The March
The camp broke at dawn, the prince's words still echoing in the soldiers' chests. Their banners caught the wind, rippling gold and white against a brooding sky. Aelion rode at the front, his presence a steady flame, while Kaelen shadowed his side, hand ever near the hilt of his sword.
The Pilgrim's Path wound through valleys scorched by old wars. Villages they passed were scarred, shadows lingering where laughter once lived. The people knelt as Aelion's retinue passed, eyes bright with desperate hope.
Kaelen saw it, the weight pressed upon his prince's shoulders. "They see salvation when they look at you," he murmured as they rode.
Aelion's gaze lingered on a child waving from the ruins of a burned home. "And if prophecy steals it from them?"
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "Then prophecy will find itself broken."
Yet even as he spoke, the ground itself seemed to shudder—as if some unseen force heard his defiance.
The Messenger
By dusk, they halted in a ravine lit crimson by the sinking sun. Scouts returned breathless, reporting movement to the north—an army swelling beneath Varros's banner.
The camp grew tense, soldiers sharpening blades, priests whispering hurried prayers. Aelion walked the perimeter with Kaelen, silence stretched between them.
Then, the air shifted.
The wind stilled. The last rays of sunlight bent unnaturally, forming a figure woven of fire and starlight. Armor of light, wings spanning the ravine's width—neither wholly god nor wholly mortal. The soldiers fell to their knees.
The being's voice reverberated through marrow and stone alike.
"Prince Aelion. Guardian Kaelen. You tread a road that is not yours to claim."
Aelion forced himself upright, though his heart thundered. "Then why appear now? If the heavens decree only one may shine, why not strike me down and spare us all this torment?"
The messenger's gaze blazed. "Because the heavens are not kind. They are not cruel. They are balance. The prophecy was written when stars first bled. To defy it is to shake the foundation of all realms."
Kaelen stepped forward, defiance sparking like flint. "Then let it shake. The prophecy is chains—and chains can be broken."
The being's eyes turned upon him, and the ravine darkened. "You dare? Mortal, your oath binds you to death. You would choose ruin for love?"
Kaelen's voice was low, fierce. "I would choose him."
The soldiers gasped. Aelion's breath faltered, the words striking deeper than any blade. The messenger's form flickered, as if uncertain.
"Two lights cannot burn side by side," it thundered at last. "One must be consumed."
Aelion's voice cut through the weight of divinity, steady as steel. "Then tell your heavens this—if they demand my crown, my life, my soul, they may take them. But they will never take Kaelen."
The messenger's light faltered, collapsing inward until only a whisper remained on the wind:
"Then you are both marked. By dawn, your trial begins."
The Aftermath
The camp was shaken, men whispering of divine wrath. Aelion stood still, staring at the fading glow where the messenger had been.
Kaelen touched his arm, grounding him. "You spoke against the gods themselves. You've bound us both to war beyond mortal steel."
Aelion turned, their foreheads brushing in the shadows. "Then let them send their trials. We've sworn our oath. We'll face them together."
But far to the north, the torches of Varros's swelling army glimmered like a sea of fire, and above them, the stars shifted—like watchers waiting for blood.