After seven solemn days of mourning for the soldiers who died during the queen’s golden jubilee, King Heimdal summoned Prince Alaric. The king was standing in front of the window of his chambers, his eyes lingered across the courtyard, where Astrid’s abode stood in quiet shadow, when his firstborn arrived.
Prince Alaric waited in the antechamber outside the royal chambers, his back pressed against the heavy oak door, lost in his thoughts. The creak of hinges pulled him from his reverie. The king’s door opened, and Alaric turned, straightening his posture before stepping inside. He crossed the chamber with asured steps, his expression unreadable, and stood with deliberate calm behind the carved mahogany chair, its dark polish gleaming beneath the afternoon sun that filtered through the window.
"You can sit, my son," King Heimdal said, his voice controlled but carrying the weight of age and grief.
Alaric inclined his head slightly, lowering himself onto the chair opposite his father, and waited.
The king inhaled deeply, his broad shoulders rising as though the words he bore were stones upon his chest. "You are my firstborn—the rightful heir to this throne. And yet, I cast you aside. I placed the crown upon Reuben’s head and sent you into exile in the South." His tone cracked at the edges, though his face remained stern.
He hesitated before continuing, his eyes narrowing in thought. "When word reached of the Zuran’s plot to lay siege to our capital, I urged Reuben to seek your help—and that of General Odin. But he did not listen. His pride silenced my plea." The king paused, studying Alaric’s face for so flicker of emotion. But the prince’s features remained as still as carved stone.
"And yet... you ca," Heimdal said quietly, almost in disbelief. "You ca, though you owed us nothing. You returned with Odin at your side, and with your hand upon the sword, Turik’s sches were undone. You could have taken your vengeance, by watching Northem fall, but instead you saved us."
Alaric’s voice, when it ca, was steady and cold. "What is it you seek of , Your Majesty?"
The king straightened, summoning the authority of his station. "I seek only to restore what I once denied you. The throne. The crown. Your birthright."
For the first ti, Alaric smiled. But it was a smile without warmth, a blade sheathed in courtesy. "Once, I yearned for those words, Father. I dreamt of the day you would speak them to . But now..." He shook his head, his gaze sharp as winter steel. "Now they an nothing. I want neither your throne nor your crown. Let Reuben keep them. And if he cannot, then let Alderan take it."
King Heimdal did not answer at once. His son’s words cut deeper than any blade, for they carried no fury, no pleading, no sorrow—only emptiness. That, more than any outburst, was the proof of how far he had lost him.
Inwardly, the king’s thoughts turned bitter and unrelenting. If only I had chosen differently... if only I had seen past my fears. Alaric had always been the stronger—sharp-minded, asured, with a will forged in fire. He had the makings of a true sovereign, yet Heimdal had allowed his fears to cloud his judgnt. He had thought himself protecting Alaric, but in the end, he pushed him away.
I crowned Reuben, though his heart was untested, though his spirit faltered at every storm. I banished Alaric, not for his failings, but for my own cowardice. I feared his strength would cast too dark a shadow upon his brother, and he would be targeted. And now... now I stand before him, begging him to claim what was always his, and he will not take it.
The weight of the crown upon his own head seed heavier than ever, as if mocking him. The golden circlet that should have graced Alaric’s head felt like a shackle he no longer deserved to bear.
He rembered the boy his son had once been, when Astrid was still alive. He was bright-eyed, proud, always the first to rise, the last to yield. How had he thought to smother such fire without consequence?
Heimdal’s gaze lingered on Alaric, searching for so trace of the boy he once knew. But there was only the man before him—hardened, distant, his loyalty no longer tethered by blood, but by choice. And the choice had not been him.
A tremor passed through the king’s chest, though his face betrayed nothing. I have lived long enough to see the ruin of my own making. Though my son had forgiven , he has not forgotten.
Alaric’s gaze lingered on his father, weighing every flicker in the king’s face. Though Heimdal’s voice was asured, his eyes betrayed him—storm-tossed, restless. The prince could see the war within the old man as clearly as if it were written on parchnt.
"I have my own designs, Father," Alaric said at last, his tone calm, but edged with a quiet certainty. "Northem is not my playground. It is far too small for ."
The words struck Heimdal like a blow. His eyes widened, and for a fleeting mont, his breath caught. At once, Dakota’s words returned to him—his voice echoing from mory. Northem cannot contain Alaric. Could it be true? Did his son an to reach beyond, to lay claim not just to Northem’s fate, but to the other three kingdoms?
"You speak of ambition," Heimdal said carefully, leaning forward. "Is that why you forged the Phoenix Legion? An army sworn not to a crown, but to you? Word travels fast, Alaric... they say Calma thrives under your hand."
Alaric did not answer in words. A low hum escaped his throat, a sound of acknowledgnt—or dismissal. It was impossible to tell.
The silence stretched, then Alaric broke it. "We return to Calma soon. My duties there await . I have not yet spoken to General Odin. Whether he chooses to remain in the capital or march with once more—that decision will be his."
"I will speak to him," Heimdal interjected quickly, as though desperate for so foothold in his son’s plans.
Alaric’s eyes glinted with sothing unreadable, and then his voice sharpened, cutting through the air like a drawn blade. "There is one more matter, Father. Zura will not be our only war. I have found the rightful heir of Estalis. I have sworn an oath to him—to restore what was stolen, to see him reclaim his kingdom."
The color drained from Heimdal’s face. "What?" His voice cracked, raw with disbelief. "The rightful heir?"
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