“The throne does not belong to those who want it—it belongs to those who take it.”

  -Queen Anna of House Feldyn

  My P.O.V

  The morning sun cast long shadows across the training yard as Aria and I circled each other, wooden swords in hand. Sweat glistened on her brow, but she held her stance firm. I smirked—she had come a long way. Nearby, a small crowd of soldiers had gathered to watch. Even Ser Gildas, leaning on his cane, was watching with an amused glint in his eyes. I could tell he enjoyed these sessions—perhaps they reminded him of his own youth.

  I lunged, forcing her onto the defensive. She parried well, her movements precise, but she was still slower than me. I feinted left before striking at her hip, landing a clean hit.

  She groaned, rubbing the sore spot. “Damn you, Alaric.”

  I chuckled. “The enemy won’t wait for you to pick up your sword.”

  Aria scowled, but before she could retort, a familiar voice interrupted.

  "Alaric, If it's alright with you can you fight me?"

  The murmurs among the gathered soldiers grew louder. Ser Gildas stepped forward, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. He wasn’t joking.

  I turned to face him fully. “Are you sure, old man?”

  Ser Gildas smirked. “You should be asking yourself that.”

  I felt Aria’s hand on my arm. “Alaric, don’t be reckless,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Ser Gildas—”

  I shook my head. “If I can’t face him, I have no right to call myself a warrior.”

  She hesitated, then sighed. “Ser Gildas, don’t hurt him too badly.”

  I scoffed. “Don’t hold back.”

  Aria shot me a look before turning to Ser Gildas again. “Fine. Just... be careful.”

  Ser Gildas chuckled. “No promises.”

  Then, in a single fluid motion, he unsheathed his blade. The air shifted. Even at his age, the way he moved made my grip tighten around my sword.

  I exhaled slowly and drew my own.

  The moment our blades met, I felt it—**power.** His strikes weren’t just fast; they were precise, unyielding. I blocked, barely keeping up. He shifted angles effortlessly, forcing me to move or be overwhelmed.

  I adjusted, managing to go on the offensive. My sword clashed against his in a flurry of blows, the murmurs around us growing louder. Then—

  A sudden strike.

  Pain flared in my leg, and before I could react, I was on the ground.

  The courtyard fell silent.

  Ser Gildas stood over me, his expression unreadable. Then, he extended a hand.

  I took it.

  Aria knelt beside me, her lips curving into a relieved smile. “You were lucky to last that long.”

  I chuckled, still catching my breath. “It didn’t feel like it.”

  Ser Gildas gave a rare nod of approval. “You did well.” He turned to leave, then glanced over his shoulder. “We’ll have to do this again.”

  I smirked. “Only if I get to win next time.”

  He let out a low chuckle. “You’ll be waiting a long time, boy.”

  As the crowd dispersed, I caught sight of Ser Lanselot watching from a distance. He met my gaze and gave a small, approving nod before turning away.

  But not everyone left.

  Ser Midryn, standing near the gates, had been watching intently. His jaw was tight, his mind clearly racing. Without a word, he turned and strode off toward the castle.

  I had no doubt about where he was going or who he intended to tell.

  Ser Midryn strode into the chamber with an urgency that made Leo frown. He barely looked at the lavish tapestries or the golden goblet on the table—his usual arrogance was replaced with something else.

  “What is it?” Leo asked, swirling the wine in his cup, barely glancing up.

  “My prince,” Midryn said, bowing slightly. “It’s about Alaric. He—”

  Leo groaned, already unimpressed. “If this is another tale about how my dear bastard brother put on a show, spare me.”

  Midryn’s brows furrowed. “I watched him fight Ser Gildas.”

  Leo scoffed. “And?”

  “He lasted against him, my prince. Longer than anyone expected.”

  At that, Leo chuckled. “Then I suppose Gildas is getting slower in his old age.”

  Midryn stiffened. “No. Ser Gildas fought him seriously. He didn’t hold back.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Leo finally looked up, raising a skeptical brow. “So what are you saying? That Alaric is some great warrior now? Please.” He leaned back in his chair, waving a dismissive hand. “The bastard got lucky. That’s all.”

  Before Midryn could argue, the chamber doors creaked open.

  A slow, measured thud echoed as boots crossed the marble floor.

  Both men froze.

  Varus had arrived.

  The Lord Steward of the realm, the man who had advised their father for years, walked in with his usual unsettling calm. His mere presence made Leo’s fingers tense around his cup.

  “My prince,” Varus greeted, his voice smooth as silk but cold as steel.

  Leo straightened slightly. “Varus.”

  The older man glanced at Midryn first, then at Leo, his dark eyes unreadable. “I heard you were speaking about your dear brother.”

  Leo scoffed. “Midryn is overreacting. He thinks Alaric is suddenly a great warrior because he managed to amuse an old knight.”

  Varus exhaled softly, shaking his head. “Prince Leo… you are a fool.”

  Leo’s jaw clenched. “What did you just say?”

  Midryn, for once, had nothing to say either.

  Varus stepped closer, lowering his voice. “The Alaric you knew—the boy who could be pushed aside, mocked, and discarded—is gone.” He let the words sink in before continuing. “You see him as the same thirteen-year-old bastard your mother sent to war, but he is not that boy anymore.”

  Leo swallowed but said nothing.

  Varus leaned forward slightly. “He is a man now. A man who commands respect. A man who even knights whisper about. And, most importantly—he is a **threat.**”

  The room felt colder.

  Even Midryn, usually filled with arrogance, shifted uncomfortably.

  Varus straightened. “But you, my prince… you should not be wasting time worrying about him.”

  Leo clenched his fists. “Then what would you have me do?”

  “Focus on building your own image,” Varus said smoothly. “Duke Romulus Drakemont arrives today.”

  Leo’s eyes widened slightly. “Romulus?”

  “Yes. And we do not know if he comes to bend the knee or simply to observe.” Varus’s expression darkened. “A man like him only follows strength. If you wish to rule, you must convince him that you, not Alaric, are the future of this kingdom.”

  Leo took a slow breath. He hated admitting it, but Varus was right.

  For the first time in years, he felt something unfamiliar when he thought about his bastard brother.

  Not hatred.

  Not jealousy.

  Something far worse.

  Doubt.

  The chamber was filled with movement as attendants rushed about, arranging garments and accessories in preparation for Duke Romulus’s arrival. Devran stood before a grand mirror, arms crossed, watching his reflection with a calculating gaze. His valet, Corvin, an older man who had served the royal family for decades, presented two different attires.

  “The black doublet, my prince,” Corvin suggested, running a careful hand over the fine fabric. “A color of authority and dignity.”

  Devran barely glanced at it before shifting his attention to the other option—a deep red surcoat, lined with gold. The embroidery shimmered under the candlelight, the sigil of House Feldyn stitched into the breast.

  “And this one?”

  “Regal. Bold. A statement,” Corvin replied without hesitation.

  Devran smirked. “Then that is what I shall wear.”

  The valet nodded and set to work adjusting the attire to fit him perfectly. A golden chain was brought forth, its weight significant but not overbearing. As Devran allowed Corvin to drape it over his shoulders, a knock came at the door.

  The attendants quickly bowed as the Queen Dowager entered. Dressed in a gown of midnight blue, her presence was as commanding as ever, her sharp gaze assessing her son’s appearance with an approving nod.

  “You are preparing well,” she noted, walking further into the room. “Duke Romulus is not a man easily impressed.”

  Devran adjusted his cuffs, glancing at his reflection. “I have no intention of failing.”

  His mother approached slowly, her voice lowering to something more calculated. “You know what would impress him further?”

  Devran smirked but didn’t turn. “I assume you’re about to tell me.”

  “Marriage.”

  His jaw tightened. “Not this again.”

  “Romulus has a daughter,” she continued smoothly, ignoring his irritation. “Victoria Drakemont. They say she is a beauty, well-learned, and of noble stock. A match between House Feldyn and House Drakemont would solidify our rule for generations.”

  Devran finally turned to her, his expression unreadable. “I care nothing for marriage, Mother.”

  The Queen Dowager gave a knowing sigh, moving to the nearby table where his accessories were laid out. She picked up a signet ring—the mark of House Feldyn—and turned it over between her fingers.

  “You must, eventually,” she mused, placing the ring down delicately.

  “I will, when the time is right.” Devran turned back to the mirror, adjusting his collar. “But for now, my focus is Gulvia. Securing my rule. Strengthening the realm. Marriage is a distraction.”

  His mother studied him carefully, her expression unreadable. “A distraction… or an opportunity?”

  Devran met her gaze in the mirror’s reflection.

  “Marriage is a tool,” she continued, stepping closer. “One that kings have used for centuries to forge alliances, secure power, and eliminate threats.”

  Devran scoffed. “Then perhaps you should marry Victoria instead.”

  A sharp silence fell between them.

  The Queen Dowager did not flinch. Instead, she simply tilted her head, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles.

  “I see,” she murmured. “You believe yourself above such traditions.”

  “I believe,” Devran said, turning to face her fully, “that I do not need a woman to rule.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “No. But you will need a kingdom.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment. The Queen Dowager had always seen through him.

  She knew that he did not desire marriage, nor love, nor even peace.

  He desired only the crown.

  My P.O.V

  The training yard was still buzzing with quiet murmurs from the soldiers who had watched my sparring match with Ser Gildas. I could still feel the sting of his last strike, the one that had knocked me to the ground. The old knight had been toying with me, even if he’d been kind enough not to say it outright.

  I sat on the bench, rolling my shoulder, unstrapping my gauntlets, and ignoring the glances from those nearby. It was only a matter of time before rumors spread—some would say I held my own, others would say I got lucky. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had fought.

  I barely had time to let out a breath before I heard hurried footsteps.

  “There you are.”

  I didn’t need to look up. I knew that voice.

  Princess Aria stood before me, hands on her hips, staring at me like I was a particularly stubborn child. She was dressed finer than before, having changed out of her training clothes, though her hair was still a little disheveled, proof that she had rushed here.

  I exhaled, already irritated. “What now?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t act so miserable. You’re coming with me.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  She grabbed my wrist and pulled. I didn’t move an inch.

  “Aria,” I said flatly.

  “Alaric,” she mimicked in the same dry tone, voice full of mockery. “Don’t be difficult.”

  “I’ve had my fill of courtly nonsense for a lifetime.”

  She sighed. “Duke Romulus will be here soon.”

  I shrugged. “And?”

  “Victoria Drakemont will be with him.”

  I stilled for half a second but quickly gave her a dull stare. “And?”

  Aria smirked. “She’s quite the beauty, you know.”

  I scoffed. “I doubt that.”

  “Oh, but she is,” Aria continued teasingly. “Fair skin, golden hair, sharp eyes. A lady of refinement and grace. I hear she’s also well-versed in poetry. Perhaps she’ll compose a love sonnet for you.”

  I groaned and leaned back against the bench. “You’re insufferable.”

  She only grinned. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to make a good impression.”

  I exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over my face. “Duke Romulus won’t care about me, Aria. He’s here to see the King.”

  Aria’s playful expression softened slightly. “That may be true… but it wouldn’t kill you to at least look presentable.”

  I wanted to argue, but I knew she wasn’t wrong. My reputation at court had always been precarious at best—an inconvenience at worst. Duke Romulus was one of the most powerful men in the realm. I had no desire to impress him, but looking like an unkempt, disinterested outsider would only give my enemies more reasons to dismiss me.

  Aria must have seen my reluctant acceptance, because she grinned victoriously and grabbed my arm again. “Come on, then.”

  I grumbled but let her drag me toward the palace.

  As we walked, she smirked. “I can ask the servants to prepare a bouquet of flowers if you wish to present one to Lady Victoria.”

  I shot her a glare. “If you do, I’ll throw you into the fountain.”

  She only laughed, the sound light and genuine. I nearly smiled before shaking my head. I had fought a war, battled men twice my size, and survived the cold indifference of the court… yet nothing in this world was as exhausting as my sister.

  Ser Gildas’ P.O.V

  The flickering torchlight barely pierced the damp, suffocating air of the dungeon. Ser Gildas moved quietly, his heavy boots muffled by the stone beneath him. He had come here not for any particular reason—just an old habit. Wandering, thinking, keeping watch. A knight’s duty did not end with battle; sometimes, the sharpest threats were whispered in the dark rather than drawn in steel.

  Then he heard voices.

  He stilled, pressing his back against the cold stone wall, listening. Two men spoke in hushed tones, their voices bouncing softly in the narrow corridor. He could not make out their faces, but their words carried weight—dangerous weight.

  "It’s only a matter of time now," one man murmured. "The Duke of the West gathers his banners. His levies train day and night, and his messengers ride across the realm seeking alliances."

  Eadric Darien. The Duke of Auria. A dangerous man, charismatic and battle-hardened. Ser Gildas had fought alongside him once, long ago. If Eadric was raising an army, then war was not just a possibility—it was inevitable.

  "An internal war," the second voice said grimly. "This kingdom bled for six years in the Border Wars, and now it will bleed again. But this time, the enemy is within."

  Ser Gildas frowned. The realm had barely recovered from the Third Border War, its lords weakened, its armies thinned. Another war could shatter Gulvia beyond repair.

  Then came a name he hadn’t expected.

  "And what of the Bastard?"

  There was a pause.

  "Alaric?" the first man scoffed. "A sword in service to the Crown, but one that could just as easily turn against it. Many respect him. Too many. If Eadric marches, it won’t just be the Dariens we have to fear—it will be him as well. He is no longer the boy they discarded. He is a man now. A warrior. A threat."

  Ser Gildas narrowed his eyes.

  There it was—the growing undercurrent of fear within the court. They did not see Alaric as merely a bastard prince anymore. They saw what Gildas had seen today on the training field. Strength. Resilience. A man hardened by war, no longer easily dismissed.

  "Prince Devran’s coronation must not be threatened," the second man muttered. "If Alaric’s influence continues to grow, he could disrupt everything. The politics of the realm are fragile enough."

  A soft shuffle of boots. The sound of retreating steps.

  Ser Gildas exhaled, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. He had learned much in these few moments—perhaps too much. War was coming. And Alaric… Alaric was no longer just an afterthought in the great game of power.

  He turned on his heel and walked away, his mind racing. He would have to warn Aria. And perhaps, just perhaps, he would have to prepare Alaric for the battles yet to come.

  “A bastard with ambition is more dangerous than a prince with a crown.”

  -Lord Varus