiet that followed, Caelan stared out at the moonlit city — and wondered:

Had he only traded one cage for another?