The Princes and the Dust
The camp woke to the sound of noble outrage.
Sir Aldric Vey had been on his feet since the third watch.
He had personally inspected every wagon tongue for cracks, counted the remaining healing draughts (twenty-seven, down from forty-one), argued with the head farrier about three lame destriers, and overseen the quiet burial of four more knights who had succumbed overnight to demon-poisoned wounds. He had then spent the grey pre-dawn crouched over the route map with his lieutenants, tracing three possible roads south and weighing each against the likelihood of ambush, supply shortages, and how many days they could shave off the march. By the time the sun finally bled pale gold over the hills, Aldric had drunk three cups of tar-black coffee, eaten nothing, and still had to sign the day’s marching orders.
He was in the middle of doing exactly that—quill scratching across parchment—when the shouting started.
At first it was just raised voices near the mentors’ fire. Aldric ignored it; noble voices always carried farther than sense. But the voices kept climbing, sharp and entitled, slicing through the morning like broken glass.
“—my boots are ruined and I was promised proper billets—”
“—do you have any idea who my father is? The Duke of Eastmere will hear of this travesty—”
“—a prince of the realm forced to sleep on the ground like some levy footman—”
Aldric’s quill snapped. Ink spattered across the parchment like black blood.
He rose so fast the camp stool toppled behind him.
“Stay,” he growled to the quartermaster, and strode toward the noise.
The mentors had formed a loose, bristling circle near the supply wagons. Of the twenty, nine were doing all the talking.
Two were actual royalty:
- His Royal Highness Prince Edric of House Valisar, eighteen, blond, beautiful, and already perfecting the sneer that would one day make courtiers tremble.
- His Royal Highness Prince Lorent, Edric’s younger cousin, sixteen, quieter, cheeks flushed scarlet with second-hand shame.
The other seven were the usual constellation of high nobility: sons and daughters of dukes, marquesses, and earls who had earned their Academy places through family donation, forged examination results, or the simple expedient of having someone else take the tests for them.
The remaining eleven mentors kept their mouths shut.
Three were common-born scholarship students who had learned the hard way that noble tempers were contagious and best avoided.
The other eight were minor nobles or knightly offspring who had actually fought at Low Cradle and still bore the cuts, burns, and haunted eyes to prove it. They stood with arms folded, staring fixedly at the ground or the sky—anywhere but at the loud ones.
Lady Celine—a fourth-year whose left arm now hung in a sling (saved only because Livia’s otherworldly healing had reattached it before demon acid ate to the bone)—was trying, and failing, to pour oil on the flames.
“Please, Your Highnesses, the route was chosen for speed and safety—”
“Safety?” Prince Edric laughed, high and brittle. “We are the hope of the continent, and you march us like cattle! My brother’s boots are ruined. My brother requires proper rest. Do you know what happens if a prince takes ill on this miserable road?”
Lord Gavain (House Redwyne, three golden stags on azure) leapt in eagerly.
“And the food! Hardtack and salt pork? My stomach—”
A common-born mentor muttered, just loud enough, “Your stomach survived demon blood just fine when you were hiding behind Ser Aldric’s shield wall.”
Lord Gavain spun, face purpling.
“What did you say, peasant?”
The circle tightened. Voices overlapped. Someone invoked the king’s name. Someone else threatened letters to various fathers. One girl—Lady Amabel of House Thornvale—began to cry, whether from exhaustion or fear of Edric’s temper was unclear.
Prince Lorent stood half a step behind his cousin, cheeks burning, eyes fixed on the dirt. He opened his mouth once as if to speak, then closed it again. He had learned long ago that trying to rein Edric in only earned him a public dressing-down.
A harassed third-year mentor finally broke away and sprinted toward Aldric, nearly tripping over a tent peg.
“Captain! They won’t listen. They’re demanding better tents, better rations, a full rest day—threatening to write to the king—”
Aldric’s expression could have frozen a demon’s heart.
He strode into the circle like winter given form.
Silence fell so suddenly it rang in the ears.
Twenty young faces turned toward him. Some still wore the polished arrogance of palace halls. Others—those who had bled yesterday—looked suddenly very small.
Aldric did not raise his voice.
“Listen carefully,” he said, calm as drawn steel. “I will say this once.”
He pointed north, where Low Cradle’s pyres still smouldered.
“Yesterday we buried four knights and thirty-seven villagers. Tomorrow we will bury more. In three hundred leagues we reach the true front, where breaches open daily and things come out that make yesterday look like a tavern brawl.”
He let the words settle like lead.
“You are tired. Good. Tired means you are alive.
You are hungry. Good. Hunger keeps men sharp.
You are cold. Excellent. Cold reminds you what you are fighting to protect.”
Prince Edric opened his mouth. Aldric’s gaze pinned him like a butterfly to cork.
“Your Highness,” he said with exquisite courtesy, “the next time you threaten to write to your royal father, remember that he is the one who ordered me to deliver fifteen living weapons to the front. If you delay this column by one unnecessary day, I will tie you to a wagon wheel and drag you the rest of the way. Your choice of wheel.”
Dead silence.
Aldric swept his gaze across the circle.
“Some of you fought yesterday. Some of you bled. Some of you saved lives.” His eyes flicked to Lady Celine’s sling, to the common-born mentors who had stood their ground. “You have my respect.”
Then his gaze hardened.
“The rest of you hid behind my knights and cried when the blood got on your pretty cloaks. You are baggage. Baggage complains. Tools do not.”
He turned on his heel.
“In two days we reach the elven way-station at Silverglade. The elves do not bow to princes. They will judge you by your skill, your stamina, and your manners. Practise the last two.”
He walked away. No one dared breathe until he was out of sight.
Fifty paces away, half-hidden in the shadow of a supply wagon, six figures watched the entire drama unfold with the detached interest of people observing a play they had already guessed the ending of.
Rin leaned against a wheel, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Zeon stood beside her, one boot propped on a crate, chewing the last of the dried meat.
Kael, Noel, Silas, and Rhys had drifted over during the shouting, drawn by the same instinct that pulls wolves to weakness.
Silas tilted his head, voice barely a murmur.
“Is this what palace drama actually looks like? No wonder my sister back home binged those serials every week.”
Noel gave a soft, incredulous huff that was almost a laugh.
“It’s literally episode seventy-four of The Crimson Throne. The arrogant second prince, the embarrassed younger brother, the sycophantic courtiers… I thought the writers were exaggerating for ratings.”
Rhys made the tiniest sound—something that might have been amusement if it had volume.
Kael’s eyes narrowed in faint curiosity.
“You two watched… television dramas?”
Silas shrugged.
“Guilty pleasure. My older sister dragged me into it. Four hundred episodes of scheming nobles and forbidden love. Turns out reality is worse.”
Rin glanced at them, something strange flickering behind her eyes.
She understood every reference.
Television. Serials. Ratings. Episodes. Binge-watching.
Words that should have been meaningless gibberish slotted into place in her mind like pieces of a puzzle she had always owned but never seen assembled.
Another fragment unlocked.
She filed it away with the handshake, with the way certain smells sometimes triggered impossible déjà vu, and said nothing.
Zeon offered her the last strip of meat. She took it without looking.
Kael watched the mentors’ circle disintegrate into embarrassed muttering and red faces.
“Think any of them will learn before the elves flay them alive with courtesy?”
“Doubtful,” Rin said, voice flat. “But the elves will enjoy trying.”
Silas grinned, quick and crooked.
“I almost want to watch Prince Edric try to order an elf lord to carry his luggage.”
Rhys’s shoulders moved in a silent laugh.
In the distance, Aldric’s voice rose again—calm, clipped, giving the day’s marching orders. The camp stirred like a kicked anthill.
Rin pushed away from the wagon.
“Pack up. We move in twenty minutes.”
Zeon fell into step beside her. The other four followed without discussion, like ducklings who had finally found the only adults in the pond who knew where the deep water ended and the crocodiles began.
The war had only just begun.
And already the fault lines were clear: between those who would survive it, and those who would have to be dragged.
End of Chapter 9.