CHAPTER 467: THE RELUCTANT PRINCE

Lara and Agilus exchanged uneasy glances, the kind that spoke without words. Their eyes then settled on Aramis—no, not Aramis, but the hollow shell of him—standing unnervingly still, his gaze unfocused as though caught in some invisible snare.

"Aramis," Agilus said carefully, his voice stripped of its usual playfulness. He stepped closer and tapped his friend’s shoulder. "Hey... are you with us?"

Aramis blinked.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

And with each blink, the past wavered until the Aegis palace dissolved into the smoke-choked ruins of memory. His grip on his bow grew rigid, the string pulled so tight that the wood groaned in protest. His knuckles blanched, and when he exhaled, it was sharp and ragged—like a man trying to force the ghosts back into the darkness, only to find them clinging tighter. His eyes stared through them, locked on some distant battlefield they could not see..

Lara noticed first. Her teasing smirk faltered, replaced by a fragile, searching concern. She stepped closer, her voice a whisper. "Aramis... you don’t look well."

Agilus frowned, the sight unsettling him more than he cared to admit. He had fought beside this man, bled beside him, but he had never seen him shaken so deeply. "What’s wrong?" he asked, the bravado gone from his tone. "You look like you’ve stared into death itself."

Aramis swallowed, the movement stiff and deliberate. His voice cracked like dry wood. "I told you... it was in the past. But the past does not die so easily."

Slowly, he lowered his bow. Yet his hands still trembled, the faint shiver betraying him. His gaze stayed rooted to the ground, as though to lift it would conjure the smoke and screams of that night—the palace burning, the kingdom falling, Estalis drowned in blood. In that moment, he seemed less like the hardened commander they followed and more like the boy who once fled the fire.

Neither Lara nor Agilus spoke. Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Then, at last, Lara broke, her voice softening to something almost maternal. "You survived. That means something, Aramis. Don’t let the ghosts of the past steal that from you."

But Aramis turned away, his jaw set like stone, hiding the grief that flickered in his eyes.

Lara and Agilus locked eyes again, the weight of unspoken words pressing between them. Then Agilus stepped forward, slipping an arm around Aramis’s shoulders. His tone shifted, forced lightness threading through it.

"Hey," he said, "I know a tavern in the capital that serves the best beer you’ll ever taste. These past days have been brutal—I could use a night of relaxation. What do you say? Come with me."

Normally, Aramis would have smirked, dragged him off without hesitation, and matched him pint for pint. But now... he stood motionless, as if the offer could not reach him through the walls of memory.

Lara drew in a steadying breath. When she spoke again, her words carried the weight of another voice—firm, resolute, undeniable.

"Prince Vaskar," she said, and in her tone Aramis heard Kane Mendel’s conviction, that young soldier he had once admired—and followed. "You know we are your brothers-in-arms. Aragon wants to reclaim what belongs to the two of you. We are ready to stand with you. To storm Estalis together and take back what was stolen."

Aramis’s head snapped up, his eyes sharp, startled. For a heartbeat, it wasn’t Lara before him, but Kane. The rival who had once spurred him to fight harder. The friend whose fire had burned brighter than his own. The one whom he challenged in duels, but he was always defeated.

"I..." His voice faltered, caught between past and present.

"I heard from Alaric," Lara pressed gently, though her words struck like a blade. "He made a pact with Angus. To help him reclaim your kingdom."

Aramis’s protest came raw, childlike. "But I don’t want to be a prince. I have a life here. Friends here. I don’t want to leave any of it behind."

Her reply came swiftly and unwavering. "But you and Angus are the last blood of Delmar. If you walk away, the line dies with you. Are you willing to forfeit your inheritance to the throne of Estalis?"

His eyes dropped once more. It was too long ago. His memories were cloaked in a thin veil and shadow surged, but one stood clear: the night of the fire, the massacre, his family’s screams swallowed by the roar of flames. His fists clenched so tight his nails bit into flesh. He could forsake the , yes—but not the vengeance. Never the vengeance.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, yet cold and steel-like.

"I can forfeit the inheritance," he said, "but not the revenge."

The silence that followed was sharper than any blade. Lara felt it coil around them like a serpent, its weight crushing, its presence waiting to strike. She studied Aramis, saw the tremor in his hands dissolve, replaced by something far more lethal: a cold and unyielding resolve.

So this is the shape grief takes in him, she thought. Not sorrow or tears but blades forged in fire. If he pursues only vengeance, then Estalis will bleed twice over—first from the past, and again from his hand.

Her chest tightened. She wanted to reach for him, to peel back the armor he kept layering over his wounds, but she knew that if she pressed too hard, he would shut her out forever. So instead, she softened her gaze, letting him see not a soldier, not a conspirator, but a companion who would not abandon him to his inner demons.

"Remember this, Aramis," Lara said at last, her voice steady, measured. "Whatever path you choose, we will stand with you. We are brothers." She realized that if she was in his shoes, she wouldn’t wait this long before getting her revenge.

For the first time, Aramis looked at her fully. His eyes flickered with something she couldn’t name. Was it gratitude? Or a ghost of something long buried?

"Thank you, Kane," he whispered in a fractured voice. Then his gaze shifted, softer, to Agilus. "And you too."