Six days of pure celebration had blurred into a haze of comet-wine, forced smiles, and the endless clink of crystal goblets raised to the "Magicless prince" Banners still fluttered from every spire in Stag City, musicians still played until their fingers bled, and nobles still toasted the Forsaken Prince with the same enthusiasm they reserved for tax exemptions. But today was the seventh and final day. The empire would wake with hangovers and half-remembered promises, and the court would finally return to its knives and whispers.
Jared Grimhart woke before the first light touched the city.
He always did. Seven years in the Uncrowned Lands had burned the habit into his bones: rise with the dark, move before the enemy could. The palace chamber—too soft, too quiet, too *safe*—felt like a cage of silk and marble. He rolled out of the wide bed without a sound, bare feet silent on the cold floor. The white half-cape from the first night's audience lay draped over a chair like a surrendered flag. He ignored it. Instead he pulled on loose black training breeches, left his chest bare, and belted a simple longsword at his hip. No gloves. No finery. Just the man the stags had rejected and battles had forged.
The training grounds lay in the eastern bailey, a wide expanse of packed sand ringed by stone walls and observation balconies. Torches still guttered in iron brackets, their light weak against the predawn grey. Jared drew the longsword—his own battered blade from the riverbank, not the ceremonial one the palace had offered—and began.
Form first. Always form.
He moved through the old drills Moses Grimhart himself had once taught his sons: high guard, low guard, the sweeping arc that could cleave a knight from helm to greave. The blade sang. His body answered without thought—superhuman strength coiling in his shoulders as he reversed the swing mid-motion, extreme speed turning the cut into a blur that left after-images in the torchlight. Incredible reflexes caught an imaginary parry and riposted before the eye could follow. High durability let him drive the blade through a training dummy's wooden spine without jarring his own wrists. Massive stamina kept his breathing even even after fifty repetitions. Enhanced senses picked up the faint creak of a balcony door above, the distant rustle of silk, the quickened heartbeat of watchers who thought themselves hidden.
Peak agility carried him into a spinning leap that would have shattered ordinary legs; powerful jumping launched him six feet straight up to slash the topmost target dummy clean in half. Almost undetectable presence let him pivot behind another dummy without a footfall, striking from a shadow that should not have existed.
*Born for battle*, some of the palace guards had muttered when they thought he could not hear. They were half right. The stags had denied him magic, but the blood that remained had poured everything else into the vessel of war.
Sweat soon sheened his tanned skin, tracing every scar earned in the Uncrowned Lands. Curly black hair clung damp to his forehead. Grey eyes stayed locked on the next target, sharp as the blade in his hands. He hacked the dummies apart with clinical fury—each strike a message to the empire that had tried to forget him: *I am still here. I am still a Grimhart.*
From the upper balconies, eyes watched.
Maids—dozens of them crowded the windows and railings like moths to a forbidden flame. They had risen early too, claiming chores that did not exist, just to glimpse the second prince. Whispers flew between them like startled sparrows.
"Look at his shoulders… gods above."
"Those scars—each one a story."
"He moves like the comets themselves gave him speed."
"No magic, they say, but who needs spells when the gods built a man like that?"
Some pressed closer, elbows jostling for the best view. A young chambermaid nearly toppled over the railing trying to lean farther. Another clutched her apron, cheeks flushed. They fought for space without shame, the palace routine forgotten in the face of living Edenian perfection. Jared was shirtless, every line of muscle and scar on display, and the morning light painted him like a statue carved for war and worship.
Queen Seraphine Grimhart had never come to this side of the palace before. Not once in all her years as empress. The training grounds were a man's domain—sweat and steel and the stink of effort. Today she came anyway.
She swept onto the balcony like a crimson storm, pregnancy bump proudly rounded beneath her gown, violet eyes flashing. The maids froze mid-gawk.
"All of you get back to work," Seraphine said, voice sweet as honeyed poison. She smiled—warm, maternal, utterly terrifying. "We have guests, remember? The entire capital is still celebrating. Beds to change, halls to sweep, dignitaries to attend. Or shall I find new maids who understand their duties?"
The smile sent shivers down every spine. Maids scattered like leaves in a gale, skirts hiked, apologies tumbling over one another. Doors slammed. Footsteps faded. In seconds the balconies were empty save for the empress herself.
Seraphine stepped to the railing alone. She looked down at her son.
Jared had not noticed her arrival—he rarely did when the blade was in his hand—but she noticed him. Every cut, every leap, every controlled breath. Pride swelled in her chest until it ached. Ezra was handsome, regal, carved from the same divine mold. Sael and the twins carried the family beauty like a crown. But Jared… Jared existed in a league of his own. Too beautiful for war, too deadly for court. The face that could topple alliances, the body that had survived seven years of hell without a drop of magic to shield it. She had carried him, birthed him, fought for him when the stags turned away. And now, watching him dismantle training dummies as if they were the very doubts that had exiled him, she felt a fierce, protective joy.
"My beautiful boy." she thought, hand drifting to her belly where another Grimhart stirred. "You were always more than they saw."
Jared finished the last dummy with a final overhead strike that buried the blade halfway into the sand. He straightened, chest heaving, sweat carving clean lines down his torso. The sun had just crested the eastern wall, painting the grounds gold. He sheathed the sword, rolled his shoulders once, and left without looking up.
Back in his chambers he stripped fully and stood beneath the cold cascade of the marble bathing alcove. Ice-cold water—drawn straight from the mountain aqueducts—crashed over him. He had learned to love it in the Uncrowned Lands, where hot baths were a luxury for the dead. The shock cleared his mind, numbed the lingering ache of old wounds, reminded him he was alive. He lingered longer than necessary, letting the water sluice away sweat and memory alike.
Dressed in simple black tunic and breeches, hair still damp and tied back, he made his way to the private dining solar. The long table was empty. No family. No servants hovering. Everyone, it seemed, had scattered to their own duties on this final day of mandated revelry. Jared ate alone—eggs poached in cream, thick slices of smoked stag, dark bread still warm from the ovens. He ate methodically, the way a soldier eats when tomorrow might bring war. No conversation. No laughter. Just the scrape of knife on plate and the quiet knowledge that the celebration was ending and the real game was beginning.
He had just pushed the empty plate aside when a servant appeared in the doorway, bowing low.
"Your Highness. His Imperial Majesty summons you to his solar."
Jared nodded once. No questions. No hesitation. He rose, wiped his hands, and followed the servant through corridors that felt longer than they had six days ago. The palace was waking now—servants hurrying, nobles nursing headaches, the faint echo of musicians packing their instruments. But Jared's footsteps were steady, almost undetectable, the same presence that had let him walk through enemy camps unseen.
The Emperor's solar lay at the heart of the private wing, heavy oak doors carved with the dragon-and-comet crest. Two Imperial Aegis knights stood guard, golden armor gleaming, but they stepped aside without a word at Jared's approach.
He stopped just outside.
The doors remained closed. Beyond them waited whatever new duty his father had prepared—more marriages, more alliances, more blood the empire demanded he spill for a line that had once cast him aside. Jared stood there, grey eyes fixed on the wood, fists loose at his sides, the damp ends of his hair curling against his collar.
Now the door waited to be opened.