CHAPTER 414: RETURN OF THE LOST PRINCE 2

General Joash Marcus’s eyes widened, the shock hitting him like a physical blow.He had been a young soldier the last time he stood inside the gilded halls of the Estalis palace—accompanying his father, a decorated general, to a lavish banquet in honor of the army. He remembered the soft glow of chandeliers, the proud smiles, and among them, a young prince with eyes bright as dawn. That was before the night of blood—before the treachery of General Traidor, who slaughtered the royal family and crowned himself as king.

Maybe it was karma, but his rule did not last long and was even murdered by his own son who was now sitting on the throne as Zura’s puppet ruler.

And now... that same prince stood before him, more mature, stronger and wiser.

"You..."

For an instant, Joash froze—his body rigid, his mind scrambling to reconcile the impossible truth before him. Then it hit. The weight of realization surged through him, crashing over his thoughts like a tidal wave. His chest tightened. His throat burned. Urgency welled in his heart.

With sudden, almost instinctive resolve, he dropped to one knee, the cold earth biting into him. He bowed low, pressing his head forward in reverence so deep it trembled with emotion.

"This general greets, His Highness, Prince Aragon."

Around him, Joshua and the other Estalis soldiers followed suit, the ground shifting beneath the weight of so many kneeling men. Many of the younger ones had never seen the prince in life, yet the tragedy of Estalis’s fallen king was etched into their souls. To them, Joash’s gesture was enough—if he bowed, they would bow.

"Rise."

A single word, yet it carried the command of someone born of nobility. The word rolled from Angus’s lips, but it was more than sound—it was command. His presence shifted, filling the air with that unmistakable authority Joash had only seen once before: when he spoke beside his father, honoring the soldiers for their contribution in saving lives during a natural calamity.

Prince Alaric had seen that aura of nobility when Angus had stood defiantly between a starving boy, young Aramis, and the whip of a slave driver who had accused him of stealing bread.

"We rest tonight," Angus continued, his voice steady. "At sunrise, we visit the Estalis camp."

Joash stood, though his knees felt unsteady. His gaze lingered on the man’s face—the prince they had all believed dead—and a raw heat stung his eyes. For the first time in years, hope flared in his chest.

And then... doubt.

Hadn’t he already sworn allegiance to Prince Alaric of Northem? Yet, wasn’t this man—Prince Aragon—was now a general under that same prince? What of Estalis? Was there hope for the kingdom?

"Your Highness," Joash burst out, the words laced with barely-contained emotion. Questions crowded his mind—where had he been all these years? How had he survived? But before the first could leave his lips, Angus’s voice cut in.

"Don’t address me as ’Your Highness.’ Like you, I serve the Northem prince as a general."

For a heartbeat, Angus’s eyes seemed far away, shadowed by memories only he could see. Even without words, he felt the truth—Prince Alaric had always known who Angus truly was.

When Alaric had rescued him and his younger brother, Angus had offered his life in service. They had agreed on five years. But five years had stretched into ten—ten years in which admiration had grown into unshakable loyalty. In that time, Angus had honed his skills, forged alliances, and quietly rebuilt bridges to the remnants of Estalis’s army scattered across Northem and Zura.

Alaric had not only known—he had paved a way for him, sent him to missions where he encountered allies and his father’s loyal servants who escaped the massacre and chose to live as ordinary citizens of the neighboring kingdoms.

Even the defense of Fereya had been entrusted to Angus, knowing it was Estalis soldiers who would attack.

"You’re the best man to handle Fereya’s defense, Angus," Alaric had said. "You’ll know how to face them."

"Your Highness... how have you been all these years?" Joash’s voice pulled Angus back to the present.

A slow breath escaped him before he answered. "We lived on the border for five years, pretending to be the sons of a metal smith—my most loyal guard. But he died protecting us. Then Aramis... he was taken by traffickers, to be sold as a slave. I followed from the shadows. When they were about to sell him off, the young Prince of Northem found us. He bought us both and trained us to be his guards."

Joash’s throat tightened. He had imagined their prince lost to luxury or safety in some distant land—not living in disguise, not surviving in the shadows, not suffering chains.

Now, the weight of his past—and the hope of Estalis’s future—pressed heavy on them both.

...

Joash’s expression lingered in Angus’ mind—hope burning bright, the kind of hope Angus had long since learned to bury. It was dangerous, that spark. Hope could lift a man up... or leave him broken in the ashes.

They see a prince, Angus thought grimly. But I’ve been a soldier far longer than I was ever royalty.

In truth, he didn’t know if Estalis even needed a king anymore. Ten years of exile had stripped him of the illusions of rule. Kingdoms weren’t thrones and titles—they were people, and people bled the same no matter whose banner they knelt to. Alaric had taught him that.

Still, hearing Joash call him Your Highness had sent a pang through his chest. Not pride—ache. Ache for the boy who had once run the palace corridors with Aramis, for the father who had ruled with a steady hand, for the future that had been ripped from them in a single night of treachery.

But those days were gone. And the man he was now had sworn his sword to another prince, one who had saved his life. Whatever role fate had written for him in Estalis’s story, he could not betray that bond.

But Alaric knew. Perhaps he was also hoping that Estalis could return to its rightful heir.