The Prince Who Ran

Chapter Five: Fires Within And Without

Chapter Five: Fires Within and Without

Three days after the Black Banner was spotted, Caelan stood in the chapel-turned-strategy-hall, surrounded by maps, ink-stained fingers, and the weary eyes of village elders who had once only debated sheep trades and harvest yields.

Now, they argued over weapons.

“They’ll come through the pass,” Garrin muttered, dragging a gnarled finger across the map. “No reason to burn Fereth’s Watch unless they mean to push south through the valley.”

“They outnumber us,” said Marta, one of the blacksmiths. “Even if we arm every man and boy with a rusted blade, we’re just a village.”

“We’re more than that,” Caelan said. “We’ve got narrow roads, tight streets, and archers who can strike from rooftops.”

He glanced toward Lyra, who stood near the back, arms crossed, bow slung at her hip. She gave him a small nod. Encouraging. Grounding.

But doubt flickered in the room like a storm lantern.

“You’re a prince,” Marta said flatly. “What do you know of guerrilla defense?”

Caelan didn’t flinch. “I know we can’t win if we fight them the way they expect. And I know we won’t survive if we give up before they arrive.”

Someone muttered from the doorway. Caelan turned.

It was Tommen.

The same Tommen he’d beaten in the trials.

He stepped inside, flanked by three young men, all armed. All sullen.

“So what now?” Tommen asked, voice low. “You’re king of the barn folk? Giving us commands from the altar?”

“I’m asking for cooperation,” Caelan said. “To defend your home.”

“You mean your home?” Tommen spat. “The one you lied your way into? You think a few bruises in a contest make you one of us?”

“Tommen,” Garrin warned, standing.

“No,” Caelan said quietly. “Let him speak.”

Tommen advanced, jaw tight. “You don’t belong here. You don’t belong anywhere. You ran from your duty. You brought war to our doorstep.”

“I didn’t ask for this war,” Caelan said.

“But you invited it when you showed your face.”

Silence stretched, taut and dangerous.

Then Lyra stepped forward.

“Enough,” she said. “We don’t have time for ego.”

“He’s playing you,” Tommen snapped. “Hiding behind honor and guilt, but he’ll run again the second it gets hard.”

“I won’t,” Caelan said simply.

“Prove it,” Tommen hissed. “Take the front line when they come. Fight like the rest of us.”

“I plan to,” Caelan said.

And then, softly, “I don’t want to be your prince. I just want to keep you alive.”

Tommen’s stare lingered, full of fire. Then, finally, he shoved past and left the room.

◇

Later that evening, Lyra found Caelan repairing the outer barricades with two teenage boys and Garrin. His shirt was soaked, hands blistered.

“You’re not bad with a hammer,” she said, kneeling to help.

“I had a good teacher,” he muttered, nodding toward Garrin.

Lyra hesitated. “You know Tommen has a point.”

“I know.”

“You think you’ll survive this?”

“I have to.”

She touched his shoulder. “Then start thinking like someone who plans to live after it.”

He turned. “What do you mean?”

She pulled something from her pouch — a folded parchment, sealed with wax. “I’ve sent a letter to the Ardin border. My cousin’s stationed there with one of the free companies. She owes me. If she rides hard, she could be here in five days.”

His eyes widened. “You did this without asking me?”

“You’re not the only one who gets to gamble everything,” she said. “We need help.”

Caelan stared at her — this girl who once scared him with her honesty, her fire. Now she terrified him with how much he needed her.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

“Not yet,” she said. “But you’re trying.”

◇

That night, the village held a gathering in the square.

Not for celebration — but resolve.

Mothers lit lanterns. Elders told stories. Children tied blue ribbons to the fence posts — the old color of unity in the region, long before Caelan’s crown.

He stood on the platform beside Lyra, Garrin, and the elders.

“I was born in a castle,” he began. “Taught to believe my word was law, my blood divine. But nothing I learned there prepared me for what this village taught me.”

He looked out at their faces — suspicious, tired, hopeful.

“You taught me that a leader doesn’t give orders. He listens. And that a man isn’t worthy because of his name — but what he protects when the fire comes.”

He paused.

“When Vayne’s men arrive, they won’t just see a village. They’ll see the place that made me. And I’ll fight for it. With everything I have.”

The square was silent.

Then someone clapped.

Then another.

Then the entire square roared.

Not with cheers. But with purpose.

◇

Two hours later, betrayal struck.

A scream split the night.

Caelan and Lyra raced from the common house to the watchtower.

Garrin met them at the stairs, panting. “Tommen’s gone. So are three others. Took two horses. The east gate was left open.”

“Why?” Caelan gasped.

“Because they’re leading the enemy here,” Garrin growled. “Selling us out, likely for a pardon. Or coin.”

Caelan’s heart thundered.

“How long do we have?”

“Two days. Maybe less.”

He looked at Lyra. Her face was pale. Her hands clenched.

“We’re out of time,” she said.

“No,” Caelan whispered. “We’re exactly on time.”

He turned to Garrin.

“Send messengers to the neighboring villages. Warn them. Rally them. Tell them this fight isn’t just for Durn’s Hollow — it’s for all of the Lowlands.”

“And you?” Garrin asked.

Caelan turned toward the rising dawn.

“I’m going to prepare for war.”