The heavy doors of the throne room closed behind him with a hollow echo. Outside, a cluster of soldiers straightened immediately at the sight of their prince. They had followed him from the front lines, their uniforms still stained with dust and dried blood, their eyes hungry for any sign of good news.
"Your Highness," one of them called, stepping forward, "how was the court? Did His Majesty agree to send aid supplies for the front line?"
Reinhardt stopped in front of them. The faint tremor in his hands was hidden by the folds of his cloak. His brow was knitted, his expression unreadable. For a moment, no sound but the clink of armor passed between them.
At last he said, voice low, "It seems… we have to wait again."
The soldiers' shoulders sagged. Reinhardt forced himself to stand taller, masking his own exhaustion. "All of you can take a rest for a while here in the capital. I'll send word the moment there's any news."
They bowed, murmuring thanks for his understanding, though the disappointment in their faces mirrored his own. One by one, they filed away—except for Albert, who lingered behind.
Albert glanced around to ensure no one else was listening, then stepped closer. "Prince Reinhardt," he whispered, "I think you, too, need rest. You're pale… and sweating."
Reinhardt gave him a faint smile, a flicker of warmth amid the storm inside. "No. I'm fine, Albert. You should rest as well. You've earned it."
Albert hesitated, bowed deeply, and finally turned to join the others. Reinhardt watched them disappear down the hall. He felt guilty—he knew exactly what they had been hoping for. They had wanted to return with news that their comrades would be saved, that their suffering would be eased. Instead, he had come back empty-handed.
He turned down the corridor, his boots echoing against polished marble. The palace guards lounged at their posts, laughing and tossing dice. Some nobles whispered and jested with painted servants behind carved pillars, their jeweled hands brushing soft skin. The air smelled of perfume and roasted meat. Disgust rose in Reinhardt's chest like bile. This was what they called "peace"—a hollow theater built on the backs of dying men.
At last he reached his old room. The heavy door creaked as he pushed it open. Dust floated in the dim light. It had been more than four years since he had set foot here, and as he expected, nothing had been touched. Cobwebs clung to the corners, the curtains were faded, the air stale. He knew exactly whose decision it had been to leave it untended—a small act of spite from the palace staff, a reminder that he had long since fallen from favor.
He didn't care.
Reinhardt stepped inside and let the door shut behind him. The quiet pressed around him like a weight. He crossed to his bed and sat down heavily. His muscles ached; a faint fever pulsed in his skull. He had ignored it since returning to the capital, telling himself that the soldiers at the camp were suffering far worse. How could he allow himself to rest while Kael fought for his life?
He lay back, staring up at the cracked ceiling. Memories clawed their way up: Kael on the battlefield, sword shining, a rare smile breaking his tired face. We will protect this world together, Kael had said, his voice bright with unshakable conviction.
Reinhardt covered his eyes with one trembling hand. A tear slipped free, sliding into his hair. His teeth bit down hard on his lip until the taste of iron filled his mouth. He felt… disappointed. Betrayed. Not by Kael, but by the very world they had fought to protect. Kael lay weak and dying in a distant tent, and the king—their king—had not even asked about his condition. No minister, no noble had spoken Kael's name. All they cared for was expansion, war, and their own pleasure.
Reinhardt's shoulders shook. He lowered his hand, staring at the ceiling until his blurred reflection stared back at him in a cracked mirror on the wall. "You sacrificed everything for them," he whispered under his breath, his voice hoarse. "And they don't even see you."
His hand clenched into a fist, the knuckles white. Somewhere deep inside, a seed of resolve began to sprout—dark, cold, and unyielding.
-----------------------------------------
A soft knock pulled Reinhardt out of a shallow, fever-stricken sleep. His head felt heavy; his throat was dry. He pushed himself up from the mattress, his muscles aching from exhaustion.
"Who's there?" his voice came out rougher than he intended.
"I… I'm a p-palace maid, Your Highness," came a trembling reply from behind the door.
"Come in," Reinhardt said, rising slowly. He moved to the old table, brushing a layer of dust off with his palm. Perhaps at last he could order someone to tidy the room, though the thought felt hollow.
The door creaked open—and Reinhardt's eyes went wide. The girl was indeed a maid, young and pale, but behind her stood three familiar figures: Stanford, Andrew, and Harry—his half-brothers.
"Well, well," Stanford drawled as they stepped past the maid without invitation. "You really do sleep in the dust, huh?"
Andrew snickered. Harry let out a barking laugh. "Little brother, is this where you've been hiding? Don't you miss us?"
Reinhardt's shoulders stiffened. He hated the way they filled the space, their perfume of wine and arrogance staining the stale air. "What are you doing here?" His tone was cool, controlled, but his stomach knotted.
"What?" Harry grinned, running a hand over a shelf. "We came to check on you. Our war hero brother, sleeping in a cobwebbed room—how tragic."
Andrew sauntered over to the bookshelves and began plucking volumes out, letting them fall to the floor one by one. Dust rose in clouds.
"Stop!" Reinhardt snapped, stepping forward. "What are you doing?"
They ignored him. Stanford crossed to the table, ran his finger over its surface and showed the streak of grey dust with a sneer. "It seems you've downgraded, Reinhardt. Sleeping like a commoner in a filthy room? Disgraceful."
Harry chuckled and flicked a book across the floor.
Then Stanford turned on the maid. He seized her by the arm and shoved her further into the room. "Clean this mess at once! I can't even breathe in here."
The girl stumbled and fell to her knees, trembling.
Reinhardt dropped down immediately beside her, helping her back to her feet. "You may go," he said gently to the maid. "You're not at fault here."
But she looked at him, eyes wide and wet, and whispered, "I… I'll clean, Your Highness…" before scurrying to gather the scattered books.
All three brothers headed for the door, laughing amongst themselves. At the threshold, Stanford paused and turned, his expression sharp. "Tonight Father wants you at the party in the Grand Hall," he said. The words dripped with disdain, as though the order disgusted him but he enjoyed passing it on. "Show yourself—and this time, do exactly as Father commands."
Then they were gone, their laughter echoing down the corridor.
Reinhardt stared after them, his hands clenched at his sides. A party, he thought bitterly. First a war, now a party. Soldiers rot at the front, and the king drinks wine in his hall.
Behind him, the maid knelt to clean the floor, still trembling. Reinhardt forced himself to kneel as well, gathering fallen books and returning them to the shelves. His fingers brushed over familiar spines—economy, statecraft, law, politics. The texts he had once devoured as a boy.
He lingered over one, tracing the faded title. There had been a time when he had admired his father, had dreamed of standing at his side, worthy of the throne. He had believed that being close to the king meant protecting the people. But that illusion had shattered the day his mother—and the siblings she had borne with her—died by King Stephen's own hand.
Reinhardt placed the book back carefully, his reflection in the glass of the case sharp and cold. His fever still burned, but a different fire was rising beneath it—one that had nothing to do with illness.
If this is the kingdom Father built… then I will build something else, he thought. Something better. Something that will never forget Kael, or the soldiers, or Mother.
He straightened, eyes hardening as the maid quietly swept around him. Outside, the palace continued to hum with music and laughter, but in Reinhardt's chest the first outlines of an empire began to take shape.
From the outside the Grand Hall glittered like a jewel. Lanterns blazed in every window, spilling golden light across the palace courtyard. Music and laughter floated into the night, mingled with the clink of crystal goblets and the rustle of silks. Nobles and royal family alike spun across the marble floor inside, their chatter rising above the orchestra. The night, for them, was a festival.
Reinhardt did not go to the Hall.
Instead he turned down the quieter passages toward the highest tower of the palace—the domain of the alchemists and healers. His steps faltered with each turn; the fever still burned in his blood, and the dull ache of his half-healed wounds throbbed with every movement. Yet he pressed on. He had no time to rest. Kael lay fighting for his life at the front. The soldiers they had fought beside were still bleeding in the mud.
At last he reached the tower gate. Two guards crossed their spears before him.
"I want to meet Viscount Jaesper," Reinhardt said, his voice low but firm.
The guards exchanged a look. "On whose permission, my lord?" one asked politely but without deference. Clearly they had not recognised him; it had been years since he last walked these halls.
"I don't need permission." Reinhardt reached inside his coat and produced the heavy golden seal engraved with the crest of his house.
The guards stiffened. "Prince Reinhardt…" They dropped their weapons at once and bowed deeply. "Viscount Jaesper is in his study on the fifth floor. Shall we summon him?"
"No," Reinhardt replied. "I'll go to him myself. And keep this to yourselves. I don't want word of this reaching anyone—especially Crown Prince Stanford."
The guards bowed again. "As you command."
The stairwell spiralled upward into shadow. Each flight was long, the steps worn smooth by years of passing feet. Reinhardt gritted his teeth and climbed, one hand pressed to the wall for balance. He could not give up now—not when Kael and the others still lay waiting.
Viscount Jaesper, half-elf and head of the palace physicians, was famed across the kingdom for his skill. But he was known also for his exclusivity; he treated royal blood first and took orders only from the throne.
At last Reinhardt reached the door at the top. He knocked once. No answer. Another knock, louder. Still silence. He could not turn back. Slowly, he pushed the door open.
Inside, the chamber was filled with the scent of herbs and hot metal. Retorts bubbled on low flames; scrolls and notes were scattered across a long desk. Behind it sat a slender man with silver-streaked hair and pointed ears, writing in a notebook.
Jaesper's head snapped up at the intrusion. For an instant his expression darkened with irritation at being disturbed—then his eyes fell on the golden hair and emerald gaze of the man before him. His face softened at once.
"Good evening, Prince Reinhardt," he said, rising quickly and bowing.
Reinhardt blinked, a little surprised. They had never met, yet the man recognised him instantly.
Jaesper came around the desk. "What can I do for you?" He halted mid-step, frowning. "You're pale…" In one swift movement he reached out, his cool palm pressing to Reinhardt's forehead before the prince could protest.
Reinhardt flinched back, but Jaesper's eyes were already scanning him. "You have a fever. And…" his gaze sharpened as he read the subtle signs of pain in Reinhardt's stance, "…you're injured."
Reinhardt pushed his hand away, jaw tight. "Viscount Jaesper, listen to me. I need you to go to the front-line camp. My comrades need urgent medical aid—we're running out of supplies. And Hero Kael… he is badly injured."
Jaesper froze, the colour draining slightly from his face. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. I cannot move without His Majesty's permission."
Reinhardt stared at him. "What?"
"I don't know why," Jaesper said quietly. "I simply follow the orders given to me."
Reinhardt's hands curled into fists. Another door closed.
Jaesper's expression softened. "But I can at least heal you," he offered, beginning to form a spell in his hands.
Reinhardt stepped back, shaking his head. "No." His nails bit into his palms until a bead of blood formed. I came here to save them, he thought bitterly. Not to be patched up myself.
"Then…" His voice roughened, but he forced it steady. "Then give me medicine. As much as you can spare. Send it to my room. I'll take it myself."
Jaesper hesitated, then inclined his head slowly. "Very well, Your Highness. I will prepare what I can."
Reinhardt turned toward the door, his fever making the edges of his vision blur. Behind him, the instruments bubbled and hissed softly.
As he descended the long stair once more, he could still hear the faint echo of music from the Grand Hall below—laughter and violins and clinking glasses. A kingdom dancing while its soldiers bled.
Reinhardt's steps grew heavier, but his resolve hardened. If no one else would carry the burden, then he would.