"I bled for a king who let my mother die alone. No coin, no healer, not even a damn letter. That is the loyalty you fight for?"

  -Ser Hector the Brave Knight

  My P.O.V

  The fires burned low in the war camp, the embers barely glowing beneath the cold winds rolling in from the north. Tattered banners of Gulvia fluttered, limp and torn from six years of bloodshed. Soldiers moved through the camp like ghosts—silent, hollow-eyed, and burdened by a war that should never have been waged.

  I sat sharpening my sword, the familiar rasp of steel against stone the only sound in my tent. The Third Border War was over, not through victory, but surrender. My half-brother, Prince Devran, had offered terms to the Sami High King, bringing an end to a campaign that had drained the kingdom of its strength, its coin, and its men.

  And now, the war's final blow had come—not from an enemy blade, but from Elria itself.

  "My lord," a voice broke through the stillness.

  Ser Hector stood at the entrance of my tent, his expression grim. Behind him, a young royal rider held out a sealed parchment, the golden lion sigil pressed into the wax. The king’s mark.

  I took the letter without a word, my fingers tightening as I recognized the elegant, flowing script beneath the seal. Aria.

  Breaking the seal, my eyes moved over the first lines.

  "King Valero is dead."

  I should have felt something—grief, perhaps. But there was nothing. No sorrow. No anger. Just a cold, hollow acceptance.

  The father I never truly knew, the man who sent me to war at thirteen, was gone.

  My father was dead.

  I let out a slow breath, folding the parchment. “When?”

  "Three days ago, My Lord," the rider answered. "The court prepares for the king’s wake. The vassals have been summoned to Elria."

  Hector exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "That explains the silence from the capital. Devran will be crowned soon."

  I nodded, my mind already moving ahead. "And Aria?"

  "Safe, for now," the rider said. "But she urges your return. She says the court is uneasy."

  Uneasy. A polite way of saying that Queen Anna, my father’s widow, was already maneuvering to secure her son’s rule. My presence in Elria would be a complication she would not welcome.

  The Royal Court’s Uncertainty

  Aria's P.O.V

  The scent of myrrh and candle wax hung heavy in the air. The council chamber was filled with murmurs, quiet conversations laced with veiled tensions. Lords and advisors gathered at the great table, their gazes shifting between one another, measuring, calculating.

  At the head of the table sat Queen Dowager Anna, draped in the deep mourning black of a grieving widow. Her expression was unreadable, her hands resting on the table with calculated grace.

  To her right, Devran—soon to be king—watched the room with the air of a man who already wore the crown. He had always been confident, always carried himself with authority, but now, that confidence was sharpened, honed into something more.

  Prince Leo, our younger brother, sat further down, arms crossed, his expression tight with barely hidden frustration. He had never liked being second to Devran, and with the crown slipping further out of his reach, his bitterness grew more obvious by the day.

  The discussion was predictable. The wake. The coronation. The kingdom’s weakened state after the war.

  But then, a new topic arose.

  "Prince Alaric is expected to arrive within the week," Lord Varus, the queen's spymaster, said, his voice smooth and practiced. "His return may... complicate matters."

  I felt my stomach tighten.

  "Complicate?" I repeated. "He is the king’s son. It is only right that he be here to mourn his father."

  Queen Anna did not look at me, but I saw the flicker of displeasure in her eyes. "Of course, dear. But the timing is... delicate."

  "Prince Alaric commands the respect of many men," one of the lords muttered. "Those who fought in the Border Wars view him as one of their own."

  "Which is exactly why we must be careful," Lord Varus added. "There are some who might see him as a potential rival to Prince Devran’s ascension."

  Ridiculous. Alaric had no claim to the throne. He had never wanted one. But that didn't matter. In politics, perception often outweighed truth.

  Devran leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Aria, you are close to our brother. Do you believe he will cause trouble?"

  I met his gaze, forcing my expression to remain neutral.

  "No. Alaric has no ambitions for the throne."

  Queen Anna sighed, rubbing her temple as if weary. "Still, it would be wise to... ensure his loyalties remain clear."

  I knew what she meant.

  She wanted to make sure Alaric did not become a problem.

  I said nothing, gripping my hands beneath the table.

  Alaric had not even arrived yet, and already, the court was discussing how to handle him.

  The Letter from Aria

  My P.O.V – En Route to Elria, Campfire, Two Nights Later

  The road to Elria was long and uneventful. We made camp in a quiet clearing, the distant lights of a village flickering in the valley below. My men settled in for the night, but I sat alone by the fire, turning Aria’s letter over in my hands before finally opening it.

  Brother,

  I hardly know how to begin this letter. Father is gone, and Elria is restless. The court is already whispering of what comes next. Queen Mother holds counsel daily, and though Devran is to be king, some of the vassals remain… uncertain.

  I miss you. Six years, and the only thing that kept me from going mad in this place were your letters. Tell me you’re unharmed. Tell me war has not taken my brother from me.

  When you return, we must train again. I grow restless, and my new sword master is a fool. He tells me a princess has no place with a blade. I dismissed him, of course. No one commands me but myself. And perhaps you.

  Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

  Be careful. The court is not the battlefield you know, but it is just as deadly. There are already rumors, whispers of disloyalty. Of those who see you as a threat to Devran’s coronation. I trust you will know how to handle it.

  Come back soon. The castle feels empty without you.

  - Aria

  I let out a slow breath, folding the letter and pressing it against my palm. Even after all these years, Aria was still the only person in this world who truly saw me as more than a bastard.

  I would return to Elria. But it would not be a homecoming.

  It would be a battlefield.

  My P.O.V– The Gates of Elria, The Capital of Gulvia

  The damn city of Elria had not changed.

  Beyond the high stone walls, the streets bustled with life. Merchants peddled their wares beneath bright banners, the scent of fresh bread and roasted meat carried on the wind. Children ran through alleyways, their laughter lost beneath the steady hum of the crowd. The capital was alive, untouched by war.

  But beneath the surface, I could feel it—the tension in the air, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on the city like a storm waiting to break.

  The Royal Processional Gate loomed before us, the golden lion sigil of House Valero carved into the iron. Guards in polished armor flanked the entrance, their spears crossed in formation. The moment they saw us, a rider broke away from the gatehouse, galloping toward the castle to announce our arrival.

  Beside me, Ser Hector adjusted his sword belt, his jaw tight as he scanned the city ahead. He had been quiet since we neared Elria, his usual sharp remarks absent.

  “You’ve been here before,” I said.

  Hector nodded. “Years ago. The city hasn’t changed, but I have.”

  I said nothing. War changed all men.

  As the gate groaned open, my grip tightened on the reins. Six years. Six years since I last rode through these streets, a boy marching to war, sent away by a father who never wanted me. Now, I returned as a man—scarred, weary, and unwelcome.

  Inside, the Queen’s procession awaited.

  A column of Royal Guards stood in formation, their armor gleaming in the midday sun. At their front, draped in a deep blue cloak, stood the one person I had longed to see.

  Aria.

  Her golden hair was braided back, her violet eyes sharp as they searched for me among my men. When they found me, they softened. A relieved breath escaped her lips, and before propriety could stop her, she broke from the gathering, striding forward.

  I dismounted just in time to catch her as she threw her arms around me.

  "You're late," she murmured, her voice thick with unspoken emotion.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  "I'm here now."

  She pulled back, studying me. “You’re thinner.”

  "You’re taller."

  She smirked. "I was always tall."

  I huffed a quiet laugh, but the moment was short-lived. As I stepped back, I noticed the gathered nobles watching, their expressions ranging from curiosity to disdain. The Queen Dowager was absent—expected, but telling.

  Aria must have noticed, too, because she took my arm and turned toward the castle.

  "Come. We have much to discuss."

  As we moved forward, I caught a glimpse of Hector from the corner of my eye.

  A woman stood before him, dark-haired, her hands trembling at her sides.

  Hector’s face, usually unreadable, had gone pale.

  He did not speak. The woman did not either.

  But then, Hector turned to me, his expression hardened, his voice tight.

  “Alaric,” he said. “I must go.”

  I frowned. “What’s happened?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll find you when I can.”

  And without another word, he turned, following the woman through the streets, vanishing into the city.

  Aria’s grip on my arm tightened. “That was his sister, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded, my gaze lingering on the empty space where my oldest friend had just stood.

  Whatever had happened, it was not my place to ask.

  Not yet.

  The great doors of the throne room groaned open as Aria and I stepped inside.

  The air was thick with the scent of incense and candle wax, the banners of House Valero hanging high above the polished marble floor. The throne itself, carved from black oak and adorned with gold, loomed over the chamber.

  And seated upon it, draped in royal finery as though he already wore the crown, was Devran.

  His golden cloak pooled around him, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest. Beside him stood Ser Lanselot Hamilton, his sworn sword, clad in the heavy steel of the Royal Guard. The knight’s expression was unreadable, but his presence alone was a statement.

  To the right of the throne stood Prince Leo, arms crossed, his personal guard Ser Midryn beside him like a vulture waiting for scraps. And on the left, watching with veiled calculation, stood Queen Dowager Anna—her ice-blue gown flowing around her as she rested a delicate hand on the hilt of her chair.

  Above, from the terrace that overlooked the chamber, Lord Varus stood in the shadows, watching.

  They had gathered to see me. To test me.

  I exhaled, pushing forward.

  The moment we stepped inside, all eyes turned to me.

  Devran leaned forward, a slow smirk creeping onto his face.

  “So, the Bastard of Gulvia returns.”

  Aria stiffened beside me, but I did not stop walking until I stood just below the dais of the throne. My gaze never left Devran.

  “Strange,” I said, voice even. “I do not recall our father’s funeral taking place yet.”

  A silence fell over the chamber.

  Devran’s smirk twitched.

  “What of it?”

  I gestured to the throne. “You sit there as if you already wear the crown.”

  A muscle in his jaw tightened. “I am the heir.”

  “That does not give you the right to sit there yet.”

  From the terrace, I sensed Lord Varus’ gaze sharpen. He was studying me. Learning what kind of man the 3rd Border War had made me.

  Queen Dowager Anna let out a breathy laugh, tilting her head as if amused. “How quaint,” she murmured. “The Bastard speaks of royal traditions as if he were raised among them.”

  Leo scoffed. “It’s a wonder he even knows how to read the laws, Mother.”

  Aria’s grip on my arm tightened.

  I ignored them. My gaze remained locked on Devran.

  He rose slowly from the throne, descending the steps with the same practiced ease he had always carried.

  “We have much to discuss, Alaric.”

  I did not bow.

  “Then speak.”

  A flicker of irritation crossed his face, but he masked it well.

  “Where is Ser Hector?”

  His voice was casual, but I could hear the intent beneath it. Devran and I had never been close, but he knew—Hector and I were like Aria and I. Inseparable. If I was here alone, that meant something had happened.

  I met his gaze without hesitation.

  “Personal matters.”

  He studied me for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose.

  “You are my brother, Alaric, bastard or not. We all bled for Gulvia in the war.”

  I said nothing.

  He stepped closer.

  “Swear your loyalty to me, and I will see to it that you are rewarded for your service.”

  A slow, bitter smile curled at my lips.

  “There it is.”

  Devran frowned.

  I took a step closer.

  “You don’t want a brother, Devran. You want a dog. Someone to kneel, to swear fealty, to follow your command like a trained hound.”

  I tilted my head. “I am no one’s hound.”

  Leo snorted. “He acts as if he has a choice.”

  I turned my head sharply, my gaze pinning him in place. “A choice? Like the choice our father gave me when he sent me to war at thirteen?”

  Leo stiffened.

  The amusement in Devran’s eyes faded.

  Queen Dowager Anna sighed, waving a hand dismissively. “We do not have time for the tantrums of an ungrateful bastard.”

  Aria’s voice snapped like a whip. “Stop calling him that.”

  Silence.

  The frustration in her voice echoed through the chamber.

  Leo’s expression twisted. “Why should we not? It is what he is.”

  Aria turned, stepping between us. “Enough.”

  Her gaze swept over the room, daring anyone to speak. Even Devran hesitated.

  I had seen her angry before, but this—this was different.

  The golden lioness had teeth.

  “Alaric is my brother,” she said coldly. “And you will treat him as such.”

  Devran exhaled through his nose, then slowly shook his head. “Very well.”

  He turned back to me. “You will not swear fealty, then?”

  I met his gaze evenly. “No.”

  His smirk returned. But this time, there was no amusement behind it.

  Only calculation.

  “Then let us see how long you last.”

  The throne room lingered in silence after my final words.

  Some faces showed confusion. Others, poorly masked shock. No one had expected me to refuse.

  Even Lord Varus, watching from the terrace, tilted his head slightly, no doubt rethinking whatever conclusions he had made about me.

  Devran had not spoken again. His smirk had remained, but there was a new glint in his eyes—something dangerous.

  Queen Dowager Anna had not even looked surprised, only mildly irritated, as if I were a fly refusing to be swatted.

  Leo had scowled. Ser Midryn had sneered. Ser Lanselot had simply watched.

  And Aria—she had barely concealed her frustration.

  She grabbed my wrist the moment we left the throne room, striding ahead without a word.

  Ser Gildas followed behind us, his heavy boots echoing through the grand halls of Elria Castle. The old knight had remained silent the entire time, offering no comment on my choice. But his presence alone was a comfort.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Aria finally spoke, voice sharp.

  I arched a brow. “You wanted me to kneel?”

  “No,” she snapped. “But you know how Devran is. You should have handled it better.”

  I shrugged. “I handled it the way I handle everything.”

  She stopped in front of a heavy wooden door and turned, her eyes narrowing. “And that is exactly the problem, Alaric.”

  I exhaled, rubbing my temple. “What did you expect me to do? He sat on our father’s throne while his corpse is barely cold.”

  She hesitated, glancing away. “I know.”

  Her hand gripped the door handle, her shoulders tense. “I just—” she sighed, shaking her head. “You could have bought yourself time.”

  I crossed my arms. “I am not a man of false smiles and empty oaths.”

  She let out a short laugh, bitter and tired. “I know.”

  Ser Gildas finally spoke, his gravelly voice cutting through the tension. “It is done. There is no point arguing over it now.”

  Aria sighed. “Fine.” She opened the door and stepped inside.

  I hesitated at the threshold.

  This was my old room. The one I had not slept in for years.

  I had spent my nights on the training grounds, the barracks, even in taverns among commoners and soldiers. The walls of this place felt too distant. Too grand for someone like me.

  Aria must have noticed my hesitation because she frowned, stepping closer.

  “You have a long journey behind you,” she said, softer this time. “Just rest, Alaric. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  I studied her for a moment. Then I nodded.

  She gave me one last look before stepping back into the hallway, Ser Gildas following her without a word.

  The door shut behind them, leaving me alone.

  For the first time in years, I was back in Elria.

  And for the first time in years, I did not know what tomorrow would bring.

  "A lion does not ask permission to rule the jungle."

  -King Valero the Frail