CHAPTER 526: THE NEW CROWN PRINCE

In the great hall of Northem, the newly crowned prince sat upon the throne, his expression carved from stone. The golden light from the high windows fell across his face, glinting off the crown that still felt far too heavy for his head. Below him, his mother stood, regal and graceful, her hands clasped before her as she met his troubled gaze.

"Mother," Alderan began, his voice tight with resentment, "did Father not want me to be king? Why did he agree to let Northem become a vassal of Azurverda? That kingdom is nothing more than ten poor towns in the border. How could it compare to Northem?."

Queen Mariam stirred, her silken robes whispering as she ascended the three marble steps leading to the dais. She took her seat on the smaller chair beside her son, the place reserved for the queen mother.

"Your father is a wise man," she said softly. "It is not that he did not wish for you to be king. He knows exactly what he is doing."

"Mother," Alderan murmured, breaking the silence, "you speak of Father’s wisdom as if it were a shield against every doubt. But what of me? Am I merely a piece in his grand design? Has my crown already been bartered away before I even learned to rule?"

Mariam’s eyes flickered toward him — a glint of sorrow and patience interwoven. "You think your father is cruel," she said softly. "Yet you judge the story before it is told."

Alderan’s hands tightened around the carved arms of the throne. "Cruelty is not just physical, Mother. What could be more cruel than shaming me and shattering my ego?" he echoed bitterly. "When every court in the kingdom will mock me? When I’ll be remembered as the weakest king in Northem’s history — if Northem even survives

this?"

Mariam drew a long breath and released it slowly, her eyes distant for a moment. "Trust your father, my son. You have read the treaty — the kingdoms under Azurverda will retain full autonomy. They will only intervene if injustice reigns or the people’s rights are violated."

He shook his head, the weight of the crown bowing him further. "I don’t know, Mother. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m nothing more than a puppet — a jester wearing a crown."

Alderan rose from the throne, the crimson cloak spilling behind him like a wounded banner. He descended the dais, pacing before the great map of the realm carved into the marble floor. His boots echoed with every step.

"He calls this alliance peace," Alderan spat, "but peace bought by submission is no peace at all. Our forefathers bled for Northem’s freedom — and now, with a stroke of a pen, he gives it away!"

"You speak as if your father has betrayed the blood of kings," Mariam replied, her voice firm yet never unkind. "But perhaps you do not see the whole battlefield. A blade is not the only weapon a ruler may wield."

He turned sharply toward her. "Then what am I to wield, Mother? Words? Promises? When Azurverda’s envoys arrive, they will smile and bow — but behind those smiles, they will see weakness. A young boy on a throne, bound by his father’s signature!"

Mariam rose to her feet. Though age had silvered her hair, her bearing was as commanding as any queen’s. She approached him slowly, the hem of her gown brushing against the cold stone.

"My son," she said, "your father did not sign that treaty because he doubted your strength. He did so because he believes in it. A lesser man would have left you war and ruin to prove yourself in blood. Instead, he leaves you peace — fragile, yes, but a peace you can shape with wisdom, not violence."

Alderan’s jaw tightened. "Peace that I did not choose," he muttered.

"Nor does any king," Mariam replied. "You think your father’s crown was earned in comfort? He inherited a kingdom divided, starving, and near collapse. He too resented the choices forced upon him. Yet he ruled — and in time, he understood that a king’s will is not his own. It belongs to his people."

The words struck him harder than any reprimand. Alderan lowered his gaze, his voice quiet now, almost childlike. "And what if I fail them? What if I am not the king he imagined?"

Her gaze softened. She reached for his hand, her touch steady and warm. "No, Alderan. You are far more than that. You have been trained since childhood, shaped by hardship, and tempered by compassion. You endure. And because of that, you will not only be a king — you will be a good one."

She reached out, cupping his face as she had when he was a boy. "Then you will learn. That is the burden and the grace of a true ruler. Not perfection, Alderan — perseverance."

Silence lingered between them, heavy as the crown upon Alderan’s brow. The hall seemed to stretch wider in that quiet — vast and cold, its marble pillars bearing witness to the storm brewing in the young king’s heart.

He stood still, her hand warm against his cheek, and for a fleeting moment, the fury that burned in him cooled. The great hall no longer seemed so vast, nor the crown so heavy.

"I do not know if I can forgive him yet," Alderan whispered.

"You will," she said simply. "Because one day, you will understand him."

Mariam turned then, her robes trailing like whispers of old wisdom, leaving Alderan before the map of Northem — staring not at the borders that confined his kingdom, but at the unknown horizon beyond.

And for the first time, he wondered not what his father had taken from him — but what he had been left to build.

When he thought about it, among the three of them, Alaric was the most pitiful. He did not grow up with his mother. He suffered from bullying since he was young. He was sent to the frontline, risking his life fighting the enemies, and then he was exiled.

Prince Alderan exhaled deeply. He realized that he pitied Alaric, and it was he and Reuben who had stolen Alaric’s things.