Both the Abaddons and the Lord Hand were troubled by the king's momentary lapse.
Yet as the king perceived the crimson stain, his blood silently blooming on the surface of his palm, he returned to himself.
With a demeanour both nonchalant and quietly reassuring, he addressed the witnesses of this delicate instant.
"Stand firm and attend to your duties. Nothing has occurred. The stirrings within me merely choose unusual expressions. There is nothing to fear." Thus spoke the king.
Benedict, however, was not deceived. Where his monarch displayed majesty in the face of frailty, he himself grew wary—as prey cornered yet refusing to flee. He knew well the truth of the king's condition, one so grievous that even a peasant would have recoiled from it. A hidden illness, entrusted only to the king's most faithful healers—and to Benedict alone.
The king possessed an uncommon ability: the reading of nature's course. A sense honed throughout his royal blood but sharpened by sovereign instinct. With it, he perceived at once the confusion stirring in the hearts of his subjects. Straightening his posture, rising once more into full stature, he dispelled every parasitic doubt that might hint at weakness.
For a king does not embody merely the heart of a nation, but its soul and spirit. A transcendent station that tolerates no blemish of frailty.
The men resumed their march as though nothing had transpired, attuned to the king's rhythm, obedient to a law unspoken yet absolute etched into the silence itself. As the air grew colder, heavier, heralding a night of ill omen, the king turned to his Hand.
"What do you make of my nephew, the Supreme Commander of my armies? I require your unvarnished honesty. He walks still, hands clasped behind his back."
"The Supreme Commander dwells in a realm reserved for the chosen," Benedict replied.
"His deeds speak where words fail. He is a formidable warrior."
"Yet…?" The king's gaze lingered, demanding what lay beyond courtesy.
Benedict hesitated at first, then finally gave in to his honesty.
"Yet he appears unsatisfied," the Lord Hand continued. "For reasons I cannot yet discern, there is no glimmer in his eyes—only a profound emptiness, as though something essential has quietly withdrawn."
The king, meanwhile, wrestled inwardly with that answer.
What could surpass victory and honour for a warrior?
Curiosity sharpening to a feline edge, the king finally reached his chambers. They had been prepared in advance—opulent, immaculate, befitting the dignity of a god-king. Isolated deep within the palace, the sector was forbidden ground; to wander there unbidden was to invite suspicion without appeal.
No idle activity was permitted near the king's domain. As Glomoros forbade touch, so too was the sovereign's realm sealed against trespass. The Abaddons, infamous for excess in their vigilance, scrutinized even the king's own blood before granting audience—and only by his explicit command.
That night, the most powerful man in the world lay upon his bed. An empty space beside him bore silent witness to the absence of his late queen. Benedict stood nearby as a faint breeze of regret crept through the chamber, chilling bone and thought alike—mirroring Helios's feigned emptiness.
"I wish the heavens had tested me as they tested my nephew," the king murmured.
Benedict remained composed, though perplexed. He chose silence, allowing his monarch the space to unburden himself, trusting understanding would follow.
"Though I have ruled well," the king continued,
"I inherited peace. My father, King Marcus, bled to grant me a tranquil reign. And when war finally came, this cursed illness—born of my own flesh—bound me helpless, placing the weight of blood and steel upon my beloved nephew.
A man covets what he lacks. As I longed to be tested in war, I believe Helios may have longed for unstained peace."
The king closed his eyes, exhaling softly, releasing the brittle remains of his frustration.
Benedict stepped forward.
"True honour," he said,
"lies not in the acquisition of peace, but in its preservation. A crown may be seized through might—yet only wisdom sustains it.
My Liege, the heavens burden no soul beyond its measure. And in my earnest judgment, you have proven yourself more than worthy."
The king opened his eyes delicately.
"Benedict—my Hand, my confidant—you are as a dove to me. A speck of hope within my nights of trouble. I pray life continues to treat you with the same gentleness it has thus far shown in recent years."
"The king has spoken," Benedict replied, bowing deeply.
"So be it."
With reverence, he withdrew, leaving the king to his rest—maids in attendance, Abaddons standing watch in unwavering silence.
***
Chambers of the Princess of Auronis, at night.
Within the chambers of the Princess—an abode that lesser souls might have mistaken for a fragment of paradise—Princess Victoria of Auronis prepared for the banquet held by her father, the King, in honour of the one she regarded as the love of her life.
She had named him so since the age of eight, pledging in the quiet sanctity of her heart to wait for him, even unto the end of time.
Buoyed by a vivid and sincere excitement, her spirit shimmering with unrestrained joy, the Princess sang softly as she dressed. The melody she chose bore a tragic ending yet was steeped in romance and unblemished devotion.
Dying Love—such was the song's title.
It told the tale of two lovers torn apart by war. Fearing that her beloved would fall upon the battlefield, the woman rode through fire and steel to behold him one final time. Emerging amidst the chaos of clashing blades and thunderous cries, she was struck down—by the very hand she had crossed the world to reach. Cradling her lifeless form, the man's tears of guilt fell freely as he carried her toward the sea. Without hesitation, he walked into its depths, surrendering himself to the abyss, where both grief and love were finally silenced.
Victoria had never galloped toward a battlefield, nor had Helios ever brushed against the spectre of death. Yet as she sang, she reflected upon the woman's courage, likening it to patience—discipline of the flesh and spirit alike. For she herself remained untouched, unstained, and untainted.
Though the song addressed a sensitive subject, and though its resonance stood in stark contrast to the joyous occasion, the maids mirrored their Princess's delight. With gentle smiles and reverent efficiency, they assisted her preparations, allowing the fragile romance of tragedy and hope to linger softly in the air.
***
Streets of Auronis
In the streets of Auronis, the people celebrated with unrestrained fervour. They danced beneath open skies and shared food without measure, laughing as though the war had already been won. To rivals and enemies, such joy might have seemed a provocation—an open challenge cast without fear. Yet the Auronites bore no malice in their revelry; it was not defiance they celebrated, but faith.
Though the King remained distant in presence, he was close to the hearts of his people. The banquet held in honour of Helios within the Royal Palace had not been confined by stone walls. Its spirit had spread through every district and alley, extending to the furthest corners of Auronis, where common voices echoed the same pride that filled the halls of power.
***
Hall of the Royal Palace.
The banquet had already commenced.
Beneath towering arches of sculpted stone, ministers and dignitaries gathered in measured composure, their voices subdued by etiquette and power. Warm light spilled from chandeliers of gold and crystal, reflecting upon marble floors and silk-draped walls adorned with tapestries of ancestral triumphs. Long tables bore silver platters of roasted game, spiced meats, glazed fruits, and crystal goblets filled with deep wines, their aromas mingling with incense and rare perfumes.
Music drifted softly—harps and viols guiding the hall's restrained rhythm—while servants moved with rehearsed precision, almost unseen.
Yet beneath the elegance, anticipation lingered.
This was no ordinary feast, but a banquet held in honour of the Supreme Commander—a man whose presence was awaited with reverence.
A hush rippled through the hall.
The gilded doors parted. A herald's voice rang through the chamber:
"All rise! By the command of the Crown, we welcome into this hall the Supreme Commander of the Armies, Helios Strassfey, wielder of strategy, master of the battlefield, and protector of the realm!"
Helios entered. Clad in ceremonial attire befitting his rank, he wore a dark tunic traced with silver sigils of wars long endured. A deep crimson mantle rested upon his shoulders, fastened by the royal insignia. At his side hung a simple sword, restrained in its scabbard—not as display, but as duty. His posture was immaculate, his gaze forward, bearing the quiet gravity of command. Yet within him lingered a stillness too profound, as though something essential remained distant.
Then another herald proclaimed, his voice echoing across the hall:
"And now, we present Her Royal Highness, Princess Victoria, light of the realm, symbol of grace and hope, whose presence commands both admiration and loyalty!"
Princess Victoria followed. She was adorned in ivory and gold, her gown flowing like softened light, embroidered with cypress and lilies—symbols of endurance and purity. A modest diadem crowned her carefully arranged hair, framing a presence warm and luminous. Where Helios carried silence, she bore grace; where he reflected war, she promised peace.
Strength and softness walked as one.
As they advanced, the assembly rose in unison, bowing in reverence.
Before the murmurs could return, Benedict, the Lord Hand, stepped forward. Clad in austere ceremonial robes, he commanded silence with a single gesture.
"His Majesty, the King, sends his regards to those gathered this evening," he announced calmly. "He has entrusted the conduct of this banquet to my authority and bids you partake freely in the celebration held in honour of the Supreme Commander, Helios."
No explanation followed.
The court inclined in acknowledgment. The music resumed, softer than before, and the feast continued—yet the King's absence lingered like an unspoken shadow, present in every measured glance and careful silence.
Princess Victoria and the Supreme Commander, Helios, finally took their seats at the dining table.
Ten years had passed since they had last stood face to face. Now, separated no longer by distance nor war, they regarded one another across polished silver and candlelight. As the assembly engaged delicately in the banquet—each gesture measured, each bite governed by etiquette—the Princess and the warlord exchanged subtle glances. They were more expressive than words, more resonant than song.
With gentle composure, Helios addressed her.
"Cousin," he said softly, "it has been an eternity. I see your beauty has continued to evolve—like art in the eyes of men, and grace in the heart of the Creator."
A faint blush touched Victoria's cheeks. Her smile, restrained yet sincere, acknowledged the weight of the compliment. She remained silent, allowing the man she had long cherished to continue walking upon the carefully laid paths of her heart.
Helios rose.
Extending his right hand toward her, palm open, his voice carried a quieter gravity—one that sought something beyond formality, something permitted only by the age their souls had endured.
"May I offer you this dance?"
Her sea-green eyes captured the moment as she placed her soft hand into his. The contact revived a closeness long reduced to memory. No longer would he remain a distant image preserved by longing alone.
"I accept," she replied.
As they stood and moved together, hands entwined, the attention of the hall shifted instinctively toward them. The music followed, adjusting its rhythm as though guided by an unseen will. Even the night itself seemed to listen. The gods—bored and distant—might have found melancholy in that dance.
While they moved, their voices blended with the music and murmurs.
"How were those years on the battlefield?" Victoria asked, curiosity woven gently into her tone.
"Events fit for an epic," Helios replied, "yet better sung as a lament. And you—what became of the castle?"
"Moments as dull as the gods' eternity," she said with a smile, "yet as enlightening as the study of the wild."
He regarded her briefly.
"You wield words with precision."
"And to whom," she asked, "do I owe such eloquence?"
At once, a memory long buried beneath blood, steel, and command surfaced—Helios as he once was, untested and unscarred, before war had claimed him.
Victoria had once dreamed of fighting beside him, urging him to teach her the way of the sword. He had refused, gently but firmly, persuading her that such a path was too stained for one as unblemished as she.
Leave the battlefield to me, he had said.
Study the signs of the gods and the murmurs of knowledge. Arm yourself with wisdom. Together, when the time is due, we shall be whole and unstoppable.
They continued to dance, silence settling comfortably between them. Other noble couples soon joined the floor; each lost in their own fragment of the moment.
Yet within Helios, nostalgia stirred—scratching against the iron that encased his heart, revealing something long thought impossible.
At the edge of the hall, one of his men stood watch. He had served the Supreme Commander for years, through rumours, campaigns, and ruin. Never—by tale nor by witness—had he imagined such a sight.
Before his eyes, as Helios danced with the Princess:
He smiled. Then he laughed. For the first time in a decade.