Eldric strolled forward towards the stage at the centre of the royal castle.

No matter where his eyes moved, people stood there. The hall was filled to the edge with nobles in their bright silks, and beyond them, rows of commoners pressed together in awe. His mother had allowed them to enter the castle for the day—to watch the coronation before joining the parade outside. Now they stood as one sea of faces, and all of them were looking at him.

He felt a prickle between his shoulders as he moved, each step measured. Perhaps it wasn’t him they were weighing, but the clothes. They were worth as much as several noble estates. It wasn’t as if he’d never worn fine clothes; he had wardrobes full of them. But this—this—outshone anything he’d ever worn. Opulent gold threads wove through the cloth, and each ring on his fingers glittered like captured stars. They were more than ornaments, though. Each ring carried power—a defensive artifact, in case an attack happened.

Honestly, he doubted anyone would. His brothers? Not a chance, not even Arzan. But his mother never left anything to chance. He could almost hear her cold, even voice: The crown will reach your head, Eldric. No matter the cost.

Even now, guards moved through the crowds below. Their eyes were sharp and constantly searching. On the balconies, Royal Mages stood with their hands clasped behind their backs. The air itself felt tight with all the security. This was likely the most guarded event in Lancephil’s history. The entire capital had been locked down for this one day.

And yet, as Eldric walked through the thunder of cheers, he knew every bit of this protection had nothing to do with love. His mother did not fear for him—only for her plan. She had built this day piece by piece, year by year, and she would not let it fail.

At the stage, he saw her sitting at the high seat next to his father King Sullivan, calm and still. The golden light through the stained glass made her look like a saint, though he knew better. Beside her, in long white robes trimmed with blue and silver, stood a man Eldric knew was Archbishop Callen of the Church of Goddess Lumaris, only one of the three to attend the coronation. The priest’s thin hands held a staff crowned with a sun-shaped sigil. His eyes were pale, but he had a gentle smile on.

The Church had always stood beside the crown, though never truly under it. Eldric wondered briefly if his mother had chosen Callen herself, but it didn't matter.

And so, with every gaze upon him—his mother’s, the nobles’, the Mages’, the Archbishop’s, the commoners’—Eldric stepped toward the centre where he would be crowned.

Eldric’s heartbeat matched his steps—not from the cheers around him or the weight in his chest, but from the simple ache of need. He hadn’t been able to drink more of the liquid he’d come to depend on, the one thing that steadied him each morning and night. His body reminded him of it now, a faint tremor under his ribs with every breath.

Since the civil war had broken out, his mother had chained his days to duty. War councils at dawn, formation drills till dusk, endless talks of supply lines and troop numbers. All of it felt empty to him like being forced to move pieces on a board he had never wanted to play. He had no control over the war, no say in its course, yet he played the part as he always did. The dutiful prince. The obedient son.

Soon, he reached the centre of the hall. The Knights and Mages who had flanked him stopped and moved aside, joining the cluster of nobles allowed close to the stage.

The air grew heavier here, thick with incense and expectation.

He looked at his father and mother who were right beside him now. His sister, of course, was nowhere to be seen. She had run off with that damned Arzan. It was a distasteful thought, but he ignored it. Let her stay gone, he thought. He had no use for her anymore.

Eldric’s gaze slid to his father again—King Sullivan. The man stood in full regalia, the royal cloak draped across his shoulders. When their eyes met, Eldric saw only stillness—no pride, no warmth. Only the familiar kind. He’d seen it a hundred times before in the mirror, in his own eyes.

So even you’re acting, Eldric thought. The idea almost made him laugh, but he swallowed it down. This wasn’t the place to find humor.

The trumpets blared, sharp and bright, pulling every head toward the stage. The herald stepped forward, his voice loud and clear as it carried through the massive hall.

“People of Lancephil,” he began, “our kingdom has known unrest. The royal princes have turned upon each other, tearing at the peace that bound our lands. Yet, to end this turmoil and bring unity once more, His Majesty—King Sullivan Lancephil—has chosen to pass down his crown to the First Prince, Eldric Sullivan Lancephil.”

A murmur skimmed the crowd, then broke into pockets of noise—some commoners bowing, others cheering. Eldric’s gaze brushed each face, especially the nobles who offered nothing.

The herald lifted his hand for quiet. “By this act, His Majesty hopes to end the bloodshed of civil war and lead our kingdom toward new prosperity.”

Archbishop Callen stepped forward then, his staff catching the light. The golden sun emblem at its top shimmered faintly, the glow reflecting off Eldric’s rings. He raised his voice—not loud, but strong enough to carry through the hush.

“May Goddess Lumaris bear witness to this passing of the crown,” Callen said. “May she grant wisdom to the one who takes it, and peace to those who follow.”

He drew in a slow breath as the man lifted his hand in blessing. His eyes went from his mother’s gaze to his father’s distant eyes. He almost smiled at how fitting it was—each of them playing their parts to perfection.

It was his time, too. He straightened his shoulders and prepared himself to begin the performance he had been born into.

The herald took over the crowd once again, thanking the archbishop for being here and continuing, talking about the future of the kingdom that made the people cheer loudly.

Eldric again almost laughed at the cheers. It was hard not to. Why was everything funny today? In his defense, the speech was polished lies, pretty and empty. The commoners drank it like sweet wine. Say a thing with enough shine and they would believe it. That was how the game worked.

He looked at his father again. King Sullivan’s eyes were flat, tired, unwilling. There was no welcome in them, no pride, no claim. Eldric felt nothing in return. The man had never cared; why should he start now?

Despite the roar and glitter, the coronation was only steps on rails—oaths, a speech, more oaths. His mother had drilled each line into him until the words lived on his tongue. He did not need to think. He only needed to speak.

“Do you swear, before Goddess Lumaris and Her Church,” the Archbishop intoned, “to keep Her light at the heart of your rule to guard Her sanctuaries, heed Her clergy in matters of faith, and shelter those who seek Her mercy?”

“I swear,” Eldric said and a cheer rolled up the crowd.

“Do you swear to treat the whole of the kingdom, and each citizen, as your son or daughter, to hear them, and to help them grow in the best way you can?”

“I swear,” Eldric said.

Another cheer broke against the ceiling, then thinned to a hush.

“Do you swear,” his father said, speaking for the first time, “to keep the kingdom safe from our enemies’ eyes, and to protect it to your last breath?”

“I swear.”

His father did not look at Eldric when he spoke the next vow, shifting his eyes to his mother. “Do you swear to act as a just king—honest in your judgments that would be always for the good of the realm, even when it cuts against your own will?”

Eldric’s gaze slid to his mother. She was already watching him, a small smile shaping her mouth.

“I swear,” he said.

As the words left Eldric’s mouth, the hall erupted. The sound rose like a storm—cheers, cries, the pounding of fists and feet against marble. It was the loudest roar the capital had ever heard. The kind that could shake walls. The kind that could drown thought.

Eldric flinched. For a brief moment, he wanted nothing more than to drink that damned liquid to quiet his shaking heart, to push the noise away, to steady the tremor crawling up his spine. But he stopped himself. Not here. Not now.

His father stepped forward, and the hall began to quiet, though the cheers still rippled in waves. A herald came from the side, holding a long box made of dark oak. Inside, cushioned in red silk, rested the crown—golden and heavy, carved with the names of the old kings. The herald lifted it for all to see before bowing and stepping back.

King Sullivan took the crown with slow, careful hands. The cheers grew again, the people calling Eldric’s name now. The air trembled with their voices as his father turned and placed the crown gently on his son’s head.

For a moment, it all stopped—the sound, the air, even time itself. Then his father looked at him, truly looked at him, and Eldric saw something break through that calm mask.

“Eldric,” his father said quietly, his voice meant for him alone. “Remember—whatever you do, you are my son. And I’m sorry… for not being able to protect you. I truly am. But, son, you still have time to change things.”

Eldric’s eyes widened. His heart thudded hard against his ribs. Change things? A gasp escaped his lips and before he could think, the noise of the crowd rushed back in, swallowing the words whole.

Then came the sting of his mother’s gaze. He didn’t need to look long to understand. Her eyes told him to hurry up and follow the next part of the act.

He forced down the frown that tried to rise and turned away, walking slowly to the front of the stage. From there, he could see everything—the endless sea of faces, the banners swaying like waves, the golden light spilling through the windows. The cheers of the people still thundered for him, their new king.

For years, he had dreamed of this moment—of standing here, crown on his head, the kingdom at his feet. But now that it was real, there was no joy in it. No triumph. Only a hollow dread sitting cold inside his chest.

Still, he straightened his shoulders. There would be time to feel later, when the hall was empty and the noise was gone. For now, he had a part to play.

For now, he simply swept his eyes over the crowd and thought of the speech his mother had drilled into him all week. It was not his speech—only a shape of what he wanted, shaved to fit the politics of war. Still, he stepped forward and lifted his hands for the cheers to come to a halt.

“Citizens of Hermil, and those who have come from beyond in these turbulent times to witness my coronation,” he said, voice even and clear. “By the grace of Goddess Lumaris, and under the eyes of Her Church, I will not hide from the darkness that has spread across our kingdom. After our father chose not to press the crown on my brothers, they—Aldrin and Thalric—betrayed the land and lit the torch of civil war. They march by force, with no care for our people. They butcher our garrisons to take our forts; they tear banners from their poles. Some treacherous nobles have gone with them.”

“Today I name them traitors to Lancephil,” he went on and saw the way the crowd’s tide changed, “and oath-breakers before the light of Lumaris. By the crown on my head, by Her altar at my back, and by each of you here, I swear I will bring them to the noose and to judgment in daylight. No one—not even my own kin—will be allowed to tear this kingdom apart!!”

The hall exploded. The cheers that rose this time were louder than any before, higher and more violent, like a storm driven suddenly into the glass. For a heartbeat he stood soaked in sound. It felt like power—hot and heavy—and for the first time since he could remember he let himself bask in it. He felt, briefly and dangerously, like a king.

His mother moved closer. She had not smiled; she did not need to. Her glance was a small, sharp thing. “Make sure you act the same in the parade too,” she said, the words low but clear. “You are acting adequately.”

The word hit him more than any cheer. It was not praise—it was a mark, a rating, a hand keeping him exactly where she wanted. Eldric looked up at her, the applause still pounding in his ears, and the meaning of her glance turned in his blood.

He did not answer. He did not need to. He had practiced the speech until the lines lived under his skin, and all he was… adequate. The small, cold ache of need began to rise again—the urge for the vial, the thought of the liquid that smoothed his edges and quieted the thunder inside him.

It bubbled up in his mind, bright and dangerous, and he clenched his teeth to hold it down.

***

Kai looked at Feroy as the man spoke, his voice low but edged with concern. “I really don’t feel like we’re going to take down a fort with these few soldiers, even if I know otherwise.”

At his words, Kai turned his gaze toward the column behind them. A hundred soldiers rode in formation, their armor glinting faintly beneath the morning sun. Behind them trailed the carriages—heavy, iron-banded things laden with drones, golems, and the precious mana cannons that would serve as their only real advantage in the coming assault. Hopefully, they wouldn't need to use much of that in the battle.

If he was right, more than half of the soldiers were fresh recruits. Some couldn’t even ride properly, their reins held awkwardly as more seasoned fighters shared saddles with them. Their faces were mostly expressionless, but as the jagged outline of Fort Glaivegate grew closer on the horizon, Kai caught glimmers of fear in their eyes.

Understandable—this was to be their first battle, and the fort they approached was one of the strongest on the border.

“I don’t think the soldiers believe it either,” Kai murmured. “At least not the new recruits. Let’s just hope they don’t run at the first sight of the enemy. Though…” he paused, glancing toward the carriages again, “if the plan goes right, the enemy won’t be able to do much anyway.”

Feroy nodded. “I think it will. The problem is that the Watchers still haven’t verified the Caelond Kingdom's stance in the civil war—whether they’ve decided to support Aldrin or not.”

Kai’s expression hardened. “Even if they are, they’ll need time to send reinforcements. At worst, once we take Fort Glaivegate, it’ll turn into a siege war with them. I’ve heard they have another fort very close by.”

“They do,” Feroy confirmed. “But I believe the cannons will be sufficient to hold them back.”

Kai nodded slightly at Feroy’s words. “They should be,” he said quietly, then paused, glancing sideways at his companion. “Tell me, Feroy—are you disappointed you won’t get to be in the thick of the fighting? Facing Aldrin’s main forces head-on?”

Feroy blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. Then, after a heartbeat, he gave a faint, almost sheepish nod. “A little,” he admitted. “I believe I’m getting close to reaching the third rank. I spoke with Knight Killian about it—the feeling he had right before breaking through. I can sense it, that same tension inside me. I think the war will help push me over the edge.”

Kai’s lips curved faintly in understanding. “Let’s hope so. Even if you don’t get much action with these border forts, the civil war won’t end anytime soon. There’ll be plenty of battles ahead.”

He turned his gaze forward again, toward the stretch of barren field that separated their army from their target. Drawing a slow breath, he let mana flow into his eyes, the familiar rush of heat and sharp clarity filling his vision as his [Hawk Eyes] activated. The world sharpened, distant shapes snapping into perfect focus as he saw the grey stone walls of Fort Glaivegate, rising like a scar on the land, its high towers lined with ballistae and banners fluttering in the wind. The fort itself was a formidable sight: surrounded by a moat and reinforced with wards and layers of metal plating that caught the sunlight like dull silver.

Watchtowers dotted its perimeter, and even from here, he could see faint movements along the ramparts—soldiers patrolling, unaware of the storm approaching.

A smile touched his lips.

Disengaging the spell, Kai turned back toward the column, his voice carrying firmly across the line. “Increase your speed, and get into the first formation” he ordered. “The fort is close by. We’re about to experience our first battle of the civil war.”

He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the young, tense faces behind him. “I hope you’re ready.”

***

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