"Alaric will be always be my brother, and nothing in the world could change that fact"

  -Princess Aria Feldyn

  Duke Eadric P.O.V

  Military Camp Near Darienport, Duchy of Auria

  I turned to Edward, who was still catching his breath. "Speak," I commanded, though I already knew what troubled him.

  "Devran tried to arrest Alaric," he said. "The city is restless, but the boy still breathes."

  I scoffed, shaking my head. "Devran is a fool. He thinks himself a king already, but he doesn’t even understand the game he’s playing. Arresting Alaric? He may as well have slit his own throat."

  Edward frowned. "You wanted them to turn against each other, didn’t you? Wasn’t this a good outcome?"

  "It is, but not for the reasons Devran believes," I said, walking toward the large map spread across my table. My finger traced the route from Elria to Darienport, then eastward to Divina—the seat of House Drakemont.

  "Devran does not realize what he has done. Without Alaric, the Royal Army is doomed before I even raise my banners," I said, my voice thick with satisfaction. "Who does he think will lead his men? Ser Lanselot?" I let out a sharp laugh. "A fine swordsman, but a fool when it comes to war. A knight, not a general."

  "Ser Gildas, then?" Edward offered.

  "Past his prime. The man was a terror in his youth, but age has caught up with him. He would sooner break on the battlefield than hold the line."

  "Ser Midryn?"

  I scoffed. "That ambitious whelp? He’s nothing but a hound for Leo. He has never fought a true war, only trained in the comforts of the capital. If he commands the Royal Army, I will break them before the first moon passes."

  I turned to Edward, my voice firm. "No, the only man who could hold the army together was Alaric. He is the only one who understands war—the only one who has bled for it. And Devran, in his arrogance, has cast him aside."

  Edward nodded. "So what now? With Alaric isolated, he may remain neutral or even flee. That leaves the capital weak, but we are not yet ready to march."

  I smiled. "No, not yet. We need allies. The Drakemonts will be our key. Without them, the Feldyns will not have the numbers to stand against us. If Romulus Drakemont sides with me, we will take Elria before the war even begins."

  Edward hesitated. "Romulus despises war. He has always remained neutral."

  I waved a dismissive hand. "Romulus is not a man of war, but he is a man of ambition. The Feldyns have overshadowed the Drakemonts for too long. I will remind him of that. Everyone has a price, Edward. If I must promise him lands, titles, or marriages, I will. If he refuses..." My voice darkened. "Then we will find another way to remove his neutrality."

  Edward nodded. "I'll send a rider to Emberhold at once."

  As he left, I allowed myself a smirk.

  This kingdom was crumbling.

  And only I could shape its future.

  My P.O.V– Elria, The Great Sepulcher

  I was late.

  It was no accident.

  The funeral procession had started at dawn, winding through the streets of Elria before reaching the Great Sepulcher, where the Kings of Gulvia were laid to rest. Thousands had gathered, filling the streets with whispered prayers, murmured grievances, and quiet mourning. Some wept, others stood in silence, but I knew the truth—most came not to mourn King Valero but to witness the transition of power.

  For them, today was not about the dead. It was about the living. About the future king.

  I stood at the edge of the funeral crowd, lingering in the shadows of the towering crypt. The chill of the morning clung to my skin, and the heavy scent of incense and melting tallow from a hundred lanterns thickened the air. The royal funeral rites had begun long before I arrived, but the words carried through the vaulted chamber.

  "Dust you were, and to dust you return."

  The High Priest of Althar stood at the altar, his crimson robes flowing as he raised his hands over the body of the king. Valero lay in state, clad in a gilded funeral shroud embroidered with the sigil of House Feldyn—a golden lion rampant on a field of deep blue. His face was pale, lips drawn tight as if even in death, he disapproved of my presence.

  I almost scoffed. Even now, he lay above the common man.

  His body had been embalmed in myrrh and camphor, an honor reserved only for kings. The royal morticians had spent three days preparing him—washing his flesh, anointing him in scented oils, and dressing him in the finest silks so that when the time came, he would not stink of rot before the kingdom.

  A funeral befitting a ruler.

  Not the funeral that I imagined for him.

  I adjusted my belt, watching the proceedings from afar. The nobility was gathered at the front—Barons, Counts, and their household knights all clad in black. The Royal Family stood closest.

  Devran, in his finest mourning attire, stood with his hands clasped before him, playing the role of the dutiful son. The crown was not yet on his head, but it might as well have been.

  Queen Anna stood beside him, veil drawn, but even from this distance, I could see how her shoulders were stiff with pride, not sorrow. Leo lingered close, his expression unreadable.

  Then there was Aria.

  She stood apart from them, her hands trembling at her sides. Her face was pale, not with grief, but with the weight of everything unfolding. She alone did not belong among them.

  The burial continued.

  The funeral knights lifted the king’s body, carrying him toward the stone sarcophagus that had been prepared within the sepulcher’s deepest vault. It was tradition—every king of Gulvia was entombed in a sealed crypt beneath the city, entombed with gold, their weapons, and the relics of their reign.

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  "May he be received by the gods," the High Priest intoned, sprinkling consecrated water over the body.

  "May his soul find rest."

  The knights placed him inside. A hush fell over the chamber as the heavy marble lid was lifted—two tons of stone that would seal him within forever. The priests chanted in Old Gulvishan, their voices solemn and ancient.

  The lid was lowered.

  King Valero of House Feldyn was no more.

  A silence stretched for what felt like an eternity.

  Then Devran stepped forward.

  "Our father is dead, but Gulvia will endure." His voice rang through the sepulcher, unwavering. "His legacy will not fade. As we bury him today, let us remember the strength he gave this realm."

  Strength?

  I clenched my jaw.

  He sent me to war when I was thirteen. He left his soldiers to die, unpaid and forgotten. He let my mother waste away in sickness and filth.

  If that was strength, then it was the kind that bled men dry.

  Devran continued, eyes scanning the gathered nobles. "In two days, Gulvia will have a new king. I will honor my father’s name and continue his rule, for the good of this kingdom."

  The words sat bitter on my tongue.

  For the good of himself.

  Scattered murmurs of agreement rose among the nobility, but there was no great applause. Some lords nodded, others whispered to their attendants. The tension in the room was palpable—Devran was to be king, but not all in the room celebrated it.

  Then I saw them.

  The common folk.

  They had been allowed in at the back, peasants and merchants dressed in ragged mourning garb. Some looked solemn, some reverent. Others glared. I caught one man whispering furiously to his neighbor, eyes flicking toward Devran with something close to contempt.

  Arresting me had caused an uproar.

  Even now, the wounds of the Third Border War festered, and the soldiers who fought in it still suffered. They had wanted justice. They had wanted Valero to pay for abandoning them.

  Instead, they got a funeral.

  I was no king. I had no claim. But I had marched with them. I had bled beside them. They would not forget that.

  Perhaps Anna knew that.

  Perhaps that was why she wanted me dead.

  "This funeral is over," Devran declared, stepping down from the altar. "Let us return to the palace."

  The nobles moved first, filing toward the great stone doors, their voices hushed. The priests remained, tending to the crypt.

  Aria stayed.

  I met her eyes from across the sepulcher, but before I could speak, Ser Gildas appeared at my side, his voice low with warning.

  "Not here."

  I nodded. We left the Great Sepulcher behind.

  King Valero was buried.

  The real war was just beginning.

  My P.O.V– The Throne Room

  The throne room of Elria had always felt more like a battlefield than a hall of counsel, filled not with steel and blood, but with words sharpened to cut and alliances as fragile as glass.

  I had no desire to be here, yet here I was—summoned like a dog to heel.

  Ser Gildas and I arrived to find the council already gathered, the air thick with murmured conversations and tension hanging like a storm on the horizon. Devran sat at the head of the great table, draped in his golden cloak, looking every bit the king he wished to become. Queen Anna sat beside him, her eyes watchful, a quiet force behind every move her son made. Leo lounged to Devran’s right, his expression unreadable, while Aria stood near the council table, arms crossed, her face a mask of thinly veiled frustration.

  As soon as I stepped inside, all eyes flicked toward me, some with contempt, others with unease. I was late. Again. But no one expected otherwise.

  It was the baron speaking—one of the Feldyn lords—who finally shattered the uneasy hum of the room.

  "An army, Your Highness. Five thousand men under Duke Eadric of House Darien, marching eastward. They have established camp dangerously close to Lion’s Crest."

  A murmur of unease rippled through the gathered lords.

  Lion’s Crest. The fortress that guarded the only pass through the Drowning River. The waters were too wild for bridges, too deep to ford—any army seeking Elria’s gates had to cross at Lion’s Crest or not at all. If Eadric took it, the road to the capital would be open.

  Yet, Devran barely looked concerned. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table. "Five thousand men? That is no army—merely a gathering of swords. Eadric knows he cannot lay siege to Elria, not yet."

  I scoffed before I could stop myself.

  His gaze snapped to me, sharp as a drawn blade. "Something amusing, bastard?"

  I met his glare with an even one of my own. "Only that you assume Eadric needs to lay siege at all. If Lion’s Crest falls, he won’t have to. The lords of the east will rally to him. And when they do, you won’t be facing five thousand men—you’ll be facing twenty."

  A hush fell over the chamber.

  "Let him march," Ser Midryn said at last, standing beside Leo. He spoke with the same arrogance that dripped from every word that left his mouth. "Our garrison at Lion’s Crest is strong. Eadric won’t waste his strength on an assault. He will be forced to turn back."

  Ser Gildas grunted, shaking his head. "And if he does not? If he camps at the foot of Lion’s Crest and blocks the supply roads, the garrison will starve before long. That fortress is strong, aye, but it is not invincible."

  Midryn sneered. "Then we resupply them. A simple matter."

  I shook my head. "And how do you intend to get through his forces without losing half your men in the process? You're thinking like a knight, not a commander."

  Midryn’s nostrils flared, but before he could retort, Aria spoke.

  "Eadric would not make a move this bold without reason." She turned to Devran, her voice sharp. "We must send reinforcements before it’s too late."

  Devran sighed loudly, as if bored by the entire discussion. "So eager to send men to die?"

  "So eager to prevent greater bloodshed later," Aria snapped.

  Queen Anna, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. Her voice was soft, almost soothing, but beneath it lay something dangerous. "Perhaps the question we should be asking is why Eadric has moved now, before he is at full strength. It seems… rash."

  I frowned. It was a good point. Eadric was no fool. He was the kind of commander who only struck when he was certain of victory. He wouldn’t move unless he had reason to believe the scales were about to tip in his favor.

  "The Drakemonts," I said aloud, the realization settling like a weight in my chest. "If they declare for him, it won’t matter if Lion’s Crest stands or falls. He’ll have the numbers to march anyway."

  The lords muttered among themselves, uneasy now.

  Ser Midryn smirked suddenly, his voice laced with amusement. "Perhaps your dear friend Eadric can explain himself. After all, he sent you a letter recently, did he not?"

  I tensed.

  The room went quiet.

  Midryn spread his hands. "A mere letter, of course. A friendly note, asking after your health. Nothing at all to concern us." His voice dripped with mockery.

  Before I could speak, Leo scoffed. "So. You exchange letters with the traitor while sitting among us?"

  "It was nothing," I said through gritted teeth.

  "Nothing?" Leo laughed coldly. "A bastard and a traitor exchanging pleasantries—what a touching sight. But tell me, Alaric, how many men will die because of your friendship? Do you even care for the men under your command?"

  The words slammed into me like a hammer.

  I stood so quickly my chair scraped against the floor. My hands clenched into fists.

  Then, without thinking, I slammed my palm against the table, the sharp crack echoing through the chamber.

  "Don’t go there!" I snarled.

  Aria gasped.

  Leo’s smug expression faltered.

  "You know nothing of men dying." My voice was low, but it carried through the hall like thunder. "Nothing."

  I could see it—flashes of faces I had once known. Men who had fought beside me, men who had bled for a kingdom that had abandoned them. Bodies strewn across the frozen fields of the Border Wars, screams swallowed by the wind.

  And Leo my half brother—this spoiled princeling who did not even fought or never seen the brutality of the war—had the gall to question if I cared?

  Ser Gildas stepped forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Alaric."

  I shrugged him off. I was burning from the inside out, anger and grief rising like bile.

  Then—

  "Alaric."

  Aria’s voice.

  Soft. Steady.

  It cut through the storm raging in my head like a sword through mist.

  I swallowed hard. The throne room felt too small. The walls too close.

  Without another word, I turned and left.

  The heavy doors slammed shut behind me.

  Footsteps followed, first slow, then quicker.

  "Alaric, wait!"

  Aria. And Ser Gildas.

  I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Not yet.

  The past was clawing at me, and for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t sure if I could push it back down.

  Queen Anna’s Point of View

  I did not expect the bastard to break like that.

  Not in this room, not before the gathered lords and knights of the realm. Not before my sons.

  And yet, the fury that erupted from him was as raw and unyielding as the war that forged him.

  Even Lord Varus, who had stood in the shadows of the throne room for decades, unreadable as ever, showed the smallest flicker of surprise. His hand had twitched—just slightly—toward the hilt of his sword. A subtle, fleeting motion, but one that did not go unnoticed by me.

  And my eldest son—my golden lion.

  Devran.

  He sat there, silent. Unmoving.

  He did not rise. He did not speak.

  He did not defend his own blood.

  His face was carefully blank, but I saw it—hesitation.

  Fear.

  It was only for a breath, gone as quickly as it came, but it was there.

  Was he scared of the bastard?

  The thought curdled in my stomach like sour milk.

  Alaric had slammed his hand against the table with such force that the sound still rang in my ears. The way he had snarled—for a moment, I thought he would draw his sword and cut down my son where he sat. That beast that my husband had let run wild for too long—shackled to war, hardened by it, yet never truly tamed.

  I had underestimated him.

  That would not happen again.

  The room had stilled in those moments after his outburst. Even I, for a brief instant, had been taken aback.

  But I do not fear him.

  Nor do I pity him.

  What I saw in that moment was not just a man unraveling before the court. It was his weakness.

  Pain.

  Guilt.

  The dead still clung to him like ghosts, whispering in his ears. He carried them with him—every soldier who had died under his command, every friend he had buried in foreign soil. They were chains that bound him tighter than any steel I could forge.

  And weakness is a dangerous thing.

  He will break again.

  And next time, there will be no Aria to steady his hand.

  My fingers traced the rings on my hand, the gems cold against my skin.

  The bastard must be eliminated.

  Before, I had only entertained the thought. A distant possibility, should the need arise.

  Now, I am certain.

  He is too dangerous. Not because he covets the throne—he is too blind to ambition for that. But because his presence alone makes the court tremble, even if they do not yet realize it. Because men like him do not die quietly in exile. Because Aria’s devotion to him could lead to something far more troublesome than I had anticipated.

  The storm has begun to rise, and I will not allow it to reach my gates.

  Alaric must die.

  And I will be the one to ensure it.

  "You speak of war as if you've ever stood on its battlefield."

  -Alaric the Bastard