“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if the Regent sees you holding it, he will understand exactly what we just understood.”
“That Father may have returned.”
“Yes.”
The Prince looked toward the distant palace.
“Good.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The Old Archer leaned closer.
“Because a secret is only useful while your enemy is uncertain whether you know it.”
The Prince hated when adults made sense.
Three days later, the Regent announced a Royal Assembly.
Every noble family, military commander, judge, provincial governor, and major merchant was ordered to attend.
The official purpose was simple.
The King had been absent seven years.
Under ancient law, the throne could be declared permanently vacant after seven complete cycles of the harvest moon.
If the Queen accepted the declaration, the Young Prince would become heir to a throne considered legally empty.
But because he was under sixteen, a Protector of the Realm would govern until his majority.
Everyone knew who intended to become Protector.
The Regent.
The Queen summoned her son the night before the assembly.
He entered her private chamber and found her standing beside a table covered with documents.
She looked exhausted.
“Sit.”
He remained standing.
“I know what tomorrow is.”
“So do I.”
“You’re going to let them declare Father dead.”
The Queen’s face tightened.
“I may not be able to stop it.”
“You are the Queen.”
“I am one vote among twenty-seven under succession law.”
“That law is stupid.”
“Several are.”
“Change it.”
A laugh escaped her despite everything.
“You think ruling is shouting at parchment until it obeys?”
“It works on servants.”
The Queen gave him a look.
He became serious.
“Mother.”
She turned away.
The Prince saw her shoulders rise.
When she spoke again, her voice was quiet.
“If I refuse the declaration without evidence, the Regent will say grief has made me unfit.”
“Then show evidence.”
“What evidence?”
The Prince thought of the bow.
He had promised the Old Archer he would say nothing.
Promises to loyal men mattered.
But so did his mother.
He hesitated too long.
The Queen noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You have your father’s face when lying.”
The Prince sighed.
“That seems unfair.”
“What are you hiding?”
He looked at the door.
Then crossed the room.
“There’s something you need to see.”
The Old Archer was furious.
“No.”
The Queen stood inside the abandoned training courtyard with the Prince beside her.
The leather-wrapped bow rested on the bench.
“You should have told me,” she said.
The Old Archer bowed his head.
“My Queen.”
“That was not permission to avoid the question.”
“I did not know whether the weapon was genuine.”
She unwrapped it.
The moment she saw the grip, all color left her face.
The Prince watched carefully.
“You recognize it.”
“Yes.”
She touched a small notch near the lower limb.
“Your father made this during the northern campaign. He repaired it himself after a horse stepped on it.”
The Prince’s heart pounded.
“Then he returned.”
The Queen did not answer immediately.
The Old Archer said, “The bow returned.”
The Prince frowned.
“Stop saying it like that.”
His mother looked at the symbols.
Three waves.
Sun.