CHAPTER 1 — Don’t Fall Again
Steel crashed against his with a jolt that ran up his arm to his shoulder.
Caelum didn’t step back.
He twisted his wrist at the last instant, letting the force slide past instead of meeting it head-on. Half a step to the left. Angle shifted. A clean thrust in response, forcing the instructor to block.
Metal against metal.
An echo in the early dawn.
Asteria’s sky was only beginning to pale.
“Again,” the instructor ordered.
Caelum nodded.
He didn’t argue with orders.
He absorbed them.
Their blades met once more. This time the strike came faster, aimed at his collarbone. Caelum read the movement from the tension in the man’s shoulder before the sword even descended. Deflect. Turn. Advance.
Control.
Measured breathing.
Muscles trained to obey even when the body demanded rest.
He had learned something years ago: fatigue is an honest enemy. It warns you when it arrives. The real danger is distraction.
And Caelum was never distracted.
At last, the instructor lowered his weapon.
“That’s enough.”
Caelum held his guard one second longer. Only when his breathing returned to perfect rhythm did he lower the blade.
“Your technique surpasses the other nobles,” the instructor said. “But that doesn’t matter.”
Caelum lifted his gaze.
“I know.”
“You’re training for something bigger than a duel.”
Yes.
For war.
For a throne.
For a life he never asked for.
Since the day he could hold a sword, they had repeated the same words:
Asteria will depend on you.
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It wasn’t praise.
It was a sentence.
Caelum returned the weapon to its stand and left the courtyard. Several young nobles watched him in silence. Admiration. Envy. Fear.
None of it touched him.
There was something more important.
Something that had nothing to do with the kingdom.
“Caelum!”
He stopped instantly.
The voice pierced him like sunlight.
He turned.
Lyra ran down the corridor barefoot, chestnut hair in complete disarray, smiling in a way that had never learned the meaning of protocol.
Caelum crouched just as she leapt into him.
He caught her firmly—carefully.
Always carefully.
“Did you finish?” she asked, arms around his neck.
“Yes.”
“You train too much.”
“It’s necessary.”
Lyra made a face.
“I don’t like necessary.”
For a brief moment, the heir’s rigidity vanished.
“Neither do I.”
He lifted her into his arms.
She was light.
Too light.
With her, he wasn’t a prince.
Not a symbol.
Not a weapon.
Just her brother.
In the kitchen, Caelum broke bread into small pieces. Blow on each before handing it over. Wait for her to chew. Make sure she didn’t choke.
Details.
Always details.
“Did you have a bad dream?” he asked.
Lyra hesitated.
“I was falling.”
The world stopped for a second.
“From where?”
“From very high up.”
Caelum pressed his hand against the table harder than necessary.
“It won’t happen.”
She looked at him with complete trust.
“Because you’re here.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was truth.
And that was the problem.
Later, in the outer gardens, the air was clean.
Too calm.
Caelum walked behind Lyra.
Always behind.
Watching every shift in the path. The recent rains had weakened the soil near the hills. He knew that. He had noticed days ago.
He should have asked for it reinforced.
He should have remembered.
Lyra ran several meters ahead.
“From here you can see everything!”
Caelum felt the tension before he saw the danger.
“Lyra. Come back.”
She turned, smiling.
One more step.
The ground cracked.
And gave way.
The world lost its balance.
Lyra fell.
Caelum was already running.
No thought.
No shout.
He jumped.
The edge crumbled beneath him as he reached out.
His fingers caught her wrist.
The pull nearly tore his shoulder free.
The earth kept collapsing.
No solid footing.
No help.
Only calculation.
Their combined weight.
The slope.
Loose soil.
If he tried to climb with her—
They would both fall.
Lyra was crying.
“Caelum!”
He looked at her.
And in that instant he wasn’t a prince.
Not an heir.
Just a brother.
If someone has to choose—
There was no heroism in the decision.
Only inevitability.
He tightened his grip.
“Trust me.”
He pushed with everything he had.
Lyra was thrown upward, rolling onto solid ground.
Their fingers separated.
The void claimed him.
The impact was brutal.
Something cracked inside him.
Air left his lungs.
He tried to move.
Nothing answered.
Blood filled his mouth.
Cold spread from his back.
Above, voices.
Screams.
His name.
All distant.
Too distant.
The sky was blue.
Indifferent.
He thought of the throne.
Of the king.
Of duty.
None of it mattered.
Only one image.
Lyra alive.
Lyra breathing.
Lyra not falling.
That was enough.
His body was shutting down.
But his mind remained clear.
This is the end.
And still—
There was no regret.
“It’s fine…” he murmured.
Darkness began to close in.
But before the final heartbeat faded—
He felt something.
Not wind.
Not cold.
Something deeper.
As if the air itself were watching him.
As if death were not emptiness.
But transition.
He didn’t understand it.
He had no time.
His final thought was simple.
Don’t fall again.
And the world went dark.
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Next chapter: The Mark of the Horn.
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