A/N: The next 2 or 3 chaps will be 1000 words less than normal
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The golden banners of Eldoria fluttered softly against the morning breeze, each stitched thread catching the light of the rising sun. In the center of the royal courtyard, surrounded by towering statues of past kings and queens, King Alistair Eldenhart stood tall in his simple but regal morning garb.
His usual icy blue eyes were softened this morning by something warmer—patience, pride, perhaps even a quiet longing.
He held a wooden practice scepter in his hand, tapping it lightly on the marble ground as he paced in front of a small cluster of gathered castle staff.
Opposite him, dressed in light leather armor adorned with the Eldorian lion crest, stood Benedict—the new crown prince of Eldoria. Though only sixteen, his shoulders were beginning to square, and his voice had taken on the crisp authority expected of a young ruler-in-training.
His silvery white hair was slicked back today, neat and disciplined, and his face was marked with a focus that Alistair couldn't help but admire.
"All right," Alistair said, pointing the scepter at the tallest butler, who wore an oversized fake beard and a cloak too large for his frame. "You're the head of the Southern Province. A drought has ruined half your crops, your people are starving, and the nobles are hoarding supplies. Benedict, your response?"
Benedict stepped forward with rehearsed grace. "I would send grain from the northern reserves and establish a rotating ration system. In the meantime, I'd dispatch royal inspectors to ensure fair distribution, and set a temporary grain tax relief on all southern farmers until harvest returns."
The bearded butler gave a nod of approval, and the maids pretending to be distressed villagers broke into claps and cheers.
One of them even threw herself dramatically at Benedict's feet before being pulled away by another, clearly enjoying the theatrical side of this lesson.
Alistair grinned and turned back to his son. "Good. Now what if the nobles in the South resist your orders?"
Benedict's eyes flicked up. "Then I summon them personally to court. If they ignore the summons, I give a public decree. And if they still resist, I use the Eldorian Guard to enforce the will of the crown."
"Strong," Alistair said with a nod. "But remember, diplomacy is your sword's sheath. Rule with might only when it protects peace, not pride."
Benedict nodded, absorbing the words carefully.
For the next hour, the two ran through different scenarios—treaties, betrayals, budget negotiations, feasts and famines, diplomatic visits. The staff played along with glee, the maids switching between roles of ambassadors and scheming nobles, while the guards served as scowling generals and chancellors.
But eventually, the sun climbed high above the courtyard walls, and the warmth of its rays signaled a break.
The staff began to disperse, some laughing as they returned to their usual duties, while others exchanged stories of past lessons.
Father and son walked together toward the shaded pavilion where refreshments had been laid out by the royal kitchen. Alistair poured them both chilled honeyed tea, handing one to Benedict, then sat down heavily on the bench.
He rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, groaning slightly. "I'm getting too old for morning politics," he joked.
Benedict smiled and gave him a side eye, "You're not that old."
"I've got gray in my beard, boy."
"Gray is wisdom and power, not old age," Benedict replied, sipping his tea.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the sounds of birds and the rustling leaves accompanying their thoughts. Alistair leaned back, eyes on the open sky above.
"Father," Benedict said quietly, voice losing its earlier edge. "Do you... ever think about Camden?"
The question wasn't an ambush. It was gentle, inquisitive, as if testing the weight of old feelings.
Alistair didn't look at him immediately. Instead, he stared at the distant mountains on the horizon, the peaks he had once shown to both his sons when they were children—telling them tales of dragons and guardians in the snow. He took a long breath.
"Every day."
Benedict stayed silent, sipping more of his tea.
Alistair continued, more slowly this time. "There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about him—where he might be, what trouble he's in, what lessons he's learning. You two may be different, Benedict, but I loved you both with the same fire in my heart. And when Camden left... it felt like someone took a sword and buried it in my ribs."
Benedict's lips pressed together, guilt flickering in his expression. "Do you... regret accepting his request to leave?"
Alistair turned to look at him now, eyes filled with layers of thought. "Regret? Yes and no. I regret how things played out—how much I let the weight of the crown get between my son and me. I regret letting my expectations become shackles. But I don't regret letting Camden find his own path. He needed to go. Maybe I did too."
Benedict lowered his gaze. "Sometimes I think he was the brave one. He got to leave. I stayed behind."
"You both are brave in your own ways," Alistair said firmly. "He left because he couldn't become the man he wanted to be here. But you stayed, even when it meant walking in a brother's shadow. That takes courage, Benedict. And strength."
Benedict looked back up, hopeful but uncertain. "Do you think... he'll ever return?"
"I don't know," Alistair said truthfully. "I hope so. And if he does... I'll welcome him back with open arms. No matter how many mistakes either of us made."
He paused, then added with a smile, "And I expect you to duel him for the training yard just like you used to."
Benedict chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'd lose. Probably in the first five minutes."
"That's if he doesn't get distracted," Alistair said, eyes twinkling with amusement. "You know Camden."
"I do," Benedict said quietly.
The two of them sat for a while longer, just sipping their tea and listening to the wind. For a moment, Alistair imagined Camden walking through the gates of the palace, dressed like some daring rogue with adventure in his eyes.
He smiled faintly.
"I hope he's happy," Benedict murmured.
Alistair looked over and rested a strong hand on his son's shoulder.
"I hope we all find happiness. In our own ways."
***
[Meanwhile]
[In the Garden]
The gardens of Eldoria were vast and meticulously kept, a sprawling tapestry of colorful blooms, trickling fountains, and the gentle hum of life. The air was sweet with the scent of magnolia and honeysuckle, dancing on a light breeze that rustled through the ivory trellises covered in blooming wisteria.
In the midst of this tranquil paradise, Evelyne sat under the shade of a parasol at a round marble table, porcelain teacup delicately balanced between her fingers.
She exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders relax as she gazed over the glistening koi pond in front of her. The water shimmered with soft ripples, disturbed only by the occasional leap of a golden koi chasing after a drifting petal. It was quiet here—peaceful.
A kind of quiet she hadn't known for a few days now, not since the burdens of court life, war rumours, and family fractures consumed every waking moment.
The tray beside her was filled with delicate treats: dainty fruit tarts, honeyed scones, and her favorite almond biscuits. She took a small bite of one, savouring the buttery crumble and subtle sweetness, and sipped at her tea, jasmine and lavender.
It was a blend her mother used to brew. For a moment, her eyes softened as she drifted back in time.
Across the garden, the court jester and his lively little troupe were preparing a performance on the raised wooden platform just a few yards away. They wore colourful garborange and violet tunics with exaggerated hats and floppy shoes.
The jester, a clever and surprisingly well-read man named Tibbens, bounced onto the platform with his lute slung over one shoulder, his painted smile wide.
He bowed deeply toward the queen, doffing his long feathered cap with a flourish.
"Your Majesty! You honour us with your gaze! Allow this lowly fool and his rabble of rascals to lighten your regal heart!"
Evelyne smiled gently, her eyes not fully alert but appreciative. "Proceed, Tibbens," she called in a calm tone. "Make me laugh, or I'll have you fed to the peacocks."
The jester gasped, dramatically clutching his chest. "The peacocks?! Vicious beasts! Very well, we accept your impossible challenge."
The troupe leapt into action, beginning with a clumsy song and dance routine about a nobleman who couldn't tell the difference between his horse and his wife. Evelyne chuckled softly, watching them trip over each other and fall in heaps of exaggerated confusion.
She appreciated their effort, even if the humour was a little more tailored for the court than her.
As they performed, her eyes slowly drifted beyond them, toward the horizon of the palace walls. The sun was lowering, painting the sky in hues of soft gold and amber. Her heart, despite the laughter, remained tethered to a quiet ache.
Camden.
She hadn't seen her son in so long (Just a few weeks). His absence had become part of her daily rhythm now. She would set a place at the garden table out of habit, only to remind herself moments later. She would hear a loud voice echo through the hall and turn, expecting it to be him, only to find a servant or guard.
She missed the warmth in his eyes when he tried to make her laugh. She missed the way he'd sneak pastries from the kitchen, thinking no one saw. She missed his boldness and recklessness.
But most of all, Evelyne missed holding him close and knowing her child was safe.
The court jester's voice pulled her back.
"And then the baron declared, 'That's not my chicken, that's my wife!'"
Laughter erupted from the gathered servants and a few maids nearby. Evelyne gave a small laugh as well, although her mind wasn't truly there. She picked up a grape from her plate and popped it into her mouth thoughtfully.
After the skit ended, Tibbens gave a bow, wiping his brow dramatically. "Have we pleased Her Majesty?"
"You have," Evelyne said, offering a polite clap. "You and your ridiculous antics may live another day."
The troupe cheered and bowed deeply before scampering off, save for Tibbens who lingered a moment.
"May I, my queen?" he asked, gesturing to the seat across from her.
She nodded, a faint smile curling at her lips. "You've earned it. Sit."
Tibbens dropped into the chair with a sigh and poured himself a cup of tea from the pot. He took a sip and raised an eyebrow. "Hm! Quite floral. Like sipping perfume."
Evelyne gave him a wry look. "You have no taste."
"On the contrary," he said, sipping again with an exaggerated pinky raised. "I have excellent taste. I just choose to be dramatic about it."
They shared a quiet laugh before silence fell again. Evelyne stared into her teacup, her expression softening.
"Thinking about the young prince?" Tibbens said suddenly.
She looked up.
"His Highness, Camden," he clarified. "A trouble maker he was. Nearly burnt my beautiful hair once with his sorcery."
Evelyne exhaled a soft laugh. "That sounds like him. Always causing trouble but somehow making everyone love him anyway."
"You must miss him terribly."
Her eyes dropped. "I do."
Tibbens sobered. "He'll come back. He has the heart of gold and the spirit of a great man. He just needs to find himself first. And when he does, he'll come through that gate, hair a mess, grinning like a fool, demanding a feast."
She smiled again at the image. "I hope so."
A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the garden trees. A few petals drifted down and landed softly on the table between them. Evelyne reached forward and gently brushed them aside.
"Sometimes I wonder if we were too hard on him. If I failed as his mother," she admitted.
"You were preparing him for his inevitable responsibilities," Tibbens said gently.
"Yes, but at what cost?" She leaned back. "He lost part of himself trying to fit into a mold he was never meant to be in. He used to be a cheerful, chaotic little creature you know? Before we came to the palace, before his life changed."
Tibbens didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"I just want him to be happy," Evelyne murmured. "Even if he never returns… I just want him to find joy."
Just then, the large peacock named Rufus strutted by with his tail in full display, stopping near the queen and giving a loud squawk that startled Tibbens so much he nearly spilled his tea.
"See?" Evelyne said, raising a brow. "That's who you'd answer to if you failed to make me laugh."
Tibbens eyed the peacock warily. "I think I'd rather take my chances in the dungeons."
She chuckled, truly this time, letting her head fall back as the sound rang out across the garden. It was a beautiful, melodic laugh that hadn't escaped her in a while. For a moment, the heaviness in her chest lifted.
As the sun dipped lower, servants began lighting lanterns around the garden, bathing the area in warm golden light. Evelyne rose from her chair, brushing the crumbs from her gown.
"Thank you for today, Tibbens."
"Always a pleasure, my queen."
She gave a slight nod and walked back toward the palace, hands folded in front of her, her steps light but her heart filled with the echoes of her son's laughter and a whisper of hope that maybe, just maybe, she would see him again soon.
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