In the farthest reach of the Kingdom of Altheria, beyond the steel-forged cities and lush merchant roads, lay a forgotten hamlet known as Derenval. Tucked between jagged cliffs and forests that whispered secrets to the wind, it was a place absent from most maps. It held no strategic importance, no fabled riches, no grand history. But it held Eritrea.
Eritrea was fifteen winters old, barefoot more often than not, and lived in a crumbling hut made from scavenged stone and moss. Her days began before the rooster crowed and ended long after the last ember in her firepit died. She fetched water from the cold well at the village edge, tended to a haphazard garden of root vegetables, and sold foraged herbs to the old healer woman in exchange for stale bread or cloth scraps. She had no parents, no siblings, and no last name.
Yet even in her poverty, there was something curious about Eritrea—something in her posture when she looked at the stars, or in her eyes when the clouds turned red at dusk. The other villagers often whispered that she was born under a cursed sky, during a thunderstorm that split the ancient Elm of Solmar in two. Some believed she brought misfortune; others, simply pitied her. Eritrea paid them no mind. Her world was the village, the whispering woods, the endless chores, and a tattered book she'd once found buried under a broken gravestone. It was filled with stories of kings, dragons, and a golden princess who saved her people with a silver blade.
Every night, Eritrea read it by the flickering light of her stolen candle ends. She didn't read for hope. She didn't believe a life of splendor waited for her. But in the quiet of the dark, when the wind howled against her walls, she liked to imagine.
On one such night, the sky was torn by a storm—not the usual mountain drizzle, but a sky-splitting gale that made even the trees groan. Lightning danced over the ridges like wild spirits, and thunder shook the very bones of the valley. Eritrea, huddled in her small home with the book in her lap, noticed something strange: the candle wouldn't go out.
It burned blue.
She stared, wide-eyed, but the moment she blinked, the flame vanished as if embarrassed to be caught. Then came the knock.
No one knocked on her door. In fact, no one had ever come to her hut unless it was to shout from a distance or throw rotten food. Her breath caught. She crept toward the door and pressed her ear against the damp wood. Nothing. She cracked it open.
A cloaked figure stood there, soaked to the bone, head bowed. Before she could speak, the figure collapsed forward with a grunt, revealing the glint of something golden under the cloak.
A pendant.
Eritrea gasped and instinctively stepped back, but not before the figure's hand caught her wrist.
"You must go," the stranger whispered, coughing up blood. His voice was strange—refined, trembling with urgency. "The crown... the truth... Derenval is not safe."
"Who are you?" Eritrea asked, her voice barely audible over the wind.
But the man had already gone limp. She dragged him inside, panic replacing confusion. She had no idea what to do. He was breathing, barely. His cloak was torn, his boots fine leather but coated in mud. A sword was strapped to his back—its hilt inscribed with something she couldn't read.
Rain slammed against the roof. Eritrea lit another candle and examined him. His face was bruised, blood trickled from a wound just under his ribs, and on his finger was a ring.
The Royal Seal of Altheria.
She recoiled as if burned. Her heart raced. Eritrea had never seen the seal in real life, only in drawings in her book. A circlet of lions around a sapphire sun. Only members of the Royal Family wore it. Or the King's messengers.
"What are you doing here?" she asked aloud, though the man didn't answer.
Her fingers trembled as she touched the pendant. It was warm.
That night, Eritrea barely slept. Every sound outside seemed ominous. She barricaded the door with her old stool, kept the sword within reach, and sat vigil beside a stranger whose presence would change her life forever.
The morning brought no peace. When she opened the door, a group of armored men stood in the distance, surveying the village. Their banners bore a black crow with a red eye—not the symbol of the kingdom, but something else. Something darker. They didn't look like soldiers. They looked like hunters.
And they were coming closer.
Eritrea's breath caught in her throat as the figures grew clearer. The morning mist clung to the earth like a funeral veil, giving the armored men an eerie, almost spectral presence. Their armor was not polished silver like the King's Guard; it was a dull, bone-grey iron etched with jagged lines, and the crow sigils stitched on their cloaks looked as if they had been painted with blood. The villagers—what few there were—peeked out from behind half-rotted wooden shutters, whispering prayers in forgotten tongues.
Eritrea stepped back and shut the door slowly, her heart hammering inside her chest.
She turned to the man, still unconscious on her floor, and crouched beside him. "Who are they?" she whispered, not expecting an answer. The ring on his finger—proof of his connection to the royal family—suddenly felt like a curse.
She had to think.
If they were looking for him… they would search every home. And if they found him here? She didn't want to imagine what they'd do to a no-name orphan harboring a royal fugitive.
Her fingers dug into the dirt floor as she tried to steady herself.
"I need to move you."
It took all her strength to lift him—he was taller than he'd looked in the dark, and heavier with armor still on. She managed to drag him behind the crumbling brickwork at the back of her hut where her firewood was stacked. She threw a stained old tarp over him, then scattered the wood haphazardly.
She'd just pulled the candle stub from the floor when the knock came again.
But this time it wasn't hesitant. It was violent.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
She opened the door a crack.
Three men stood outside, all in that same bleak armor. The one in front had sharp cheekbones, a scar cutting through his right eyebrow, and eyes that looked at her as though he already knew she was hiding something.
"Girl," he said. "You live alone?"
She nodded mutely, lowering her eyes. It wasn't shyness—it was how people like her had survived in Derenval: by being invisible.
"We're looking for someone. A man. Tall. Dark cloak. Wounded. Came this way in the storm last night."
She shook her head. "Didn't see anyone."
The man leaned closer. "Are you certain?"
Eritrea swallowed hard. "No one ever comes to my hut."
There was a pause. The man's eyes lingered on her face too long.
"You have a name?"
"No," she said honestly.
The soldier's lip twitched. He turned to one of his companions. "Search the house."
Eritrea's stomach dropped. "Please," she said quickly, "there's nothing here. You can look, but… it's just me. And rats."
The man gave a dry chuckle. "I believe you."
But the second soldier was already ducking inside. Eritrea stepped back as he kicked through her few belongings—her basket of herbs, the torn blanket on the dirt floor, even her book. She watched helplessly as he flipped through its delicate pages with greasy fingers, then tossed it aside.
He walked toward the firewood pile.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
But then—"Nothing here," he grunted, turning away just before reaching the tarp.
The first man gave her one last look, then gestured for the others to follow. "We'll be around for a few days. If you remember anything… you'll come to us."
She nodded again. It was all she could do.
They left, the sound of iron boots crunching gravel fading with the wind.
Eritrea dropped to her knees and lifted the tarp. The man's eyes were open now.
"You… heard?" she asked.
He gave the barest nod. "You shouldn't have lied for me."
"You'd be dead if I hadn't."
There was a beat of silence, then he struggled to sit up. Eritrea helped him, unsure whether he was about to thank her or collapse.
"I have to get to the capital," he said, voice hoarse. "Or everything is lost."
Eritrea raised an eyebrow. "Capital? That's a month away by foot—if the mountain roads don't kill you first."
He looked at her for the first time, properly. His eyes were the color of stormclouds, tired and fierce. "What's your name?"
She hesitated. "Eritrea."
He seemed startled by that. "You're sure?"
She blinked. "It's what the old healer called me. Why?"
Instead of answering, he winced and pressed a hand to his side. "I need a horse. And food."
"You're in the poorest village in the kingdom. Closest thing we have to a horse is an old goat with a limp."
His lips curled upward faintly, despite the pain. "Then I suppose I'm in your debt, Eritrea of Derenval."
She crossed her arms. "I didn't say I wanted your debt. I just want to know what you're running from."
He hesitated, then reached into his tunic and drew out the pendant.
The symbol etched into it made her stomach twist. She'd seen it before—in the book. It was the seal of the First Line: the secret bloodline of the royal family said to be older than the kingdom itself. Only whispered about in legends.
"You're not just some messenger, are you?" she asked.
"No," he said quietly. "I'm Prince Ronan of Altheria."
The words felt absurd. Ridiculous. Impossible.
Eritrea stared at him, her pulse roaring in her ears.
"And if I don't reach the capital before the Red Crows do…" He locked eyes with her. "Your entire kingdom will fall."
Eritrea stood frozen. The name "Prince Ronan" hovered in her mind like thunderclouds before a downpour. Every tale she'd ever read about royalty had turned to ash under the weight of those four words: I'm Prince Ronan of Altheria.
She had read his name before—in a frayed map's margins, on a yellowed page listing the royal family's lineage. The third-born, a younger son, largely forgotten in court gossip. While his elder brothers basked in the spotlight of statecraft and noble feasts, Ronan was spoken of only in rumors—whispers of a rebel mind, of a prince who questioned the council and vanished from public sight three winters ago.
Eritrea opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her tongue felt like it belonged to someone else.
"But you disappeared," she finally said, voice low. "Everyone thought you were dead."
"I was supposed to be," he replied. His hand trembled as he pressed it to the wound at his side. "There's more truth in graveyards than in courtrooms."
She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here she was, Eritrea the Orphan, scraping roots from dirt and fighting off hunger each night—and now a dying prince lay beneath her woodpile, telling her the kingdom was in danger. It felt like a cruel joke the stars had played on her.
"How bad is it?" she asked, crossing her arms.
Ronan hesitated. "The king is dead."
She stiffened. "What?"
"He was poisoned two nights ago," Ronan said, pain crawling into his voice. "And my brothers are missing. Or worse."
Eritrea took a step back. "But the kingdom—"
"Is leaderless," he said. "And if the Red Crows reach the capital before I do, they'll seize the throne."
She tried to make sense of it all. The Red Crows—she'd heard the name only in fearful whispers. A clandestine group, unaligned with the crown, bent on twisting Altheria into something darker, crueler. Some called them a cult. Others called them a kingdom-in-waiting. Their symbol—a crow with a bleeding eye—was said to appear in towns before uprisings and mass disappearances.
"Why come through Derenval?" she asked, suspicious now. "This place is nowhere. If you're royalty, wouldn't you ride with guards? With a retinue?"
His eyes darkened. "There was a retinue. There were guards. They all died three days ago on the ice passes. I barely made it through."
A silence fell between them. Outside, the wind began to shift—blowing from the north now, colder. A storm was coming, not of rain this time, but of fate.
Eritrea sat down on the dirt floor, her knees pulled to her chest. "And what does all this have to do with me?"
He gave her a long, searching look. "Nothing," he said slowly. "And everything."
"Try again."
Ronan licked his dry lips. "When I collapsed at your door, it wasn't by accident. I was led here."
"Led?"
"There's… a prophecy. One the court tried to suppress. A child born in the east, under a shattered tree, during a storm. A girl without name or bloodline, marked by the winds."
Eritrea's mouth went dry.
"It was said she would change the fate of Altheria forever," Ronan continued. "They called her the Windborn. The lost heir."
"I'm no heir," she spat. "I'm a nobody."
He held her gaze. "Not anymore."
"No," she snapped, standing up so fast her head spun. "No. I don't care about your prophecy or your throne or your enemies. I just want to survive. That's all I've ever wanted."
"But survival alone is not life," he said, barely above a whisper. "You're more than this hut. More than what they let you believe."
"Don't speak like you know me," Eritrea said bitterly. "You're a prince. I'm just the girl the village tries to forget."
"That's what they told you," he said. "But the storm brought me here. And you're not who you think you are."
Something inside her cracked then. Not like a broken bone—but like ice thawing, like stone shifting under years of silence. She remembered the healer once murmuring something strange when she was barely old enough to understand: "Not of here. Not of them. Watch the sky, Eritrea." She had never asked what it meant.
Now she wondered why.
She didn't want to believe him. But in her heart, something stirred. Something ancient. Something aching to awaken.
A knock—gentle this time—cut through the silence.
They both froze.
Eritrea tiptoed to the window and peered out. A girl stood there. Dirty braids. Eyes too wide for her face.
Milly. The butcher's daughter.
Eritrea opened the door a crack. "What?"
"They're back," Milly whispered. "The crow-men. They're talking to Old Mara. Asking about you."
Eritrea's chest tightened. "Why?"
"She told them… about the blue light. From your window."
Ronan sat up straighter. "They saw the candle."
Eritrea cursed under her breath. She turned back to Milly. "Thank you. Go. Don't talk to anyone."
Milly nodded and ran.
Eritrea slammed the door and turned to Ronan. "We have to go. Now."
He looked at her with a strange sort of respect. "Then let's go."
She dug through her cupboard and pulled out a bundle wrapped in linen. Dried berries. Roots. A knife. Her book.
"You really believe this prophecy?" she asked as she shoved things into a torn satchel.
"I didn't," he said honestly. "Not until I saw you. Until I saw the blue flame."
Eritrea tightened the straps on her boots. "Then don't die on me. I'm not saving you twice."
They slipped out the back, crouched low beneath the trees, as the crows began knocking again.
Only this time, they didn't plan to leave without answers.
The forest behind Eritrea's hut swallowed them whole.
The trees stood like ancient sentinels, arms stretched toward the grey sky, their moss-covered trunks absorbing the light. The wind had died, as if afraid to follow them. Eritrea led the way through narrow deer paths and forgotten root trails, paths she'd memorized over the years as she escaped cruel villagers or wandered in solitude. Now those same paths were their lifeline.
Ronan moved with difficulty, each step weighted by pain. His wound had reopened during the escape—blood darkened his tunic near the ribs, staining his noble garments with the color of mortality. Yet he didn't complain. Not once. Eritrea noticed.
They didn't speak for the first twenty minutes. Silence was safety.
Only when they reached the glen—an oval clearing wrapped in low fog, hidden behind a thick wall of ferns—did Eritrea pause. She turned to him. "We'll rest here. Just for a bit. Then we move again."
Ronan sank against a boulder, breathing heavily. "You know these woods better than any general I've met."
"I had no one else," she said simply, kneeling to dig in her satchel. She pulled out a cloth and began dabbing at his wound. He winced but didn't stop her.
"You never asked about your parents," he said softly.
She stiffened. "What's the point?"
"There's always a point. Especially if you're the Windborn."
She narrowed her eyes. "You keep saying that like it's something real. It's just a story."
"No," he said. "It's prophecy. One your mother died to protect."
Eritrea's hands froze.
"My mother?"
Ronan nodded. "I don't know the full truth. But when I was a boy, I overheard my father arguing with the High Seer. There was talk of a secret child—hidden in the east, born under signs. A royal by blood… but not raised in the palace."
"No one ever claimed me," she muttered. "No one ever came."
"Because they wanted you forgotten," Ronan said. "For your safety. But also… maybe because they feared what you'd become."
The wind returned then, curling around them like an omen. Eritrea sat back, eyes staring blankly at the trees.
"I always thought," she said quietly, "that if I ever learned who I really was, it would make me feel whole. Like I finally belonged somewhere. But I don't. Not to them. Not to you."
"You belong to yourself," Ronan said. "But that doesn't mean you aren't meant for more."
He looked so sure of it. She hated him for it.
Then the sound of branches snapping startled them both. Eritrea turned her head sharply, hand reaching for the knife at her hip.
Voices. Low. Intent.
"They're close," Ronan whispered.
She grabbed her satchel and helped him to his feet. "We need to get to the river."
He leaned on her shoulder as they slipped through the glen and moved deeper into the woods. She could feel his weight shifting more heavily now—his steps uneven. He was slowing.
They reached the old willow bridge—a fallen tree trunk spanning a narrow river with fast-moving water beneath. It was slick and curved, with no rails, and half-rotten in places. Eritrea hesitated.
"It's the only way," she whispered. "Hold my hand. Don't look down."
He gave a nod and took her hand.
Together, they crossed.
Midway, she heard it—the whistle of a bolt.
She turned just in time to see a figure in black armor rise from the brush.
A Red Crow.
Eritrea shoved Ronan forward. "Run!"
Another bolt whistled past her ear, striking the trunk inches from her head. She ducked and flung a stone back in panic, catching the archer off-guard. Ronan stumbled onto the opposite bank, gasping.
She jumped after him just as the Crow leapt onto the log.
Ronan drew his sword, barely able to hold it straight, but Eritrea stepped in front of him, knife raised. "Stay behind me."
The Red Crow said nothing. He moved slowly, like a hunter enjoying the fear of his prey.
"Why are you after him?" Eritrea demanded. "Why does the crown matter to you?"
"You still think this is about crowns?" the man said, his voice like gravel soaked in oil. "We're not here for thrones. We're here for blood. Old blood. Your blood."
She didn't understand—but she didn't need to.
As he lunged, she twisted her body, and the knife caught the edge of his glove, slashing across his fingers. He recoiled—but just a step. Then came the second swing.
She ducked. The blade whistled past her cheek.
Ronan lunged forward and tackled him from behind. The two men crashed into the wet earth, struggling for control. Eritrea looked around—grabbed a jagged stone—and brought it down on the Crow's head.
He went limp.
The forest fell silent again, save for Ronan's ragged breathing.
Eritrea crouched beside him. "Are you okay?"
He coughed, then nodded.
"You just tackled a trained killer," she said. "Are all princes that reckless?"
"Only the exiled ones," he muttered.
She helped him up, and they continued down the river path.
The clouds above parted briefly, letting a shaft of pale light reach through the leaves. It fell on Eritrea's face. She didn't notice, but Ronan did.
The mark.
A faint, star-shaped birthmark just behind her ear—barely visible.
He remembered now. The tale. The prophecy. The Seer's words.
"The Windborn shall bear the Celestial Mark… hidden from sight until fate unveils it under the sky's eye."
He said nothing.
Not yet.
But the truth was no longer hidden.