-Duke Romulus Drakemont

  My P.O.V

  The great bells of Elria tolled, their deep chime echoing across the capital as one of the most powerful lords in Gulvia arrived at the palace gates. Duke Romulus Drakemont, the Magnificent, had come to pay his respects to the late king. House Drakemont—rich, influential, and battle-hardened—was a force to be reckoned with, and his arrival was met with the full spectacle of royal grandeur.

  The palace courtyard had been dressed in banners, the gold and crimson of House Feldyn standing in stark contrast to the black and silver of House Drakemont. Rows of guards lined the pathway, the royal knights standing on one side, while the Duke’s personal knights took their place on the other. The tension between them was immediate—two elite forces, each measuring the other.

  I could feel it in the way the Royal Knights held their swords, their gauntleted hands tightening ever so slightly. The Drakemont Knights, clad in dark steel and bearing the sigil of the Black Drake, were just as unreadable. Silent. Unmoving. But watching.

  One step out of place, and there would be blood in the courtyard.

  Then, Duke Romulus dismounted his horse.

  A mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and imposing, he walked with the confidence of someone who knew his worth. His cloak, lined with dark wolf fur, swept across the marble as he strode forward, his steel-gray eyes surveying us all. He was not just here to mourn. This was a test. A show of power.

  He first approached Devran, The man who would soon be crowned.

  “My condolences, Your Highness,” Romulus said, his voice deep and steady. “King Valero was a formidable man.”

  A polite remark, but there was no grief in his tone.

  “Your words are appreciated, Duke Romulus,” Devran replied, offering a cordial nod. He waited, expectant.

  Would the Duke bend the knee?

  He did not. Instead, he extended his hand for Devran to clasp. The tension in the air thickened as the heir to Gulvia hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it.

  A firm shake. No more, no less.

  The Queen Dowager, standing to Devran’s left, smiled, though it did little to hide the sharpness in her gaze.

  “Duke Romulus,” she said smoothly, “It is good to see you still hold Gulvia’s traditions in high regard.”

  “Traditions change, Your Grace,” Romulus replied, his voice unwavering. “What matters is who adapts to them.”

  A subtle challenge. One the Queen did not miss.

  “Indeed,” she murmured. “And what of loyalty, Duke? Is that not a tradition worth preserving?”

  Romulus gave a measured smile. “Loyalty is earned, not demanded.”

  The Queen’s expression did not falter, but I saw the flicker of irritation behind her eyes.

  The Duke turned to Leo, giving a brief nod before moving on to Aria, whom he greeted with more warmth. “Princess Aria, you’ve grown into a fine lady. I hear my daughter has the pleasure of your friendship.”

  Aria inclined her head, her tone light but respectful. “Victoria speaks highly of you, my lord. She will be glad to know her father is well received here.”

  Romulus smiled at that, though I caught the glint of calculation behind his gaze. He was measuring Aria just as much as he had Devran.

  Then, to my surprise, his gaze landed on me.

  “I have seen you before, Alaric,” he said, his voice like gravel over stone. “The Siege of Alverton. Three years ago.”

  Alverton. One of the most brutal battles of the war. A place where men died screaming, where honor and chivalry meant nothing.

  I met his gaze and gave a respectful nod. “An honor, Your Grace.”

  Romulus studied me for a moment before nodding in return. “Few men leave that place unbroken.”

  It was a simple statement, but it held weight. I knew what he meant. I had left that battlefield changed, just as he had.

  The moment passed, but before I could exhale, I caught Aria grinning at me. I knew that look.

  Leaning in, she whispered, “You should greet Victoria. Who knows? Maybe you’ll fall for her.”

  I shot her a flat look. “Keep dreaming.”

  Aria only laughed.

  A few feet away, the Drakemont Knights and the Royal Knights were still standing in silent opposition, neither side willing to show weakness. The way Ser Lanselot, commander of the Royal Guard, observed them made it clear—he saw them as a potential threat. And they knew it.

  One of the Drakemont knights, a man with a scar running down his cheek, smirked as he met Lanselot’s gaze. “You seem uneasy, Ser,” he said, his voice just loud enough to be heard.

  Lanselot didn’t blink. “I’ve seen enough battles to know when swords are drawn, even when they aren’t in hand.”

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  The knight chuckled, but the tension remained. It was a warning, one that needed no further words.

  Before the moment could escalate, Devran stepped forward, breaking the air of hostility.

  “To honor Duke Romulus and his House, a feast has been prepared in his name.”

  Murmurs of approval rippled through the gathered nobles.

  “You are welcome to pay your respects to the late king at the church,” Devran continued, “but tonight, let us set aside mourning, if only for a short while.”

  The formalities were complete. The games had begun.

  As the Duke and his retinue moved toward the palace, I found my gaze lingering on him. Was this an ally—or an enemy waiting for his moment?

  Across the hall, the tension between the elite knights of Gulvia and the Drakemont knights had begun to take shape, unspoken but heavy in the air.

  At the center of it sat Ser Lanselot Hamilton, the famed commander of the Royal Guard, and across from him, Ser Thaddeus, the most decorated knight in Drakemont’s service. Both men were warriors of great renown, veterans who had seen the horrors of war and lived to tell the tale. Around them, the knights of both factions subtly squared their shoulders, each side measuring the other.

  Ser Thaddeus was the first to break the silence. “You have fine men, Ser Lanselot,” he said, his voice calm but edged with something beneath the surface. “Though I wonder if your Royal Guard has grown too comfortable in Elria’s halls. Guarding kings and nobles is quite different from standing on the battlefield.”

  Lanselot’s smirk was slow and deliberate. He tapped his fingers lightly against the pommel of his sword. “A knight is only as good as his last battle, Ser Thaddeus. Shall we compare?”

  The remark was laced with challenge, and the other knights leaned in slightly, sensing the weight behind his words.

  Ser Gildas, though older and long past his prime, chuckled as he swirled his goblet of wine. “I wasn’t at Alverton,” he mused, his voice casual but pointed, “but I did hear of a certain retreat. House Drakemont’s banners pulling back from the walls, if I recall correctly.”

  The air between them turned sharp. A few Drakemont knights stiffened at the remark, their hands instinctively twitching toward their hilts. Ser Thaddeus’s jaw tightened, but he kept his composure, though his grip on his goblet had visibly tightened.

  “That siege lasted longer than most would have survived,” Thaddeus said, his voice even but firm. “A tactical withdrawal is not the same as defeat.”

  Lanselot didn’t let up. “Perhaps. But those who stayed didn’t have the luxury of retreat.”

  It was an unspoken truth: Drakemont had pulled back, and others had bled in their place. The implication was clear.

  Ser Thaddeus met Lanselot’s gaze, the tension thick enough to cut with a dagger. If they weren’t seated in a royal feast, steel might have been drawn right then.

  But before the conversation could escalate further, a throat cleared.

  Duke Romulus.

  The moment his gaze flicked toward his knights, they immediately eased back, their shoulders relaxing—though the fire in their eyes remained. It was not the time for bloodshed, not here.

  But the message had been sent.

  The knights of Gulvia and the knights of Drakemont would not see each other as allies anytime soon.

  The hall was alive with the glow of chandeliers and the murmur of noble conversation. Servants moved swiftly, refilling goblets and setting down lavish dishes, yet the true spectacle was not the feast itself but the unspoken war brewing between the two most commanding figures at the high table—Queen Anna and Duke Romulus Drakemont.

  The conversation ebbed and flowed between pleasantries and political undertones, but it was Lord Varus of House Montclair who shifted the tide, his voice cutting through the chatter.

  "A curious absence tonight," Lord Varus remarked, swirling the wine in his goblet. "One would think the Duke Eadric Darian would make an appearance to pay respects to his late king."

  The words lingered, drawing the attention of many at the table.

  Duke Romulus smirked faintly but said nothing, taking a slow sip of his wine. It was Queen Anna who spoke first.

  "Duke Eadric is many things," she said, her tone smooth as silk but laced with thorns. "Grateful is not one of them."

  Some of the gathered lords chuckled softly, though others shifted uncomfortably. House Darien’s absence had been noted by many, and whispers of its meaning had already begun to spread through the court.

  Lord Varus, ever the instigator, leaned forward. **"A shame, truly. Considering all the years he fought under our banner, one might expect a greater sense of duty. But perhaps," he mused,"he feels… wronged?"

  That was when Duke Romulus finally spoke. He set down his goblet with deliberate care, his gaze flickering toward Lord Varus before settling on Queen Anna. "There is nothing more dangerous than a man who has been wronged and still holds a sword."

  The table fell into silence, the weight of his words settling over them like an approaching storm.

  Queen Anna turned her gaze to him, her voice honeyed but edged with steel. "Wronged?" she echoed. "House Darien holds the largest and wealthiest lands in the realm. If that is being wronged, I shudder to think what privilege must look like."

  Devran, seated beside her, stiffened. He knew that tone well—his mother was preparing for battle, but this was not an enemy to antagonize. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to grip his goblet too tightly.

  Romulus chuckled, slow and deliberate. "Wealth does not erase grievance, Your Grace, nor does land quiet the sting of betrayal. A wound left to fester will one day demand blood in return."

  Queen Anna leaned forward ever so slightly. "Then do enlighten me, Duke Romulus—how exactly did House Feldyn wrong House Darien?"

  Silence fell over the table. Even the music from the minstrels seemed to fade into the background.

  The Duke of Drakemont did not flinch. "Wars do not end when the swords are sheathed. Promises were made. Men bled for the Crown, and when the time came for repayment, what did House Darien receive? Nothing but closed doors and deaf ears. And yet, you expect them to remain loyal?"

  Devran tightened his grip on his fork, resisting the urge to slam it down. This was spiraling into disaster. He forced a calm breath before speaking. "Duke Romulus," he said, voice steady despite his growing frustration, "House Drakemont has always been a pillar of Gulvia. Our kingdom is still in mourning, and yet here we are, at odds. That is not why I invited you here."

  Queen Anna barely spared him a glance, her gaze locked on Romulus. "The Crown governs a realm, not a single house’s ambitions," she pressed. "If Eadric Darien imagines himself slighted, it is because he desires more than what is rightfully his."

  Romulus chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Perhaps. But let us not pretend that House Darien stands alone in its grievances. If you think Eadric is the only lord watching and waiting, then you have far more to fear than a single rebellious duke."

  Devran exhaled sharply, his patience fraying. "Enough," he said, his voice quiet but firm. He turned to his mother. "We need allies, not enemies."

  Queen Anna finally looked at him, her expression unreadable. "And you believe bending to every perceived slight will earn you their loyalty?"

  "I believe," Devran said, voice tight, "that antagonizing the only man at this table with the power to shift the tides of war is foolish."

  Romulus smirked. "Perhaps your son sees the board more clearly than you, Your Grace."

  Anna's lips curled into a cold smile. "Or perhaps he is too eager to crown himself king before the game has even begun."

  Devran gritted his teeth, but before he could speak, Romulus leaned back in his chair, tilting his goblet slightly. "Ambition is a fire, Queen Anna. And those who let it consume them rarely live to see the ashes."

  Anna met his gaze without flinching. "Then let us hope the Crown does not mistake smoke for mere shadows."

  The tension at the high table was thick enough to choke on. Devran exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain composed. His mother’s sharp tongue had just driven a wedge between him and the one man he needed on his side.

  And Romulus knew it.

  The duke finally took a sip of his wine, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. "An interesting feast," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

  Devran clenched his jaw, already feeling the weight of what his mother had just cost him.

  My P.O.V

  The feast was a blur of laughter, clinking goblets, and hollow pleasantries. I had endured enough. Stepping away from the great hall, I welcomed the cold night air as it brushed against my face. The torches lining the castle walls flickered in the wind, casting long shadows against the stone.

  "You always were one to sneak away," came a familiar voice.

  I turned to see Ser Hector the Brave Knight, clad in his Royal Guard armor, the weight of years and battle evident in his stance. His face, once filled with the fire of youth, now bore the exhaustion of a man who had seen too much.

  "Why don’t you join the feast?" he asked, stopping beside me.

  I exhaled, shaking my head. "This kind of thing... I’m not used to."

  Hector chuckled. "You’ve fought in a hundred battles, yet a table of nobles unsettles you?"

  "At least on the battlefield, I know where my enemies stand," I muttered.

  He let out a dry laugh but then fell silent. For a moment, we simply stood there, two warriors who had outlived too many of their comrades.

  Then he spoke again, his voice quieter this time. "I’m retiring, Alaric."

  I turned to him, but he wasn’t looking at me—his eyes were on the city beyond the castle walls.

  "I’ve given everything to the Crown," he continued. "And now… the only thing that kept me going is gone."

  I nodded, understanding without needing further explanation. He had fought not for king or country, but for the ones he loved. And now, there was nothing left for him here.

  Without another word, he unsheathed his sword and held it out to me—a Royal Guard’s final act of service.

  For a moment, I hesitated before gripping the hilt. The metal was cold, heavy—not just in weight, but in meaning.

  "What will you do?" I asked.

  "I’ll find a good living outside the capital," he said. "With Elvira."

  A faint smirk touched my lips. "So, you’re choosing a quiet life over war?"

  "For once," he admitted, a ghost of a smile crossing his face.

  I reached into my belt and pulled out a small pouch of coins, offering it to him. He barely spared it a glance before shaking his head.

  "I don’t need it," Hector said.

  "Take it," I said, my voice firm. "This is my last and final order."

  He stared at me for a long moment, then sighed, taking the pouch reluctantly. "Still giving orders even now," he muttered, shaking his head with a smirk.

  I tightened my grip on his sword. "You deserve a better ending than this, Hector."

  He clapped a hand on my shoulder, his grip strong but fleeting. "We all do, Alaric. But life doesn’t give us what we deserve. It gives us what we take."

  As he turned to leave, he paused just before stepping into the shadows.

  "See you, old friend."

  I didn’t answer right away. Something about the way he said it lingered in the air, as if fate had already written another meeting into our future.

  "See you, Hector," I finally said.

  Neither of us knew that when we met again, it wouldn’t be as allies.

  Not as foes.

  But as brothers who had chosen different paths.

  “If my last act is to shield my king, my prince, or my brothers, then I die fulfilled.”

  -Ser Lanselot Hamilton