Several days had passed since that night with Left.

  I’d woken in my bed, bereft of injury—no bruises, no scrapes, not even a phantom ache to mark the punishment he’d delivered.

  And yet I winced as the memory struck me again: knuckles battering my face like war drums.

  Oddly, it wasn’t the bruising that lingered. It was his absence.

  Since our training began, Left had occupied my nights like a ghost made of smoke and sweat—shouting commands, correcting my form with strikes more honest than words. Every clash of practice blades had carved its rhythm into my bones.

  Now that silence rang louder than steel.

  I didn’t know what to do with myself. I drifted through the halls like an untethered spirit, my eyes scanning shadows for a familiar silhouette. Just a glimpse of the one-eyed warrior. Anything.

  One evening, as I lay in bed, ears straining for any hint of Left’s return, a thought struck me. I rose at once, already dressed in the fine training leathers that had become my nocte uniform, and crossed to the balcony.

  I placed my hand on the cold, ornate stone and looked—not to the glowing sprawl of Draan below—but straight down, into the black drop beneath me.

  Like all Draan architecture, the design was brutal and angular. Corners were squared, columns ribbed—meant to intimidate, not comfort. But for a climber, they offered a kind of unspoken mercy.

  Still… the balcony stood hundreds of feet above the ground. The fall promised nothing but shattered bones and silence.

  So how had Left done it? He'd had no climbing equipment and sported an injury that I'd exploited just a few days ago.

  I swallowed hard. It wasn’t just impressive. It was inhuman.

  For the first time, a feeling stirred in me—restlessness. Fear, too. But I’d felt that every day of my life. This was different. This fear was lighter, washed in momentum. It didn’t freeze me. It drove me forward.

  I didn’t want to be safe. I wanted to feel—the sting of failure, the ache of triumph. Anything that proved I was alive.

  I moved without thinking.

  I began to climb.

  At first, my limbs responded eagerly. Months of training had made them long, strong, and capable.

  After days of restless idleness, it felt good to move again. Purposeful.

  That feeling didn’t last.

  A dull burn crept into my muscles, spreading fast. Sweat slicked my skin, stung my eyes. I blinked away salt, but the blurring only made the climb feel higher, the drop more final.

  I risked a glance upward. I was halfway between the balcony and the ground. No longer close to safety. Nowhere near finished.

  My arms screamed for reprieve, while my fingers whispered the unreasonable demand: just let go.

  Instead, I searched for a place to rest.

  I spied a balcony about fifty feet below me to my right. I immediately began to work my way over.

  My muscles trembled, threatening to mutiny.

  I was a mere ten feet away when they did. My legs seized, the muscles spasming as if a vulture plucked at the nerves of my hamstrings like sinew on a carcass.

  My grip slipped. I twisted midair, pushing away from the wall in a last-ditch attempt to catch the edge.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I was half-successful: the balustrade slammed into my stomach, knocking the air from my lungs in one violent gust.

  I gaped, my mouth working desperately to pull in air, like a fish snatched from the water. Wheezing slightly, I let my leaden weight pull me the rest of the way over the edge. I flopped heavily onto my back as I waited for my lungs to work again.

  After a few moments, I was blessed with a taste of air, and I gulped it down eagerly.

  I sat up, massaging my aching muscles and shaking out my clawed grasp. I was almost ready to stand when I felt eyes upon me.

  I turned.

  A middle-aged serving lady stood frozen in the doorway, broom in hand, halfway through cleaning what looked like a waiting room.

  Middle-aged, with grey hair edging her temples and a round, welcoming face, her eyes were full of shock—and why shouldn't they be? The prince of Draan had just dropped from the heavens and flopped around dramatically in the room she cleaned.

  Her mouth hung open. So did mine.

  For several moments, we mirrored each other, play-acting a silent conversation between fish.

  Finally, she found her voice.

  “M-my prince!” she stammered. “I’ll fetch someone—”

  She turned toward the door.

  “Stop!” I called, panic sharp in my throat.

  The woman froze, as if my words compelled her. I couldn't even see the rise and fall of her shoulders that would signify breath.

  I imagined what would happen if my father found out I'd scaled the keep walls like a thief. The punishment wouldn't end with me.

  "Um, are you okay?" I asked, concerned.

  She nodded in reply.

  "Can you turn around?" I asked, confused.

  She complied, revealing a face etched with fear. I took a step toward her, hand half-raised—then faltered. I didn’t know how to comfort someone. No one had ever shown me how.

  My arm dropped. “It’s okay,” I said softly, my voice thinner than I meant it to be. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just… I need to do this.” I trailed off weakly.

  Looking back, I was still not wholly convinced of my logic.

  Silence hung heavy in the air between us.

  "Please don't tell anyone," I uttered meekly.

  Her face softened as the fear in her eyes gave way to something else. Sympathy?

  The woman nodded.

  Without a word, she turned to a nearby basket and pulled out a dark cloak. She wrapped it gently around my arms, then fussed with the folds like a mother dressing her child.

  At last, she pulled the hood up and gave a firm, satisfied nod.

  "Be safe," she said in a motherly tone.

  My throat tightened, and I felt tears threaten to burst from my eyes like a broken dam. I choked back the odd surge of emotion painfully as I prepared for the next leg of my journey.

  I turned back towards the night sky before a thought struck me. "What's your name?" I enquired.

  “Cotl, my prince,” she replied, dipping into a practiced curtsy.

  "Thank you, Cotl," I replied with a slight bow. It was not expected of me as a prince, and my father would be furious if he saw me.

  I cared little—she had been kind to me.

  I took a steadying breath as I looked back out from the balcony. Does this make me brave, or stupid? I thought as I jammed my fingers back into the tight space between stone panels. I braced my feet against the walls, and immediately the pain returned.

  I could’ve just gone back inside, I muttered inwardly, grinding my teeth as I continued down, moving with all the grace of a crippled spider.

  Cotl’s pale face looked down upon me, etched with worry as she tracked my descent. She soon faded, a soft blur swallowed by distance and dark.

  As I neared the end of my descent, tall spires rose alongside the walls. I was able to push my back against them, bracing myself with bent legs to allow my aching fingers a reprieve.

  I looked down: just a dozen feet from the ground—my heart soared. The finish line shimmered below me—solid earth, flickering bolt-bugs, the pulse of freedom—and for a moment, the pain dissolved.

  My fingers still throbbed. My arms still burned.

  But it didn’t matter.

  I was going to make it.

  A deep, rattling breath escaped my lungs as I pushed off for the final drop. I hit the ground harder than I meant to, crumpling to my knees in a graceless heap. Pain flared sharp in my joints—but I was down.

  I’d made it. Bruised, battered, and aching… but it was worth it.

  I looked around, expectant.

  Nothing.

  No footsteps. No voice in the dark.

  Just wind. And silence.

  My heart sank.

  I hadn’t climbed for pride. Not really. I’d hoped—stupidly—that proving myself might summon him. That Left would be there. Waiting.

  But the courtyard was empty.

  My elation faded, leaving only the ache in my muscles and something deeper beneath.

  Then: crunching boots. Pale grey light spilled toward me.

  I ducked behind a spire just before it found me.

  A pair of palace guards marched their usual circuit, clad in crimson armour trimmed with gold. Each carried a torch in one hand and a long spear in the other. The spearhead was the same crimson as their armour and was lined with gold runes.

  The spears, I knew from my studies, were enchanted; if thrown in battle, they could be summoned back in a burst of crimson light.

  I’d always wanted to see them in action—tonight, the idea seemed less appealing.

  I held my breath as they stomped past my hiding place, step-by-painful-step. I waited a full minute after their passing before I emerged, darting towards the city below.

  Framed by the glow of bolt-bugs, and level with my eyeline rather than far below, the city looked larger and more tempting than ever.

  I journeyed into the night, eager to reach my destination.

  My prize.