The Prince Who Ran

Chapter Seven: The Lion’s Den

Chapter Seven: The Lion’s Den

The gates of Andar rose before him — tall, pale stone streaked with ivy and soot, their grandeur cracked by time and neglect.

Caelan reined in his horse.

He hadn’t seen them in a year.

Behind him rode Lyra, Garrin, and a dozen villagers and border riders from Ardin. A modest company — but enough to make a statement.

Soldiers on the wall recognized the royal crest newly stitched onto Caelan’s borrowed cloak. A moment of stunned silence, and then:

“Open the gates!”

Metal screamed. Chains turned. Andar opened to receive its exiled son.

◇

It was not the city he remembered.

The outer roads, once bustling with cart merchants and musicians, were quiet. Windows were shuttered. Walls covered with new laws — scrawled proclamations signed in red wax by Lord Vayne’s interim council.

Caelan’s stomach churned.

They’d taken his father’s throne — and choked the life out of the kingdom in the process.

He passed children who shrank back from his horse. Old women who stared in disbelief. Men who bowed only once he had passed.

And then, the palace gates.

Guards flanked the walkway. One stepped forward, confused.

“Your Highness?” he asked.

“I’m no prince,” Caelan said. “Not until the council decides.”

But the guard was already saluting. “We never stopped believing, sire.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow at him as they were escorted inside. “Looks like word travels faster than horses.”

“Or maybe they just hate Vayne more than they fear me.”

She smiled. “Good. Let’s use it.”

◇

The royal palace had changed.

The corridors once lined with royal blue tapestries were now blood-red. Statues of former kings had been covered with canvas. The scent of incense and perfume had been replaced with something sour — desperation.

They were brought before the High Council that same evening.

Ten men and women. Some old. Some new. All tired.

Seated in a semicircle in the ancient hall of ironwood and gold, they stared at Caelan as if seeing a ghost.

Only one stood to greet him — a tall, wiry man with pale hair and sharp eyes.

“Prince Caelan,” he said. “I am Chancellor Sareth. The crown thought you dead.”

“Then the crown was mistaken,” Caelan replied.

“You fled the night your father died.”

“I grieved him. I feared the crown. But I found something far more dangerous in the time I was gone.”

“And what was that?”

“Myself.”

A murmur spread across the room.

Sareth studied him for a moment. “So you’ve returned. To reclaim your throne?”

“No,” Caelan said. “To earn it.”

He stepped forward, voice rising.

“Lord Vayne’s men tried to take Durn’s Hollow. I fought them. My people fought them. We buried good men to stop them. While you waited behind these walls, the kingdom bled.”

A woman in dark robes — Lady Varell, head of foreign affairs — stood.

“And if we recognize you?” she asked. “Will you take vengeance? Tear down the court?”

“I want peace,” Caelan said. “But not the kind built on silence and fear. I want justice. And I want to build a kingdom where the crown serves its people — not the other way around.”

Another councilman scoffed. “Idealism makes poor policy.”

“No,” Caelan said. “It makes loyal citizens.”

Lyra stepped beside him.

“I saw him fight,” she said. “I saw him lead people who had no reason to trust him — and they followed anyway.”

“Who are you?” someone sneered.

“Lyra of Durn’s Hollow. No title. No wealth. Just one of thousands of voices you’ve forgotten. And I say he’s the only hope we’ve got left.”

Sareth raised his hand, quieting the room.

“The law states that a rightful heir may challenge an usurper for the throne. With witness and arms.”

“You want a duel?” Caelan asked.

“No,” Sareth said, a faint smile crossing his lips. “I want a trial of leadership.”

Caelan frowned. “Explain.”

“You will govern for thirty days — as acting regent. If you restore order, if you win the loyalty of the guard, the cities, and the people, the crown is yours.”

“And if I fail?”

“Then we name a new heir from the council. Lord Vayne will be given control of the southern provinces. The kingdom will divide.”

Caelan looked to Lyra, then Garrin, then back to the council.

“Agreed.”

Sareth nodded.

“Then the test begins now.”

◇

That night, in the east wing of the palace — in his childhood bedchamber, newly cleaned — Caelan stared at the mirror.

The boy in commoner rags was gone.

But so was the golden prince of old.

Now, he saw a man marked by fire and loss, love and loyalty. A man who had learned the value of every life, every voice.

Lyra appeared behind him, wrapping her arms around his middle.

“You know they’ll sabotage you,” she said.

“I know.”

“They’ll lie, and threaten, and turn the people against you.”

“I know.”

She pressed her cheek to his back. “And you still want this?”

“No,” he said softly.

“But I need to make it right.”

A long silence passed.

Then she whispered, “Then let’s make it right. Together.”

He turned and kissed her.

Not as a prince who had won a prize.

But as a man who had finally found something — someone — worth standing still for.