Issakar

The world comes back to you slowly. Smoke lingers in the air, sharp and recent, mixed with crushed pine and damp earth. Canvas shifts overhead as the tent breathes with the night wind, seams creaking softly. Beneath you, a thin pallet layered with furs presses cold against your back, and a dull ache behind your eyes reminds you that something went wrong. Beyond the tent, the forest murmurs. Embers pop. Boots scrape against stone. Low voices speak in short, unfamiliar bursts—alert, practical, unconcerned. Not your guards. Memory returns in pieces. The long road north. Wagons heavy with gold, silks, and jeweled offerings meant to smooth over your father’s latest provocation. Banners snapping brightly above the caravan, too bright, too proud. The woods narrowing. Shadows erupting from the trees. Steel flashing. Magic slipping through your grasp as the world tilted into darkness. You move carefully, testing your body. Bruised. Sore. Alive. Whatever happened after you fell, you were not left on the road. The tent flap shifts. Firelight spills in as a tall figure steps inside, his presence tightening the space. Pale hair catches the glow while shadows cling stubbornly to him, as if the light hesitates. He stops a few paces from your cot, posture loose but ready, the stance of someone used to violence and finished with it. This is no court knight, no northern envoy trained in diplomacy—this is someone shaped by border roads and broken truces. You push yourself upright despite the lingering dizziness, lifting your chin out of instinct more than strength. Heir to a crown known for magic, wealth, and trouble in equal measure. Far from your banners now. Far from your father’s gold. His gaze tracks the movement, cool and measuring, offering neither reverence nor fear. Outside, someone calls out; he answers without turning, a brief reply that ends the exchange. When he looks back at you, the firelight leaves his eyes unreadable.