The morning light in Valara was a pale gold haze, softened by the stone walls and rising baker's smoke. Aeryn adjusted her cloak as she made her way toward the secondary barracks yard—her head still buzzing with yesterday's final words: Assigned under the Crown Prince.
She hadn't slept well.
Not because of nerves, but because of confusion. After the final sparring match, while the rest of the recruits were directed toward the standard barracks and training rosters, she had been called aside by a silent aide in dark blue. No name given, no title. He led her through a narrow corridor near the palace's outer ring and handed her a sealed parchment—heavy, stamped with the crest of the royal family: a silver crown flanked by twin hawks.
Inside, the message was brief.
Report at dawn to the east wing antechamber. You are assigned to the service of Crown Prince Kael of Tharion.
No signature. Just that simple line.
She'd stared at it for what felt like hours. She hadn't even seen the prince up close during the trials—or so she thought. Why her? What had she done to earn that kind of notice?
Just an order delivered by a straight-faced officer and a new emblem quietly slipped into her satchel. Now, she was apparently something between a palace guard and a ghost.
She nearly collided with a lanky figure racing out of the side yard. He stumbled, windmilling his arms, and barely caught himself before toppling into a stack of training gear.
"Whoa! Sorry! These boots are cursed, I swear—they only trip me when someone important is watching."
Aeryn blinked at the familiar face.
Fenric grinned, red in the cheeks, his dark curls half flattened by a lopsided headwrap. "You're alive! And not limping! That's more than I can say for me."
She gave him a sideways look. "I thought you were assigned barracks duty."
"Captain Corwin got me. Grim as ever. I think he communicates exclusively in grunts. It's like training under a stone statue—except the statue judges you every time you breathe wrong."
Aeryn smirked. "Sounds about right."
Fen leaned in conspiratorially. "I tried to make a joke during drills yesterday. Something about sword angles and love triangles. I don't think he's a fan of geometry. Or humor. Or me."
"I can't imagine why."
"I know, right?" Fen flashed a dramatic sigh. "Anyway, what about you? Did you end up with one of the regular units?"
Aeryn hesitated. "Not... exactly."
"Oh no. Did they assign you to laundry duty?" He gasped. "Did they find out about the apple I took from the officer's mess? Are we both going to the dungeons?"
"I'm under the Crown Prince."
Fen's mouth opened, then closed again.
Then opened.
Then: "You mean the Crown Prince? Royal robes? Mysterious expression? Definitely has at least two secret passageways to his room?"
Aeryn gave a small shrug.
Fen stared. "What did you do during your trial? Set someone on fire?"
"No," she said dryly. "I just beat someone who tried to do that to me."
"Well, I suppose that's one way to make an impression." He tilted his head. "So, are you like… his shadow now? Do you get to carry his royal comb? Or like… rescue him dramatically while lightning strikes in the background?"
"I don't even know what I'm supposed to do yet."
"Oh. That's even scarier."
They walked side by side toward the training courtyard. Fen was rambling again—about how he nearly confused a training halberd with a coat rack and how someone in the mess hall swore they saw a rat playing dead to steal crumbs.
Aeryn half-listened, her thoughts drifting.
She didn't know why she had been chosen. Or what would be expected of her. But one thing was certain:
This wasn't going to be a normal assignment.
And somehow, Fen's chaotic energy made it all feel just a little more bearable.
Even if he still tripped over his own feet three steps later.