Chapter 2: Flight Under the Midnight Sun
The adrenaline that had carried Cole from the throne room drained away somewhere in the labyrinthine corridors, leaving a cold, prickling fear in its wake. Every shadow seemed to hold the echo of a hiss. He kept a hand pressed to the ragged ends of his hair, the unfamiliar brush of it against his neck a constant, shocking reminder of what he had done.
He didn’t go to his chambers. That was the first place they would look. Instead, he slipped through a servants’ passage, the stone walls closing in around him, and out into the kitchen gardens. The cold night air was a slap. It smelled of frost and turned earth, a clean scent that scoured the memory of incense and rot from his lungs.
He found his father in the moonlit stable, just as they had secretly planned for weeks. The plan had been theoretical, a desperate fantasy. Now, it was breath and pulse and necessity.
Lord Aldric was checking the girth strap on a sturdy, dark mare. At the sound of Cole’s step on the straw, he turned. His kind, weathered face, illuminated by a single lantern, went pale. His eyes went first to Cole’s shorn hair, then to the wild, resolved light in his lavender eyes.
“Stars above, boy,” Aldric breathed, abandoning the horse to stride forward. His hands, rough from a lifetime of drawing maps, came up to frame Cole’s face. He searched his son’s expression. “It’s done, then? The refusal?”
“It’s done.” Cole’s voice was a dry rustle. “He won’t let it stand.”
“No,” Aldric agreed, his voice tight. “He won’t.” There was no lecture, no ‘I told you so.’ Only a grim acceptance. He had believed Cole’s tear-streaked, fragmented confession months ago—the impossible truth of a life already lived and lost. He had believed the terror in his son’s eyes when he spoke of Lysander’s true nature. That belief had cost him sleep, security, and likely his title. He turned back to the mare, his movements deliberate. “Then we run. Now.”
The stable was a cathedral of shadows and uneasy quiet. The horses shifted in their stalls, sensing the tension. Cole moved to help, his fingers fumbling with the bridle. A phantom cramp twisted deep in his abdomen, a memory of loss so acute he had to brace himself against the mare’s warm flank. The creature blew out a soft, damp breath.
“Easy, Arta,” Aldric murmured, to the horse or to Cole, it wasn’t clear.
“They’ll come for you,” Cole said, the guilt a sharp stone in his throat. “As soon as they find me gone.”
Aldric finished securing a packed roll behind the saddle. “Let them come. I’m a beta lord of fading importance and a specialist in borderland topography. They’ll rant. They’ll search. They’ll find nothing. My only treason is a missing horse.” He attempted a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Now, listen. The eastern pass through the Scarred Mountains. It’s not on any map I’ve ever made for the crown. It’s unstable, barely a goat track, but it will get you to the Dragon Kingdom border without using the royal roads.”
He pulled a sealed letter from inside his jacket. The wax seal was plain, unmarked. He pressed it into Cole’s palm and curled his son’s fingers around it. The paper felt like destiny. “You get to the Dragon capital, Ardenth. You ask for asylum. And you give this only to King Kaelen himself. No one else. He owes me a debt from the old war. This is me calling it in.”
Cole stared at the letter. A debt from the old war? His father had never spoken of knowing the Dragon King. The weight of it, of all the unsaid history in his father’s life, felt immense. “What does it say?”
“Enough,” Aldric said. “Now, up.”
Cole tucked the letter into the innermost pocket of his riding cloak. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung up. The saddle felt foreign. The world looked different from this height—more open, more possible. Arta danced sideways, sensing Cole’s nerves.
Aldric’s hand closed on the bridle, steadying the animal. He looked up at his son, the lantern light carving deep lines of worry and love into his face. The casual, light-hearted facade was gone, stripped bare.
“The road is long and cold. Trust your instincts. Trust the mare. She’s smarter than most people I know.” He swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the leather. “Live, my son. That is all I ask. Just live.”
Cole’s vision blurred. He wanted to say a thousand things—thank you, I’m sorry, I love you. The words jammed in his chest, too big and too fractured to pass his lips. He just nodded, a quick, desperate jerk of his head.
Aldric’s brown eyes held his for a final, endless second. Then he slapped Arta’s flank with a sharp, open-palmed crack.
The mare lurched forward into a canter. Cole grabbed the reins, glancing back only once. His father was a diminishing silhouette, a sturdy, solitary figure swallowed by the dark mouth of the stable. Then the path turned, and the estate vanished behind a wall of ancient, weeping pines.
The night became a stream of silver and black. The sickle moon offered meagre light, painting the world in fragments. The crunch of hooves on frozen path, the rush of his own breath, the creak of leather—these were the only sounds. Every shadow was a pursuing guard. Every crack of a branch was the snap of a serpent’s jaw.
He rode not with a soldier’s skill, but with the frantic grace of pure need. The phantom ache in his belly settled into a dull, reminding throb, a second heartbeat keeping time with his terror. He was a stripped branch, exposed, racing against the coming dawn. He had severed his hair, his ties, his old life. All that was left was the letter in his pocket, the debt of a king, and the fragile, terrifying hope of a future that was his own.