Rowan began to change.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Like frost creeping over glass.
He smiled less.
Trusted fewer.
Listened more.
And slept almost never.
Aren noticed first.
Meetings grew shorter.
Orders sharper.
Questions colder.
"Why do they cheer you?" Rowan asked once.
"In the streets."
"They cheer victories," Aren replied.
"Whose?" Rowan pressed.
"Ours."
Rowan did not seem convinced.
Spies reported whispers.
"Valewood should rule."
"He understands us."
"Rowan hides behind him."
Dangerous words.
Deadly words.
Lysa warned him.
"People love heroes," she said. "Then they kill them."
Aren nodded.
"I know."
One night, Rowan summoned him privately.
No wine.
No guards.
Only maps.
"You're too visible," Rowan said.
"Because I work," Aren replied.
"Because you shine," Rowan snapped.
Silence followed.
"I need you," Rowan continued. "But I fear you."
Honesty.
Rare.
Precious.
"I've never wanted your throne," Aren said.
"Yet it follows you," Rowan replied.
Rowan gestured to a map.
Northern frontier.
Draven territory.
Border forts.
"I'm sending you here," he said.
A distant assignment.
A quiet exile.
Wrapped as honor.
"Command the defenses."
Aren understood.
Distance.
Isolation.
Control.
"You're banishing me," Aren said.
"I'm protecting us both," Rowan answered.
Aren accepted.
What choice remained?
"To win," he said.
Rowan nodded.
"Always."
That night, Lysa packed.
Again.
"Seems we're moving," she said.
"Seems we're being moved," Aren replied.
Tom looked afraid.
"Will they forget us?" he asked.
Aren knelt.
"Never," he said. "We'll make sure of it."
As they rode north, Greyhaven faded.
Behind them lay power.
Ahead lay war.
And between them…
A friendship turning into something far more dangerous.