THE RETURNING PRINCE

For seventy-three years, the kingdom of Avarren had been at war with the fae.

Long enough for the men who started it to become names carved into monuments. Long enough for burned villages to be rebuilt over their own foundations, for children to inherit their fathers’ hatred without ever learning its origin, and for both kingdoms to convince themselves that whatever atrocities they committed were necessary.

Humans called the fae monsters. They told stories of stolen children, enchanted blood, and beautiful creatures who could smile while cutting a man’s throat.

The fae remembered things differently.

They remembered forests older than human civilization, temples dismantled stone by stone, and iron driven through the hearts of immortals who had once believed themselves beyond death.

Between the two peoples stood the Thornwall.

Its black roots twisted through the earth from the western cliffs to the northern mountains, rising into an impassable wilderness of thorns thick as a man’s wrist. In certain places, the branches grew so densely that sunlight never reached the ground. The wall moved when the wind was still. Sometimes, those who approached heard familiar voices calling from somewhere inside it.

The humans believed it was cursed.

The fae knew it was protecting something.

Neither side had managed to destroy it.

But the rebellion had discovered ways through.

And three weeks ago, you had crossed into Avarren carrying a stolen name, a carefully manufactured history, and an enchanted charm capable of concealing your fae magic from the Crown’s wardens.

The rebellion had spent months preparing your assignment. A minor noble household provided your identity, forged correspondence established a respectable connection to the western provinces, and an expensive wardrobe ensured you would look entirely at home among the aristocracy.

The objective was less complicated than the deception required to accomplish it.

King Edric Arvane was preparing something beyond the Thornwall. The disappearance of border settlements, the movement of iron shipments toward northern garrisons, and the sudden withdrawal of royal diplomats suggested an offensive intended to accomplish what seventy-three years of warfare had failed to achieve.

The destruction of the remaining fae territories.

Somewhere inside Caerwyn Palace, there was evidence.

You had been sent to find it.

Your instructions included one particularly important warning.

Avoid Crown Prince Caedren Arvane.

At twenty-six, the king’s firstborn son had already spent seven years serving along Avarren’s borders. He was a capable swordsman, an accomplished commander, and, according to the rebellion’s intelligence, an unusually difficult man to deceive. His soldiers respected him. His enemies rarely underestimated him twice.

Unfortunately, he had returned to the capital two days ahead of schedule.

And tonight, the entire court had gathered to celebrate.

Caerwyn Palace rose above the city on foundations of ancient limestone, its pale towers illuminated by the last amber light of sunset. Beneath its elegant facade remained the bones of a military fortress: narrow defensive passages, concealed staircases, and underground chambers whose iron doors had not been opened to the public in generations.

The ballroom was considerably more welcoming.

Candlelight spilled from enormous crystal chandeliers, catching in the gilded ceiling moldings and turning the polished marble floors the color of warm honey. The air smelled of beeswax, expensive perfume, and the white roses arranged along the walls. Somewhere above the conversation, a string quartet worked through a familiar waltz while servants passed among the guests with trays of wine.

Your borrowed position among the lesser nobility offered an unobstructed view of the western corridor, where servants entered and departed through a discreet archway partially concealed by embroidered curtains.

A sealed letter lay hidden beneath your sleeve.

It contained the first useful information acquired since entering the palace: the names of three military officials assigned to a restricted northern expedition. The letter needed to reach a rebel contact before sunrise.

The evening would have been considerably easier without the prince.

A flourish of trumpets announced his arrival.

Conversation softened as the royal family appeared at the top of the grand staircase.

Caedren descended ahead of his younger sister, Princess Elira, wearing a black military coat embroidered with restrained gold detailing. His blond hair was slightly disordered, the longer strands falling across his forehead, and a narrow scar disappeared beneath the high collar at his throat. A sword hung from his hip, its plain leather grip noticeably worn.

The portraits commissioned by his mother had made him look considerably more agreeable.

In person, he had the bearing of someone who would rather be inspecting a military outpost than accepting congratulations from people who had never held a weapon.

Lord Garrick Voss waited near the staircase, his graying hair neatly combed and his decorated uniform immaculate. As the king’s oldest friend and the prince’s former military instructor, he was among the few men permitted to address the heir without excessive ceremony.

Nearby, Tomas Arlen leaned against a marble column, watching the gathering over the rim of his wineglass. He had been the prince’s closest companion since their military training, and unlike most courtiers, appeared entirely unimpressed by the spectacle.

Princess Elira was already entertaining an elderly duchess with a pleasant smile that did little to conceal her wandering attention.

Darian Arvane stood apart from them.

The king’s illegitimate son possessed the same aristocratic features as his half-brother, though his hair was dark and his expression considerably less restrained. Raised alongside the legitimate heir, he had spent years competing with him for everything except the one thing he could never possess.

The throne.

When King Edric raised his cup, the ballroom fell respectfully silent.

His eldest son listened to the opening words of the speech with the patience of a man who had heard some variation of it a hundred times. His attention drifted across the gathering, recognizing familiar officers, visiting ambassadors, and nobles whose families had served the Crown for generations.

Then his eyes found you.

The unfamiliar face caught his attention first.

The posture kept it.

Most courtiers watched the king with carefully arranged expressions of admiration. Others watched the prince, hoping for some acknowledgment. Your position, however, offered a clear view of the western corridor rather than the royal dais.

Interesting.

He leaned slightly toward Tomas.

“Who’s that?” he asked quietly.

His friend followed the direction of his gaze.

“Which one?” Tomas murmured.

“The one near the western doors.”

Tomas studied you for a moment. “Western nobility, I believe. Recently arrived. Why?”

The prince adjusted the cuff of his coat.

“Find out.”

Tomas sighed quietly. “You’ve been home for less than an hour.”

“And you’ve already started complaining,” he replied.

“I was hoping you’d manage one evening without interrogating someone,” Tomas muttered.

A faint smile touched the prince’s mouth.

“You’re welcome to keep hoping.”

Across the room, a servant approached with a silver tray.

The young man wore the palace’s customary black-and-ivory livery, his head lowered respectfully as he moved between the guests. Nothing about him appeared unusual.

Until his shadow stopped moving.

The servant continued forward, but the dark shape beneath his feet remained stretched across the marble. For one impossible heartbeat, its head turned toward you, despite its owner’s attention being directed elsewhere.

Then it snapped back into place.

The disturbance lasted less than a second.

It was unmistakably fae magic.

Shadow-working was an old and difficult discipline, one rarely practiced outside the oldest bloodlines. More concerning was the fact that someone had performed it inside Caerwyn, where the Crown maintained enough protective wards to cripple an ordinary spellcaster.

Someone else had penetrated the palace.

Someone powerful enough to make a mockery of its defenses.

And the servant was heading toward the restricted eastern corridor.

Across the ballroom, the prince noticed the exchange.

He hadn’t seen the shadow move.

He had, however, spent enough years watching soldiers react to concealed threats to recognize the subtle change in attention. His gaze followed the departing servant, then returned to you.

He murmured something to Tomas.

His friend set down his wineglass.

By the time the king finished his toast, the prince was already crossing the ballroom.

The crowd parted naturally before him. Noblewomen offered smiles, officers inclined their heads, and a visiting ambassador attempted to catch his attention, only to receive a polite acknowledgment as he continued forward.

He stopped directly in front of you.

Up close, his eyes were an unusually clear blue, his expression courteous without being particularly warm. The faint scar along his jaw looked older than the portraits suggested, and the leather sword belt at his waist bore scratches that no palace tailor had bothered to conceal.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said pleasantly.

His attention moved briefly toward the eastern corridor.

“Although I suspect you’ve found something more interesting than my father’s speech.”

Before he could continue, a heavy impact reverberated through the floor.

The nearest wineglasses trembled.

A second impact followed.

Somewhere beneath the ballroom, iron scraped against stone.

His expression changed almost imperceptibly.

He knew that sound.

The oldest chambers beneath Caerwyn had been constructed to imprison enemies the Crown could neither execute nor safely release. Their doors were reinforced with cold iron, their walls engraved with suppressive runes, and the passages leading to them were guarded at all hours.

Nothing imprisoned there should have been capable of making that noise.

Across the room, Garrick abandoned his conversation and looked toward the lower entrances. Princess Elira stopped smiling. Darian straightened beside his column, while Tomas began moving toward the corridor the servant had entered.

The prince extended his hand.

“Come with me.”

To the watching court, it appeared to be an invitation to dance.

His voice, however, was too quiet to carry beyond the space between you.

A third impact traveled through the floor, followed by the distant shriek of iron.

His attention flickered toward the eastern doors.

Then he lowered his offered hand.

“Actually,” he said, his expression settling into something almost pleasant, “I’ve changed my mind.”

Without waiting for permission, he caught your hand in his. His other palm settled firmly against the small of your back, drawing you into the opening measure of the waltz as though the entire exchange had been arranged beforehand.

Around you, the ballroom continued its celebration.

To anyone watching, the Crown Prince had simply selected a dancing partner.

Nothing more.

“Smile,” he murmured, guiding the first turn. “My sister is watching, and I’d rather not spend tomorrow morning listening to her theories about why I’ve frightened one of our guests.”

His tone remained almost amused.

His grip did not loosen.

Each measured step carried the dance farther from the other couples, toward the western side of the ballroom where a narrow passage disappeared behind heavy velvet curtains.

Two royal guards stood beyond them.

He caught the nearest man’s attention.

“Clear the west gallery,” he ordered. “No one enters until I say otherwise.”

The guard straightened. “Your Highness.”

The prince released your waist just long enough to pull aside the curtain, keeping his other hand firmly around yours as he led you out of the ballroom.

The music faded behind the heavy fabric.

Beyond lay a narrow corridor illuminated by iron sconces, its walls lined with portraits of long-dead Arvane monarchs. The air was noticeably cooler here, carrying the faint scent of old stone and burning lamp oil.

Behind you, the guards took their positions at the entrance.

He stopped before an oak door, opened it, and guided you into a private gallery overlooking the palace gardens.

Moonlight lay across the windows.

The door shut with a solid click.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he turned, the pleasant expression he had worn throughout the dance disappearing entirely.

“I’ve spent seven years fighting people who know how to hide among my father’s subjects,” he said, pulling one of his formal gloves from his hand. “And I’ve learned something rather useful.”

He folded the glove once between his fingers.

“The ones with something to hide are usually the first to notice when someone else makes a mistake.”

His eyes dropped briefly toward the charm concealed beneath your collar.

A small metallic click broke the silence as he slid the bolt across the door.

“Now,” he continued, turning back toward you, “you’re going to tell me what you saw.”

He remained beside the locked door, broad shoulders blocking the only entrance, his expression composed beneath the pale moonlight.

“And I strongly suggest you don’t insult either of us by pretending you saw nothing.”

His thumb rested against the brass bolt.

From somewhere beneath the gallery floor came another distant impact.

This time, he didn’t look away from you.