"Bellamy, no." The Queen's voice is sharp with command, but underneath it, Bellamy hears the fear of a mother watching her only child walk toward death.
He stops, his hand on the door handle, and turns back. "With respect, Mother, this isn't a request. I'm of age, I'm trained, and these are my people. I won't send others to die in my place while I hide behind stone walls."
Harwick looks between them, the conflict clear on his face. Finally, he speaks. "Your Majesty, the men will fight harder with their prince among them. And... they need to see that their leaders won't ask them to face what we won't face ourselves."
Queen Amelli is quiet for a long moment, her gaze never leaving Bellamy's face. Then she nods, sharp and final. "Go. But you listen toHarwick. You stay close to him, you follow his orders, and if he tells you to retreat, you retreat. Do you understand me?"
"I understand."
"Swear it, Bellamy. On your father's memory, swear you'll be smart about this."
The invocation of his father's memory makes Bellamy's throat tight, but he nods. "I swear it."
An hour later, Bellamy stands in his chambers while his servants help him into his armor. The plate is well-made but has never been tested in true battle—polished steel over mail, with the golden lion of Mirn emblazoned on the breastplate. His helm is tucked under his arm, and his father's sword hangs at his side, its familiar weight both comforting and daunting.
"You look every inch a king," his mother says from the doorway.
Bellamy turns to face her, offering a smile that feels steadier than he expects. "Not yet. But maybe one day, with your help."
She crosses the room and places a small pendant around his neck—a piece of amber with a pressed flower inside, a gift from his grandmother. "For protection," she says. "And to remember that you have people who need you to come home."
"I will."
"See that you do."
Harwick is waiting in the courtyard with their mounts, both horses already restless with the tension in the air. The general is fully armored, his scarred hands steady on his reins despite the magnitude of what they are riding toward.
"Ready, lad?" he asks as Bellamy swings into his saddle.
"As I'll ever be."
They ride through the castle gates side by side, followed by a column of Mirn's finest soldiers. The people line the streets to see them off—merchants and farmers, craftsmen and servants, all of them looking to their prince with a mixture of hope and fear. Children wave from windows while their mothers hold them close. Old men who have fought in wars decades past straighten their bent backs and salute as the column passes.
Bellamy raises his hand in acknowledgment, trying to project confidence he doesn't entirely feel. These people are counting on him. The weight of that responsibility settles on his shoulders like a second suit of armor, heavier than steel.
Once they are beyond the city walls and riding east through the rolling hills of Mirn, Harwick pulls his horse closer to Bellamy's. "Having second thoughts?"
"Should I be?"
"Any man with sense would be. The Barbarian King didn't earn his reputation by being merciful to enemy princes."
Bellamy considers that, watching the familiar landscape roll by—fields where he's played as a child, forests where he's learned to hunt, streams where he's fished with village boys who call him by his name rather than his title. "What do you know about him?"
"I know he's never lost a battle. I know he united the barbarian clans through force and fear, and that's no small feat. Those clans have been fighting each other for centuries. I know he's been expanding Everitt's borders for the past ten years, and every kingdom he's conquered has either bent the knee or been reduced to ash."
"But what kind of man is he?"
Harwick is quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Brutal. Effective. Some say he's not entirely human—that he's got demon blood in his veins. But I've never put much stock in such tales. In my experience, the most dangerous men are the ones who are entirely human, just... more than most."
"More how?"
"Stronger. Faster. Meaner. Willing to do whatever it takes to win." Harwick glances at him. "Which is why I need you to promise me that if things go badly, you'll run. I don't care about honor or pride or what the stories will say—if I tell you to flee, you put spurs to your horse and you don't look back."
Bellamy opens his mouth to argue, but the look in Harwick's eyes stops him. It isn't the expression of a general giving orders to his prince. It is the look of a father desperate to protect his son.
"I promise," Bellamy says quietly.
"Good lad." Harwick straightens in his saddle as a scout rides up to meet them. "What news?"
