The Prince Who Ran

Chapter Fourteen: The Gathering

Chapter Fourteen: The Gathering and the Ghost

Andar — The Hidden Council

Caelan’s voice echoed in the chamber beneath the palace — an old war room carved of stone and secrets, long forgotten by most.

Around him sat seven regional leaders, summoned not by decree but by trust: a quiet general from the southern cliffs, a matron from the vineyard provinces, a high priest of the old ways, and others whose loyalty had never bent toward Sareth.

“Thank you for coming,” Caelan said, setting a single scroll on the table.

None moved.

“This scroll,” he said, “was never meant to be seen. It was found in a locked chest beneath the council hall. It is proof that Sareth conspired with Lord Ryven Nendral to unseat me — and reclaim the throne in his name.”

Gasps rippled. One lord stood. “That’s treason.”

Caelan nodded. “And yet, if I confront him now without your support, he’ll claim it’s forged. That I am staging a coup.”

The matron from the vineyards leaned forward. “What do you propose?”

“We move in silence,” Caelan said. “We isolate him. Strip his power. Reassign his loyal guards. Revoke his treasury access. Piece by piece, we take back the court he has ruled behind my back.”

The priest folded his hands. “That kind of war will bleed quietly… and for a long time.”

Caelan’s voice was steady. “Then we bleed.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Then the general stood and extended his hand.

“I bled for your father once,” he said. “It was the wrong war. I’ll bleed for you now — but make sure it’s the last time.”

Caelan took his hand.

The pact was made.

And war — silent, shadowed — had begun.

⸻

The Northern Wilds — The Mother’s Truth

Lyra had never seen snow like this.

The northern wilds were quiet but alive — every gust of wind whispering secrets through the pine. They rode hard until the trees thinned and the hills opened like a wound.

A hooded woman stood waiting outside a stone cottage built into the cliffside.

“Lyra,” she said.

Lyra dismounted slowly.

“You’re…”

“Letha,” the woman said, lowering her hood.

She was beautiful once. Still, perhaps — but in a wild way. Weathered. Flame-eyed. Every inch of her warned: This is not a woman you lie to.

“I don’t know what I expected,” Lyra said.

“Neither did I,” Letha replied. “Come inside.”

The cottage smelled of old parchment and ash.

Letha poured tea. Sat.

“You’ve been with him,” she said. “The boy king.”

“Caelan.”

“Mm. You love him.”

Lyra didn’t answer.

“That’s not a crime,” Letha said. “The crime would be believing love is enough.”

Lyra’s jaw clenched. “You asked me here to help you end the monarchy.”

“No,” Letha said, “I asked you here to help me stop a civil war.”

She reached into a chest and pulled out a scroll.

Lyra opened it slowly.

And gasped.

“What… what is this?”

“The blood oath that bound the five houses after the Great War,” Letha said. “It says the moment a king is deemed unfit, the houses may name a successor. But one of them — House Carrin — is forging documents to claim Sareth is the true heir. They’re preparing to invoke the clause. Not to install a better king — but to fracture the kingdom.”

Lyra’s breath caught.

“It’s not just about Caelan,” she whispered.

“No. It’s about everything. The old power. The families who think they can rule from the shadows.”

She gripped Lyra’s hand.

“You have to go back. Warn him.”

Lyra looked at her mother.

“And if I do… will you follow?”

Letha smiled, sad and proud.

“I’ve followed worse flames.”

⸻

Andar — The Storm Approaches

The scrolls were removed from Sareth’s office.

His guards were replaced.

His advisors were reassigned.

Piece by piece, the quiet rebellion Caelan had orchestrated began to close its jaws around the traitor.

But still, Sareth smiled at council meetings. Still he stood at Caelan’s side as if nothing were amiss.

Until the moment came.

The evening council convened in the Great Hall.

Caelan entered late.

Behind him, the high priest. The vineyard matron. The southern general. All in full regalia.

Sareth stood slowly.

“What is this?” he asked.

Caelan stepped forward and set the scroll on the table.

“The day my father died,” he said, “you promised to serve me as you had served him. Instead, you sold my name to vipers.”

The room fell silent.

Caelan looked him in the eye.

“You are stripped of all rank, all holdings, and all protection. You may take one horse. And the road.”

Sareth looked around.

But there were no allies left.

Just stone faces and a dozen drawn swords.

He bowed once.

Low. Almost mocking.

Then walked out into the night.

⸻

Outside the Gates

Lyra rode fast.

Snow still clung to her cloak.

She passed Sareth on the road — the former advisor now hunched and shadowed, riding hard in the opposite direction.

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t even look at him.

She reached the palace by midnight.

Guards opened the gates without question.

And when Caelan stepped out into the torchlight and saw her — snow-soaked, breathless — he didn’t speak.

He just held her.

For a long time.

Then she whispered:

“There’s more coming.”

And the torchlight flickered like the first tremble of another war.