CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Prodigal Son
The capital of Valdris was called Kingshold, and it rose from the central valley like a crown of stone and light.
Orion had grown up within its walls, had walked its streets a thousand times, had known every tower and temple and hidden garden. But seeing it now, after almost a decade away, he felt like a stranger looking at a painting of someone else's memory.
"It's beautiful," Nera said softly.
"It is." He couldn't deny that. The city sprawled across three hills, connected by bridges and terraces, with the royal palace dominating the highest peak. White walls gleamed in the morning sun. Banners flew from every tower—purple, the King's color, unmarked by factional symbols. Within the city itself, at least, the crown still held neutral ground.
"Are you ready?"
"No."
"Good. Then we're consistent."
They rode toward the main gate, joining a stream of travelers and merchants entering the city. Orion kept his hood up, delaying recognition as long as possible. He wanted to see the city as himself before he was forced to see it as a prince.
The streets were as he remembered—broad and clean, lined with shops and homes that spoke of centuries of prosperity. People moved with purpose, calling greetings to neighbors, haggling with vendors, living their lives unaware that their lost prince was walking among them.
"You know this place," Nera observed. "Every turn, every corner. You don't even have to think about where you're going."
"I spent eighteen years here. The streets are carved into my bones."
"Is that a good thing?"
"I don't know yet."
They climbed through the merchant quarter, then the noble quarter, approaching the palace with each step. The crowds thinned as they rose higher—fewer merchants, more soldiers, more people who moved with the careful awareness of those who lived in proximity to power.
The palace gates loomed ahead. Massive iron doors, flanked by guards in ceremonial armor, bearing the royal crest.
"Last chance to turn back," Orion said.
"We didn't come this far to turn back." Nera squeezed his hand. "Together, remember?"
"Together."
He lowered his hood and approached the gates.
* * *
The guards recognized him immediately.
There was a moment of confusion—glances exchanged, whispered consultations—before the senior officer stepped forward with a formal bow.
"Prince Orion. You're expected. The King has ordered that you be brought to him upon arrival."
"And my wife?"
"The lady as well. Quarters have been prepared in the east wing." The officer's eyes flickered to Nera with obvious curiosity. "If you'll follow me."
They were led through the gates and into the palace proper.
Orion had forgotten how large it was. Corridors stretched in every direction, lined with portraits of ancestors and tapestries depicting the kingdom's history. Servants moved in quiet efficiency, bowing as they passed, their faces carefully neutral.
Nera walked beside him, her expression composed but her eyes taking in everything. She was in her human form, tall and graceful, her green hair drawing stares that she seemed not to notice. Whatever curiosity she felt, she kept it hidden behind the mask of a woman accustomed to palaces.
Which, of course, she was. More accustomed than anyone here could imagine.
"Your Highness!"
The voice came from a side corridor, sharp with surprise. Orion turned to see a young woman striding toward them—tall, dark-haired, dressed in the practical clothing of someone who had places to be and little patience for delay.
His heart stopped.
"Elara."
She had changed. Of course she had changed—she'd been ten when he left, a child with too much energy and not enough supervision. Now she was a woman, twenty years old, with their mother's eyes and their father's stubborn jaw.
"You came." She stopped before him, her expression caught between joy and something harder to read. "I wasn't sure you would."
"You convinced Father to send for me. Did you think I'd ignore that?"
"I thought you might. You ignored everything else for ten years."
The words hit like a blow. Orion opened his mouth to respond, but Elara was already shaking her head.
"No. I'm sorry. That wasn't fair." She took a breath, visibly composing herself. "I'm glad you're here. Truly. I just... I have a lot of feelings about it."
"So do I."
"Good. Then we're even." Her eyes moved to Nera, curiosity replacing the complicated emotions. "And you're the wife. The mysterious woman who captured my brother's heart."
"Nera." She offered her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Princess Elara."
"Just Elara. I hate titles." But she shook the offered hand with a smile that reached her eyes. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Someone more... ordinary, I suppose. Someone who would explain why Orion gave up everything." Elara studied her with frank assessment. "But you're not ordinary at all, are you?"
"Not particularly, no."
"Good. Ordinary is boring." Elara turned back to Orion. "Father's waiting. But you should know—the others are here too. Marcus arrived this morning when he heard you were coming. Helena's been in residence for weeks. Even Darius is back from the border."
"A full family reunion."
"Complete with all the drama you'd expect." Her expression sobered. "Be careful, Orion. A lot has changed since you left. Not everyone is happy to see you back."
"Noted."
"I mean it. Marcus especially—he's been on edge ever since the summons went out." She hesitated. "He's in the training yard right now. If you want to face him before the formal reception..."
"That might be wise."
"Or spectacularly unwise. Hard to tell with Marcus." But she was almost smiling. "Go. I'll keep your wife company while you deal with our brother."
Orion looked at Nera. She nodded slightly—go, I'll be fine.
He went.
* * *
The training yard hadn't changed.
It was a large open space behind the eastern wing, paved with smooth stone, ringed by weapon racks and training dummies. Orion had spent countless hours here as a boy, learning the sword forms that every prince was expected to master.
Marcus was in the center of the yard, driving a practice blade through a series of complex patterns. He moved with the precision of long practice—each strike controlled, each step deliberate. He'd always been good. Better than Orion, back when they'd trained together.
He stopped when he heard footsteps. Turned. His face, when he saw who approached, went carefully blank.
"Brother." The word was flat, neutral, giving nothing away.
"Marcus."
They stood facing each other across the training yard—two men who shared blood but little else. Marcus was taller than Orion remembered, broader in the shoulders, with their father's iron-gray hair beginning to show at his temples. He looked like a king already.
"So," Marcus said. "The prodigal returns."
"Father summoned me."
"Father summons many people. Not all of them come." Marcus set his practice sword in a rack, his movements deliberate. "Ten years, Orion. Ten years of silence, and now you waltz back like nothing happened."
"I'm not pretending nothing happened."
"Then what are you doing here? What do you want?"
"To see Father. To introduce him to my wife. Nothing more."
"Nothing more." Marcus laughed—a harsh sound, devoid of humor. "You expect me to believe that? You show up after a decade, right when the succession is balanced on a knife's edge, and you want nothing?"
"I don't want the throne, Marcus. I never did."
"Then you're a fool. Or a liar." Marcus stepped closer, his presence suddenly threatening. "The throne isn't about wanting. It's about duty. Responsibility. Things you abandoned when you ran away."
"I abandoned a life that was killing me."
"You abandoned your FAMILY!" The words exploded out of Marcus, years of suppressed anger finally finding voice. "Do you have any idea what your leaving did to us? To Father? He spent months sending people to find you. Months of hoping you'd come back. And when he finally accepted you were gone..." Marcus's voice cracked slightly. "It broke something in him. Something that never healed."
Orion felt the guilt strike deep. He'd known his leaving would hurt them. He hadn't let himself think about how much.
"I'm sorry," he said. "That was never—"
"Sorry?" Marcus grabbed a training sword from the rack and threw it at Orion's feet. "You want to be sorry? Then prove it. Show me what your decade of 'finding yourself' was worth."
"Marcus—"
"Pick up the sword." Marcus retrieved his own blade, settling into a fighting stance. "When we were boys, I could beat you nine times out of ten. Let's see if that's still true."
Orion looked at the sword at his feet. This was foolish—a fight born of anger and old wounds, likely to make everything worse.
But there was something in Marcus's eyes beyond anger. A need. A question that could only be answered with action.
He picked up the sword.
* * *
The first exchange was testing—both men circling, probing defenses, remembering old patterns. Marcus moved exactly as Orion remembered: powerful, precise, technically perfect.
The second exchange was faster. Marcus pressed forward with a combination that would have overwhelmed the boy Orion had been. But Orion wasn't that boy anymore.
He deflected the strikes, stepped outside Marcus's guard, and scored a touch on his brother's ribs.
Marcus blinked, surprised. Adjusted. Came again, harder this time.
Orion met him.
Years of adventuring had changed the way he fought. The formal training was still there, but layered over it was something rawer—instincts honed in real combat, against real enemies, where mistakes meant death instead of embarrassment. His body moved with an efficiency that palace training could never teach.
Strike. Parry. Counter. He read Marcus's movements before they happened, saw the patterns his brother didn't even know he had. Each exchange ended with Orion in a better position, Marcus increasingly frustrated.
"Fight properly!" Marcus snarled, swinging harder. "Stop dancing around!"
"This is proper fighting. The kind that keeps you alive when there's no referee."
Marcus lunged—a powerful thrust that would have ended a lesser opponent. Orion sidestepped, caught his brother's wrist, and used his own momentum against him. A twist, a sweep, and Marcus was on the ground with Orion's practice blade at his throat.
Silence.
They stayed frozen like that, both breathing hard, the reality of the moment settling over them like a weight.
"I yield," Marcus said finally. The words seemed to cost him something.
Orion stepped back, offering his hand. After a moment, Marcus took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet.
"How?" Marcus asked. His anger had faded, replaced by something more complex. "You were never the fighter. That was Darius. That was me."
"I spent ten years fighting for my life. Against things that didn't care about proper form or royal bloodlines." Orion met his brother's eyes. "I didn't leave because I was weak, Marcus. I left because I needed to become strong in a different way."
Marcus was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, his expression shifted. The rigid mask of the crown prince cracking to reveal something underneath—not softness, exactly, but something more human.
"You've changed," he said. "You're not the boy who ran away."
"No. I'm not."
"You've grown." Marcus shook his head, a strange half-smile crossing his face. "I spent years being angry at you. Furious that you abandoned us. But looking at you now... you're more yourself than you ever were here. Does that make sense?"
"It does."
"Father always said you had potential. That you could have been great if you'd only accepted your role." Marcus set down his practice sword. "I think he was wrong. I think you could only be great by rejecting it."
"Marcus..."
"I'm still angry," his brother interrupted. "That doesn't go away with one fight. But I'm also..." He searched for the word. "Glad. That you survived. That you found something worth living for."
"The woman?"
"Elara told me about her. The mysterious wife." Marcus raised an eyebrow. "There's more to her story than you're telling, isn't there?"
"Much more."
"I look forward to hearing it." He clasped Orion's shoulder—a gesture they hadn't shared in a decade. "Come. Father's waiting. And whatever else happens, you should see him before the politicians get their hooks in."
"The politicians being..."
"Everyone. Including me, most days." Marcus's smile was rueful. "Welcome home, brother. It's going to be chaotic."
"It usually is."
"Yes. But this time, at least, you'll be here for it."
They walked out of the training yard together—not reconciled, not yet, but something closer than they'd been in ten years.
It was a start.
* * *
The throne room of Valdris had witnessed eight hundred years of history.
Kings had been crowned here. Wars had been declared. Alliances forged and broken. The walls themselves seemed to hold the weight of all those moments, pressing down on anyone who entered.
Orion had stood in this room countless times. But never like this. Never as a returnee, a stranger, a son coming home to face the father he'd abandoned.
Nera was beside him again, collected from Elara's care. She walked with the quiet confidence of someone who had seen greater halls and larger thrones, and her presence steadied him in ways he couldn't articulate.
At the far end of the room, on the throne that had held their family for eighteen generations, sat King Aldric the Third.
He looked old.
That was Orion's first thought—his father looked old in a way that went beyond years. The powerful man who had ruled with an iron grip, who had moved nations with his decisions, seemed diminished. Smaller. Fragile in a way that kings were never supposed to be.
But his eyes—when they found Orion across the length of the throne room—were still sharp. Still knowing. Still the eyes of the father who had raised him, taught him, tried to shape him into something he couldn't be.
"Orion." The King's voice was weaker than memory, but it still carried. "My wayward son. Come closer."
They approached the throne. Around the room, courtiers and nobles watched with barely concealed interest. Orion was aware of his siblings at the edges—Marcus behind him, Helena and Darius to the sides, Elara near the front.
He stopped at the base of the throne steps and bowed.
"Father. I came as you asked."
"You came." The King's eyes were bright with something that might have been tears. "After all this time. You actually came."
"I couldn't refuse."
"Couldn't? Or wouldn't?"
"Both."
A ghost of a smile crossed the old man's face. "That's my son. Never one for simple answers." His gaze moved to Nera. "And this is her? The woman you chose?"
"Nera Stargrass. My wife."
"Come forward, daughter."
Nera approached the throne with the grace of someone born to palaces. She curtsied—a perfect execution that spoke of careful practice—and met the King's eyes without flinching.
"Your Majesty," she said. "Thank you for the invitation."
"Invitation." The King laughed softly. "Is that what we're calling a father's desperate plea to meet his son's wife?"
"I call it what it was: a bridge built across a long silence."
Something flickered in the King's expression—surprise, perhaps, or appreciation. "You speak well."
"I've had practice."
"I imagine you have." He studied her with the same intensity he'd once used to assess foreign ambassadors. "There's more to you than meets the eye, isn't there? My informants couldn't find anything about your history before you married my son."
"My history is complicated, Your Majesty. But I assure you, my love for your son is simple."
"Love." The word seemed to soften him. "He left everything for you, you know. Abandoned his title, his family, his future. All for love."
"I know. I did the same for him."
"Did you?" The King's eyebrows rose. "Now that's a story I want to hear."
"In time, Father," Orion interjected. "We've just arrived. Perhaps we could—"
"Yes, yes. Politics and propriety. I remember how the game is played." The King waved a hand. "Quarters have been prepared for you both. Rest, recover from your journey. We'll have a proper family dinner tonight—just us, no courtiers, no ceremony."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." The old man's eyes glittered. "Your siblings have a lot of questions. And I have even more." He leaned forward slightly. "But for now, let me just say: welcome home, Orion. I've waited a long time to say those words."
"I've waited a long time to hear them."
Father and son looked at each other across the space of ten years—all the hurt, all the silence, all the things left unsaid hanging between them.
It wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. But it was a beginning.
And beginnings, Orion was learning, were sometimes the hardest part.
— End of Chapter Twenty-Seven —