A/N: Camden has matured now, at 17 years, so expect him to act as such. He wont be the little goofball/troublemaker he was in the past chaps (thank god.)
I will be writing in more detail now, reducing the one liner paragraphs that were in the past chaps, but not changing the overall tone of the book. The next 3 or 4? chaps will be slightly serious. Enjoy
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[7 years later]
The sun hadn't quite broken through the forest canopy yet when I slung the bow over my shoulder. Its polished yew frame gleamed with golden inlays, carved with delicate runes that shimmered faintly when the light hit just right.
My father had given it to me yesterday, a birthday gift marking the turn of my seventeenth year.
I didn't know what to say when he handed it over, surprised that he even gifted me something.
He had smiled, patted my shoulder, and told me, "Test it well, son. A bow like that doesn't belong hanging over a mantle."
So I intended to do just that.
The morning air was crisp, dew still clinging to the blades of grass beneath my boots as we made our way through the outer fields and into the forest's edge. The three guards who accompanied me were handpicked — not only the best in skill but the most relaxed in presence.
I hated stiff formalities on outings like this. I wanted laughter in the woods, not marching drills.
Jorgen, the stocky, bearded brute with a heart of gold and an appetite that could rival a bear's, led the way. He carried a heavy axe on his back and whistled off-key with every step.
Beside him walked Aeron, slender and deadly, with hair so pale it could've been mistaken for silver. He rarely spoke, but when he did, it was usually with sarcasm so dry it made bark look moist.
The third was Thalia, the only one among them who might actually enjoy hunting as much as I did. Her bow was plain but worn with love, her eyes sharp, and her gait like a cat's — silent, precise.
And then there was Carys.
Carys, my retainer. Fourteen summers old, though she carried herself like she was twenty. Freckled cheeks, a wild mess of curly brown hair, and eyes that seemed to drink in every detail. She insisted on carrying my quiver, even though I told her more than once she didn't have to.
"That's what I'm for," she said with a grin, skipping over roots like she'd grown up in this forest. In truth, she had — Carys had been born in the woods just beyond the eastern border before being taken in and trained at court.
I'd known her for only a year, but already she felt like a younger sibling. Fierce. Loyal. And always too eager to prove herself.
We set out early, before breakfast, hoping to catch the first stirrings of game while the world still stretched and yawned beneath dawn's touch.
"Alright," I said, stopping by an old oak to check my bowstring. "Let's make a game of it."
Jorgen groaned. "Please tell me this isn't going to be like last time."
"You mean when I shot more squirrels than you did?"
"You bribed the squirrels."
I grinned. "If I could bribe squirrels, I'd be a god by now."
Carys giggled behind me. "Maybe they just like you better."
"They'd be right to," I replied with a wink. "So. First to bring down three deer wins. Loser owes everyone else dinner. And you have to cook it."
"Done," Thalia said immediately.
"Ugh," Jorgen muttered. "I still haven't recovered from Aeron's 'smoked rabbit surprise' last month."
"It was smoked," Aeron said evenly. "And a surprise."
We split up, each pair heading in different directions. Thalia and Aeron vanished almost immediately into the underbrush, moving with practiced silence. I took Jorgen and Carys, figuring I'd enjoy some decent company — and because Jorgen never let you go hungry on a hunt.
The woods were alive with morning sounds — birdsong echoing overhead, the rustling of small creatures in the underbrush, the steady rhythm of our boots on damp earth. I spotted a pair of hares early on, but let them go.
I wanted something bigger, something worthy of the bow.
"You see that?" I asked after an hour of quiet tracking. A trail of hoof prints led through a patch of mud, then vanished behind a fallen tree.
"Deer," Jorgen confirmed. "Big one, too."
We followed the trail slowly, stopping often to listen. Carys pointed out snapped branches I would've missed, signs of passing we might have walked over. She moved ahead of us, eyes sharp.
When we found it, it was grazing in a clearing, a handsome buck with antlers like outstretched fingers. I dropped to a crouch and motioned for silence. Jorgen stopped mid-breath.
Carys crouched beside me. "You want me to call it closer?"
"How?"
She produced a reed whistle from her pouch. "Learned it from my uncle. Works half the time."
"Better odds than a coin toss," I whispered. "Alright, give it a go."
She blew gently. The sound was soft, almost imperceptible — a sort of low, nasal call. The buck lifted its head and froze. I drew the bow, slowly, steadily. My fingers found the string, pulled it back, felt the tension sing along my arm.
The arrow loosed like lightning.
It struck true — clean, swift, a heart shot. The buck stumbled forward, then crumpled into the grass.
"By the gods," Jorgen murmured. "What is that bow made of?"
"Dad says it's heartwood from the elder trees near the Southern Peaks. Reinforced with spellsteel. Supposed to never warp, never miss."
Carys whooped and ran ahead. "You got it! First shot!"
I followed more slowly, heart still beating fast, the thrill of the hunt running electric through me. The buck lay still. I knelt beside it and placed a hand on its neck.
"Thank you," I whispered. "May your spirit run free."
Carys stood quietly beside me for a moment, then helped me tag the deer and mark the spot. Jorgen pulled out a flag and stabbed it into the ground. "One down. Two to go."
The rest of the morning passed like a dream. We found a second deer by midday, caught drinking from a stream. This time, I let Carys try. She insisted she wasn't ready, but I made her take the shot anyway.
She missed, naturally, but the arrow flew cleaner than most her age could manage. I gave her my second-best arrow and told her to keep it. She beamed like I'd handed her a crown.
By noon, we regrouped with the others at a riverside clearing. Aeron had caught two hares and was roasting them over a spit, while Thalia sharpened her arrows.
"Only two deer?" she said when she saw us.
"And three rabbits," Jorgen said, holding up a sack with pride. "Also, Aeron stepped in a beehive."
"I did not step in it," Aeron muttered. "It fell on me."
"After you threw a rock at it."
"I was testing gravity."
We laughed, loud and long, as the fire crackled and smoke curled into the trees. Lunch was simple — roasted rabbit, dried berries, fresh bread. I sat on a log and leaned back, watching the sunlight filter through the leaves.
Carys sat beside me, swinging her legs.
"You're good with that bow," she said after a while.
I shrugged. "It's easy when the bow does most of the work."
"No, it's not," she said. "You have the touch. Like my uncle. He could shoot a bird mid-flight and never blink."
"You want to be a ranger someday?" I asked.
She nodded quickly. "Or maybe a scout. I like the wild. The court's stuffy."
"I feel the same," I said, smiling. "Out here, there's room to breathe."
"Do you think I could be one?" she asked. "A real scout?"
I turned to look at her. She wasn't joking. She wanted this — not just as a game, but as a future.
"You keep training," I said. "You stay sharp. And one day, you'll be the one people send into the deep woods to guide them out."
Her face lit up like sunrise.
We hunted again in the afternoon. The third deer took longer to find, and we had to track it across a ridge and into a shallow ravine. It was trickier, darting and skittish, but eventually, with a lucky angle and some clever positioning from Jorgen, I brought it down with a shot from above.
By late afternoon, the sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows over the forest floor. We dragged the deer carcasses onto stretchers and began the slow journey home, tired but triumphant.
Evening light painted everything gold. The woods were quieter now — no more birds, no rustling. Just the creak of leather and wood, the occasional grunt from Jorgen, and the laughter of our little group reliving every moment.
We reached the forest edge just as the sun kissed the horizon. In the distance, the spires of the keep caught the last rays, gilded in orange fire.
I stopped at the crest of the hill, breathing in the scent of pine and earth, the taste of the day lingering on my tongue. Carys stood beside me, hair windblown, eyes shining.
"Best birthday ever," I murmured.
She looked up at me and smiled. "Wait until next year."
I grinned. "Next year, we hunt bears."
Jorgen groaned behind me. "Next year, I'm staying home."
"Too late," I said. "You're in this for life."
=
=
[Southern Seas]
The sea was calm. Almost too calm.
Prince Hans of the Southern Isles stood near the prow of the Silver Mariner, hands gloved and resting lightly on the polished rail. His auburn hair ruffled gently in the salt-kissed breeze, his eyes fixed on the horizon ahead, where the faintest shapes of Eldoria's cliffside palisades were beginning to emerge like shadows from the mist.
He stood proud, tall in his naval coat — sapphire-blue with gold trimmings — though in truth he had done nothing to steer the ship.
Still, he played the part well. A born actor, Hans had learned long ago that presence could outweigh action in politics — and he intended to make a very good impression.
Eldoria. The name carried with it an echo of power. The kingdom had remained neutral in most continental disputes for decades, yet its influence stretched far. A land of deep forests, ancient magic, and a king whose reputation had only grown since the Eastern Campaigns.
King Alistair Eldenhart — a man admired, feared, and most of all respected — was a figure Hans had studied well. If Hans could win his favor, then the path to Arendelle would open easily.
He had no illusions about love — not with princess Anna, not with princess Elsa — but he did know power. And Arendelle had it. Especially now with Elsa set for the throne.
And power, Hans thought, needed careful scaffolding. Which is why he needed Eldoria.
He stepped away from the railing, boots tapping steadily against the wooden deck, and descended the stairs to the captain's quarters where a large table was spread out with maps and letters.
Several were sealed — missives from the Southern Isles' court, each containing pre-approved lies, formal greetings, and vague hints of economic cooperation.
Hans ignored them. He preferred his own words. The personal touch always went further.
He sat and pulled a fresh scroll of parchment toward him. Dipping his quill, he began drafting a letter he would never send — not really. It was simply to rehearse his thoughts:
--[To His Majesty King Alistair Eldenhart,
It is with utmost humility and admiration that I, Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles, present myself before your esteemed court. While my travels take me northward, it is no accident that I seek your audience first. For there is wisdom in your counsel, and strength in your alliances, and I believe—]--
He stopped, lips curling slightly.
Too formal. Too dry.
He dipped the quill again.
--[Your Majesty,
My journey brings me northward through the lands I've only heard spoken of with reverence — Eldoria chief among them. It would honor me greatly to pay my respects and offer my services in whatever small way might benefit your people. My family and I have always admired your leadership, and I hope my passage through your lands may be an opportunity to build something greater between our nations...]--
Better.
He sat back, folding his hands beneath his chin. The room creaked gently with the ship's movement. Outside, gulls cried faintly in the distance. The Silver Mariner was a fast ship, one of the finest in the Isles' fleet, and the journey from his homeland had been surprisingly smooth.
Still, Hans felt the pressure building with every nautical mile.
How to charm a king?
He'd done it before — governors, barons, high-ranking generals — all seduced by his impeccable manners, tailored wit, and practiced vulnerability.
He could play the war-touched noble, the wronged younger son, the patriotic emissary, or the charming rogue. It all depended on the audience. But Alistair was known to be... difficult to read.
Hans reached into his satchel and pulled out a dossier. It was worn, full of copied reports and court rumors. He opened to the page on the royal family.
--[Alistair Eldenhart — King of Eldoria. Veteran of the Eastern Wars. Beloved by his people. Estranged wife: Evelyne. One son by Evelyne. One son by Louise, his second wife. No legitimate daughters. Trusts few. Rewards loyalty fiercely. Disdains flattery. Known to personally test foreign envoys in informal settings.]--
Hans tapped the page.
'So no flattery, then.' And no lies he couldn't back with action. Dangerous. But not impossible.
He flipped to the next page. Information on the capital, Eldorai. Its towering castle, surrounded by three concentric rings of districts. The famed Skyglass Spire, the ceremonial halls, the ancient grove at the palace's rear, where foreign dignitaries were often taken for symbolic pledges.
Hans smiled again. Symbolism, he thought. 'I can work with that.'
[2 days later...]
The Silver Mariner eased into the harbor beneath a burning sunrise, its sails gleaming like white flame. The capital of Eldoria was unlike anything Hans had ever seen.
Towering walls of stone and verdant ivy rose high above the docks, crowned with banners that caught the wind — a golden stag against blue sky, the crest of House Eldenhart.
Behind them, the city climbed a hill in elegant steps — stone streets, colorful tiled roofs, bridges of crystal and steel crossing over narrow canals. It was a city built to impress.
And Hans was suitably impressed.
He disembarked with grace, dressed in formal attire trimmed with just enough gold to hint at nobility but not so much as to suggest arrogance. His sword — ornamental and peace-bound — was slung at his side, a visible symbol of diplomacy.
Behind him, a small entourage of aides and guards followed with trunks and crates marked with the royal seal of the Southern Isles.
The dockmaster greeted him with a stiff bow. "Prince Hans of the Southern Isles?"
Hans nodded, flashing a warm smile. "At your service."
"You are expected. A carriage awaits. The king has extended an invitation to the evening court. A guide will escort you to your chambers within the Sapphire District."
"Marvelous," Hans said. "And may I ask — has His Majesty sent word of any... preferences for our meeting?"
The dockmaster hesitated. "Only that he will speak with you personally. And that you are to dine with him at the royal table tonight."
'Straight to the lion's den, then.'
Hans stepped into the carriage, leather seats supple beneath him, windows affording a full view of Eldorai as it passed by. The people were well-dressed, well-fed, and curious.
He caught the eyes of several children pointing at his carriage, mothers pulling them gently back while whispering.
Good. Word was already spreading.
As they passed through the Sapphire District — where fountains ran with scented waters and street performers danced in the shadow of sculpted towers — Hans made mental notes of every building, every possible conversation-starter.
Eldoria valued memory. Tradition. Pride. He would make sure to praise the mosaics of Eldenhart ancestors carved along the main avenue, mention the arcane shielding embedded in the archways, ask polite questions about the nature of the skyglass used in the palace roofs.
Charm the culture, and the king would follow.
The palace gates opened without flourish, but Hans didn't need trumpets. The beauty of Eldorai's(the capital) inner sanctum was overwhelming on its own — courtyards of woven light, marble arches etched with drifting runes, gardens that seemed to hum with life.
He was led to his guest chambers — a tall suite overlooking a quiet inner grove, decorated in the Eldorian style: simple elegance, natural light, and subtle enchantments that warmed the floors and cooled the air.
As he unpacked, Hans allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection. He stood at the window, looking down over the garden paths, hands clasped behind his back.
The real game had begun.
Tonight, he would sit beside the most respected king in the central world. He would break bread, sip Eldorian wine, and speak of trade routes and naval defenses, of magic and duty, of peace and strength.
But underneath it all, he would be calculating.
The great dining hall was warm with candlelight and laughter.
I sat near the center of the long oak table, nestled comfortably between my mother and Benedict. It wasn't a formal banquet night, thank the stars — just family, close advisors, and a few court regulars enjoying a quieter evening in the heart of the palace. The air smelled faintly of rosemary and slow-roasted onions, and somewhere down the table, someone was laughing at one of Sir Aldren's unfunny hunting tales.
My fork idled on the side of my plate, and I glanced at Benedict beside me. His posture was more relaxed than I was used to seeing — not stiff with rivalry like before. Ever since the truth about our births came to light, and everything that came after... we'd been better. Not best friends, but... brothers. Actual brothers.
"So, did you hear," I muttered to him, grinning, "that Sir Aldren supposedly shot three deer with one arrow last week?"
Benedict smirked. "If Aldren ever pulled off something like that, I'd shave my head and take holy vows. That man couldn't hit a tree if it danced in front of him."
I snorted, barely stifling the laugh behind a sip of water. My mother glanced over at the sound, lips twitching in fond amusement.
"Boys," she said gently, reaching to brush a strand of hair from my forehead. "Try not to tease our knights too harshly. Aldren is kindhearted, even if he... stretches stories."
"He stretches them like taffy," I said under my breath, and Benedict had to stifle another laugh.
The starter course was modest — a rich mushroom and barley soup, slices of herbed bread with honey butter, and little crisped onion pastries shaped like tiny crowns. I always loved dinner with my mother. No one could soften a room like she could — not even Father, for all his presence. With her nearby, everything always felt a little safer. A little calmer.
I turned slightly toward her. "I think we should go back to the forest again soon, mama. Maybe before winter sets in. The trees looked different this year — older, somehow."
She reached for her wine and smiled softly. "That sounds lovely, Cam. Perhaps next time, I'll even come with you. You can show me where you caught that hare."
Benedict raised a brow. "You caught a hare?"
"More than one," I said proudly, straightening. "And I hit a pheasant mid-flight."
"And missed three before that," Benedict added dryly.
"Oh hush, one of them was definitely cursed. Its eyes were glowing."
"Camden," my mother said, trying not to laugh and failing completely.
It was peaceful. That strange, temporary peace that only happens when everyone's plates are half-full and no one's arguing yet. We'd just begun to move onto the second round of bread when the heavy doors at the far end of the hall opened with a soft clunk.
A steward stepped in — one of the new ones, dressed in sapphire livery with silver trim. His eyes swept the hall quickly, then landed on the king. He bowed low.
"Your Majesty. Forgive the interruption. Prince Hans of the Southern Isles has arrived and requests an audience."
The mood in the room shifted, just a little. Chairs stilled. Spoons paused halfway to mouths.
Father didn't move immediately. He set down his goblet, wiped his fingers calmly on the napkin beside him, and then gave the steward a nod.
"Show him in," he said.
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