Somewhere far, on the other side of the world from the East, lay a city in the South untouched by prophecy — ruled by pride, not fire.
The sun dripped gold across the cracked brick of the lower city — a sprawling district nestled in the southern reaches of the capital, far from the opulence of the high walls and noble courts. Here, tradesmen barked over rusted stalls, alley cats darted between crates, and the names of its people were forgotten as easily as they were born. In these sun-scorched streets, laughter was rare, and joy even rarer still.
A boy sprinted through a narrow street, his fine, polished boots kicking up dust — an unmistakable sign of nobility amid the grime of the lower city. He wore a tailored doublet of deep burgundy, trimmed with gold thread, and his blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight as it tousled wildly in the wind.
His cheeks were flushed from exertion, though his laughter was genuine, boyish and free. Beside him ran a barefoot boy, his tunic frayed at the hem and a wide grin stretched across his face — a street child, no older than him, but shaped by soot and stone, not silver and gold."
They weaved between baskets of onions and crooked carts, dodging scolding vendors and startled hens.
"You're going to get us caught, Ian!" the boy yelled, laughing, using the nickname that he call the blonde boy — shorter, warmer, something only a friend would dare call a boy dressed in velvet and gold.
"Only if you slow down, Tov!" The blonde boy called back, grinning.
Knights clattered through the street, their armor gleaming even in the grime of the lower city. A pair of them paused, eyes sweeping the busy thoroughfare.
"There!" one barked, pointing toward the alley. "That's him! The young prince — stop him!"
Behind them, the sharp voice of a knight bellowed over the clamor.
"Gods be damned, boy! Get back here!"
The two boys turned a corner, ducked beneath a hanging tarp, and skidded into an alley choked with shadow and damp stone. Behind them, shouts rang out as the knights gave chase. Ian grabbed a rickety fruit cart and shoved it sideways into the path behind them, sending apples and melons tumbling into the street. One knight stumbled with a curse, slipping on a pear.
Tov whooped with delight, snagging a loaf of bread from a stall as they flew past, tossing it to Ian who caught it mid-stride. The chase became a game — reckless, giddy, and fleeting — until the alley narrowed, and they skidded to a halt.
Waiting for them at the end of the alley was a tall knight with golden hair like silk.
His arms were crossed, golden armor polished to a near mirror shine, etched with the crest of House Montclair — a golden eagle with wings unfurled, soaring over a field of crimson. A longsword rested against his hip, its pommel shaped like an eagle's talon. His jaw was set, hair slightly tousled from the ride, and his hazel eyes narrowed not with anger, but calculation, the way a knight weighed chaos before issuing command.
"Well," he said, brow raised. "Looks like the rats found their maze's end."
The blonde boy halted, breathing hard. Tov stopped beside him, eyes wide. He moved slightly closer to Ian, uncertain.
The golden knight stepped forward, towering over the two boys, though his tone remained unexpectedly gentle. "You," he said to Tov, "ought to be home before the bell tolls. Your mother will be beside herself."
Tov didn't move. His bare feet shifted slightly, dusty toes curling against the stone. He looked up at the armored knight, then back at Ian, eyes pleading.
Ian gave him a small smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "It's all right, Tovren. Go home. I'll be fine."
Still, Tovren hesitated — but finally, he nodded. He turned and ran, pausing only once to glance back before slipping around the corner and vanishing into the maze of the lower city.
Ian glanced at him and offered a nod. "It's all right, Tov. You should go. We'll meet again."
Tovren hesitated, then gave a small, sad smile before running off through the alley, his footsteps fading.
The golden knight watched him leave, the boy's stubborn loyalty lingering like dust in the air. He turned back to young prince, letting out a breath through his nose.
"Your friend's got guts," he said with a faint smirk. "Maybe I should sign him up to become a squire once he come of age. Gods know he's got more spine than half the noble lads I've seen."
The boy cracked a breathless laugh. "He'd outride half your squires already, uncle Lucien."
The golden knight name Ser Lucien chuckled, then nudged him lightly on the shoulder. "Come on, you little Rat. Let's get you home."
The boy wiped his face, still catching his breath. "And Mother?"
His uncle smirked. "She'll flay me."
The boy grinned despite himself. "Then we should probably get going."
"Well, look at that," Lucien said with a smirk. "The first smart thing you've said all day."
The Montclair estate loomed behind thick walls of pale stone and curling iron. Crimson banners fluttered above the gate, the golden eagle crest rippling in the breeze.
Inside, Was a Lady paced the marbled hall like a caged hawk, each step sharp and deliberate on the gleaming floor. Her golden hair was pinned in an elegant twist, strands tucked with meticulous care, and her gown of deep burgundy silk shimmered with each pass beneath the high windows. Her eyes, a piercing shade of green, restless and commanding — the gaze of a woman accustomed to absolute control, and intolerant of defiance.
When the doors opened and her son stepped through, she strode forward like a storm.
"Cassian! By the gods, where have you been?!"
The boy barely had time to brace himself as she seized his shoulders.
"Do you think this city is your playground? Do you have any idea what could happen to a boy like you out there?"
"Mother, I—"
"No. I don't want excuses. Lucien, you were supposed to be watching him."
Ser Lucien held up his hands, unarmed. "To be fair, he ran faster than I thought he could."
"And you let him?"
"I retrieved him. That counts for something."
"Not enough."
The tension between them was thick. Cassian stepped back, lips pressed tight.
Cassian's mother turned her full fury back on her son. "You are not a common brat, Cassian. You are Montclair by blood — and Dravenmoor by name. You do not sully your boots in gutters or run with beggars."
"I was just playing with a friend," Cassian said, lifting his chin, though his voice was quieter now. His words clung to a child's defiance, but the tremble beneath betrayed and the guilt beginning to set in. Her eyes narrowed, her lips thin with restrained ire.
"Playing? With a gutter rat, in the filth of the city?" she snapped. "You risk your safety, your name, everything — for what? A bit of laughter?"
Cassian's voice faltered. "He's not just a rat. He's—"
"He's no one," she cut in, cold and final. "You are a Dravenmoor. Or do you wish to shame your father the king next?"
Cassian's shoulders dropped, and he looked away. "I know who I am."
"Then act like it."
she said, her voice dropping to a razor's edge. She didn't yell — she didn't need to. The sheer disdain laced in those four words struck harder than any scream could. Her eyes, sharp and cold, held his gaze for a moment longer before she turned on her heel, her silk skirts whispering over marble as she walked away.
He said nothing. His lips trembled, but no words came. Tears welled quietly in his eyes — the kind he fought to keep hidden.
Ser Lucien, watching the scene from the side, frowned. He stepped forward and ruffled Cassian's hair lightly.
"You know," he said, offering a crooked grin, "if tears made swords, you'd be the fiercest Prince in the realm. But don't tell anyone I said that. I've got a reputation to keep."
Cassian gave a small, breathless laugh, wiping at his face as Ser Lucien smiled beside him, a rare moment of warmth between Uncle and nephew softening the edge of the scolding just passed.
Later, in the quiet of his chamber, Cassian sat on the windowsill, watching the city breathe below.
The stone walls of the capital stretched outward, houses packed like teeth, smoke trailing from chimneys.
He touched the fabric of his sleeve, still faintly dusty.
Tovren's laughter still echoed in his ears.
He didn't see rats or thieves. He saw people. He saw friends.
"And if all I can trust is blood… why do I feel most alive among strangers?"
Cassian leaned his forehead against the cool glass. The sky was darkening, and the lamps of the city began to flicker to life.
Tomorrow, the lessons would resume. The masks would return. But for today, in a small alley in the lower city, he had been just a boy — nothing more, nothing less.