"War does not make heroes, Only Graves"

  -Alaric the Bastard

  My P.O.V

  The royal quarters felt foreign. Too clean, too quiet. I had spent years sleeping in taverns, barracks, and open fields soaked in blood. This place—this gilded cage—offered neither comfort nor familiarity. And yet, for the first time in years, I had slept deeply.

  Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe it was the weight of being back in Elria.

  I rose without ceremony, dressing in the same worn tunic and battered armor I had carried through the war. The steel bore the scars of countless battles, each scratch a memory. My sword rested where I had left it, sheathed at my bedside. The hilt had been smoothed by years of use, the leather wrapping long since worn away. Aria had given it to me six years ago. The only true gift I had ever received. I would never part with it.

  I fastened the blade at my hip and stepped into the hall. Aria and Ser Gildas were already waiting.

  Aria wore mourning robes of deep black, silver embroidery tracing delicate patterns along the sleeves. Even in grief, she carried herself with quiet dignity. The veil over her head softened the sharpness of her features, but her eyes burned with that same fierce light.

  Ser Gildas, ever the knight, stood in full armor. The gold trim on his breastplate had faded with time, dulled by age and war. He gave me a respectful nod.

  Aria smirked. “So, the bastard finally sleeps in the royal quarters. Shall we prepare the city for snowfall as well?”

  I snorted. “It was too quiet. Nearly went mad.”

  Ser Gildas chuckled under his breath, but Aria only shook her head. “Come. Devran’s called a council. He’ll have words if we keep him waiting.”

  We walked through the palace corridors, past servants who averted their gazes and guards who stood stiff-backed, expressionless. The nobles we passed were less discreet. I saw the curled lips, the narrowed eyes—the barely concealed disdain.

  If it were up to them, I would not be here at all.

  But Aria was at my side, and her glare alone was enough to keep their tongues still.

  The throne room was heavy with silence.

  Devran sat on the throne, his posture rigid, his mourning robes immaculate. The golden lion of Gulvia stretched across his chest—a reminder of what he was. Firstborn. Heir. The Golden Prince.

  Beside him, Ser Lanselot stood like a statue, silvered armor gleaming in the dim light. He did not speak. He did not need to. His presence alone was a warning.

  Leo was off to the side, arms crossed, watching everything with that same calculating stare. Beside him, his pet knight, Ser Midryn, wore a smirk that made my fingers itch for my sword.

  And then there was Anna. The Queen Dowager sat in her high-backed chair, clad in black, veil obscuring most of her face. But I could feel her gaze on me, sharp and assessing. Even in grief, she was a force in this court. She did not acknowledge me. I expected nothing less.

  The ministers stood in a careful line, wrapped in silks and somber expressions. Lord Callus, the Minister of Diplomacy, was thin and sickly looking. Lord Saban, the Minister of Finance, seemed exhausted, his balding head gleaming with sweat. The Grand Marshal, Ser Alden, was stiff and unreadable.

  And then there was Lord Varus, lingering on the terrace above, more shadow than man. Always watching.

  Aria and I stepped forward. Ser Gildas remained a pace behind.

  Devran’s gaze flicked toward us, irritation flashing across his face. “You’re late.”

  I shrugged. “I was sleeping.”

  Leo exhaled sharply, like he was trying to suppress a laugh. Midryn didn’t bother. His chuckle echoed in the silence.

  Aria’s tone was sharp. “We came as soon as we were summoned.”

  Devran held her gaze for a moment before waving a hand. “No matter. We have more pressing concerns.”

  Lord Callus cleared his throat. “The King’s death has left the realm… delicate. Nobles are gathering in Elria—some to mourn, others to position themselves. The western lords have been discussing new alliances and…” He hesitated. “Duke Eadric has yet to swear fealty.”

  The chamber grew still.

  I kept my face impassive, but the words sat heavy in my gut.

  Eadric’s absence was no simple delay. It was a message.

  Devran drummed his fingers against the armrest of the throne. “Eadric will come. He would not dare defy the throne.”

  I studied him. His voice was firm, but there was uncertainty beneath it.

  Ser Alden stepped forward next. “There is also unrest among the soldiers who fought in the war. Many remain unpaid. Some have turned to banditry.”

  My jaw tightened. I had fought beside those men. I had watched them bleed for a king who was already in his grave. And now they were being cast aside.

  Devran exhaled sharply. “We will deal with them in time.”

  I met his gaze. “You should deal with them now. These men fought for Gulvia. If you abandon them, they will not forget it.”

  Silence stretched.

  Then Anna spoke, her voice smooth, edged with ice. “Your concern for these men is touching, Prince Alaric. But the Crown’s coffers are stretched thin. We cannot afford to waste coin on sellswords.”

  I turned to her. “They were not sellswords when they fought your war.”

  The tension in the room thickened. Even Devran shifted slightly.

  Anna held my stare. “You have spent too much time among them. You forget your place.”

  Aria’s hand found my arm, a silent warning. I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to look away.

  Devran’s voice cut through the silence. “Enough. We will discuss military matters later.”

  Ser Alden gave a stiff bow and stepped back.

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  Eadric’s Silence

  From the terrace, Lord Varus finally spoke. His voice was smooth, almost amused. “The question of Duke Eadric remains.”

  Devran straightened. “Send a royal envoy. He will swear fealty, or he will be reminded of his place.”

  I crossed my arms. “And if he refuses?”

  Devran hesitated.

  Anna answered for him. “Then we remind him of the power of the Crown.”

  I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head. “What power?”

  The room stilled. The Queen Dowager turned her gaze on me, eyes narrowing. “Mind your tongue, boy.”

  I met her glare without flinching. “You speak as if the throne still commands this realm, but without Auria, what does the Crown truly hold? Five thousand men? A court full of scheming nobles who will not risk their own necks? A treasury so empty it cannot even pay its own soldiers?” My voice was steady, but the anger in my chest burned. “If you move against Eadric, you will not win.”

  Anna’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You overestimate him. He is but a single duke.”

  I stepped forward. “A single duke who rules the richest lands in the kingdom. A single duke whose levies outnumber the royal army two to one. A single duke whose men bled for Gulvia while you sat safely behind these walls.” My voice dropped lower. “If Eadric rises against you, do you truly believe the other lords will rush to your side?”

  I saw it then—a flicker of something in her eyes. Not fear, but hesitation. She knew I was right.

  And yet, she only smiled, cold and sharp. “We will remind him where his loyalties lie,” she said. “And if he has forgotten, we will ensure he remembers.”

  I almost laughed. “With what? Empty threats? Promises of retribution from a throne that barely holds itself upright?” My fingers curled into fists. “Eadric does not forget, my Queen. And he does not forgive.”

  Her smile faded. “You speak as if you admire him.”

  “I speak as someone who knows him.”

  Silence. Thick. Unyielding.

  Devran shifted on the throne, irritation flickering across his face. “Enough.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Eadric will be dealt with. One way or another.”

  I exhaled slowly, stepping back. There was no point in arguing further. They would see soon enough.

  Aria looked at me, her brows drawn together in concern, but she said nothing.

  Devran had made his decision.

  Shortly after the Council, Aria finallt decided to attend our father's funeral which was I forced to attend, We head to the Church inside the Castle The scent of incense was suffocating. Thick and cloying, it clung to the air like the weight of a hundred whispered prayers.

  The church was quiet, but not peaceful. The silence here felt heavy—like a breath held too long. Like the calm before a storm.

  At the center of the chamber, draped in gold and black, lay King Valero. His crown rested upon his chest, his hands folded over the hilt of a ceremonial sword. He looked dignified. Regal. Like a king should.

  He had never looked like that in life.

  I stared at him, waiting for something—anger, grief, even satisfaction—but I felt nothing.

  I had spent my childhood chasing the love of a father who never saw me as his son. Then I had spent my youth trying to forget him entirely. Now, all that remained was this corpse wrapped in silk.

  Aria knelt at the altar, her lips moving in silent prayer. She grieved for him in a way I never could. He had been her father, if nothing else.

  I did not kneel.

  I had no prayers for the dead.

  A slow sigh came from beside me. Ser Gildas, still clad in his battered golden armor, stood with his hands clasped before him. He studied the body with an unreadable expression.

  “He looks peaceful,” the old knight murmured.

  I snorted. “That makes one of us.”

  Gildas chuckled under his breath, but the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Aye. Perhaps not.”

  I turned back to the dead king, my jaw tight. “Do you think he feared it? The end?”

  Gildas was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “All men do.”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant my father, or if he meant me.

  Behind us, Aria rose to her feet. She turned to me, her dark eyes sharp with something that wasn’t quite anger but wasn’t far from it, either.

  “You should be careful,” she said.

  I frowned. “For what?”

  She took a step closer. “You were right in the council, but you let your temper show.” Her voice was low but firm. “The nobles already fear you. The Queen Dowager despises you. Every word you speak is a weapon they will use against you.”

  I clenched my jaw. “So I should let them bleed the kingdom dry?”

  “No,” she said. “But you must be smarter.”

  A scoff came from Gildas. “Your sister speaks wisely.”

  I turned to him. “You’ve never held your tongue.”

  “I’ve also lived long enough to know when to speak and when to listen.” He met my gaze evenly. “You’re a soldier, Alaric. You fight battles with steel. But here, in court? The battlefield is words, and they are far deadlier than any sword.”

  I exhaled sharply, forcing my anger down.

  Aria’s expression softened. “I know it’s difficult. But you have to choose your battles.”

  I looked at her, then at the cold body of the man who had ruled our lives.

  The future of Gulvia was uncertain.

  But one thing was clear—I would not survive this war with a sword alone.

  The palace walls felt tighter with every passing hour. Too many eyes watching, too many whispers in the halls. I needed air.

  I turned to Aria as we walked through the torchlit corridors. “I need to be dismissed for a while.”

  She raised a brow. “Where are you going?”

  “To find Hector.”

  She studied me, searching for something in my face. Finally, she sighed. “Be careful.”

  “I always am.”

  She snorted. “That’s a lie.”

  I smirked but said nothing.

  She gave a nod, dismissing me, and I turned on my heel, heading for the lower gates.

  The streets of Elria were restless. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and damp stone, the voices of merchants and beggars blending into the usual city noise. But there was an unease here—a tension beneath the surface.

  It wasn’t just grief. It was uncertainty.

  The king was dead. The city knew it. The kingdom knew it. And now, all waited to see what would happen next.

  I pulled my cloak tighter around my shoulders as I stepped into the lower district, heading toward the place I knew Hector would go when the palace became too much.

  The *Weeping Soldier* stood at the end of a narrow street, tucked between two aging stone buildings. It had no banners, no bright lanterns. It didn’t need them. Every man who had ever lifted a sword for Gulvia knew this place.

  Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ale, damp wood, and the lingering bitterness of old war stories. Veterans sat hunched at their tables, some drinking in silence, others muttering among themselves. A few turned as I entered, their gazes lingering a moment before returning to their cups.

  I had been here before. I had seen these men before. Soldiers of the Third Border War, wearing the same scars I carried.

  But tonight, I wasn’t looking for them.

  I found her first.

  Elvira.

  She sat near the back, her hands clenched in her lap, her expression tight with worry. She looked up as I approached, and the relief on her face was brief—replaced almost instantly by something harder.

  “You’re here for Hector,” she said.

  I nodded. “Where is he?”

  She hesitated, then gestured toward the stairway leading to the rooms above.

  I didn’t wait for an invitation.

  I climbed the stairs, the floorboards creaking beneath my boots. If Hector was here, he had a damn lot of explaining to do.

  I found Hector in the farthest corner of the tavern, hunched over a wooden table, his shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world rested upon them. His face was gaunt, his once-sharp eyes dull with exhaustion. He looked like a man unmoored, drifting in a sea of grief with no shore in sight.

  Elvira sat beside him, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her eyes flickered to me as I approached, filled with silent relief—but also with something else. Worry. Fear.

  Hector didn’t acknowledge me at first. He merely stared at the cup of ale in front of him, fingers tracing its rim in slow, absent-minded circles. Only when I pulled out a chair and sat across from him did he finally glance up.

  “So,” I said quietly. “You’re alive.”

  Hector let out a dry, bitter chuckle. “Unfortunately.”

  Elvira flinched at his words, turning sharply to him. “Don’t say that.”

  Hector exhaled through his nose and took a slow sip of his drink, saying nothing.

  Elvira looked at me then, her voice barely above a whisper. “He hasn’t been the same since he returned. He barely eats, barely sleeps. He won’t talk to me, won’t tell me what’s wrong.” She swallowed hard. “I told him you would come. That maybe…” She trailed off, but I understood.

  I turned my gaze back to Hector.

  “Then tell me what happened,” I said.

  For a long moment, he remained silent. Then, slowly, he set his cup down, his fingers tightening around the wooden surface. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady—but beneath it, I heard something frayed, something barely holding together.

  “My mother died,” he murmured. “A year after the war started.”

  The words hung in the air, sinking into my chest like a blade.

  “I didn’t know,” he continued. “No one told me. No letters. No word from home. Nothing.” He exhaled shakily. “Because the Crown wouldn’t allow it.”

  I felt my jaw tighten.

  Elvira nodded, her expression grim. “We begged for help. We weren’t asking for gold—just for a letter to be sent. Just to let him know. But they wouldn’t allow it.” Her voice trembled with fury. “When I kept pushing, they threatened to throw me in the dungeons.”

  She swallowed hard, her hands trembling.

  “I was nearly arrested,” she whispered. “For trying to tell my own brother that our mother was dead.”

  Hector let out a sharp, ragged breath, running a hand through his unkempt hair.

  “They let me fight for them,” he said bitterly. “Let me bleed for them. And all the while, my mother lay dying, and I didn’t even know.” His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. “She begged for help. She sent word. And they ignored her.”

  He looked up at me then, and there was something cold in his eyes, something that had been burned into him deeper than any wound from war.

  “Tell me, Alaric,” he said. “What does a soldier’s loyalty mean when the Crown treats us like dogs?”

  I met his gaze, but I didn’t answer immediately. Because I already knew the truth.

  It meant nothing.

  "A war won is a kingdom strengthened. A war lost is a king forgotten."

  -King Valero the Frail