Prince Lucas and Alaric stood at the edge of the slums, where the filth met the golden banners of nobility. Before them waited a delegation—soldiers in polished armor and nobles draped in velvet cloaks, their eyes fixed upon the returning prince like he was a conqueror of time.
"I humbly greet Your Highness," spoke the Lord of Solarin, bowing deeply, his voice carrying reverence—and fear.
Lucas approached with calm authority, his gaze unreadable as he returned the greeting. When the Lord offered his estate as a place of rest, Lucas declined without hesitation. He had no reason to linger in the land any longer. His mission was complete. The only thing left was to report—directly to the Emperor and the Knight Commander.
And then came the sound of hooves—the march of authority.
From the horizon rolled a procession of royal knights, banners of the Empire billowing like divine standards. They arrived with grandeur, cavalry at the helm, and behind them, rows of wagons lined with elite guards. The banner of the Empire fluttered in the wind—an unmistakable declaration of power.
The knights dismounted before Lucas. Every soldier fell to one knee. Their captain stepped forward and offered words of respect, voice heavy with admiration.
"Rise," Lucas commanded, voice sharp as steel.
Without question, the knights obeyed. Lucas turned to Alaric. No one questioned the unknown figure standing beside the prince. No one dared.
Their journey to the capital was swift and undisturbed—no bandit, no mercenary, not even an ant dared to cross the path of a royal escort. Alaric watched the world pass in disbelief. This was his first glimpse into the power of the Empire—the discipline, the size, the terrifying calm. A far cry from the shadows and chaos of the slums.
After four days, the capital emerged over the hills like a dream forged in marble and magic.
"Welcome to the capital," Lucas said quietly.
The city was colossal, its spires clawing at the skies. Towering structures gleamed under the sun, each building a monument to power and prestige. The streets bustled with well-dressed citizens—even peasants here wore finer clothes than some slum lords. Knights patrolled every block, making sure the capital is safe. Magic wards shimmered faintly on the walls. Everything about the place screamed of wealth... and control.
Alaric sat stunned. To him, this was another world. A gilded cage built by gods and monsters alike.
And towering above it all—stood the palace.
It loomed like a fortress of the divine. Walls high as mountains. Gates forged of enchanted steel. Guards that looked more like giants than men. No place in the Empire was more secure, more sacred... or more feared.
They dismounted.
The Knight Commander, a figure of unshakable presence, approached and bowed.
"Well done, Your Highness."
Lucas nodded. The Commander leaned in.
"The Emperor awaits."
Lucas turned to his servant. "Take care of Alaric," he commanded. His tone left no room for hesitation.
Then he walked alone—through the gates of judgment.
Inside the throne hall, shadows danced across gold. The Emperor sat upon a throne that could crush a mortal man beneath its weight. By his side stood Isla, Lucas' brother, his expression smug, his armor still stained with the blood of eastern tribes.
Isla stepped forward, presenting his prize—a pendant, dark and ancient, proof of a massacre. The slaughter of a barbarian tribe.
Lucas said nothing. He merely unsheathed Balmung.
The hall fell silent.
Even Isla's smile faltered. The weapon glowed softly, cold and noble—crafted from the bones of dragons, forged by fire and time. The room seemed to hold its breath.
The Emperor's voice broke the silence.
"You've both returned... and fulfilled your duty."
The Emperor leaned back on his throne, hands steepled around his chin. His gaze aim at his two sons—one cold, the other merciless.
They spoke—brief words, formal pleasantries dressed as casual conversation. But beneath each sentence was a battlefield. A test of wit, of loyalty, of ambition.
Lucas answered respectfully, never showing more than he needed. Isla smirked, casually mentioning his "work" in the east, the blood spilled like it was ink on a contract.
The Emperor listened. Silent. Calculating.
Minutes passed like hours.
And then—without warning, without flourish—he dismissed them.
"You've done well. Both of you. You may go."
The two princes bowed.
They turned—shoulder to shoulder, yet miles apart in spirit—and walked away from the throne. Down the endless marble steps, beneath the stained-glass gaze of the ancestors. Their footsteps echoed in silence. Not a single word passed between them.
But in that silence, the palace trembled.
The wolves had returned to their cages.
And the game... had only just begun.