The scent of stale bread and boiled soup lingered thickly in the air. The long dining hall was dim, its oil lamps flickering weakly against the cracked stone walls. Children sat in straight lines along the long wooden tables, their small hands trembling as they held their meager portions. No laughter, no chatter — only the quiet scrape of spoons against bowls and the faint, ragged breathing of the hungry.
The bread was warm, but barely.
A faint mold crept along its edges, but none of the children dared complain. Hunger left no room for choice.
Kael — much younger, barely ten — stared down at the lump of bread in his hands. He could smell the mold, bitter and sour, but still, he lifted it to his mouth. The soup beside it was pale, almost translucent, and when he took a sip, it tasted of nothing — only a faint bitterness that burned down his throat.
He coughed softly, eyes watering. There was something strange in the flavor — medicine, maybe. Or something worse.
Across from him, a small boy with red hair tried to chew, his hand shaking. Before he could finish his first bite, his head dropped suddenly against the table. The sound of the bowl spilling echoed through the hall.
The children froze.
The boy's thin shoulders trembled once, then stopped moving.
One of the guardians — a tall man with a leather strap at his belt — stormed forward. His heavy boots pounded against the wooden floor as he reached the boy. He grabbed the child by the hair, jerking his limp head up. "Eat," he barked. "Or you'll be sent to the Redemption Cell!"
The child didn't move.
A silence filled the room. The fire from the hearth crackled in the distance, the only sound breaking the still air. The man stared down at the lifeless boy before tossing him aside with disgust. "Worthless," he muttered. "Take it out."
Another guard stepped forward, grabbing the boy's ankles and dragging the small, limp body toward the door. The sound of his heels scraping against the floor left a streak across the dust.
The other children kept their heads down, hands trembling as they returned to their meals. No one dared speak.
Kael didn't look up. He forced another bite of the bread into his mouth. It was tasteless. He chewed slowly, his throat aching as he swallowed.
He'd learned long ago — follow the rules, stay quiet, survive.
After the meal, the children lined up in silence, waiting for their turn to return to the dormitories. Their footsteps were light, heads bowed.
But before Kael could take a step forward, a harsh voice cut through the air. "You. The boy with black hair. Come here."
A rough hand grabbed his wrist, yanking him out of the line. He stumbled but didn't resist. The guardian's grip was bruising, but Kael followed without a sound.
They led him through a corridor he had never seen before, where the air grew colder with every step. The hall smelled faintly of polished wood and old perfume — a place that didn't belong to the rest of the orphanage.
The door at the end of the corridor creaked open.
Inside, a man sat on an ornate chair near the fireplace, his figure framed by shadows. His clothes were fine — too fine for this place — dark velvet trimmed with gold. The hood of his cloak covered most of his face, but Kael could see a pair of sharp eyes gleaming from beneath it. Emerald green.
"What a beautiful child," the man said softly, his voice smooth but cold. "Pure black hair… rare indeed."
Kael stood silently, his eyes wide but unblinking. The guardian behind him shoved his head down roughly.
"Lower your gaze!"
The man lifted his hand slightly. "Enough." His tone carried quiet authority. "Don't be rough with him. This one is… valuable."
The guardian stiffened. "Yes, my lord."
Kael's small shoulders trembled. He didn't understand the man's words — only that they made his stomach twist.
The nobleman stood slowly, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor as he approached. He stopped in front of Kael, his shadow falling over the child.
A gloved hand reached down and caught Kael's chin, forcing him to look up.
Kael's breath caught.
Under the faint firelight, he saw the man's face clearly — golden hair glinting beneath the hood, eyes the color of the summer forest. Emerald and sharp.
The man smiled faintly. "You are precious," he said quietly.
Kael's heart pounded. He didn't understand the words, only the chill that spread through his chest.
And then — darkness swallowed everything.
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The sound of crackling fire returned.
Kael's eyes flew open.
For a few seconds, he didn't know where he was. His chest heaved, breath ragged, sweat clinging to his temples. The dim light of dawn filtered through the curtains of his room in Vaelthorn Mansion. The fire in the hearth had burned low, leaving faint embers glowing red.
He sat up sharply, clutching his chest. His body trembled. The dream — no, the memory — clung to him like frost.
His head throbbed painfully. The sharp sting behind his eyes grew until it became unbearable. He pressed his palm to his forehead, his breath short.
The pain pierced deeper — flashes of the hall, the dead child, the noble's emerald eyes — everything swirling in his mind like shards of broken glass.
He groaned softly, his other hand reaching blindly for something — anything — to hold on to.
His fingers brushed against cold steel.
The sword.
It leaned beside his bed, where Robert had left it. Kael grasped the hilt tightly and pressed the flat of the blade to his chest. The pain began to ebb, slowly, as if the sword itself pulled the ache away from him.
His breathing steadied.
When he finally opened his eyes again, the world had stopped spinning. He sat still, the sword resting against his chest, the faint light from the window catching the pale silver of the blade.
He could still see the nobleman's face in his mind — golden hair, emerald eyes. The same tone of voice.
He'd seen those eyes before.
But he couldn't remember where.
Kael's fingers tightened around the hilt, the metal cool against his skin. The faint hum of mana from within the sword vibrated softly, as if in response to his unrest.
The fire crackled. The room fell silent again.
Kael closed his eyes, the echo of that haunting voice lingering in his mind — "You are precious."
And for the first time, Kael wasn't sure if the memory had been from a dream — or from a truth buried too deep to face.
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The air inside Kael's room was quiet, faintly warm from the morning sun that filtered through the curtains. The scent of wood and lavender lingered faintly — the kind the servants often used to freshen the air.
When Robert entered with the lunch tray in hand, the first thing he noticed was how still the room felt. Kael was already awake, sitting by the window with his knees drawn close to his chest. The long white curtains swayed softly with the breeze, brushing against his hair.
For a brief second, Robert paused at the doorway.
Kael's face was pale — paler than usual — and his eyes, though open, looked distant, unfocused, as if still trapped somewhere far from here.
"Did you just wake up, young master?" Robert asked softly, his voice calm and careful, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile silence around Kael.
He received no reply.
Kael didn't even glance back. His gaze was fixed on the balcony outside, where the sunlight shimmered faintly across the stone tiles. His fingers dug slightly against the fabric of his sleeve, lost in thought.
Robert set the tray down quietly on the table beside him. The gentle clink of porcelain broke the silence.
He studied Kael for a moment longer, then exhaled quietly and poured a cup of coffee. "Here," he said, holding it out to him, "your favourite."
The familiar scent of roasted beans reached Kael's nose, faintly bitter yet grounding. Slowly, as if breaking from a trance, Kael turned his head. His eyes focused again — dull red now reflecting the light from the cup. He took the mug wordlessly, setting his knees down and sitting straighter.
Robert smiled faintly, relieved. "There we go. I thought you'd still be asleep till evening," he said, tone lightening a little as he uncovered the plate of food. "So I only brought something small — bread, stew, and fruit. You need something warm in your stomach."
Kael didn't respond. He stared at the food for a moment, then reached for a piece of bread and began to eat slowly, without much expression.
Robert watched him quietly, the faint worry in his eyes betraying his calm voice. "Did you have another nightmare?" he asked gently.
Kael froze for half a second, then gave a slight shake of his head.
Robert crouched slightly beside the chair, trying to meet his gaze. "You look pale. Or perhaps your chest is hurting again?" he asked. His voice carried genuine concern.
Kael lowered the bread, meeting Robert's eyes briefly. "I'm just tired of the journey," he said quietly. His tone was calm — almost too calm — the kind that hid rather than revealed.
Robert studied him for a few moments more, then nodded. "I see," he said softly, standing again. "Still, you shouldn't push yourself too much."
He began to tidy the room as Kael continued to eat. The familiar rhythm of Robert's movements filled the silence — adjusting the curtains, straightening the bed sheets, returning books they had brought from their journey onto the shelves. Each movement was neat and precise, reflecting years of habit.
As he worked, Kael's eyes followed him for a moment — specifically, the faint gleam of gold in Robert's hair when sunlight touched it. It was nearly the same shade as in his dream — pale, warm gold that shimmered when caught by the light.
And those eyes — green, clear, gentle — the same color that had once looked down at him in that dim, haunting memory.
Kael's fingers tightened slightly around his cup.
Robert noticed the stare and turned, smiling lightly. "Is there something on my face, young master?" he teased gently, voice carrying warmth.
Kael said nothing. He only looked away, returning his attention to the stew on his plate.
Robert chuckled softly and went back to his work, though his expression softened. He had seen that look before — Kael's eyes when trapped between memory and the present, as if ghosts from his past brushed against the edges of his thoughts.
When Kael finished his meal, Robert cleared the dishes and placed them neatly back on the tray. He took a moment to glance at Kael's reflection in the mirror — his complexion still pale, but his breathing steady now.
"Lady Elric requested to see you in her office," Robert said at last. "She wishes to discuss something important."
Kael didn't immediately respond. His gaze lingered on the floor for a moment before he looked up, waiting for Robert to continue.
"She said it isn't urgent," Robert added quickly, his voice cautious. "If you're still tired, I can tell her you'll come later. You don't look well-rested."
Kael looked at him quietly for a few seconds, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he gave a faint nod.
Robert let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Alright then…" He smiled faintly. "I'll guide you there once you've changed. Please, take your time."
He turned to the wardrobe and began selecting Kael's attire for the afternoon — something simple, elegant, not too formal. A soft cream shirt with dark trousers, paired with a light cloak that would suit the mild weather outside.
Behind him, Kael remained seated, finishing the last sip of coffee. His eyes drifted once more toward the balcony — to the open blue sky beyond the railing.
The world outside was bright and calm. But within him, shadows still stirred — whispering voices, the faint echo of a man's words he couldn't forget.
"You are precious."
He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying his breath.
Perhaps Elric would have answers. Or perhaps, like before, only more questions.
Either way, he knew there was no running from it anymore.
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The steady crackle of the fireplace was the only sound inside the imperial study. The room was dim, bathed in amber light, shadows stretching long across the polished marble floor.
Reinhardt sat behind his desk, one arm resting heavily on the armrest while the other supported his head. His eyes were half-lidded, strands of golden hair falling loose over his forehead. The faint scent of ink, parchment, and ash clung to the air — the scent of sleepless nights.
A dull ache pulsed behind his temples.
The day had been long. Too long.
The morning court had been in disarray — ministers, nobles, and generals alike speaking over one another, their voices sharp and desperate.
The rumors had spread like wildfire: The Undead Dragon had reappeared. The Demon Cult had moved again. The Hero, Kael Delcra, had been seen.
The entire court was feverish with questions and fear.
And Reinhardt… had said nothing.
For the first time since his coronation, the Emperor of Emestrild sat in silence, listening without answering, letting the chaos spiral around him. His advisors had exchanged worried glances; the council members had whispered among themselves. They had seen it — the momentary falter in their Emperor's composure.
When he finally stood, the hall fell quiet, waiting for his command.
Instead, he simply said, "Court is dismissed."
No explanation. No orders. Only silence.
Now, alone in his study, Reinhardt exhaled, his breath heavy with exhaustion.
He leaned back, eyes unfocused, staring at the flickering firelight that danced along the marble walls. The warmth did little to ease the cold weight pressing on his chest.
Kael.
The name echoed in his mind like a curse.
The image came unbidden — Kael's lifeless form cradled in his arms that day, the blood staining his cloak, the tremor in his own hands as he called out to him. The sound of Kael's last, shallow breath before the world seemed to stop.
Reinhardt closed his eyes tightly. Even now, the memory clawed at him. The faint warmth of Kael's body fading away — that moment had never left him.
He pressed his thumb against his temple, forcing the image down. Not now.
He was not the powerless prince of yesterday. He was an Emperor now — the ruler of the largest empire on the continent. His grief had no place here.
Still… it lingered. Guilt had a way of seeping into even the strongest walls.
His gaze shifted slowly toward the small table beside the fireplace. There, among a few unopened documents and reports, lay a letter.
The parchment was plain, sealed not with the imperial crest, but with Elric's emblem — the silver thorn of Vaelthorn.
He had recognized it immediately when Robert's messenger delivered it two days ago. The same kind of report he always received through their secret channel. Normally, he would have opened it at once.
But this time… he couldn't.
Robert's note had said the letter was written by Kael himself.
For two days, it had sat there — untouched, silent, accusing.
He had tried to ignore it, but his eyes kept returning to it again and again. Each time, the same thoughts rose to torment him.
Was Kael angry?
Did he curse me?
Did he blame me for what happened in Delcra?
The thought made his chest tighten painfully. He had failed to protect Kael once. The idea that Kael now hated him — that the one person he cherished above all others had turned away — was almost unbearable.
Reinhardt leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His golden hair fell forward, shadowing his eyes.
"I'm a fool," he murmured under his breath. "I should've opened it the moment it arrived."
The fire cracked softly, embers sparking upward.
After a long silence, he finally reached for the letter. His gloved hands trembled faintly — not from weakness, but from something far deeper.
He broke the seal carefully.
The paper unfolded in his hands.
His eyes moved across the words slowly, almost warily — and then stopped.
For a moment, he simply stared.
Then his lips parted — first in disbelief, then in something else. Something that almost resembled a smile.
He let out a low, breathless laugh.
The laughter grew, quiet but genuine, easing the tension that had weighed on his shoulders for days.
The letter was short. The handwriting was neat but slightly uneven — unmistakably Kael's.
"Bring me a nice bouquet and fresh roasted coffee beans.
Seriously, I'm not leaving any leftover food for you.
I'm waiting."
That was all.
No blame. No anger. No accusation.
Just a simple message — direct, warm in its own quiet way.
Reinhardt leaned back in his chair, holding the paper loosely in one hand. His laughter softened into a sigh, the ache in his chest easing.
"Still the same," he murmured to himself, his tone low and fond. "Always saying so little, yet meaning so much."
He folded the letter carefully, pressing it to his lips for a brief moment before placing it close to his heart.
The corners of his mouth lifted again, this time in a true smile — rare and unguarded.
His headache was gone. The weight pressing on his chest felt lighter, almost nonexistent.
He turned his gaze to the window, where the faint light of dusk bled into the sky, painting the horizon gold.
"Bouquet and coffee beans, hm?" he murmured. "If that's what you want, Kael… then I'll bring it myself."
His voice softened, almost tender.
"I'll come to you soon."
The fire flickered behind him, its glow reflecting off his eyes — emerald, bright and alive once more.
For the first time in days, the Emperor smiled without bitterness.