Their friends arrived in slow trickles—Einard, red hair as wild as his temper; Nora, pale and unusually quiet; and Jakes, tugging at the stiff collar of his gold-trimmed robe, already sweating under the weight of tradition.
They looked like children dressed in borrowed lives—draped in ceremony, pinned with expectation. The robes didn’t make them noble. They just made them quieter.
The garden held them gently, as if it knew it would never cradle them quite this way again.
Whispers stirred the hedges.
Rumors floated like dandelion seeds—aimless, but impossible to ignore. Who might be chosen. What paths lay ahead. A girl murmured something about Master Fronan—how he’d once fought five men in a tavern and walked away without a scratch. Another voice followed, softer, speaking of Master Chum—the silent tracker who could slip through dry leaves without a sound, who lived among elves for a year and came back saying even less.
Spud listened, wide-eyed.
Fronan terrified him—but fascinated him too. He pictured a scarred warrior, quick as lightning, fearless and towering. But it was Chum who stirred something quieter inside. A man who watched, who listened, who understood before acting. Spud didn’t want to be the loudest voice in the room. He wanted to be the one people turned to when it mattered.
He looked down at his hands. The robe pooled awkwardly around his legs. He didn’t feel ready.
But he didn’t feel alone either.
The fountain trickled nearby, its stream running smooth over weather-worn stone. Stone cherubs grinned in mid-laugh around the rim. As a child, that sound had comforted him. Now it felt too light. Too playful for what was coming.
Then the doors opened.
Heavy oak groaned on iron hinges—a deep, final sound, like the closing of a book.
Every head turned.
Princess Vaneppe stepped out.
She moved like still water kissed by light. The sun caught the folds of her sapphire gown, scattering glimmers across the garden path. Her face, bare without the ceremonial mask, was composed and calm. Not cold—just unreadable. Veiled in purpose.
Beside her stood Prince Turon—every inch carved from discipline. The black of his coat drank the sunlight, his posture stiff as forged iron. His eyes swept the courtyard, sharp and measured. One hand hovered near his sword hilt—not out of threat, but habit.
“I’ll be fine here, brother,” Vaneppe said. Her voice, soft as breath, still cut through the hush like silk drawn across skin.
Turon hesitated. His gaze lingered—not with doubt, but with the weight of unsaid things. Then he gave a single nod and stepped back inside. The doors shut behind him with a groan like something ancient settling into silence.
The shift was immediate.
The courtyard exhaled.
Shoulders dropped. Half-masks disappeared into pockets and sleeves. The formality draped over the gathered youth slipped off, thread by thread, like mist dissolving in morning light.
But Spud didn’t relax.
To him, the garden suddenly felt too large. The walls, too quiet. Vines coiled up the stone like watching serpents. The manicured hedges whispered secrets in the breeze. At the center, the fountain gurgled steadily—its cherubs frozen mid-laugh, mockingly untouched by what weighed on the living.
He tried to ground himself. Timmy’s presence beside him, the gravel crunching faintly underfoot, the chill brushing the back of his neck. But everything felt… distant. Like stepping into a dream half-remembered from childhood. The kind born from firelight and whispered warnings.
And now, one of those stories stood before them.
Princess Vaneppe.
She hadn’t called them. Hadn’t lifted a hand.
Still—they came.
She stood in the sunlight like it had chosen her, not the other way around. The folds of her sapphire gown caught the light and threw it in scattered fragments across the stone. Her expression was calm, composed—but behind it, something unreadable stirred. Her smile wasn’t large, but it curved with knowing mischief. A glint of challenge. Of invitation. A queen’s smile before the crown.
Spud stepped forward without meaning to.
So did the others.
Her presence didn’t command—it drew. Not a shout, but a song half-heard. A melody from a childhood dream. Something in her made you want to be closer, even if you didn’t know why.
Vaneppe’s eyes moved across them like a breeze through tall grass—unhurried, inevitable. She wasn’t searching.
She already saw.
And when her gaze passed over Spud, he felt it land—just for a breath—like being quietly named in front of a crowd.
The courtyard softened.
A few chuckles returned, cautious and low. Someone exhaled. Another adjusted their collar, suddenly aware of how tight it had grown.
“Two days in a row at the Duke’s court,” Vaneppe said. Her voice was smooth, her smile sharper now. “Either you’re stirring up trouble... or not nearly enough.”
The group laughed—uneven, relieved.
Her eyes lingered on Timmy and Spud. Not unkind, but watchful. As if measuring something.
Einard elbowed the boy beside him, his grin all teeth.
But Spud barely heard them.
She was just as the stories had painted her—cleverer than most advisors, braver than many knights. They said she’d once humiliated a visiting swordsman in a duel for mocking her accent. Others whispered of a secret map of the realm, hand-drawn and hidden in her chambers, detailing routes only the old kings remembered.
And now, here she was. Alive. Smiling. Standing among hedges older than kingdoms.
Timmy stepped forward slightly and cleared his throat. “Thank you for your help yesterday, Princess.”
Her expression shifted—just a touch. Softer. More personal.
“There’s no need for thanks,” she said. “It was only a small nudge. My father should’ve ensured your seat. I merely... reminded the court.”
Her words were light, but they landed with the precision of a blade. Around them, conversation ebbed into silence again.
Timmy opened his mouth, then thought better of it, offering instead a respectful nod.
Spud stood still, hands clasped behind his back. His fingers fidgeted at the seam of his sash, though he seemed unaware. The garden felt warmer now—not threatening, but closer, as if the walls themselves leaned in to listen.
Then Einard broke the silence.
“Wait—was there really a portal? Magic? Some say you vanished into smoke! Others say you fought your way out of a monster’s mouth!”
Heads turned. Even the most composed leaned in.
Vaneppe’s eyes sparkled.
“Their story is extraordinary,” she said, voice light but clear. “Hard to believe.”
She let the silence hang.
“But,” she added, sweeping her gaze across the group, “a senior court official confirmed every detail.”
Gasps and whispers spread. The air shifted—as if the garden itself leaned forward to catch every word.
Spud felt the weight of every glance—suddenly all attention was on him and Timmy. Not unkind, but intense. Curious. Expectant.
Timmy tugged at his collar. The fine blue tunic suddenly felt too tight, too formal.
Spud didn’t move. His calm was brittle, stretched thin over a swirl of memory and pressure. His hands, folded behind his back, gripped tighter. He fixed his eyes on the edge of the fountain, watching its surface ripple—a quiet turmoil beneath still waters.
Vaneppe’s voice softened.
“My father hasn’t silenced you. What you choose to share is your own.”
A hush fell—deeper now. Velvet and waiting.
Timmy glanced at Spud. In that breath, a silent question passed between them—one born of long nights, quiet fears, and fire-forged trust. Spud gave a barely-there nod.
Timmy stepped forward, steady but not without hesitation.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiNLBwO337e
“It started in the woods. Just past Convota.”
Before he could speak further—
The heavy garden doors creaked open, their ancient hinges groaning like old bones disturbed.
The spell of the moment broke. A collective breath escaped the gathered youths—soft, disappointed, like a candle flickering just before dawn.
Calnos of Borka entered with the confident ease of a prince born to command. His silver travel cloak, streaked with dust and road grime, whispered of long journeys and distant borders beyond the castle’s walls. He moved with practiced grace, every step measured, accustomed to rooms and courts bending to his will.
Approaching Vaneppe, he dipped low and pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek.
“Cousin,” he said with a roguish grin, “you shine brighter than moonlight across this garden.”
Vaneppe’s smile was subtle but knowing—a secret shared from childhood escapades and whispered intrigues in royal corridors. Beneath her poised exterior was a spark of defiance, the quiet rule of her own kingdom within these stone walls.
Calnos’s gaze shifted, locking on Timmy and Spud.
“Just in time,” he said, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders, rough but familiar. “I rode from Borka to raise a glass to your coming of age. Not even a crown could keep me away.” He leaned back against the cool stone bench, eyes bright with curiosity. “Now, tell me—the city’s aflame with talk of this portal. What really happened?”
Spud blinked, surprised at how far the rumor had traveled—how quickly the impossible had become legend.
“How did you hear about that?” he asked.
Calnos’s grin deepened.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSVDNh9hd5w
“Magic and mystery—they travel faster than any messenger. Half the city’s buzzing. Even the markets hum with whispers.”
The courtyard seemed to hold its breath as Calnos settled in, inviting the tale.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtLqvlMzue8
“Start from the beginning. Don’t spare a single detail.”
Timmy and Spud exchanged a glance, a silent conversation forged through shared trials and unspoken fears. Timmy’s grin flickered—a spark of light against the rising weight of expectation.
“Well,” Timmy began, voice threading with youthful excitement, “we found him in the woods. A stranger—silent, cloaked in shadows.”
He painted the scene in broad strokes: the strange device humming with unnatural energy, crackling air thick with tension, the sudden burst of light that tore the world apart. His hands moved like lightning, sparking the listeners’ imaginations.
Vaneppe raised a hand, a playful smile curving her lips.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡc1qtX7wIG5
“Timmy, darling, we don’t have all day. The quick version, please.”
Her tone was teasing but sharp—as if she already held some of the answers.
“She’s right,” Calnos added with a dramatic sigh. “Give us the short version before we get called back.”
The group leaned in, drawn like moths to a flame.
Spud’s voice dropped low—steady and measured, as if recalling something deeply real.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡidgmC71BbW
“Short version,” he said, glancing briefly at Timmy, “The man stood still, like carved stone from the forest. He lifted a device that hummed—alive, like lightning trapped in glass.”
He met the group’s eyes again.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOdlTLpgOKC
“A pulse flared. The air shuddered… then tore open.”
A heavy silence fell.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvtgnAqS5Qf
The garden seemed to hold its breath—stone and vines listening to secrets unfolding.
Spud’s voice softened further.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNUCKwuc16R
“Then I woke in a hut. But it wasn’t a normal hut. The air was cold, wrong. The shadows didn’t move like they should.”
For a moment, the garden felt far away.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfPYuHS6y9B
Even Vaneppe leaned in, though she already knew the story. This was no longer performance—it was memory.
Then the garden doors creaked open.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiQxXKUEbqE
Prince Turon stepped in, tall and serious in his layered blue and purple tunic.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKFqT4qWky7
“You’re needed at the gates,” he said sharply, eyes locked on Vaneppe and Calnos. “The procession is about to start.”
Calnos rose with a grin.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYCRXhiVh4o
“Duty calls,” he said, bowing with a flourish and offering his hand to Vaneppe.
She rolled her eyes but smiled, taking it.
As the nobles departed, the scent of rosewater hung in the air.
Timmy exhaled deeply and squared his shoulders. Spud met his gaze and gave a firm nod.
They had only minutes left.
*
It had been nine days since the tree pinned Alexi in the swamps—nine days since Spud had defied death, orders, and fate to drag him back to safety.
Now, light spilled into their room like honey through a cracked jar. Dust motes danced in the golden beam that landed on Spud’s blanket.
“Miluna hasn’t stopped by today?” Alexi asked, propped slightly on his elbows.
Spud blinked. “Not yet. Wonder if something’s up.”
“Maybe we don’t need her as much now. I mean…” Alexi flexed a little. “I think I can finally get out of this bed.”
Spud nodded, then shifted. A dull ache rippled down his back as he sat up. He gave Alexi a faint grin. “Let’s test that theory.”
The two boys rose slowly, their movements deliberate and heavy, like men twice their age. They winced and grunted, stretching limbs stiff from too much stillness. Each cautious step felt like reclaiming a part of themselves—life returning after the edge of darkness.
Sunlight poured through the window, warming the stone floor and casting a golden glow across their faces. The scent of healing herbs hung in the air, replacing the stale odor of confinement with something softer—recovery.
Alexi paused, breath catching in his throat. “I owe you my life,” he said, eyes shining with gratitude. He reached out a hand.
Spud took it.
But Alexi didn’t stop there—he pulled Spud into a rough, grateful hug. “I’ll never forget what you did,” he whispered.
Spud stood still for a moment, then clapped Alexi gently on the back, his hand lingering longer than necessary.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3jEFDGxSHX
“You don’t owe me,” he murmured, voice thick. “We’re friends. That’s what we do.”
Alexi stepped back, his crooked smile touched by something raw.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRB8EZbZyej
“Nah. I owe you,” he said quietly. “You went beyond, Spud. Way beyond.”
For a beat, silence settled between them, heavy but unspoken. Then Alexi’s eyes flickered with something deeper—fear or maybe hope, it was hard to tell.
He laughed then—soft, steady—like something inside finally breaking free.
Spud chuckled too, feeling the tightness in his chest loosen. The swamp had tried to pull them under, but somehow, they were still standing. Still breathing. Still brothers—not by blood, but earned. Forged in mud, fear, and fire.
*
The courtyard shimmered with magic. Lanterns floated gently overhead, glowing with soft light. Streamers twisted on invisible breezes, and hearthstones hovered, casting warm flickers across the polished marble floor. The air was rich with jasmine and cinnamon.
Youthful figures gathered—fifteen-year-olds dressed in embroidered tunics, layered sashes, and ceremonial masks. They clustered like birds on the edge of flight, their laughter bright but tense beneath the weight of tradition.
At the center stood an empty ceremonial platform, waiting.
Timmy and Spud weaved through the crowd to their friends.
Nanda stepped forward—lean, with unruly black hair and sharp green eyes full of mischief.
“Well, well,” he called with a grin. “The heroes return! Word is you danced with danger and lived to tell the tale.”
He tapped Spud’s shoulder with exaggerated flair.
“Legendary.”
Spud smoothed his tunic, feigning offense.
“Careful, Nanda. Some of us still take pride in our appearance. Not all of us live in the stables.”
Laughter bubbled up, but Nanda’s grin tightened as he stepped closer, voice lowering with a sharper edge.
“Poor little Spud. Scared of a wrinkle.”
Then, as if on cue, the heavy castle gates swung open.
Torchlight spilled molten gold across the courtyard, illuminating nobles and clergy filing in. Their robes, threaded with starlight, shimmered in the firelight. The scent of oils and old parchment drifted softly on the breeze.
Nanda straightened beside Spud, the earlier edge in his voice softening.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNT9lfYHqYe
“Sorry,” he muttered, low. “Jokes got away from me.”
He glanced down at his own tunic, smirking wryly.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiICVOqB2wG
“If I ruin this, Mum’ll have me feeding pigs till midwinter.”
Spud gave a small nod. The tension between them slipped away like mist under the sun, replaced by a charged stillness—a shared sense of purpose.
Then came the true signal.
The sharp clatter of armored boots echoed as four royal guards stepped in formation. Their blue-and-silver livery gleamed; halberds caught the firelight like bells tolling.
Behind them came the masters.
Master Fronan strode forward like a man born to command—tall, broad-shouldered, his black cloak billowing like stormclouds. One gloved hand rested lightly on his sword’s hilt—more symbol than threat.
At his side moved Mistress Izza, radiant in layered crimson and gold robes. Her steps were smooth, almost floating, her veil catching the torchlight like shifting silk. Her presence spoke of a different power—measured, watchful, ancient.
A hush swept through the courtyard.
Silk-clad bodies stilled. Fingers unclenched. Even the night seemed to pause, as if holding its breath.
Timmy stood frozen, eyes locked on Fronan—not with fear, but with hunger. Not ambition, but belonging. Purpose. His breath hitched. His hands curled at his sides—not clenched, but ready, as if to receive something sacred.
Spud glanced at his brother, seeing the fire behind those eyes—conviction, not anger.
The masters reached the raised platform and turned in perfect unison. Fronan veered left, cloak trailing like a dark shadow unbound. Izza veered right, her steps precise and fluid, mirroring his in balance.
Behind them came two more figures.
Their mother—poised and composed, wrapped in the Duke’s colors—walked with quiet dignity. Her presence needed no announcement; it carried its own gravity.
Beside her moved Mistress Mera, Master of Healing. She seemed to glide rather than walk, her robe moss-green, circlet woven with silver leaves. Her face was unreadable, her silence hinting at deeper knowledge.
One by one, the remaining masters emerged, parting as they reached the platform—forming two mirrored lines like living columns. A corridor of wisdom. A path yet to be walked.
Then came Arkin, the Duke’s magician, staff in hand, his cloak glimmering with arcane threads. At his side stood Ezrun, priest-scholar of distant lore, his foreign garb marking him as a seeker of truths from lands beyond Convota. Together, they paused—then stepped aside.
To make way.
Lady Vaneppe and Calnos appeared next, every inch the poised nobility they were born to be. They moved as if the very stones cleared their path, grace interwoven with expectation. Vaneppe’s gaze lingered on the crowd—curious, perceptive—while Calnos maintained a faint smirk, as if the whole affair were a private jest only he understood.
At their flank stood the Duke’s sons. Prince Turon, statuesque and composed, stood rigid with duty. Beside him, Prince Arlep—young, watchful, his mind flickering behind his eyes like a candle behind glass. Arlep drifted closer to Vaneppe, their unspoken bond tangible even at a distance.
Then, at last, the Duke himself emerged.
He was not a man to be overlooked. Draped in blue and storm-grey, a high mantle clasped by a brooch of carved obsidian, he moved with the quiet certainty of a ruler long unchallenged. His gaze swept over the gathered youths—nearly a hundred strong—eyes sharp, mouth unreadable.
For a moment, he said nothing.
The courtyard held its breath.
Then he spoke.
“Welcome, Convota.”
His voice rolled like thunder wrapped in velvet, reaching every corner of the garden.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡO0ClkHYEGt
“A truly remarkable assembly we have this year.”
He paused, letting anticipation build. Then his tone softened slightly, though the weight beneath it remained.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfY1ig97bxe
“Today,” he said, “is your Path Day. A day not just for celebration, but for passage. For purpose. Today, you stand between the echoes of childhood and the call of what lies ahead. When the sun rises tomorrow, you will no longer be simply sons and daughters. You will be apprentices. Scribes. Soldiers. Scholars. Healers. Builders. Leaders.”
The courtyard fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the distant tolling of bells and the crackle of embers in the braziers. The scent of pine and burning oak hung thick, mingling with the nervous sweat of hopeful youths.
“I have no doubt,” the Duke continued, “that among you are voices destined to shape the next generation of Convota. This city is already proud of you. Now, make us prouder still.”
His final words settled deep into the stone and soil and into the hearts before him.
A moment passed, then—
“I know you’re eager to begin,” the Duke said, voice steady and commanding. “With that, I introduce the man who made this day possible—our master of ceremonies, Deezo."24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOGFuyeEPIA
and then Add to home screen.