The great golden gates of the capital groaned open, their shadows stretching long across the stone road like the final gesture of a familiar world. Arcanis held his reins loosely, the horse beneath him shifting with calm, patient breaths. He didn't look back immediately.
He simply listened — to the slow exhale of metal, to the weight of history easing behind him.
This moment marked something quiet but irrevocable.
Beside him rode Merrin — his attendant, nineteen, loyal in the way steady-hearted people quietly were. His posture was straight, his gaze shifting between the open road and the prince, as if measuring the width of the world through Arcanis's reactions.
When the gates closed behind them with a soft, final thud, Arcanis finally turned.
The walls stood tall — familiar, protective, a cradle carved in marble. But now they felt… distant. A memory more than a place.
Merrin spoke gently, voice careful not to intrude.
"You don't have to look back if it hurts, Your Highness."
Arcanis exhaled, almost smiling.
"It doesn't hurt. It just feels… different."
Merrin nudged his horse a little closer.
"First breaths outside the nest always feel different."
Arcanis didn't reply. He simply turned forward again and let the wind move through his hair — real wind, unfiltered by stone corridors and palace ceilings.
---
— The Road Opens
The road stretched ahead, wide and quiet, bordered by tall grasses that swayed like old storytellers sharing secrets. Birds skimmed the meadow edges, wings catching sunlight in brief flashes of silver.
Arcanis watched everything with the soft hunger of someone finally allowed to see color for himself.
A pair of farmers pushed a cart of apples past them, dust clinging to their boots, shirts damp with honest labor. When they noticed the travelers, they straightened slightly — not out of fear, but courtesy.
Merrin dipped his head. Arcanis mirrored it — simple, human.
The farmers smiled back.
Not because he was a prince — they didn't know.
Because he was kind.
Arcanis felt something warm tug at his chest.
"This world feels… honest," he murmured.
Merrin's smile was small but approving.
"It is. Simple people. Simple burdens. But they carry them well."
Arcanis hummed quietly — thoughtful, absorbing the truth.
As they continued, the world shifted around them:
patches of wildflowers scattered the roadside
the smell of damp soil lingered
sun warmed the road in soft strokes
children chased each other beyond a fence
a lazy dog barked at a passing cart
Arcanis loosened his grip on the reins, slowing slightly, wanting to hold this entire view in his palms.
Merrin noticed.
"Overwhelming?"
Arcanis shook his head faintly.
"No. Just… peaceful. I didn't think the outside world would feel like this."
"What did you expect, Your Highness?"
"Chaos," Arcanis admitted. "Threats. Hunger. Monsters."
Merrin let out a soft laugh.
"Oh, that exists too. But the world isn't made only of teeth."
Arcanis breathed out — quiet, relieved.
----
— Small Moments, Quiet Realizations
At a bend in the road, a woman knelt beside a stream, washing clothes. Her face was sun-warmed, hands calloused but gentle. She shaded her eyes when she looked up, then smiled shyly.
Arcanis felt unexpectedly disarmed.
Not by her — by the simple ease of the moment.
He nodded back.
Her smile deepened — sincere, unassuming.
Merrin leaned in slightly.
"People here judge character, not titles."
Arcanis's lips curved softly.
"That sounds refreshing."
They rode on.
A merchant cart passed, driven by a cheerful man who lifted a flask.
"Hot day! Take a drink, young sir!"
Arcanis accepted it with both hands, bowing lightly.
The water tasted of river and stone — clean, grounding.
Merrin watched him with quiet approval.
---
— The First Evening Outside
When the sun dipped low, painting the sky in warm oranges and rose hues, they arrived at a traveler's rest hut — a small haven of wood and smoke.
Inside, the air smelled of stew and old timber. The caretaker, a kind-eyed old woman, placed bowls before them.
"Eat well, child," she said warmly. "Long road ahead."
Arcanis didn't correct her.
Being called "child" instead of "Your Highness" felt unexpectedly comforting.
He tasted the stew — carrots, onions, venison — humble but made with care.
Warmth spread through him.
Merrin sat beside him, silent, giving the prince room to breathe.
Afterward, they stepped outside into the cooling air. Stars glittered overhead — more than Arcanis had ever seen.
He walked to the wooden fence, gaze lifted toward the sky stretched wider than any palace ceiling.
Merrin joined him quietly.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he murmured.
Arcanis nodded slowly.
"I never realized how wide the sky truly is."
"You grew up with ceilings," Merrin said softly. "Even painted ones aren't the same."
Arcanis allowed a faint smile.
"No. They're not."
A shared silence settled — warm, companionable.
Then Arcanis spoke, voice quieter than before.
"Merrin… do you think the world remembers how to be gentle?"
Merrin thought for a moment.
"The world isn't gentle, Your Highness. But the people in it… sometimes are. And that's enough to keep going."
Arcanis felt the words settle deep — like soft stones sinking into a still pond.
He touched Aria's charm tied to his wrist.
"I promised her I'd return," he said softly.
"And you will," Merrin said without hesitation. "I can tell by the way you hold that charm."
Arcanis smiled — real, quiet.
---
— The First Night Under the Open Sky
They laid their blankets inside the hut, but sleep didn't come immediately. Arcanis watched shadows ripple across the wooden ceiling, listened to the restless whisper of wind outside.
The silence wasn't empty.
It was full — full of a world breathing, full of first steps, full of soft beginnings.
He whispered into the darkness, almost to himself:
"I'll grow. I'll see everything. And I'll come home."
His eyes drifted shut.
Not as a prince lying in a palace bed —
but as a boy stepping, finally, into the world.