The Prince Who Ran

Chapter One: The Death Of King

Chapter One: The Death of a King

The throne room was too quiet.

Even with the fire crackling in the grand hearth and the hushed murmurs of lords and attendants gathering near the body, Prince Caelan felt the silence press in like a weight on his chest. The scent of burning oak did little to mask the sweet, iron tinge of blood—his father’s blood—still staining the stone floor.

King Aldric of Elaren was dead.

Caelan stood at the base of the dais, every muscle locked, every instinct screaming to run. But where could he go? The eyes of the court were on him now—expectant, searching, greedy.

He swallowed bile.

The coronation was meant to follow within days. Protocol dictated swift transitions. The realm would not endure a power vacuum, not in these unstable times. Already, messengers were galloping in all directions, rallying nobles to swear fealty to the crown. His crown.

Caelan took a step back.

He couldn’t breathe.

The sword—the King’s sword—rested on the dais beside the body, unsheathed, gleaming with a terrifying finality. The same blade that had led armies. Delivered justice. Signed treaties.

The same blade Caelan now had to lift.

“You must be strong,” someone whispered. Chancellor Renholt. Always near, always advising. “Your father died defending this realm. His death was not in vain. We need your voice. Your presence. Elaren needs its king.”

Caelan turned his head slowly toward the old man, his vision tunneling.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered, throat tight. “I can’t.”

“You are the king now, my prince.”

“No,” Caelan said, backing away. “Not yet. Not tonight.”

He fled the chamber before anyone could stop him.

◇

The corridors were labyrinthine, ancient, familiar—but that night they felt like the ribs of a great beast swallowing him whole. Candles flickered as he passed, his footsteps echoing louder than they should have. He didn’t stop until he reached his room, slammed the door behind him, and braced himself against it.

His hands trembled. His heart pounded like war drums.

He doubled over, gagging, but nothing came up. Just the rising bile of dread and the growing knowledge that this was real. His father was dead. He was next. No matter how many times he had trained in statecraft or listened to his tutors lecture about noble obligation, he had never felt anything close to ready.

Decide where the grain goes when the river floods.
Negotiate with barons who hate each other.
Order the execution of a man who stole bread to feed his child.
Lead a war. Start a war.

And yet everyone expected it of him. Everyone believed in him. Except Caelan.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror above the washbasin. Pale. Young. Terrified. His father would have scoffed at him.

“No more,” he whispered.

Within the hour, he had dressed in a wool tunic, patched breeches, and an old pair of riding boots. He stuffed a waterskin and a small satchel with bread and dried meat, took a cloak from the servant’s hooks, and slipped down the servants’ stairwell unseen.

He didn’t take a horse. A horse would leave tracks. He didn’t bring a weapon. A prince wouldn’t survive long on the road armed like a lord. He didn’t write a letter or leave a message behind.

He simply vanished into the night.

◇

The moon was a silver eye watching him run.

He stayed off main roads, ducking through forests and creeping along riverbanks. He drank rainwater and slept under trees, his limbs sore, his mind always racing with what-ifs. What if someone saw him? What if someone followed? What if he was dragged back in chains?

But more than fear, it was shame that drove him onward. The deeper he traveled into the kingdom, the more he saw the lives of common folk. Hard. Humble. Honest. And he felt the crushing guilt of abandoning them. But what good would he have done as a king paralyzed by self-doubt?

By the fifth day, his legs were blistered and weak. He had traveled over twenty-seven miles on foot, according to his rough map. Far enough that the castle no longer haunted the horizon. Far enough that the name “Caelan” meant nothing to the people here.

Or so he hoped.

He collapsed near a cobbled road just outside a small farming village. A field of barley swayed behind him. His skin was sunburned. His lips cracked. He barely remembered falling, only the sound of hooves approaching and a voice—rough, annoyed, but not unkind.

“Damn fool,” it muttered. “You tryin’ to die out here?”

Then blackness.

◇

When he woke, he was warm. And safe.

A thatched ceiling hovered above him. He lay on a simple cot with rough wool blankets tucked around his body. His boots had been removed. His brow had been wiped.

The room smelled of old wood and stew.

“You’re awake,” said the same voice from before.

Caelan turned his head. An older man stood at a hearth, stirring something in a pot. Weathered face. Thick arms. Scraggly beard. Kind eyes that were trying very hard to look stern.

“Name?” the man asked.

Caelan hesitated. “…Cale.”

The man grunted. “Just Cale?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re far from anywhere good, Cale. How’d you end up face-down on my road?”

“Running,” Caelan answered before he could think better of it.

The man looked at him, clearly expecting more.

“…From my old life.”

That seemed to satisfy him.

“I’m Garrin. Used to be a soldier. Now I grow turnips and fix things. You’re under my roof, which means you follow my rules. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll work when you’re well. Until then, eat.”

He brought a bowl of stew and handed it over. Caelan stared at it like a miracle.

That night, under a worn roof and stars he could not see, Caelan closed his eyes for the first time in days without hearing the throne calling his name.

He was not a prince anymore.

Not here.