The lists were crowded, the air thick with dust and anticipation.

Sunlight flashed against polished armor as Sir Caelan Thorne adjusted his gauntlet and rolled his shoulders once, loose and unbothered. Across the tilting yard, three mounted lancers waited for his signal—each older, each heavier in build, each pretending not to glance toward the stands where half the court had gathered.

Caelan smiled.

“Try not to blink,” he called lightly to his men. “I’d hate for you to miss how this is done.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the Silver Lancers. Even the stable boys leaned forward.

The horn sounded.

He spurred his horse forward, body low, lance steady—not rigid like a statue, but fluid. The first rider charged hard, aiming high. Caelan adjusted mid-gallop, just enough—steel cracked against steel, and his opponent’s shield splintered as the man pitched sideways into the dirt.

The crowd gasped.

Caelan wheeled his horse in a tight arc, already angling for the second. No hesitation. No pause for applause.

Impact.

Another rider unseated.

By the time the third lancer realized what was happening, Caelan was upon him. Their lances met with a resounding crack—then the third man toppled backward in a spray of dust and indignation.

Silence held for half a breath.

Then the yard erupted.

Caelan slowed his horse to a graceful trot, lifting his visor just enough to flash a grin toward the stands. A few nobles clapped politely. A few ladies whispered behind gloved hands. One dropped her fan entirely.

He dismounted in one smooth motion and handed the reins off without looking. “You three will recover,” he told the fallen lancers as they groaned in the dirt. “But perhaps next time, attempt to unhorse me before you fall.”

One of them laughed despite himself. “Arrogant bastard.”

“Correct,” Caelan replied cheerfully.

He turned then—because he felt it before he saw it.

At the edge of the yard, beneath the shadow of the stone archway, stood his father.

Lord Commander Alaric Thorne did not clap. He did not smile.

He simply watched.

Caelan’s grin dimmed—not entirely, but enough. He straightened unconsciously, squaring his shoulders. Dust clung to his greaves. A thin streak marked his cheek where a splinter had grazed him.

Alaric approached at an unhurried pace.

“You leaned too far left on the second pass,” his father said flatly. “A heavier opponent would have broken your shoulder.”

Caelan’s jaw tightened for the briefest moment. “Noted, Commander.”

“You exposed your flank when you turned.”

“I calculated the risk.”

“You assumed incompetence.”

A pause.

Caelan lifted his chin slightly. “They did fall.”

Alaric’s gaze did not soften. “Victory in practice breeds arrogance in war.”

The words struck harder than any lance.

“Yes, Commander,” Caelan said evenly.

His father studied him a moment longer—then nodded once. Approval, in its smallest and rarest form.

“There is a new assignment,” Alaric continued. “You will report to the eastern envoy within the hour.”

“The princess?” Caelan asked, unable to keep the flicker of curiosity from his tone.

“She claims both princess and knight,” Alaric corrected. “You will treat her as neither distraction nor novelty.”

Caelan’s smile returned, slower this time. “Of course.”

Alaric’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he could see straight through that charm. “Your duty is her protection.”

“And if she requires more than that?” Caelan asked lightly.

“Then you will remember,” his father said, voice low enough that only he could hear, “that you have yet to prove yourself beyond these walls.”

There it was.

The cage, gilded and invisible. Caelan held his father’s gaze without flinching.

He turned and left the yard as he always did—without flourish, without praise.

Caelan watched him go, the noise of the crowd fading around him. Beyond the high stone walls of Valedryn, the world stretched wide and unseen.

And somewhere within those walls now stood a woman who had ridden across it.

His grin sharpened.

If he could not leave the kingdom—

He would bring the world to him.