The days blurred together. The rhythm of Aldric's life had become a constant cycle of pain and duty, of lessons learned the hard way and promises whispered in silence. His body grew stronger, but his soul remained torn between the poet's quill and the king's sword. His heart ached, but there was no time to indulge in it. The people of his kingdom were counting on him, and every moment spent in self-reflection was another moment of vulnerability he could not afford.
The next trial came sooner than expected. News of a rebellion in the far northern territories reached the castle, and the king's gaze turned to his son.
"Aldric," King Eadric's voice was low, tinged with a worry that Aldric had not heard before. "You will lead the army to quell this revolt. It is time you learned that ruling is more than poetry and courtly words."
Aldric's stomach twisted. His father had always spoken of duty, of the crown's weight, but now he felt it settle on his shoulders like an iron shroud. He had barely begun to learn the sword, and now his first real trial as a leader would be in battle. His mind screamed, his heart faltered, but he said nothing. His father's eyes were resolute, and so Aldric nodded.
"Understood, Father."
The preparations were swift, and the army soon marched, its banners fluttering in the cold northern wind. As they approached the battlefield, Aldric's heart raced. This was not the world of poetry. This was not a world where words held sway.
The clash of steel rang out, the cries of soldiers cutting through the air like jagged knives. Aldric stood at the rear, his heart heavy with fear, his hands trembling on the hilt of his sword. He had been trained for this moment, but nothing could prepare him for the reality of war.
The battle raged around him, blood staining the earth beneath his feet. He had never seen death before—never felt the terror of watching a man fall, never heard the sickening sound of flesh meeting steel. The screams pierced his soul, the roars of anger and pain echoing in his ears. He could barely think through the chaos, but still, he pressed forward.
At his side was Ser Rodric, whose grim face showed no sign of fear. The knight moved with precision, his sword a blur of deadly grace. Aldric followed, but his movements were clumsy, uncoordinated. He stumbled, nearly losing his footing more than once, but each time, Rodric was there to steady him.
"This is not a poem, Aldric!" Rodric shouted, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "This is your kingdom's future! You are the shield and the sword now. Not your words."
Aldric's breath was ragged. His limbs felt heavy, as though they no longer belonged to him. He had trained for this, yet he had not truly understood what it meant to take a life, to lead men into the fray. The weight of it all was suffocating.
But then, as if from nowhere, a strange clarity washed over him. He remembered his mother's words, whispered when he was a child, about the nature of true kingship. She had said that a king must first understand the heart of his people, and that the crown, heavy as it was, was never meant to be worn alone.
With a deep breath, Aldric raised his sword.
What is a king, if not a man who stands?
Through battle, through burden, through time's heavy hand.
Not only in war, nor with steel drawn bright,
But in quiet resolve, in love, in light.
He advanced.
The clash of his sword against an enemy's felt like the final chord of a symphony, harsh but necessary. Aldric was no master of the blade, but he fought as a poet does, with a grace that defied the chaos around him. He did not think of the battle as a fight—it was a story, a poem being written with every strike, every movement.
And then, as the tide of battle began to shift, Aldric saw it—an enemy general, armored in dark steel, riding at the front of his men. He was a towering figure, his sword raised in defiance. The two locked eyes, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow.
This was it. The moment he had been preparing for, though in truth, he had never been ready.
"Ride!" Aldric shouted to Ser Rodric, his voice hoarse with command. "We go for the general!"
Rodric nodded, his expression unreadable. They charged together, cutting through the ranks of enemies like a storm. Aldric's heart pounded in his chest, the rhythm of war matching the rhythm of his blood.
As they neared the general, Aldric felt his fear surge again, threatening to overtake him. But then, the words of the song rang out in his mind, clearer than ever:
There will come a soldier
Who carries a mighty sword.
He will wear a crown,
But will not forget the word.
With a final, desperate swing, Aldric's sword met the general's. The impact was jarring, but it sent a shock of clarity through him. He was not just a prince, not just a poet. He was a king now.
The general fell, his sword slipping from his grasp. Silence fell over the battlefield, the clash of metal giving way to the stillness of victory.
Aldric stood, panting, his sword heavy in his hand. The battle was over, the rebellion quelled. He had not fought perfectly—his technique was still far from that of a seasoned warrior—but in that moment, he understood what it meant to fight for something larger than himself. It wasn't about strength alone. It was about resolve, about the will to protect.
Later that evening, as the camp settled into a quiet rhythm, Aldric found himself at the edge of the battlefield, his eyes lost in the flickering light of a distant campfire. The weight of the crown still pressed on him, but for the first time, it didn't feel quite so heavy.
Ser Rodric approached, his face stern as always, but his eyes held a hint of something else—respect.
"You did well today," Rodric said, his voice gruff. "You've learned that a king's strength doesn't come from the sword alone. It comes from the heart."
Aldric nodded slowly, the meaning of those words sinking deep within him. The weight of the crown, the sword, and the people's hopes—they were all his now. But he could carry them.
Soldier, Poet, King.
Perhaps, in time, he would truly become all three.
As the night deepened, Aldric stood alone for a while, the wind whispering through the trees. The song of his mother, the one she used to hum when she held him as a child, echoed in his mind once more.
And this time, he did not doubt it. He would learn to be all three.