The hour was still early. Dawn light hadn’t warmed the stone yet, and Cedric muttered something unfriendly about Edrathen’s humidity as he closed the door.
He returned from hunting with the king, Alaric, and—because the gods had a twisted sense of humor—with the Royal Menace himself, who took his future crown as seriously as a battlefield oath. Cedric had spent the morning ankle-deep in Edrathen’s mud, trailing after nobility with a bow, a headache, and a growing appreciation for the way Thalen had relentlessly questioned Alaric about everything from his posture to the tensile strength of a boar’s hide.
By the end, Alaric’s brow was twitching in perfect rhythm with Thalen’s next question, and Cedric could’ve bottled that image to sell as a remedy for melancholy. Worth the cold. Worth the sore legs. Almost worth the hours of sleep he hadn’t gotten.
Now, back in his room, he peeled off his damp outer coat and eyed the sad basin of lukewarm water someone hadoptimistically called a wash setup. He was supposed to be presentable soon—something about a royal garden walk.
He sighed, rolled his neck, and muttered under his breath, “All this forscience.”
Or truth. Or political unity.
But mostly, for the look on Alaric’s face when a ten-year-old asked if he eventrained.
He rubbed the heel of one hand over his face, stifled a yawn, and tugged the door open.
And froze. Someone was there.
He looked up, then around. Nothing.
He looked down.
There he was. The Royal Menace. All ten years of serious face, storm-blue eyes, and an expression that said:I know what taxes are, do you?
“...Oh, for Ilmora’s sake,” he muttered.
They stared at each other. A full, unblinking standoff in the hallway.
“Good morning,” the boy said at last, tone absurdly formal for someone who barely cleared Cedric’s hip. “May I come in?”
Thalen didn’t wait for an answer and stepped across the threshold. Cedric closed the door behind him with a sigh and turned to find the prince making a slow circuit of the room, inspecting the modest furnishing.
“Aren’t you supposed to be with your nursemaid?”
“I’m old enough,” the boy informed flatly, already halfway to the window ledge. “I don’t need herallthe time.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. Clearly ten is the age of total emancipation.” Cedric sighed. “Apologies, Your Highness, but I’ve got work to do.”
Thalen ignored that too. His eyes had landed on the wooden figurines arranged in a crooked little line across the sill.
The kid’s eyes widened. “This is amazing. Did you make it?”
Cedric paused. “Yes.”
“Are you allowed?”
“I hadn't asked anyone.”
Thalen spun to face him, all serious earnestness. “Can you teach me?”
Cedric blinked. Twice. Slowly. It was too early for this.
“I—what?”
Because of course the heir to Edrathen had stormed into his room at dawn demanding a woodcarving apprenticeship.Naturally.
“Don’t you have tutors to torture?” he reached for his clean cloak, hoping movement would scare the boy off like a pigeon.
Thalen tilted his head, visibly unoffended. “I do,” he replied. “But this is practical. Kings should know practical things.”
