Three Years Later - The Weight of Silence
The years crept by like ash settling over a battlefield. The palace that once hummed with laughter and scheming had grown quieter, colder, heavier.
And Kael, the resurrected prince, had become its ghost.
The first year had been spent under lock and seal, confined to marble halls and iron rites. Clerics lined his room with binding glyphs that glowed faintly when he breathed wrong. The scholars called it a precaution, though everyone knew it was fear. The boy who had died and come back now dreamed without sleeping, and bled without wounds.
Equito was stationed as his warden then. She watched him eat, spar, meditate, and pray. She said little, and he less. Sometimes she saw him staring at his reflection for hours, motionless, almost tranquil, until the mirror fogged without steam. When she asked if he was well, he only said that he missed the sound of rain.
The second year was training. Relentless, punishing, royal. The king demanded a knight who would make the courts tremble and the armies kneel. So Kael trained beneath the city's spine, where the royal magi kept their forges and armories. They branded runes across his back, tracing the veins of his spine with molten silver. Each mark screamed for days, but Kael said nothing. He learned to channel them into movement, blade arcs that blurred like shadow, strikes that shattered marble.
When he finally sparred before the royal court, the floor cracked beneath his boots. The king clapped. The courtiers smiled. And Equito looked away.
The third year was service. Campaigns in the west. Border skirmishes against raiders and half-blood insurgents. Kael led companies through fire and frost, never losing, never speaking much. His men whispered that he never bled anymore. That wounds closed before he saw them. That the battlefield bent around him when he willed it to.
He neither denied nor confirmed it. He only obeyed.
When the war ended, he returned to the capital with a crown's worth of victories and a silence that curdled the air. The people called him the King's Fang. The nobles called him the Wraith of Almar.
And the king, ever the strategist, called him so.
A Look Into Politics
The kingdom had not known peace in centuries, only pauses between its own unraveling. The capital was grand, towering over the world with marble spires and golden banners, yet beneath the glitter lay decay. The noble houses fought over coin and territory while the peasants whispered of famine and plague. The throne sat heavy under a king who was both revered and despised. His court was a nest of alliances that could collapse with one breath.
Three years of rebuilding had done little to restore stability. The wars along the western border had drained the treasury, and the victories won by Kael were victories of survival, not triumph. The soldiers returned home broken, their villages stripped of youth. The merchants thrived only because of war.
Rumors spread through the taverns and market squares that another conflict was rising, this time from the north. The Dominion of Rhaegis, a coalition of warlords and old bloodlines, was gathering armies. Scouts brought back tales of colossal siege beasts carved from stone and bone, of soldiers who never tired, their flesh etched with forbidden runes. The royal council dismissed these stories as superstition, yet even the king's sleep grew short.
Meetings in the council chamber stretched long into the night. Lords argued over taxes, generals demanded men they did not have, and priests begged for restraint. Kael was often there, standing silent by his father's side, listening as they spoke of lands he had bled to defend. His father used him as a symbol, a reminder of divine favor, a son reborn by the will of the gods. But to those who had seen him fight, there was little divine about it. There was only precision, emptiness, and the quiet terror that followed him wherever he went.
The court's balance of power shifted. House Varyn and House Meroth, ancient rivals, began aligning under the pretense of preparing for war. The Church of the Luminal Faith, once loyal to the crown, began withholding tithes, claiming the king had turned from piety toward obsession. In the shadows, whispers of assassination, rebellion, and foreign interference rippled through the corridors.
The air in the capital was thick with tension. Even the weather seemed to mirror it, skies overcast for weeks at a time, storms breaking with sudden violence. The city guards had doubled their patrols. The mages of the palace tower prepared wards that crackled faintly at night, bright enough to paint the skyline.
Kael moved through this world like a shadow bound by duty. His armor bore the mark of the royal crest, his sword glowed faintly with its own will, yet inside, there was no sense of belonging. He had no trust for nobles or generals, and even less for priests. He served because he was told to serve, because the face of the king was the only thing that tethered him to life.
The capital was a gilded cage, and the kingdom beyond it was a storm waiting to break.
A Look In
The royal council chamber was vast, built of pale stone polished until it caught every flicker of candlelight. Maps of the known world covered the walls, their ink faded by time and smoke, the borders constantly redrawn by ambition. The long table at the center was carved from a single tree trunk, a relic of the first kings. Around it sat men and women who had ruled the kingdom through words sharper than any blade. Their voices clashed like swords as the king entered, his crown heavy on his brow, his patience thinner with every passing season.
Kael stood at his side, silent, his armor gleaming beneath the torchlight. The council quieted at his presence, though not from respect. They had seen the way he fought, the way his eyes never seemed to rest, the way he carried the stillness of someone who had already crossed the threshold of death and come back without reverence for the living. His father valued that silence. It kept the courtiers wary.
The king began the meeting with a steady voice that carried through the chamber. Reports had come from the northern frontier. Three towns had vanished within a month. Not burned, not razed, simply gone. The scouts who returned spoke of blackened soil, of frost that burned through armor, and of banners bearing the sigil of Rhaegis, a serpent devouring the sun.
The Marshal of Arms leaned forward, his face scarred and old. He demanded an immediate levy of troops, a call to arms that would empty the barracks and drag farmers from their fields. The Treasurer argued that the treasury could not bear another war. The last campaign had already left the kingdom on the edge of collapse. The High Priest spoke next, warning that Rhaegis was not merely a mortal threat but a spiritual one. Their magic came from forbidden wells, remnants of the First Age when men had bargained directly with the void.
Kael listened as the arguments spiraled into chaos. Voices rose, fingers pointed, and accusations filled the air. Every faction had its own interests to protect. The nobles feared losing land, the generals feared losing men, and the priests feared losing faith. None of them feared the truth, that war was inevitable.
The king's voice finally cut through the noise. He ordered a full mobilization of the eastern legions and the conscription of all able-bodied men from the frontier provinces. His decision was final. The council fell into reluctant silence, though Kael could sense the resentment beneath it. Every eye that turned toward his father held calculation, as if weighing how much longer the crown could stay steady.
When the meeting adjourned, the chamber emptied in uneasy quiet. The king remained behind, resting his hands on the ancient table. Kael approached him, unsure if he should speak. His father looked old beneath the candlelight, the fire in his eyes dimming with the years. He spoke without turning. "You have seen battle, my son. Tell me, what do you make of these rumors from the north?"
Kael hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "They sound like the beginning of something that cannot be stopped."
The king nodded. "Then we will not wait for it to reach our gates. You will lead the first campaign."
There was no ceremony to it, no pause for reaction. It was not a request, it was law. Kael bowed his head in acknowledgment. His heart did not stir. Orders were all he had left to follow.
Outside, the capital roared with restless life. Bells tolled across the districts as proclamations were posted. War was coming again. The nobles sent riders to summon their banners, the smithies blazed without pause, and the priests filled the temples with incense and trembling prayers.
Kael left the palace and walked through the courtyard, the scent of rain heavy in the air. The sky above the city was the color of iron. Lightning rippled far to the north, faint but constant. He thought of the cult, of what they had made him, of the thing that now shared his reflection. War would not be fought by soldiers alone. It would be fought by monsters, some born of blood, others of will.
Distrust
The meeting took place long after the city had gone to sleep. The palace was silent save for the steady rhythm of rain against the windowpanes. The king sat alone at the head of a smaller table now, one meant for quiet councils rather than royal decrees. Before him burned a single candle, its light flickering over the maps and sealed letters scattered across the polished wood.
A knock sounded at the door. Three short taps, then two more. The king's voice came softly. "Enter."
A man stepped through, cloaked in gray, his boots soundless on the marble floor. The sigil of the crown's intelligence division was hidden beneath his collar. He bowed low but did not speak until the king motioned him forward.
"What have you found?" the king asked, his eyes never leaving the documents.
The spymaster set a small leather case on the table and opened it. Inside lay reports written in several hands, sketches, and one crimson-stained note. "Everything we have gathered on the prince," he said quietly. "It is not much, and what we do have is… conflicting."
The king leaned back, his jaw tightening. "After three years of observation, you still cannot tell me who he truly is?"
The spymaster's throat bobbed. "Majesty, I fear there is not much to tell. He does not sleep like other men. He does not eat often. He heals from wounds that should cripple him. The court mages report that his mana signature is unlike any human reading they have seen. It fluctuates between two distinct frequencies, as if something else shares his body."
The king said nothing. The candle hissed in the silence.
The spymaster continued. "He trains more than anyone in the garrison. When alone, he writes in a language none of our scholars can decipher. The pages are burned immediately after. We have also received testimony from servants that he sometimes mutters in his sleep, words that sound like prayers, or curses. They say the air grows colder when he dreams."
The king's gaze hardened. "And Equito?"
"She reports no overt suspicion, but she keeps her distance. She says he is… calm, but too calm. When he fights, he shows no anger, no joy, not even effort. She believes he remembers what happened the day he died, but refuses to speak of it."
The king's hand closed over the armrest of his chair. "He is my blood, whether by birth or by fate. But even I can see that he is not the same boy we lost. The priests whisper he was reborn. The mages whisper something far worse. I need to know which one is true."
The spymaster hesitated before responding. "Majesty, if I may speak freely…"
The king nodded.
"I do not think your son returned alone."
The words hung in the air like a curse.
The candle's flame quivered, then stilled. Outside, thunder rolled across the city, shaking the windows. The king closed his eyes for a long moment, then gestured toward the case. "Destroy these reports. Not even the high council must see them. Continue to watch him, but from afar. If he senses you, it will be the last thing you ever sense."
The spymaster nodded and gathered the papers. Before he left, the king added softly, "If he turns against me, you will not kill him. You will call for me. Only I will decide what must be done."
The man bowed once more and disappeared into the corridor. The king was left alone again, the candle nearly burned to the wick. He looked down at the map of his realm, at the thousands of tiny marks that represented the lives he was about to send to war. His hand hovered over the northern border, but his thoughts drifted to the figure sleeping in the barracks below, a son he did not recognize, a man forged by pain and shadows.
When the candle finally died, he sat there in darkness, knowing that the greatest threat to his kingdom might already be inside his walls.
The king called for Equito this time.
Equito is let in by the guards standing watch.
The king sat in his private chamber, the rain outside turning the windows to rippling sheets of silver. The hour was late, yet sleep did not come easily to him anymore. The candle beside him had nearly burned out, leaving the corners of the room swallowed in shadow. He stared into the flame, seeing nothing but the reflection of a crown that felt heavier by the day.
A soft knock came at the door. He knew who it was before the voice spoke. "Your Majesty," Equito said quietly.
"Enter," he replied.
She stepped inside wearing her armor, polished but unadorned. The silver of her breastplate caught the faint light. She did not remove her helmet until she stood before him, her face pale and serious, her eyes steady. She had not changed much in three years, save for the exhaustion that came from constant vigilance.
"You sent for me," she said.
"I did," the king answered. "Sit, if you wish."
She remained standing. "What troubles you, Majesty?"
He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath his weight. "My son."
Her expression did not change. "Kael."
"Yes. Kael." The king's voice carried no warmth, only thought. "He has done everything I have asked of him. He obeys, he fights, he wins. The men follow him without question, yet none of them truly know him. Tell me, Knight Captain, what do you see when you look at him?"
Equito paused for a long time. "I see a man who is alive, but not living. A vessel with purpose but no heart to drive it. He has no desire beyond obedience. He is not cruel, nor kind. He simply exists."
The king's hands folded over one another. "Then you see what I see. I had hoped it was only my imagination."
She hesitated, then said, "Forgive me, Majesty, but I think what you hope for no longer matters to him. Whatever he was before, whatever he felt, it is gone. He serves you because there is nothing else for him to serve."
The king's eyes flickered toward the rain. "Do you think he remembers?"
"Everything," she answered. "I see it in the way he moves, in the way he reacts to silence. He remembers dying. He remembers being reborn. But he feels nothing about it."
The king exhaled, slow and heavy. "A body without a soul."
Equito's jaw tightened. "With respect, Majesty, he has a soul. It simply does not belong to him anymore."
That sentence lingered between them. The rain seemed to fade, replaced by the low crackle of the candle. The king looked at her fully now, his gaze sharp. "Then tell me, Captain, if you believe that to be true, why have you not put him down?"
Her hand twitched against the hilt of her sword. "Because you ordered me not to. And because despite what he has become, he is still yours. Killing him would serve no one. Controlling him, perhaps, would serve everyone."
The king studied her, and for a moment, his expression softened. "You are loyal beyond measure."
"I am loyal to the realm," she said. "If he endangers it, I will act. But for now, he is an asset. A dangerous one, but still yours to command."
The king stood slowly, walking to the window. The city stretched beneath him, its towers glowing faintly in the storm. He spoke without turning. "If he becomes something worse, something we cannot contain, will you still obey me?"
Equito's voice did not waver. "Yes, Majesty. Even if it costs me my life."
He turned then, and their eyes met. There was a quiet understanding between them, a shared weight neither wanted but both carried.
"Then pray," he said quietly, "that it never comes to that."