A day after Alaric's first appearance before the Royal Council, Duke Reinhardt Valenroth was summoned again.
This time, he was summoned alone.
The guard who led him did not take him toward the council chambers or the public halls of the keep, but inward—past quieter corridors, past rooms where footsteps softened and voices lowered without conscious thought. The air here smelled faintly of herbs and warm linen instead of ink and wax.
The royal private chamber lay behind a pair of modest doors, guarded not by soldiers in armor, but by two men in simple livery whose expressions carried the weight of long service.
They opened the door without announcement.
Inside, King Hadrian III lay upon a broad bed, propped slightly by cushions. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, pale and gentle, falling across his face in a way no throne room ever allowed. He looked smaller here. Thinner. The crown was nowhere in sight.
At his side sat Princess Emilia.
She was reading softly from a small book, her voice low, careful not to disturb him. When Reinhardt entered, she looked up at once.
Hadrian followed her gaze and smiled faintly.
"Well," the King said, voice rough but warm, "if it isn't the Iron Lion himself."
Hadrian shifted, attempting to sit up.
Reinhardt moved without hesitation.
"Don't," he said, crossing the room in three long strides. "Lie still."
Hadrian huffed weakly. "I am not dead yet, you know."
"Not if you listen," Reinhardt replied, placing a firm hand against the mattress to steady him. "You will only tire yourself."
Princess Emilia rose smoothly to her feet.
"I will excuse myself," she said gently, already stepping away. "Father."
Hadrian turned his head toward her, his expression softening completely.
"Thank you, my little star," he said. "Go. I will rest."
She bowed to Reinhardt and slipped from the chamber, closing the door quietly behind her.
The room grew still.
For a while, neither man spoke.
Reinhardt remained standing beside the bed, arms folded loosely, his gaze moving not to the king's face but to the window beyond, as though giving Hadrian space to gather himself.
Hadrian broke the silence first.
"She watches me like I might vanish if she blinks," he said quietly.
"She learned from you," Reinhardt replied. "You've always watched what you feared losing."
Hadrian chuckled, then coughed lightly, pressing a hand to his chest until it passed.
"You always had a way of making that sound like praise and accusation at the same time," he said.
Reinhardt's lips curved faintly. "Someone had to."
Hadrian shifted his gaze upward, staring at the ceiling beams. "Do you remember the rain at Caldris?"
Reinhardt nodded. "The third night. When the tents collapsed."
"And you cursed like a dockworker," Hadrian said, smiling. "I thought Elyon himself might strike you down."
"He didn't," Reinhardt said. "He struck the tent instead."
Hadrian laughed—softly, this time. The sound carried a weight it hadn't years ago.
"We were younger," Hadrian murmured. "Everything felt… survivable."
Reinhardt did not answer immediately.
"Yes," he said at last. "We were."
Another silence followed. This one deeper.
Hadrian's voice, when it came again, was quieter.
"Reinhardt."
"Yes."
"If I were gone tomorrow…" He paused, swallowing. "Would the realm hold?"
Reinhardt did not look away from the window.
"No," he said honestly.
Hadrian let out a breath—not surprised. Almost relieved.
"That is what I thought."
"That is why," Reinhardt continued, turning now to face him fully, "you should not be gone tomorrow."
Hadrian smiled, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "You always were terribly inconvenient."
"You asked for truth."
"And you gave it," Hadrian said. "As always."
He was quiet for a moment longer, then spoke again, more softly still.
"I will speak to Lucien tomorrow."
Reinhardt's expression did not change.
"I will tell him everything," Hadrian went on. "How proud I am. How afraid I am. How I failed to say the right things when he needed them."
His voice wavered—not breaking, but close.
"I should have done it sooner."
Reinhardt said nothing.
The silence between them was not empty. It was heavy with years of battles, decisions, compromises, and words that had waited too long.
Hadrian turned his head slightly, eyes finding Reinhardt's face.
"You don't think it will matter."
Reinhardt met his gaze.
"I think it matters," he said carefully. "I don't know if it will be enough."
Hadrian closed his eyes.
"Still," he murmured, "a king should try."
"Yes," Reinhardt agreed. "A father should."
Hadrian's breathing slowed, the lines in his face easing as exhaustion claimed its due. His voice drifted, growing faint.
They spoke briefly after that—of the council, of the city, of matters neither wished to leave unfinished—but nothing of consequence. Memories surfaced and faded. Laughter came once more, quieter now, carrying more weight than joy.
At last, Hadrian's eyes closed.
Reinhardt waited until the King's breathing steadied.
"You should rest," he said softly.
Hadrian did not answer.
Reinhardt turned and left the chamber without ceremony, closing the door behind him.
The light remained.
And Elyon alone bore witness.
---
The afternoon light slanted low across the training ground, turning the packed earth a muted gold.
Alaric stood at the firing line once more.
Today he was not alone.
Marcus waited several paces behind him, arms folded, watching not the target but the man holding the bow. Around him, the training ground lived its own rhythm. Steel rang dully as blades met. Boots scuffed earth. Sweat darkened tunics. A junior captain's moved among the soldiers, correcting stances, calling short commands, occasionally stepping in to demonstrate a counter or a parry.
Alaric drew.
The bow creaked—not loudly, but with the deep, living tension of wood bent near its limit. His shoulders settled, back muscles engaging instinctively, breath controlled. The world narrowed to a single line: string, shaft, center.
He loosed.
The arrow flew clean and straight, humming softly through the air before striking the target dead center.
A solid thump.
One of the soldiers let out a low whistle before remembering himself and returning to his sparring stance.
Alaric lowered the bow and exhaled.
Most people, he thought absently, misunderstand power in war.
Ask anyone what the most power-based weapon of ancient battle was, and they would answer without hesitation: sword, spear, axe, war hammer, halberd.
They looked heavy. They felt decisive.
But they were wrong.
Those weapons were designed for balance. Heavy enough to strike, light enough to wield repeatedly. Their center of mass allowed speed, endurance, and control. They did not consume the body the way people imagined.
The real monster was the bow.
He nocked another arrow and drew again, feeling the strain settle across his back, his shoulders, the deep pull along muscles that most men never trained properly. War bows were not elegant things. Historical draw weights ranged from thirty-six to fifty kilograms—eighty to one hundred and ten pounds—and some had been far worse. Two hundred pounds, according to certain finds.
A weapon that demanded strength just to hold, let alone fight with.
That was why the films of his previous world always rang false to him. Archers with slim frames, drawing bows capable of punching through mail as if they were toys. Anyone who had ever trained seriously knew better.
A bow that killed armored men required a body shaped by it.
He loosed again.
Another clean hit, just off the center.
Good.
Speaking of penetration…
Alaric's mind drifted as his body worked.
War bows could kill light infantry easily. Leather. Mail. Gaps in armor. No question there. But against a fully armored knight? Plate on plate? Even the strongest draw struggled. Angles mattered. Distance mattered. Luck mattered.
What if, he wondered, arrowheads were shaped differently?
Not narrow bodkins alone. Flat, heavier heads—designed not to pierce but to deliver force. Blunt trauma. Concussive shock.
Modern ballistics had long since answered that question in his old world.
His brow furrowed slightly.
And if not the knight—then the horse.
That was the truth most people preferred to forget.
Heavy cavalry lived and died by the animal beneath them. A fallen horse meant broken legs, ribs, crushed armor, chaos. Archers aiming for mounts rather than men could shatter a charge before it ever reached the line.
The thought carried him further—toward horse archers.
Mobile. Relentless. Terrifying in open terrain. The most terrifying military systems in history were not built around brute force, but mobility and exhaustion. Armies that never committed until their enemy was already broken.
Empires had risen and fallen beneath their arrows. Rome had learned it. Persia. China. The Mongols. Even the Arab armies. Almost every great power had learned to fear them eventually.
When we return to Redhaven, he thought, I should speak to Father. And Caelan.
The idea settled quietly, not urgent—just inevitable.
He reached back for another arrow.
His fingers found nothing.
Alaric blinked and looked down.
The quiver was empty.
A voice spoke from behind him.
"You're too focused, my lord."
Alaric turned.
Marcus stood a short distance away, his sword sheathed. The soldiers were gone now, drifting toward the racks, laughter low and tired, sparring finished.
"How long?" Alaric asked.
"Long enough," Marcus replied. "Your last three shots would've embarrassed half my archers."
Alaric huffed softly. "They weren't watching form."
"They were watching results."
Marcus stepped closer, glancing at the target. "Dead eye. Again."
Alaric set the bow down carefully. "Training well?"
"They're alive," Marcus said. "That's my measure."
They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of the yard fading into background noise.
Then Marcus spoke again, quieter.
"There's something else."
Alaric looked at him.
Marcus's gaze drifted briefly toward the stone walls surrounding the training ground—toward the towers, the walkways, the places where guards stood too still.
"We've been watched," Marcus said. "Closely."
Alaric did not react outwardly. "Since when?"
"Since before the council," Marcus replied. "But tighter now. Routines noticed. Movements counted. Men who don't wear uniforms but walk like soldiers."
Alaric nodded slowly. "Sanctum?"
"Not openly," Marcus said. "Could be the court. Could be both."
"And your feeling?"
Marcus's jaw tightened. "I don't like it."
Alaric met his eyes. "Because it's dangerous?"
"No," Marcus said. "Because it's patient."
That earned a brief, thoughtful silence.
"They're not looking for mistakes," Marcus went on. "They're waiting for certainty."
Alaric folded his hands behind his back. "Certainty of what?"
"That you matter."
Alaric exhaled through his nose. "I stood still in a room and spoke one sentence."
Marcus gave a thin smile. "In the capital, that's plenty."
Before Alaric could reply, footsteps approached.
A guard entered the training ground at a brisk pace and bowed.
"My lord," he said, "Duke Reinhardt requests your presence."
Alaric straightened. "Now?"
"Yes, my lord."
Alaric glanced once more at the target, the clustered arrows near its center.
"Very well," he said.
He wiped his hands, rinsed his face at the basin near the wall, and exchanged his training tunic for clean clothes. The bow was returned to its rack with care.
As he followed the guard toward the keep, Alaric felt it again—that subtle pressure, like a shift in the air before a storm.
Whatever Marcus sensed…
He felt it too.