The caravan rolled out of Epiria's northern gate under a sky the color of polished steel. Six covered wagons, two dozen royal guards in polished half-plate, and a slim column of supply carts stretched behind the lead carriage like a dark ribbon.
Marcus Benedictus rode at the front on a pure-white stallion that seemed to know it was prettier than everything else on the road. Sito sat beside him on a smaller bay mare, dual black katanas strapped across his back, the dragon pendant from Aunt Lia resting warm against his chest.
He had never felt the wind like this. Inside the castle walls it was always filtered, polite. Out here it came straight off the open plains, carrying the smell of turned earth, distant pine, and the faint metallic tang of the northern mountains.
For the first time since waking up in a royal cradle, Sito felt something close to free.
Marcus glanced over and smirked. "You look like a pup that just discovered the door was unlocked. Try not to fall off the horse while you gawk."
"I'm not gawking."
"You're gawking. It's fine. Most princes never leave the hill until they're old enough to start wars. Your father actually did something right for once."
Sito snorted. "That's the nicest thing I've ever heard you say about him."
"Don't get used to it." Marcus adjusted the silver clasp of his cloak. "We're heading into Mist Forest territory. The elves of Vradia don't care how pretty your bloodline is. They care about manners, silence, and whether you look like you're about to cut down one of their trees. Keep the blades sheathed unless I say otherwise, and for the love of every god that ever listened, do not start a fight because someone looked at you wrong."
"I'm seven."
"You're seven with the temper of a man who's already died once. I can smell it on you." Marcus's silver eyes flicked sideways, sharper than usual. "Whatever life you lived before this one, leave it in the dust behind us. Out here it will get you killed, or worse—get the rest of us killed with you."
Sito's hands tightened on the reins. He hadn't told anyone about Earth. Not Aunt Lia, not the Old Master, not even the dreams that sometimes still smelled like blood and alley garbage. Marcus's casual accuracy made the hair on his arms stand up.
They rode in silence for a long stretch. The capital shrank behind them until the hundred-yard walls looked like a child's toy. The plains opened wide—rolling grassland dotted with herds of long-horned cattle and the occasional stone watchtower flying the red-and-black banner of Epiria.
Sito watched everything. He catalogued distances the way he used to measure the cage, measured the weight of the new katanas against his back, felt the steady burn of the weighted bands still on his wrists and ankles even though the Old Master had finally allowed him to leave them off for the journey.
By midday the column stopped at a shallow river for water and a quick meal. Sito slid off his horse, stretched, and immediately began moving through the dual-blade forms the Old Master had drilled into him. The black blades whispered as they cut the air—light, perfectly balanced, edges that never dulled. He flowed from low sweeps into high crosses, switching lead hands without thought.
Ambidextrous still felt like cheating. On Earth he'd been forced to build one side stronger than the other. Here both sides answered the same.
A few of the younger guards watched with open interest. One, a lanky twenty-year-old named Torren, muttered, "Kid moves like he's already awakened."
Marcus appeared at Sito's shoulder with two wooden practice sticks. "Enough dancing. Spar me."
Sito raised an eyebrow. "With sticks?"
"Unless you want to explain to your father why the Master of Diplomacy arrived in Vradia missing an ear."
Marcus spun the sticks once and settled into a loose, almost lazy stance. "Come on, Your Highness. Show the road what the Old Goat has been cooking."
Sito took the stick and swung it a few times to get a feel for it's weight and distance. "I guess this'll have to do"
They circled. Marcus was fast—faster than Raymond, faster than Valor. His strikes came from angles that felt wrong until Sito realized the man was deliberately leaving openings that weren't openings at all.
Twice Sito committed and found the stick pressed lightly against his throat or ribs. The third time he baited the same high feint, ducked under, and swept Marcus's lead leg. The diplomat hopped back with a delighted laugh.
"Better. You're learning to lie with your feet. Most children your age still announce every attack like town criers."
They went another thirty minutes. By the end Sito's arms burned and his lungs pulled hard, but he'd landed several solid touches.
Marcus tossed the sticks aside and ruffled Sito's hair hard enough to sting.
"Not bad for a half-grown wolf. Keep that edge. The elves will test you the moment we cross the border stones. They always do."
Night came early under low clouds. The caravan made camp in a wide hollow protected by a ring of standing stones older than the kingdom. Fires bloomed. Guards rotated watches.
Sito sat on a flat rock a little apart from the main circle, rook in his lap, fingers finding the chords Aunt Lia had taught him. He played soft—songs from Earth that no one here would ever recognize. The melody drifted out across the grass, quiet enough that only the nearest sentries heard it.
Marcus eventually wandered over with two cups of watered wine and sat without invitation. "Pretty voice for a boy who spends his mornings getting beaten by an old man with a cane."
Sito kept playing. "Aunt Lia says music softens the heart. Makes people listen when words alone won't."
"She's smarter than half the council." Marcus sipped. "You miss her already."
It wasn't a question. Sito's fingers stilled on the strings. "She's just different. Kind and honest in a castle full of deceit and manipulation. She's the only one who ever looked at me like I was just a kid instead of a future weapon."
Marcus was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again the theatrical lilt was gone. "Your father loves you the only way he knows how. He was raised the same—heir first, child second. Doesn't make it right, just makes it…familiar. The necklace she gave you… keep it close. Sentiment is rare currency in our world. Spend it carefully."
Sito touched the dragon pendant through his shirt. The metal was warm from his skin.
Later, when most of the camp had settled into bedrolls, Sito lay on his back staring at the unfamiliar stars. They were denser here, brighter, arranged in constellations that meant nothing to the boy from Philly. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
Two more days of hard travel brought them to the edge of Mist Forest.
The change was sudden. One moment open grassland, the next a wall of ancient trees whose trunks were wider than the lead wagon.
Fog clung to the ground in slow-moving rivers. The air grew cooler, denser, heavy with the scent of wet moss and something sharp and green that made the lungs tingle.
The border stones stood in a perfect line—tall slabs of white marble etched with living vines that seemed to shift when no one looked directly at them.
Marcus raised a hand and the entire column halted.
"From this point we walk," he said. "Horses and wagons stay here under guard. Only the diplomatic party crosses. That means me, the prince, six of Leo's best, and the gift chests. Everyone else waits. If we're not back in seven days, send word to the king and do not—under any circumstances—enter the forest after us. Am I clear!"
"Yes sire!" the group responded in unison.
Sito dismounted and checked the straps on his katanas. The black blades felt heavier somehow under the trees' shadow. He adjusted the dragon pendant so it sat outside his collar, visible.
Marcus noticed and gave a small nod of approval. "Good. Let them see the token of affection. Elves respect bonds that aren't purely political."
They crossed the stones on foot. The moment Sito stepped past the last marble slab the temperature dropped another few degrees and the fog thickened until the rest of the caravan vanished behind them.
Sound changed too—footsteps muffled, voices swallowed. The six royal guards formed a loose diamond around Marcus and the prince, hands never far from sword hilts.
They had walked less than half a mile when the first figures appeared.
They simply stepped out of the mist as if the trees had exhaled them. Tall, slender, skin the pale gold of late-afternoon sunlight, hair in shades of silver, moss-green, and deep autumn red.
Their armor was living wood and leaf-scale, and their weapons a pale metal that looked grown rather than forged. None of them spoke. They simply watched.
Marcus stopped, placed a hand over his heart, and bowed from the waist in the exact angle the old texts prescribed.
"I am Marcus Benedictus, Master of Diplomacy for the Kingdom of Epiria. I come under a banner of peace and mutual interest. With me travels His Royal Highness Prince Sito Meridius, heir to the Epirian throne. We request audience with the Court of the Living Bough regarding a matter that touches both our peoples."
One of the elves—a woman with silver hair braided with living vines—stepped forward. Her eyes were the color of fresh bark and just as hard.
"The heir is young," she said in lightly accented Common. "Too young for the weight of crowns and borders."
Sito met her gaze without flinching. "Age doesn't decide whether a problem is real. The mithril vein under your forest doesn't care how many winters I've seen."
A ripple of something—surprise, maybe amusement—passed through the elven ranks. Marcus's smile stayed perfectly polite, but Sito felt the man's sharp glance like a warning.
The silver-haired elf studied Sito for a long moment, then inclined her head a fraction.
"Bold words from a child who still smells of human milk and castle stone. Very well. The Court will hear you. Follow. And keep your iron quiet. The trees dislike the taste of it."
She turned and walked into the mist. The other elves melted after her. Marcus gestured for the party to follow.
Sito fell into step beside him, heart beating steady and strong. The dragon pendant rested against his chest like a second heartbeat.
Somewhere far behind them the open plains and the life he had known waited. Ahead, the deep green dark of Mist Forest closed around the group like a living mouth.
For the first time since the alley in Philadelphia, Sito felt the old fighter's calm settle over him—the quiet before the bell, the moment when everything unnecessary falls away and only the next move matters.
He touched the hilts of his katanas once, lightly, and kept walking.
The road north had only just begun.