Caelrix lived his life in motion.

From the moment he could walk, he was taught that stillness invited death. He was the son of a man whose name the world spoke only in curses—a villain whose wars, betrayals, and cruelties left cities burned and families broken. Though Caelrix never stood at his father’s side nor shared in his crimes, the weight of that legacy pressed upon him from birth. To many, he was not a child, but a remainder.

His youth was marked by vigilance. Knives found their way into his chambers. Arrows were loosed from crowds. Invitations to feasts carried poison instead of welcome. Each failed attempt taught him the same lesson: his life was a debt others believed he owed.

When unrest finally erupted, it did so without warning or mercy. Protests filled the streets, driven by old wounds reopened and anger sharpened by hunger and fear. Caelrix was recognized before he could flee. His name was never spoken—only his bloodline. Stones and curses followed him as he ran through the city, bells ringing not to warn him, but to summon others to the hunt.

He fled through alleys and marketplaces, over slick cobblestones and shattered stalls, his bright feathers made dull by ash and rain. Doors closed as he passed. Windows shuttered. Even those who hesitated did not intervene. By nightfall, the chase had driven him beyond the city walls, where the noise of the mob carried across open fields like a storm that could not be outrun.

It was there, with his strength failing and no refuge left to him, that Caelrix found the barn.

But the barn door creaks open.....