CHAPTER 30: CONFRONTING ASZER

Aric stood near the window of his modest room. The surroundings were simple, and the furniture, though not old, was far removed from the lavish royal adornments of his former quarters.

It wasn’t much, but it suited his needs.

Stretching, Aric let the sunlight streaming through the small window bathe his face in a glistening gold.

"Aszer, how long has it been since we met?" he murmured, tilting his head back and running his fingers through his dark silver hair to push it away from his forehead.

The fourth prince had made his choice—a vital and perhaps fatal one. He would confront the King of Byzeth directly. To many, it was madness, but Aric knew even the strongest shield could be shattered if a crack lay within.

After quickly finishing his morning routine, Aric descended the stairs.

Before he reached the bottom, the rich aroma of food reached him, filling the house with warmth. He already knew who was responsible.

The living room was empty, but faint grunts carried from the distance. Aric followed the sound to the kitchen. The moment he pushed the door open, the scent of roasting meat and spices hit him in full force.

"Ah, you’re up," the old man said without looking, moving about the medium-sized kitchen as he prepared the meal.

A pang of nostalgia struck Aric. The man had always been a skilled cook, making breakfast for him and his men long ago. It was a strange hobby for someone like him—a sharp contrast to his true nature.

"Yeah... I need to get to the capital. I’m meeting the king," Aric explained.

Hitoki froze, then turned to face him, his expression hard.

"That’s suicide," the old man warned.

"Don’t worry. Just a friendly chat," Aric assured him, glancing away. "And the food smells great, but I can’t stay. Tell the others I’ll be back by sundown."

"And if you’re not?" Hitoki pressed.

Aric’s expression darkened, his tone firm.

"Then they should return to the imperial city immediately."

With that, he moved on. Passing a large window, he saw Lerai sparring with the young guard in the yard, their grunts carrying through the air. He said nothing, not wishing to alarm anyone or invite objections.

He left without further discussion.

Aric knew the Migard Province well. He made his way to the carrier station and boarded a carriage bound for the capital. Unlike the private carriages of nobility, this one was larger, built to carry more passengers—a commoner’s fastest way between provinces.

"To the capital! To the capital! Fifty silver!" the driver shouted repeatedly, his voice blending with the calls of other drivers bound for different destinations.

Aric found his seat, and soon the carriage filled and rolled forward.

The journey was neither slow nor swift, but the capital was close enough that they would arrive within hours. The carriage lacked a roof and windows, giving him an unbroken view of the land as it changed around them.

The busy district gave way to farmland, then to small villages of clustered cottages—simple lives, untouched by the storm that loomed over them.

Darisu’s words from the banquet echoed in Aric’s mind: would he slaughter the innocent to quell rebellion, to achieve his goals?

Aric’s gaze lingered on the modest villages. His hand tightened into a fist. His answer had not changed.

After several hours, the capital of Byzeth came into view. Its high walls and looming towers stood like a pale imitation of the imperial city’s splendor. It was not nearly as grand, but compared to the countryside, it was another world.

The carriage rolled through the bustling streets and stopped at the receiving station.

Aric stepped down, his eyes sweeping the fortress-like capital. Excitement stirred in him. Soon, all of this would be his.

For once, he admitted his father had been right—the Byzeth Kingdom was indeed a priceless gift.

Cloaked and unremarkable among the crowd, Aric pushed through the busy streets. Vendors shouted, soldiers marched, citizens haggled. To them, he was no one. They didn’t realize this moment would define their kingdom’s fate.

He raised his eyes to the royal castle, towering at the city’s heart, its spires stretching upward as if to graze the heavens. His cloak rippled in the wind as his gaze hardened. He wasn’t here to admire—he was here to act.

At last, he reached the massive gates, bristling with guards. Men stood posted at every possible point, their stares fixed on him as he approached.

One stepped forward. "State your business."

"I’m here to see the king," Aric replied evenly, his calm tone laced with an intensity that unsettled.

The guard blinked, then scoffed. Turning to his comrade, he let out a short laugh.

"You can’t just walk in and demand an audience with His Majesty. Is this a joke?"

"Oh?" Aric’s lips twisted into a sharp, predatory smile. "But I’m quite certain I can."

He pulled back his hood, stepped closer, and lowered his voice without softening its edge.

"Tell your king that Aric Valerian is here... he will understand."

The name froze them. An imperial prince? At a time like this? Their instincts screamed danger. Yet his bearing—so sure, so unshakable—made them hesitate.

Finally, the guard muttered, "Wait here," before hurrying inside.

Aric clasped his hands behind his back, waiting calmly while the other guards shifted uneasily, their fingers twitching near their weapons.

Minutes later, a higher-ranking guard appeared, his voice taut.

"The king will see you."

The gates opened.

Aric strode through the halls of the palace, his boots striking against polished marble. The Byzeth palace lacked the grandeur of Valeria’s, but power lingered in its walls—the authority of a kingdom bold enough to toy with rebellion.

When he entered the throne room, silence fell. Advisors, nobles, and courtiers turned, their whispers dying in their throats.

Skepticism gave way to stunned recognition. It was him—the fourth prince of Valeria.

At the far end, seated upon a raised dais, King Aszer Hait regarded him with narrowed eyes. The ruler’s stern face, lined with age, betrayed neither welcome nor warmth as he studied the approaching prince.

Aric walked steadily down the center of the room, his eyes locked on the king. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, yet menace radiated from him with every step—as though he already controlled the board.

At last, the king’s voice boomed across the chamber.

"Prince Aric Valerian, fourth prince of our great empire... you seem to be doing better than I was informed."

"Not all information can be trusted, Your Grace," Aric answered evenly.

"You are right," Aszer said coldly. "So tell me—why come unannounced, without invitation?"

The court held its breath, waiting.

Aric’s lips curved into a grin.

"Oh, you know. To catch up. Perhaps discuss business..." His grin sharpened.

"...and to ask what gave you the audacity to contemplate rebellion?"