My father’s guards.
They marched toward us with purpose.
They marched toward me.
Their formation split the training field like a blade, boots pounding against sun-baked earth as if they meant to shake the land itself. Gyorian elite, armed and unyielding. Not a patrol. Not a warning.
A retrieval.
“Do not engage,” I warned Dren, already unfastening the pouch at my side and slipping the Stone beneath my tunic, against my skin.
“It’s too late for that,” Dren warned.
The captain raised a fist. “Prince Terran, by order of the king, you are to be detained for questioning.”
Dren dropped down, slamming his palm to the ground.
The field responded instantly.
A ripple surged through the hardened soil, cracking the surface in a jagged line that raced toward the oncoming guards. The first two stumbled, the earth shifting beneath their boots. One fell. The other righted himself just in time to catch a face full of grit as the ground kicked upward like a beast bucking its rider.
I didn’t wait.
I dropped to one knee, fingers splayed, and sent my focus deep. The pulse of Elydor thrummed beneath the surface… restless, awake. It knew me. It listened.
Shift, I commanded silently.
A stone barrier erupted between us and the front line, not tall enough to last but enough to break formation.
Dren grabbed my arm, hauling me to my feet.
“They’ll go around it,” I muttered.
“They’ll try.”
Another rumble echoed as I slammed my heel into the ground, eyes narrowed. The air around us shimmered with residual energy… thin threads of power flickering up from the soil like steam after rain. It was the old magic, the kind most had forgotten. But not me.
Not the king’s blood.
A low-frequency vibration rolled beneath my feet, subtle, but growing. The Stone at my chest pulsed in time with it.
Behind us, one of my loyalists dropped to the ground, hands pressed flat as he whispered a command. Another followed, and then another. A chorus of intention. We weren’t soldiers now. We were sons of Gyoria, bending its body to our will.
The terrain shifted again, this time more violently. Thin fissures broke through the clay, forming a pattern we’d trained for, a spiral disruption meant to confuse pursuit.
“Now,” Dren hissed. “Before they anchor.”
We ran.
The ground opened in our wake, not enough to kill, but enough to warn. The guards slowed, unsure where to place their feet as the field betrayed them.
“We can’t keep this up,” I said, breath ragged as we sprinted toward the ridge path.
“No,” Dren agreed, “but we only need to make it to the outpost.”
“To her,” I corrected.
He glanced sideways. “Took you long enough.”
