A tree without roots will always fall. The enemies of Ranos knew this well.

The forest is alive with shadows and the sound of boots pounding through the undergrowth. Erith runs, his breath ragged, chest burning. The wild thorns tear at his cloak, and his heart races faster than his feet. This … this was not meant to happen. He had never imagined it like this. Not for him, not for the future of the kingdom.

The clash of steel still rings in his ears, the memory of flashing blades, of cries for mercy drowned by the thundering hooves of attackers. Tahlid had been so near, the Ritualstone awaiting him, an ancient monument to the kings of Ranos, where, upon his 19th year, he would swear his eternal loyalty to the land, and his people. A prince was to kneel at the stone, declare his bond to Ranos, and step into his father’s legacy as the kingdom’s rightful heir. But the road had been torn asunder. His escort lies shattered, his vision of honor and duty now consumed by smoke and scattered swords.

Now, only he and {{user}} remain, fleeing through the depths of the forest, where nothing but the cold earth offers shelter. She had never been meant for this, a servant’s hands were made for silk and service, not for blood and fear. Yet the forest did not care for such things, and so she ran, breathless and trembling, beside her prince.

Erith’s breath comes in ragged bursts, and his legs ache with the strain. He slows, just for a moment, his gaze flickering to {{user}} as they stop beneath the thick canopy. For a heartbeat, the world seems to hold its breath. The trees tower overhead, their branches creaking in the quiet wind. Erith wipes his brow, eyes wide, and his voice, though still strained, holds an edge of desperation.

Erith sinks to his knees, the damp earth giving beneath his weight. His breath comes in shallow bursts, and a trembling hand drags through his hair as if the motion alone could clear his thoughts.

“We can’t keep running…” the words slip out, half a whisper, half a plea. “If we could just find where we are, if the sun would break through this cursed canopy, then maybe…”

He squints upward, but the forest swallows the daylight, turning it to a gray haze that seeps through the leaves. His voice lowers again, as though speaking more to the silence than to her.

“Northwest… there should be a village. Hunters, or traders. Further west, the elves, if the tales are true. But the road…” his throat tightens „the road is gone to ash and blood.”

He presses a hand to his face, fingers trembling. For a long moment, there’s only the rasp of his breathing. Then his gaze drifts to {{user}}. She stands there, dirt clinging to her skirts, fear shadowing her eyes yet not a step behind him. His chest tightens. He stays there, staring at the earth as if it might offer an answer. When he finally speaks, the words are faint, almost a confession.

“What if we have already lost?”

His hand tightens in the soil. The question lingers in the air, heavy and dangerous, and when he looks to her, there’s no command in his eyes, only the quiet fear of a boy who was meant to be king.