Chapter 5: The Empire's Prince

CASSIAN

The road to Ravencrest cuts through ancient forests that remember their old names, though the Empire has tried to erase them from every map. I ride at the head of my escort - twelve men in Empire colors, their armor gleaming despite the journey's dust - but my thoughts are darker than the shadows between the trees. Behind us, supply wagons creak under the weight of wedding gifts and diplomatic documents, each item carefully chosen to send the right message about Imperial generosity and strength. Each one a link in the chain being forged around a kingdom that has never truly surrendered.

My horse picks his way around the deeper ruts left by military patrols and tax collectors' carts. The road itself tells the story of conquest; old stone foundations laid by Ravencrest masons, topped with Empire engineering that prioritizes efficiency over beauty. Like everything else here, tradition buried beneath convenience, heritage sacrificed for imperial order.

Above us, ravens circle in unusual numbers, their harsh cries cutting through the forest silence. Captain Matthias notices my attention. "Black birds have been gathering all week, my lord. The locals take it as an omen."

"Of what?" I ask, though I already know the answer from my studies.

"Depends who you ask. Some say they herald change. Others claim they're waiting for truth to be revealed." He spits to the side, a soldier's dismissal of local superstition. "Personally, I think they smell the supply wagons."

But I remember the texts I'd studied in preparation for this journey. The legend of the first Raven Queen, who saved her kingdom through elaborate deception, convincing invaders she was weak while secretly marshaling forces to drive them out. Ravens see all truths, the old stories claimed. They serve those who understand that sometimes lies preserve what honesty would destroy.

"My lord," Captain Matthias draws his mount alongside mine, his weathered face creased with concern that goes deeper than mere protocol. "The scouts report we'll reach the city gates within the hour."

I nod, though my throat feels tight with more than dust. Twelve years of preparation, and I still don't know if I'm here as Blackmere's prince or the Empire's weapon. I was eight when they took me to Asterion; old enough to remember home, young enough to be reshaped. The distinction between my two identities should matter, but Asterion's academies had excelled at blurring such lines until they became meaningless. "Any word from our contacts in the city?"

"Ambassador Cordelia sends her compliments and looks forward to your arrival." Matthias's tone suggests he finds the formality as distasteful as I do. "The princess has been informed of your approach and preparations are underway for your formal presentation."

Of course they are. Every moment of the next few days will be choreographed, each gesture calculated for maximum political impact. The Empire doesn't leave anything to chance, especially not the marriage of a princess who could be the key to securing Ravencrest permanently… or the final catalyst for open rebellion.

I've memorized the intelligence reports about Princess Melianthe. Educated in imperial schools but rumored to harbor traditionalist sympathies. Recently assigned a bodyguard whose background doesn't entirely match official records. Seen frequently in the city markets, which could indicate either genuine concern for her people or dangerous tendencies toward popular sentiment. The portrait they'd sent showed a lovely young woman with intelligent blue eyes, but portraits lie as often as they tell truth.

More troubling are the reports that arrived just before we departed Asterion. Increased activity among the resistance networks. Coded messages intercepted but not decoded. References to "ravens" and "lost songs" that suggested coordination beyond mere cultural nostalgia. Someone was organizing something, and my arrival might be the catalyst they've been waiting for.

"Sir," one of the rear guards calls out, his voice carrying a note of tension that makes my hand drift instinctively toward my sword. "Riders approaching from behind. Moving fast."

I turn in my saddle to see a dust cloud rising from the road we've just traveled, and my stomach clenches with recognition. Imperial courier horses, driven hard enough to foam. Messages that couldn't wait for my arrival.

The lead rider reaches us within minutes, his mount lathered and blowing hard. He wears the crimson and gold of imperial intelligence, and the sealed message tube he carries bears the black wax that indicates highest priority. When he recognizes my banner, he wheels his horse alongside mine with practiced efficiency.

"Your Highness," he gasps, struggling to control his breathing. "Urgent dispatches from Asterion. For your eyes only."

I break the seal with hands that remain steady through years of training, though my pulse quickens as I scan the cramped lines of imperial script. The words waver on the paper: Blackmere resistance cells activated. Multiple assassination attempts on imperial officials. Your father requests immediate conference upon arrival Ravencrest. Situation deteriorating rapidly. Proceed with extreme caution.

The paper feels like it weighs a thousand pounds in my hands. My father - the man who'd allowed me to be taken to Asterion as a child, who'd bent the knee to preserve his throne - is asking for help. Which means things in Blackmere have moved far beyond political maneuvering into open warfare.

And that means Princess Melianthe is either my partner in this conquest or its primary target, depending on how willing she proves to be.

"My lord?" Matthias's voice seems to come from very far away. "Bad news?"

"The worst." I force my expression to remain neutral while my mind races through implications. If Blackmere is in revolt, then my marriage to Princess Melianthe isn’t just about securing Ravencrest; it’s about providing the Empire with a legitimate claim to both kingdoms when the current rulers are removed. Either through political pressure or more permanent solutions.

"We continue as planned," I tell Matthias, though every instinct screams to turn around and ride hard for home. "But increase the watch rotations. And send word ahead that I'll need to meet privately with Ambassador Cordelia immediately upon arrival."

The forest begins to thin as we climb the final ridge, and suddenly Ravencrest spreads before us like something from a song. The city cascades down the hillside in terraces of white stone and red-tiled roofs, the ancient palace crowning the heights like a jewel in a perfect setting. Lakes gleam silver in the distance, and beyond them, mountains rise purple with afternoon haze.

It's beautiful. More beautiful than any of the intelligence reports had conveyed, and I feel an unexpected tightness in my chest. This is what the Empire wants to claim: not just the strategic position or the resources, but this beauty itself. They want to remake it in their image until nothing of its original character remains.

But as I study the scene more carefully, my imperial training reasserts itself. The terraced construction follows the natural landscape rather than imposing order upon it; a sign of people who adapt to their environment rather than mastering it. The old architecture prioritizes beauty over function, sentiment over progress. Even from here, I can see the market districts spreading organically like wildflowers rather than the neat commercial zones of a proper Imperial city.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" Matthias says quietly, and I hear something in his voice I've never noticed before, a longing that has nothing to do with strategic assessment. He's Blackmere-born himself. How does it feel to see what we were taught to view as inferior cultures while knowing your own homeland burns?

"The king chose his position well," I observe, studying the palace's commanding view of the surrounding country. From those towers, you could see an army approaching from any direction. Though the scattered defensive positions show typical local inefficiency; they should be consolidated into proper military districts. "The city walls are old but maintained. Someone has been reinforcing the gates."

Fresh ironwork gleams on the ancient gates, bearing no imperial stamp. Either King Aldrich is more militarily minded than our reports suggest, or someone in Ravencrest is preparing for the kind of trouble that's already engulfed Blackmere.

As we descend toward the city, I catch glimpses of life that the intelligence briefings never captured. Children playing in the streets dart between our horses without fear, their laughter ringing off stone walls that have stood for centuries. But their games disturb me. They’re chaotic, undisciplined, without the structured physical education that imperial children receive. No wonder these kingdoms struggle to produce proper citizens.

Market stalls display goods in patterns that speak of prosperity despite Imperial taxes, but I note the personal relationships evident in every transaction - merchants who know their customers' names, buyers who linger to chat rather than complete their business. Time treated as something to be savored rather than optimized. At least Ambassador Cordelia has been implementing proper commercial reforms, though the locals seem remarkably resistant to standardization.

But I also notice what's missing. The casual mingling between classes that characterizes inefficient societies. The way conversations stop when our imperial banners come into view. The subtle but unmistakable positioning of people near doorways and side streets, ready to disappear if necessary.

These are not broken subjects. These are people holding their breath, waiting for something. And my arrival might be exactly what they've been waiting for.

At the city gates, ravens perch on every available surface. Dozens of them, silent and watching. When our procession approaches, they shift restlessly but don't flee. One particularly large raven fixes me with an unblinking stare that feels almost like judgment.

A delegation waits to escort us to the palace. The man at their head wears the blue and silver of Ravencrest's royal guard, but his bearing suggests military experience that goes far beyond ceremony. His eyes meet mine briefly, a quick assessment that tells me he's cataloguing every detail of our party, our equipment, our dispositions. When he speaks, his voice carries the careful neutrality of a professional soldier evaluating potential threats.

"Your Highness," he says with a bow that manages to be respectful without being servile. "I am Commander Gideon of the Royal Guard. His Majesty King Aldrich bids you welcome to Ravencrest."

"Thank you, Commander." I dismount and return his bow with the precise degree of courtesy appropriate to our respective ranks, though I notice how his hand never strays far from his sword hilt. Behind him, I glimpse a figure watching from the gatehouse shadows - King Aldrich himself, perhaps? But when I look again, only shadows remain. "I bring greetings from His Imperial Majesty and look forward to presenting my credentials to King Aldrich."

"His Majesty awaits your pleasure in the great hall. If you'll permit, we'll escort you to your quarters so you may refresh yourself from your journey." Gideon gestures toward the palace road, but I catch the way his eyes flick toward my escort, counting weapons and assessing capabilities with the automatic precision of someone who's survived more than one political transition.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

As our combined procession winds through the city streets, I notice how the buildings follow ancient property lines and family connections rather than any rational plan. Each structure tells a story: this one clearly added a second floor when a daughter married, that one extended sideways to connect with a cousin's shop. The Empire would never tolerate such sentimental approach to urban development. We build for the future, not to preserve the past.

The palace gates swing open to reveal courtyards that somehow manage to blend imperial grandeur with something more intimate and human. The architecture speaks of centuries of careful addition, each generation building upon the last while respecting what came before. Wasteful, my training insists. All that historical preservation when they could have torn down and rebuilt more efficiently.

"Your quarters are in the eastern wing," Gideon explains as we cross the main courtyard. "Adjacent to the diplomatic suites. Ambassador Cordelia requested that arrangement to facilitate coordination."

Of course she did. Cordelia leaves nothing to chance and trusts no one completely - not even princes raised in Empire academies and married to serve imperial interests. I'll be under subtle observation every moment I'm here, my every conversation noted and analyzed for signs of developing loyalty or dangerous sentiment.

The irony would be amusing if it weren't so terrifying. They're watching me for signs of the very thoughts that are already taking root in my mind.

My assigned chambers are luxurious without being ostentatious. Tapestries that speak of wealth accumulated over generations rather than quick imperial plunder, furniture crafted by masters who understood both beauty and utility. The windows look out over the palace gardens, where I can see figures moving among carefully tended flower beds in the golden afternoon light. In Asterion, such spaces would house administrative offices or military training grounds, practical uses for valuable real estate. Here, they grow roses.

But what draws my attention are the books. Shelves lined with volumes that speak of genuine scholarship rather than imperial propaganda. Histories written by local authors, poetry in the old tongue, philosophical treatises that explore ideas the Empire would consider dangerous. Either someone has been remarkably careless about what reading material they've left for an imperial prince, or this is a test of some kind.

I select a volume almost at random - Chronicles of the Raven Queens - and find myself drawn into stories that have nothing to do with imperial destiny or manifest expansion. The first tale tells of Queen Morwyn, who convinced an invading army she was a weak, frightened girl while secretly coordinating a resistance that picked off the invaders one by one. She wore a crown of raven feathers, the book claims, and birds would bring her messages from across the kingdom.

Nonsense, of course. The kind of mystical thinking the Empire has worked to eliminate. Yet something about the story resonates uncomfortably with current events. A ruler playing weakness while coordinating resistance...

A soft knock interrupts my reading. "Enter," I call, expecting a servant with refreshments or information about the evening's schedule.

Instead, a young woman in palace livery steps inside, her movements precise and economical. But something in the way she carries herself suggests capabilities that go beyond domestic service. "Your Highness, I'm Penelope. I've been assigned to see to your needs during your stay."

There's something in her tone, a careful neutrality that suggests she's been instructed to observe as much as she serves. Another set of eyes, another source of information flowing back to whoever truly runs this place. But her bearing also suggests competence and perhaps a hint of sympathy that could prove valuable in a place where every conversation might be reported.

"Thank you, Penelope. I appreciate the consideration." I set aside the book of myths, noting how her eyes flick to the title before returning to my face. "The gardens are beautiful. I don't suppose there would be time for a walk before dinner?"

"Of course, Your Highness. Though if I may suggest..." She hesitates, as if weighing her words carefully. "The rose garden is particularly lovely at this time of day. Very... private. And the ravens tend to gather there at sunset. Some say they're drawn to places where important things happen."

The emphasis on privacy is subtle but unmistakable. She's offering me something. Information, perhaps, or simply the chance to move without quite as much scrutiny. The mention of ravens feels deliberate too, though I can't parse its meaning.

"That sounds perfect. I assume someone will guide me?"

"The guard will know the way. Shall I have them informed you'll be walking in an hour?"

"Yes, thank you."

After she leaves, I return to the book of Raven Queens, finding a passage that makes me pause:

"The ravens served as her eyes and ears, for they alone could move between the world of truth and the world of seeming. In times of greatest deception, they would gather in unprecedented numbers, drawn by the weight of secrets about to be revealed."

More primitive folklore. Yet when I glance out my window, I count at least thirty ravens perched on the palace walls, all facing the same direction - toward what I realize must be the throne room.

The guard who escorts me to the rose garden is young but professional, his hand never far from his sword hilt. We pass through corridors lined with portraits of Ravencrest's kings and queens, faces that speak of strength and stubborn pride rather than the bland perfection favored by imperial artists. These people had ruled through loyalty rather than fear, and their legacy still haunts these halls like a rebuke to everything the Empire represents.

"Your first visit to Ravencrest, my lord?" the guard asks as we descend a staircase toward the gardens.

"Yes. It's even more beautiful than I expected."

"Aye, she's a jewel." There's unmistakable pride in his voice, the kind that goes deeper than mere patriotism. "Been in the family for generations, my service has. My grandfather served King Everett, and his grandfather before him."

King Everett. The name hangs in the air between us, freighted with implication. The last legitimate king of Ravencrest, dead these six years along with his sons. I wonder what this young guard really thinks about the man who sits on the throne now and what he thinks about the imperial prince who's come to marry into it.

"Your family must have many stories to tell," I observe carefully.

"Aye, that we do." His tone is neutral, but I catch the quick glance he gives me; measuring, testing. "Though these days, people are more interested in looking forward than back."

We emerge into a garden that takes my breath away despite my imperial conditioning. Roses climb trellises and spill over walls in profusion, their scent heavy in the warm air. In the Empire, we cultivate medicinal herbs and food crops in our gardens, every plant serving a purpose beyond mere beauty. This is pure indulgence, nature allowed to run half-wild for no reason except that someone finds it pleasing.

And yet... the hidden alcoves offer privacy for quiet conversation, while winding paths create the illusion of endless discovery within a relatively small space. It's the kind of place where secrets might be shared and plans might be made, far from the watching eyes that fill the palace proper. Perhaps there's strategy in this apparent chaos after all.

Ravens perch among the roses, their black forms stark against the riot of color. They watch our progress with unsettling intensity, heads cocking as if listening to conversations we haven't yet had.

"I'll be nearby if you need anything, my lord," the guard says, positioning himself where he can see the main paths but not intrude on any conversations I might have.

I'm examining a particularly magnificent climbing rose when I hear voices approaching along one of the hidden paths. A woman's laugh, musical and genuine, followed by a man's deeper tones. They're speaking in the old tongue, the language the Empire has been systematically replacing with imperial common speech. Another stubborn tradition these people cling to, maintaining their grandfather's words when the future speaks in unified Imperial.

"...completely hopeless at the third movement," the woman is saying. "Master Anton nearly threw his conducting stick at me."

"Perhaps he should try teaching with a blade instead," comes the man's reply. "You learn faster when there are consequences for poor form."

The voices are closer now, just around the bend in the path. Something about the quality of their conversation - easy, familiar, unguarded - tells me this isn't a formal interaction between noble and servant. These are people who know each other well, who trust each other enough to speak freely in a place where such freedom could be dangerous.

I should announce my presence, observe proper courtesy. Instead, I find myself frozen in place, caught between curiosity and the strange sense that I'm about to witness something I'm not meant to see.

"You're distracted today," the man observes. "More than usual."

"Aren't you?" There's an edge to the woman's voice now, something brittle beneath the casual tone. "The Empire's prince arrives, and everything changes. Again."

My stomach clenches. They're talking about me.

"Nothing has to change," the man says quietly. "Not the things that matter."

"Doesn't it?" She sounds young suddenly, and uncertain. "How can it not? In a few weeks, I'll be betrothed to a stranger who's been raised in Asterion to be their perfect puppet. A few months after that, I'll be married to him. And then..."

Her voice trails off, but the implication hangs in the air. And then Ravencrest becomes just another Imperial province, ruled by an Emperor's man through an Emperor's princess.

"You don't know what he's like," the man says. "He might surprise you."

A bitter laugh. "Empire princes don't surprise anyone. They're all cut from the same cloth. Perfect manners, perfect loyalty, perfect emptiness where their souls should be."

The words stagger me, not just because they're cruel, but because I fear they might be true. Is that really what twelve years in Asterion has made me? A hollow man wearing imperial values like borrowed clothes, incapable of genuine feeling or independent thought?

Above us, the ravens suddenly take flight in a rush of wings, their cries sharp with what sounds almost like warning. The speakers must hear it too, because the conversation stops abruptly.

"Someone's there," the woman - Melianthe - whispers.

I hear rapid footsteps moving away, taking a different path deeper into the garden. By the time I work up the courage to round the bend, the path is empty except for a white rose petal lying on the ground, as if someone brushed against the bushes in their haste to leave.

I stand there for a long moment, staring at that single petal and thinking about perfect emptiness where souls should be. Is that what Princess Melianthe will see when we finally meet? Just another Imperial puppet dancing to strings she can't see?

But as I pick up the fallen rose petal and tuck it carefully into my pocket, I make a decision that would have horrified my imperial tutors. I'm going to prove her wrong. About what I am, what I'm capable of becoming, and what this marriage might mean for both our kingdoms.

The question is whether I'll have the chance to do so before the forces already in motion - in Blackmere, in Ravencrest, in the heart of the Empire itself - make such personal considerations irrelevant.

The sun is lower now, casting long shadows across the garden paths. Soon it will be time to dress for dinner, to put on the performance of diplomacy and courtly grace. To meet the woman whose opinion of imperial princes is already so firmly fixed.

But first, I stand in this hidden garden, holding a fallen rose petal and wondering if I'm brave enough to become the man I'll need to be. Not just to survive what's coming, but to deserve the kind of trust that conversation suggested I'd never earn.

As I prepare to return to the palace, I notice something that stops me cold. On a stone bench partially hidden by climbing roses, someone has carved words in the old script: "Truth endures when lies crumble." The carving is fresh, the edges still sharp, as if made recently by someone who wanted to leave a message for those who might understand its meaning.

Or perhaps for an imperial prince who needed to remember that some things matter more than political convenience.

Above the bench, a single raven perches on a rose arbor, watching me with eyes that seem to hold ancient knowledge. It caws once, a sound that might be mockery or might be invitation, before spreading its wings and flying toward the palace.

Toward the throne room, where King Aldrich waits.

Where answers to questions I haven't yet learned to ask might be hiding in plain sight, like ravens among roses.

The guard straightens as I approach. "Ready to return, my lord?"

"Yes," I say, but I take one last look back at the garden paths that wind deeper into shadow and secret places. "Yes, I think I am."

But as we walk toward the palace, I'm acutely aware of the weight of the rose petal in my pocket and the words carved in ancient stone. Tomorrow I'll meet Princess Melianthe, and everything will change, for her, for me, for both our kingdoms.

The only question is whether that change will lead toward something better, or whether we're all just playing our parts in a tragedy whose ending was written the day I was taken from Blackmere as a child.

Either way, the game has begun. And for the first time in twelve years, I intend to play it for myself rather than for the Empire that shaped me.