The first light of dawn painted the Uncrowned Lands in blood and gold.
Jared Grimhart stood at the center of the camp he had built from nothing, a thousand men arrayed before him in ragged but disciplined ranks. The air smelled of woodsmoke, wet leather, and the faint metallic tang of last night's river fight still clinging to his cloak. His horse, a sturdy black gelding named Ash shifted restlessly beside him, already saddled for the long ride ahead. Amon the Red Knight waited a respectful distance back, dragon-helm tucked under one armored arm, black blade sheathed but never far from reach.
Jared had tried to make the farewell quick. He hated goodbyes almost as much as he hated politics.
But his men would not let it be quick.
Captain Thorne once a bandit lord who had tried to slit Jared's throat on their first meeting seven years ago stepped forward first. The man's scarred face was wet with tears he refused to wipe away.
"You're really leaving us, Prince?" His voice cracked like old leather. "After everything? The Ironfang, Broken Ford, the dungeon break at Hollow Crag… you bled with us. You ate the same slop. You gave us purpose when the empire called us trash."
A ripple of agreement moved through the ranks. A thousand throats tightened. Some men, hard men who had once slit purses and throats for coin—openly wept. A young thief named Ren, barely sixteen and one of the first orphans Jared had taken in, dropped to one knee and clutched the hem of the prince's cloak like a child.
"You said you'd never abandon us," Ren whispered. "You promised."
Jared's grey eyes softened, though his jaw remained stone. He placed a gloved hand on the boy's shoulder and pulled him up. "I am not abandoning you. I am answering my father's summon, I cannot refuse when he calls. You know what that means in this empire." His voice carried across the meadow, clear and steady, the same tone he had used to rally them through monster waves and rebel ambushes. "But I swear on the blood that runs in my veins—empty or not—I will return. This is not the end of the Forgotten sons. It is a pause. Hold the marches. Keep the peace we carved. When I come back, it will be with more than a sword and a name. It will be with the weight of the throne behind me, or I will burn the court down trying."
Laughter broke through the tears—rough, grateful laughter. Captain Thorne clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle armor. "You always were too pretty to die easy, my prince. We'll keep the fires burning. And if any petty king thinks the Uncrowned Lands are open again… well, we'll remind them why they called you the Forsaken Prince."
One by one they came. Old veterans pressing daggers into his hands as talismans. Women who had followed their husbands into the company pressing loaves of journey-bread wrapped in oilcloth. A hulking orc mercenary—rare among humans, bound by a life-debt after Jared spared his warband—knelt and offered a single black arrow fletched with dragon feathers. "For the day the stags regret their choice," the orc growled.
Jared accepted every gift, every hug, every tear. His own eyes stayed dry, but something tight and hot lodged in his chest. These were not the polished knights of Stag City. These were his. Forged in mud and blood and neglect. They had followed a prince the empire had thrown away, and they had made him something more than the failure the guardian stags had named him.
At last he swung into the saddle. Ash snorted, eager despite the weight of seven years' war still on his back. Amon mounted beside him, red-and-black armor catching the rising sun like fresh blood.
"Ride safe, lads!" Jared called, raising one fist. "And if I'm not back in three months, come drag me out of that marble cage yourselves."
A roar answered him—raw, defiant, loving. It chased them down the road long after the camp disappeared behind the treeline.
They rode hard.
The Uncrowned Lands blurred past in a haze of green and grey: dense forests where dungeons still yawned open like unhealed wounds containing monster nests, rolling hills scarred by old battles, rivers that ran red after every monster wave. Jared kept the pace punishing, pushing the horses until foam flecked their necks.
Amon matched him without complaint, the Red Knight's enchanted blade humming faintly at his hip, ready for anything. They spoke little. Jared's mind was a storm.
The letter still burned behind his eyes. A marriage. A political pawn. Seven years of silence, and now this. He thought of his father's face—stern, unyielding, the same face that had turned away in the Black Forest when the stags rejected him. He thought of his mother whose fury had nearly shattered the palace. He wondered if she still raged, or if time had cooled her into the same cold pragmatism that ruled the Throne. Sael would be there, shining with magic and elegance, the perfect heir. Grace would maybe be married now, her voice weaving alliances like spells. And Jared?
The ghost. The empty-blooded prince riding home like a dog called to heel by his master.
By midday the horses were lathered and blowing hard, but the Fortress of Lytho rose ahead like a fist of black stone thrust into the sky. It was the only true fortified city in the entire Uncrowned Lands, perched on a rocky promontory where the Blackwater met the Ironfang River. High curtain walls veined with silver wards, four towering gatehouses, and a central keep that had withstood three monster waves and a dozen rebellions. Until recently.
The noble who had ruled it—Lord Veyron, the ally of the house whose knights Jared had slaughtered by the river had grown bold. He had allied with the petty kings still clinging to the fringes, dreaming of independence from Grimhart rule. The Emperor had responded with swift, merciless precision. A single night, a single legion, and House Veyron's line had been erased from the maps.
The city now stood lordless. No noble wanted the headache of governing a border fortress full of criminals, exiles, and constant attacks. It had become a symbol: the empire's grip was iron, even here.
Jared reined Ash to a walk as the massive iron gates loomed. The portcullis was raised, but the guards on the battlements wore the neutral grey of city militia, not any house colors. They stared down with wary respect when they recognized the stag sigil on Jared's cloak.
At the threshold stood a single figure in dark robes the color of midnight. The man was old—silver hair cropped close, face lined like cracked parchment—but power rolled off him in waves. Jared felt it in his bones, the same instinctive prickle he had learned to trust on battlefields.
This was no hedge mage. A golden chain hung around the man's neck, heavy links set with small rubies that pulsed like tiny hearts. Only royal mages wore that chain. They answered to the Emperor alone.
Jared and Amon dismounted in unison. The horses' sides heaved. Amon's hand rested casually on his sword hilt, but his posture was relaxed—ready, not threatening.
The mage inclined his head first, bowing deeper than protocol required for a mere prince. "Your Highness," he said, voice surprisingly rich and steady for one so aged. "The Emperor anticipated your haste."
Jared returned the bow with precise courtesy, though his grey eyes remained cold. Amon stepped forward, helm still under his arm, red pauldron catching the light.
"Present yourself," the Red Knight said, tone flat but respectful. "Assassins wear many faces, even in these lands. We have learned that lesson the hard way."
The old man smiled faintly, as if the caution amused him. "Wise. I am Aminadab, First Circle Royal Mage of the Obsidian Court. Sent by His Imperial Majesty to expedite your return. The roads are long, and the Emperor grows impatient with delay."
Jared understood at once. Two weeks of hard riding through contested territory was too slow for whatever game his father played. A royal mage meant teleportation—expensive, dangerous, and reserved for the rich and special people. Unicorn blood in the circle. The empire did not waste such resources on lesser men.
He nodded once. "Then let's not keep him waiting."
They handed the horses to the city guards with clear instructions: rest them, water them, then return them to the Forgotten Company camp. Jared watched Ash's ears flick one last time before the gelding was led away. A small, stupid ache bloomed in his chest. Even the horse had been with him longer than most of his family.
Aminadab led them through the outer bailey to a secluded courtyard behind the keep. There, etched into the flagstones with painstaking precision, lay a gigantic magic circle thirty paces across. The runes glowed faintly even in daylight—crimson lines drawn not with paint or chalk, but with the thick, shimmering blood of a unicorn. The creature's sacrifice had been fresh; the metallic scent still hung heavy in the air. At the center stood a smaller focus ring large enough for three men.
"Step inside, Your Highness," Aminadab said. "The circle is keyed to the undercroft of the Imperial Palace. The transit will be… taxing. I will anchor it."
Jared and Amon moved to the center without hesitation. The Red Knight's black blade hummed louder now, reacting to the raw magic. Jared felt nothing but the faint chill of old stone under his boots.
Aminadab took position at the outer edge. He raised both hands. The runes ignited fully, red light surging upward in a column that swallowed the sky. The air crackled. Jared felt the pull—like hooks behind his ribs dragging him forward through nothing. The world folded.
Then the light died.
They stood in a dark, vaulted chamber far beneath Stag City. The air was cool and still, scented with incense and old stone. Torches in iron sconces guttered to life at their arrival. The circle here was smaller, carved into black marble veined with silver—the same obsidian that formed the Emperor's throne far above.
Aminadab staggered. Blood burst from his mouth in a wet cough, splattering the marble. The old mage dropped to his knees, golden chain clinking against stone. Two servants in palace livery rushed from the shadows with a stretcher and healing salves already in hand. They lifted him gently, murmuring words of comfort.
"Forgive me, Highness," Aminadab rasped as they carried him away. "The teleportation spell exacts its price… even from me."
Jared watched him go, expression unreadable. The cost of magic. Always paid in blood.
A new figure approached—tall, thin, dressed in the formal black-and-silver of the imperial steward.
His face was neutral, polished by decades of court service. He bowed low.
"Prince Jared. Welcome home. I am Steward Vael. His Majesty has requested you be made ready for a private audience with the family this evening. If you would follow me to your chambers…"
Jared nodded once. No words. What was there to say? Seven years, and the palace still smelled the same—cold marble, the faint rot of politics beneath the perfume.
He and Amon followed the steward through winding corridors that climbed steadily upward. Torches gave way to everflame lanterns. The rough-hewn undercroft became polished halls lined with tapestries depicting Moses Grimhart's conquests, Abel's codex, Eliana's victories. Statues of past emperors stared down with eyes of gemstone. Jared's boots—still muddy from the Uncrowned Lands—left faint tracks on marble floors that had never known dirt.
They passed servants who froze mid-step, eyes widening at the sight of the second prince returned from exile. Whispers followed like smoke. *The Forsaken One… look at the scars… no stag at his side…*
Jared ignored them all.
At last they reached the residential wing. The door to his old chambers was exactly as he remembered: heavy oak banded in silver, the stag-and-comet crest carved deep. Vael produced a key that had not been turned in seven years and swung the door open.
The room beyond was unchanged. Too unchanged. A wide bed with black silk hangings. A desk by the tall window overlooking the palace gardens. Bookshelves still filled with the same volumes on swordplay and strategy he had studied as a boy. A suit of ceremonial armor stood in the corner—pristine, never worn in battle. The air smelled faintly of dust and forgotten lavender.
Jared stepped inside. Amon followed, helm now settled back on his head, eyes scanning every shadow out of habit. The steward bowed again. "Refreshments will be brought. Tailors and bath servants shortly. The family will await you at the ninth bell in the private solar."
Then he was gone, door closing with a soft click that sounded louder than any battlefield roar.
Jared stood in the center of the room that had once been his prison. He crossed to the window and looked out over Stag City—spires gleaming in the afternoon sun, the Obsidian Throne's tower rising like a black blade against the sky. Somewhere out there his father waited. His mother. His siblings. The court that had branded him worthless.
He unbuckled his sword belt and laid the battered blade on the desk. The journal he carried in his saddlebag would stay packed for now. There would be time to write later.
Amon cleared his throat. "My prince?"
Jared turned. For the first time since the riverbank, something almost like a smile touched his too-handsome face—small, sharp, dangerous.
"Seven years, Amon. And the palace hasn't changed a bit." He glanced at the pristine armor in the corner, then at his own blood-stained traveling leathers. "But I have."
The Red Knight inclined his head. "As have the games they play here. Shall I stand watch while you bathe, or burn the room down first?"
Jared laughed once, low and without humor. "Watch. We'll save the burning for later."
Outside the window, the sun dipped lower. In the distant north, beyond even the Frostweald, the first faint tremor of another monster wave stirred beneath the ice. Comets had not fallen in four hundred years.
But in the heart of the empire, a forsaken prince had just returned.
And the board was set for war.