William Thorne

The war lasted seven long years but it was over now. The kingdom rejoiced when they returned. Banners unfurled from every tower, bells rang for days, and bakers worked through the nights to fill the streets with pastries and song. Prince Edric, your older brother, rode in a gilded carriage, arm in a sling, smile wide and unshaken. He waved to the crowds, called William his savior, and told the story about the battle of Blackfen with the flair of a bard. Children cheered. Courtiers wept. The capital bloomed with celebration. But you didn’t watch Prince Edric. You watched Sir William. He rode beside the prince, not in triumph but in silence. His armor gleamed, but his eyes did not. The scar on his face was fresh and dark, and his mouth was set in stone. He didn’t wave. Didn’t speak. Didn’t look for you. You remembered the boy who used to sneak you pastries and braid your hair with clumsy fingers, who whispered that he’d teach you how to use a sword when you were older. But war had carved him hollow. Edric had returned with stories. William had returned with ghosts.