The training ground was slick with damp grass, blanketed in the thick early morning mist that cascaded from the oceanside cliffs into the capital. Cuinn fidgeted with the pommel of his sword that lay at his side. He often found himself running his calloused thumb over the wings of the Pegasus when contemplating or attempting to avoid certain thoughts that would cause his jaw to tighten.

The crown prince had many thoughts that led to that bit of unease and distress. The sheer weight of the crown and the man who held it over his head was enough to ensure his feet were well grounded beneath him every moment of the day.

But even now, with his feet planted in the grass and his boots becoming damp from the morning dew, Cuinn felt as though he were drifting through his own life — pushed from one moment to the next by some force other than himself and his own two feet.

There were few exceptions. When he trained with Virgil, his trusted friend and protector, or when he was alone in the Royal Library with a book in his hands— hands that appeared to be made for turning pages of a book but also to wield a sword if needed. Oddly enough he felt grounded in those moments, reading about someone else’s history, their life— a way to anchor his own.

When fidgeting with his pommel was not enough to deter certain thoughts away, he unsheathed his sword and began to warm up his shoulders. He rotated his sword with his right arm, weaving it in and out of the thick air, tossed it to the other side, rotating the other.

Virgil was often late, however Cuinn had tendency to be early. He would often begin his warm-ups before the Kings guard showed up. Virgil had been training Cuinn with the sword for well over a year now, instructed by the Captain of the guard to do so. King Dreadon had very openly declared his concerns about the Prince spending more time in the library and with Eldrin Stonegrove, the King’s druid, than practicing arms and learning how to run a kingdom someday.

Cuinn didn’t mind the push toward the training. He knew he needed it. It’s not like he never practiced combat, he just one day found himself more enthralled about myths and legends than how to properly move his feet when an opponent is flanking him on his left side.

Cuinn continued to cut his blade through the air in smooth, controlled arcs, transitioning from one movement to the next. He heard the snap of a twig behind him and whirled around to find Virgil, leaning against a maple tree with a broken bit of sprig in his hands.

“Your awareness is shit you know. I have been here watching you for quite some time brooding like the little scholar you are,” said Virgil as he pushed off the trunk of the tree with his foot.

Cuinn never minded the petty insults and banter. He actually enjoyed it. Virgil was someone who treated Cuinn like a real person, not some young princeling that needed tended to and ordered about. He also came to know Virgil as one of the most loyal men he had ever met, his unwavering devotion for both friendship and the protection of the crown.

“You should try picking up a book yourself instead of your sword for once.” Cuinn said with a sly smile, tossing his sword back and forth between his hands.

“I am offended by those accusations, Prince,” Virgil said as he theatrically placed a hand to his chest. “I was awake into the hours of the night reading, if you would like to know, but enough banter — show me those upward cuts.”

Cuinn began practicing his rising strikes from below, aiming for the invisible torso before him.

“Good. Now do upward cut followed by low thrust.”

The Prince did as instructed, forcing himself into each movement, relishing the feeling of being connected to his body and not a mere ghost among men.

“Alright, enough warm ups. I need to clash my sword on something.” Virgil gave Cuinn a slight shove, checking his stance to ensure he was grounded. The Prince did not budge. “Great grounding. Now come at me,” he said with a wicked grin.

Cuinn began to circle Virgil, calculating the best first move, knowing Virgil would stand there all morning waiting for the first attack. You need to practice your offense, the King’s guard would say. Cuinn saw an opening and lunged forward, feigning a straight thrust attack. Their blades met and Virgil’s wicked grin widened.

“That was excellent your highness. Magnificent footwork.” Virgil pressed further into his blade and pushed Cuinn back a few steps. “That would have worked if you hadn’t played that plan out with your eye movements before your attack.”

The two men continued sparring, Virgil giving no amount of mercy, not that Cuinn would expect it. Virgil and Cuinn found themselves drenched in sweat, attempting to draw the thick misty air into their lungs. The training grounds were now full of guards going about their daily duties.

“I heard about the recent promotion — Lieutenant.” Cuinn broke the silence, still trying to steady his breathing. “Congratulations. Being second in command… is quite the step up for a simple boy from Havenswood.” Cuinn turned toward Virgil, clapping him on the back.

“Yes…Lieutenant.” Virgil ran his hand through his russet-brown hair, raising his broad shoulders. “I’m not sure how I feel about it yet, to be honest.”

“Well, if you’re unsure, I think the other option would be to have you training the soldiers as a Lieutenant in our army.”

“Oh, no. I would rather be here training your sorry ass.” Virgil raised his brow, assessing Cuinn. “You need it, my exalted Highness.”

“You just like being spoiled with the finery of being so close to the palace. I think you’ve gotten too used to it.” Cuinn returned the assessing look toward Virgil. “I can’t see you fairing well in those battle tents.”

Virgil gave the Prince a smirk that suggested his agreement. “Speaking of battle tents, any news about our soldiers potentially moving on Eryndor?” Virgil asked casually.

“No, we are going to talk about that in today’s council meeting, probably.” Cuinn lowered his voice. “We had accounts of those deaths in the capital earlier this week. One was a commoner, some merchant I think and a Lady from the noble District.”

“Were they similar to the reports of the deaths near Harborfell?” Virgil rested his hand on the pommel of his sword and quietly added, “Black veins and swollen eyes?”

“Yeah, same accounts. There are some on my father's council that suggest poison, other are suggesting dark magic.”

“What are you suggesting?” Virgil asked Cuinn with raised brows.

“I have no idea. I'll want to read the full reports myself.” Cuinn sat on the nearest bench and grabbed the canteen, drinking his fill. He wiped his mouth and said, “All I know is that my father is fearful of Eryndor finally making a stand, regardless of the peace treaty. I don't know what to do about it.”

Virgil gave a deep sigh while staring up at the heavens. “Well, I suggest you just continue learning, training, and trust those instincts of yours. They are gifts from the gods.”

Cuinn glanced around nervously. “You mean god.” He stood up and neared Virgil's side, leaning into his ear and whispered, “Virgil, I know you are loyal to your King. I also know that it is difficult for you —given your beliefs. Please be careful.”

“Of course I'll be careful your Highness.” Virgil smirked and added, “There is one true King and I serve him.”

Cuinn knew Virgil’s true beliefs and the delicate balance of his faith and his loyalty to the crown. Only recently Virgil began masking it with sarcasm, but Cuinn saw through the fascade. Even Cuinn himself was a little shocked to hear his father’s proclamation of denouncing all gods besides Lugh, the Sun god and Helva, queen of the Underworld.

The tension was whittled away when Sir Duncan, Captain of the King’s Guard, walked into the Military District through the main palace gate and headed straight toward the two young men.

“Behold, your most devoted admirer comes this way,” Cuinn teased, nudging Virgil with his elbow. Among the guards, it was often said that Virgil was the Captain's favorite and favored by anyone with a high standing for that matter. His loyalty was unquestioned, his wit razor-sharp, and his undefeated title in combat was noted.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Ah, your Royal Highness, I'm so glad to see you training with the Lieutenant. Many would kill for the honor.” The Captain gave Virgil a hearty clap on his back that had Virgil’s eyebrows raising in response.

“I am well aware Sir Duncan. The Lieutenant is truly one to admire,” Cuinn said, his words dripping with sarcasm. The Captain responded with nothing more than a sharp side-eye.

“Ah. Well, your Highness, I am here to inform you that Eldrin is looking for you,” the Captian said. He then lowered his voice with distaste and muttered, “Why the King keeps that old fool around, I have no idea.”

“Eldrin holds much of our history in his memory and though magic is now weakened, remember Sir Duncan, he has aided this Kingdom on more than one occasion,” Cuinn countered. “Thank you for delivering the message Captain.” The Captain of the guard grumbled something under his breath, bowed to the Prince, and strode off.

Cuinn turned to Virgil and offered him a handshake, grabbing his forearm. “I will see you tomorrow morning — Lieutenant.”

“Until then, Royal Highness.” Virgil gave a brief bow and added, “Remember, next time use those bright blue eyes of yours to deceive your opponent, not give yourself away.”

Cuinn smirked at Virgil, offering him a wink and strode off to the palace.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Cuinn strolled past the Royal Library, the familiar scents of parchment and leather bound books calming his senses as he wondered why the druid requested his presence. Eldrin Stonegrove was more than just a keeper of knowledge and wisdom for the King’s council — he was a mentor and friend to Cuinn. In the last year, with Cuinn spending more time pursuing his military prowess, he had missed the familiar company of the old druid.

A decade ago, King Dreadon expelled all druids from the court and council, sparing only Eldrin for his knowledge and ability to perform magical rites, even though magic had significantly weakened during that time. Once, not only in Calemyra but throughout all of Lythoria, Druids and Wielders sat on the council, advising the kingship and maintaining the balance between mortals and the magical land that was blessed by the gods themselves. Since then, the land’s magic faded, leaving both druids and wielders with fragments of their former power - their connection between their magic and the earth fractured beyond repair. The driving force behind the weakening of magic changed depending on who spoke of it.

Cuinn began the tread down the stone spiral staircase, feeling his skin prickle at the sudden drop in temperature. He fidgeted with the pommel of his sword as he continued descending. Half way down, the staircase leveled out to corridors that led to the eastern side of the castle that housed the healers quarters and Eldrin. He began to smell the earthy scent of myrrh swirled with the freshness of jasmine that clung to the thick air as he made his way to the end of the corridor. The large wooden door was slightly open and Cuinn could make out the dancing glow of candlelight.

The Prince knocked softly on the door and heard the druid’s hoarse voice beckoning him in.

“You wanted to see me, Eldrin,” Cuinn said as he walked into the room to the sight of Eldrin sitting on a dark green, velvet cushion that was positioned on the floor before the hearth fire. The druid was placing a censer on a small wooden tray, wispy tendrils of smoke ascended skyward from the censer, the thick scent enveloping the room.

“Ah, your Royal Highness, please come sit with me,” Eldrin said as he pulled over another velvet cushion beside him.

Cuinn knelt down beside the old druid, his robes were of dark moss color that seemed to capture the glow of the light coming from the fireplace. “You know it is not necessary to deliver honoring titles with me, Eldrin.”

“As you have told me before. I invite you in my room as your Royal Highness, but once you sat down beside me, you became Cuinn- a young man of this earth.” The druid held a wax candle out, offering it to Cuinn. “Take this and light it from the hearth, please.”

The Prince obeyed and welcomed the warmth of the fire as he held the candle to the flames, allowing them to catch and dance on the wick. The druid gestured for him to place the candle in a brass holder at the center of the wooden tray. To its right, a censer released plumes of smoky myrrh into the air. Beneath it, another candle flickered, already lit. To the left rested a small ceramic bowl filled with liquid, jasmine petals floating on its surface. And before it all lay a single piece of driftwood.

“In the east, we invoke the element of air; in the west, we invoke the element of water; in the south, the element of fire; and lastly, in the north, we invoke the element of earth and stone.” The druid splayed his aged fingers over the pieces on the wooden tray and began to lightly hum.

Cuinn had witnessed magical rituals before—most performed by Eldrin himself or guided by the druid as Cuinn carried out his own. The Prince had not mentioned to anyone, especially his father that he partook in these rituals. Even before magic was officially outlawed twelve years ago, when Cuinn was just a boy, the rituals had already begun to dwindle. Yet, Cuinn had always been drawn to the natural elements of magic, and Eldrin had discreetly taught him its ways. Cuinn himself possessed no magical ability, however there were times - though uncertain, he believed he may have had the ability to channel some elements of magic. He possessed an uncanny ability to foresee events just moments before they unfolded—an intuition so precise it often felt less like instinct and more like glimpsing into the future. Most of the time, he shrugged it off as pure coincidence.

“There has been a shift in magic, Cuinn. I can feel it,” the druid said suddenly, pulling Cuinn from his thoughts. “It’s almost as if there is a surge of magic, but nothing like I have felt before — older, darker.”

“Are you saying that you feel a presence of dark magic, like the Noctis Order?” Cuinn turned to Eldrin who was looking deep into the flames of the hearth.

“No, the Noctis Order does not practice chaos. They do focus more on the darker side of nature. Take this bowl of water —” Eldrin lifted the bowl up and set it between himself and Cuinn. “When I tilt it toward the flames, it is illuminated by light, it can be used to heal and renew. But when I turn it away—” Eldrin tilted the bowl away from the glow of the fire and the liquid turned to black night. “The water can still renew and bring forth life, but through destruction and decay. That is the workings of the Noctis Order of druids.”

“I don’t quite understand your meaning, Eldrin.” Cuinn assessed his mentor, attempting to gain understanding.

“There is a surge in magic — ,” his hoarse voice heavy with unease. “But it does not follow our Laws of Balance which governs magic. I could wield it if I chose to, but doing so would only invite more chaos and destruction.”

He set the bowl of water back into its place and turned to Cuinn, the flames glistening in his aged brown eyes, reflecting sorrow and concern. “My boy, I am afraid we are coming to a point of no return. Chaos is growing… and soon there may be no stopping it.”

Cuinn sighed heavily feeling the familiar split in his soul that would rip him to ribbons if he surrendered to it. A delicate balance that he both resented and felt powerless against. The weight of being the Crowned Prince, heir to the throne, and ruler of Calemyra, warred with the young man who simply wanted to lose himself in legends of old while his bare feet sank into the grass.

Cuinn couldn’t pinpoint when he began questioning his father’s motives or stance on certain policies. But lately, each council meeting filled him with more dismay, and he dreaded the course his father’s fear might set the kingdom on that day. Cuinn had begun to sense his father’s paranoia— an unfounded fear of the other Kingdoms that fed his hostility and clouded his judgment. But voicing such things, even as heir, would be nothing short of treason.

“What would you have me do Eldrin? I cannot voice such things to my father—you know this.” Cuinn began to fidget with the pommel of his sword.

“I bring this to your attention because one day you will rule this kingdom and the fate of the realm will be in your hands.” Eldrin cast the piece of driftwood from the tray into the hearth fire. The flames rejoiced with a hiss as the damp piece of wood was added to its collection. “I tell you this because perhaps you can can provoke change now—before it is too late and darkness encompasses the land before you even have the chance to rule over it,” the druid blew out the candles on the tray and slowly stood up, using one of Cuinn’s shoulders for leverage.

Cuinn stood up alongside the druid and picked up the wooden tray, carrying it over the to the table near the stone wall. “You know how my father is Eldrin. He will not listen to what I have to say —he doesn’t believe in the old ways anymore.”

“You have the opportunity to voice such things to others who may listen. Perhaps those who will advise the King on other alternatives.” Eldrin sat down and at the table and traced his hand over the map of the continent. “War is brewing and only in response to a heart full of fear. Eryndor has held a neutral and steady presence on our continent. Our earth is simply responding to the destruction we lay before it, Cuinn.” Turning to the Prince, Eldrin, with his eyes mournful but yet twinkling from the flames of the hearth added, “You have a voice, dear boy—use it.”

“The peace treaty with Eryndor still stands. Neither side has done anything to disrupt it.” Cuinn stood over the censer that was still sending wisps of smoke toward the heavens. He inhaled, the deep earthy scent of the myrrh that seemed to ground his feet and soul beneath him. “I will do what I can to ensure that the treaty will not be rescinded for any reason.”

Cuinn said his goodbyes to the druid and agreed to come visit within the fortnight as long as Eldrin would tell him a story or two of ancient legends, to which the druid agreed. Cuinn himself promised that he would consider voicing concerns about the potential war with Eryndor.

He started up the spiral staircase with his own thoughts coiling around his mind, pressing in on him as he crept upward. Around and around the walls constricted. Cuinn stopped and placed a sweaty palm on the stone wall, calming his short-lived breaths.

War. I’m not ready for this— I don’t want it.

Cuinn felt ashamed for the terror building inside him. The unsettling tightness in his chest that refused to surrender room for breath. It’s not fair. For so long the continent lived in peace — I’ve read about it, those peaceful times where we were able to be one part of a great system. Why is this happening in my time? Cuinn’s shame turned to resentment, a feeling that twisted his mouth into a grimace full of despise for the man on the throne forcing himself and the kingdom he loved into a potential course of war.

His fingers dug into the stone wall as he forced air into his lungs, steadying his racing heart beat. He pressed his brow to the stone, feeling its cold touch send a wave of calm into his body. He could still distantly smell the myrrh that had facilitated that feeling of being grounded and welcomed it. With his breathing steady and heart calm, he pushed off the wall and ascended toward the duty, the kingdom that beckoned him.