CHAPTER 436: THE GOLDEN JUBILEE: THE KING THAT WAS

Twilight descended over Savadra, washing the palace in hues of violet and amber. King Heimdal stepped out of what used to be Astrid’s dressing room. He was wearing a robe with gold trimmings and with an embroidered golden eagle clutching a ring of fire at the back—the emblem of Northem.

Though his health improved a lot after taking the tonics and pills prepared by Lara, he was still not back to his old self. His stride was slower now, tempered by age and illness, but still carried the weight of a man who had once commanded armies.

He sank into the carved cedar chair by the terrace of Balai Hamili. From there, the sunset unfurled before him—its light spilling across the palace gardens and gilding the old gazebo in a glory no mason could replicate.

Inside the marble walls, Astrid’s boudoir was carefully preserved. It was more than a memory as Astrid’s presence lingered—he could feel it in the hush that descended each sunset, in the intoxicating fragrance of roses and gardenias—flowers she had loved, in the way the light seemed to clothe the gazebo in warmth no craftsman’s hand could conjure. To others, it was stone. To him, it was her.

Astrid—the queen who had steadied him when the crown was newly placed and the kingdom fragile. She had softened his fury, tempered his steel, and reminded him that power without mercy was no kingdom worth holding. She had given him Alaric, their firstborn, who carried both her sharp gaze and her stubborn will—a son Heimdal had driven away in a misguided act of protection, yet who remained the only living remnant of her.

Heimdal closed his eyes. He could almost hear Astrid’s laughter in the play of the wind, see her shadow where the torchlight flickered across the garden. Years had passed, but grief had not loosened its hold. Perhaps it never would.

He thought of Helga then—clever, ambitious Helga, who had clawed her way to his side and refused to be content with anything less than supremacy. She was loyal in her way, though her loyalty was born not of love, but of hunger. She would preserve the crown at any cost, but never for the reasons Astrid would have.

Helga saw Northem as a game of conquest—a game of thrones, pieces to be moved, enemies to be crushed. Astrid had seen Northem as a garden, fragile and in need of tending.

Heimdal’s hands tightened on the arms of the rocking chair. That was the true division in his court—the living queen and the dead one. One who ruled with scheming, the other who ruled from memory. And he, the king, was torn between them, haunted and hollow.

The sound of distant bells reached him then—the summons to the banquet. He did not move. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunset. He regretted that he was not watching it from the balcony of his quarters. Balai Hamili, where he was, would now

be blazing in full splendor as the last light of day clung to its marble.

A movement from the back and an awkward cough broke the quiet. Behind him, Prince Dakota entered with Heimdal’s personal guard Pelagio and Dakota’s own guard. The old prince settled on a cushioned seat beside Heimdal, eyes softening as he too found the sunset.

"The gazebo," Dakota murmured, voice wistful, "it has never looked more beautiful than now."

Heimdal hummed. "You came early, uncle, which is unlike you." He said, without breaking his gaze from the sunset. "You must have some bad news."

"You already know." The old prince replied, his voice weary.

A shadow passed across Heimdal’s gaze. "So Reuben ignored me. He did not deliver the letter to Orion and did not ask Kasmeri nor General Hemer Frigo for their help. He felt pain in his chest; he pressed a hand to it, steadying his breath.

Reuben, his son, had changed. He has become reckless and headstrong. Could ambition really change a boy trained from a young age? Maybe, without him knowing, Helga and her maternal family had poisoned Reuben even when he was a boy.

He was worried the kingdom might pay the price.

"Do not grieve for him. He is not worthy. He has become headstrong and stubborn." Dakota heaved a deep sigh. "I also advised him and his inner circle several times, but they thought that they had everything under control and would not listen to this old man’s counsel. They thought that I was outdated."

"Will tonight be Savadra’s doom?" Heimdal’s voice trembled. He was deeply troubled. The kingdom that he worked so hard for to protect and keep the peace, would it be destroyed under his watch and by the hands of his wife and son?

"Not necessarily."

Heimdal turned his head to look at his uncle.

"Is Alaric coming?" he asked in anticipation.

Dakota lowered his voice, barely more than a whisper. "Yes. He is already within the walls of Savadra, leading their army, the Phoenix Legion. And by the way, Carles was retaken. That father and son finally redeemed themselves and became worthy of the Norse name like they should."

Relief flickered in Heimdal’s eyes, though it was tempered by unease. "Thank heavens! Yet... what of Silverstone and the nobles Turik holds captive?"

Dakota sipped from his teacup before replying. "We wait for word. Odin’s sons, Asael, Galahad, and Gideon, themselves led five hundred men to free the women and children. Whether they succeeded, we shall soon know."

"They would succeed. I do not have doubts about it." Heimdal said as if he were uttering a solemn vow.

"I share your beliefs. Odin’s children are great generals. Every one of them, including the daughter he lost four years ago and returned two years later."

"My future daughter-in-law." King Heimdal murmured, then his gaze strayed to the gazebo about to be swallowed by darkness. It was there that Astrid and Freya exchanged tokens while both children sat on their laps.

He withdrew his gaze and looked down, contemplating. "I am still worried for Reuben. What will become of him after tonight?"

Dakota’s reply was soft but resolute. "Alaric has chosen not to intervene. He will let fate claim Reuben as it would."

Silence lingered. At last, Heimdal exhaled a long, tired sigh.

"I see," Heimdal said. His shoulders sagged a little.

Dakota clutched his nephew’s robe.

"It looks like you are going to attend the banquet."

Heimdal shook his head. "My presence would only eclipse Helga’s triumph, but I wished to honor the victors of the martial arts games, especially Helio Bandor. It was my father who wronged him, and I want to make amends."

"Then, let us go together, and then we can return here to play chess."

Outside, the torches in the courtyard flared to life, and the palace filled with music, laughter, and the gathering of power.

Heimdal remained still, watching the last remnant of the sun disappear from the west.

Only then did he rise, slow and deliberate, to face the world within his palace—the world Helga and his son sought to bend, the world Astrid had once sought to heal.