The journey back to the palace stretched long and heavy beneath the silence of the Eastern soldiers. Carlos, unconscious and pale, was carried gently, the root of the Mother Tree clutched tightly in his arm like a lifeline. The soldiers walked with heads bowed, not in shame—but in solemn promise. Their prince had fought for their king, had burned for their cause, and they would never forget it.
It took them three days to return, and with every step, their hearts beat with urgency. They couldn't fail. They would not fail.
At the palace, the tension had grown unbearable. Erevan's condition had worsened. Lumira, the royal healer, stood over him constantly, trying to delay the poison that crept closer to his heart each day. Her hands shook now when she touched him, not because she lacked skill—but because the queen, her own mother, still refused to remove the lilies that perfumed the royal chambers. Their scent was soft, beautiful… deadly.
"Why do you let them stay?" Lumira had whispered, once, to the king himself.
"Because," Erevan had murmured, weakly, "I need to remember that beauty is not always good. Even the things we love can kill us."
He smiled after that, tiredly. But when he turned to her, the first question in his dry voice was always the same:
"Has Carlos returned?"
Three days. No word.
Lumira could not answer him anymore.
---
On the dawn of the fourth day, horns rang from the eastern walls. Guards called out in shock. The forest had spat back what it had taken.
Carlos had returned.
The gates burst open as the soldiers arrived—dust-covered, silent, and grim. Carlos was carried by six men, wrapped in a travel cloak. Still unconscious. The root of the Mother Tree, glowing faintly gold, was held in his hand.
Lumira ran faster than anyone had seen her move in years. She didn't even glance at the soldiers. Her fingers flew to Carlos's neck, his chest—checking for breath, for heartbeat, for life.
"He's alive," she gasped, voice breaking. "He's… he did it."
The soldiers bowed, all of them, as one. No ceremony. No shouting. Just loyalty, carved in their bones now.
One of them stepped forward. "Give the root to the king. We will take care of the prince."
Lumira didn't waste time. She ran straight to Erevan's chambers.
---
Inside, the king's eyes opened weakly as she burst in.
"Carlos?" he whispered.
"He came back," she breathed, tears in her eyes. "He brought it. You're going to live."
Erevan, for the first time in days, smiled. Not because he believed he would survive—but because his brother had survived.
"I told him not to go," Erevan murmured.
"You're not the only one stubborn in this family," Lumira replied, gently.
She placed the root into the prepared tonic. As the brew changed color, glowing faintly, she raised it to Erevan's lips.
"Drink."
---
Outside, the soldiers sat in a quiet ring around Carlos, who still hadn't woken. Some cleaned his wounds. Others offered water, or gently removed his scorched gloves—revealing cracked, raw skin beneath.
Still, he held the root's remnants tight in one hand, even now.
One of the younger soldiers, barely older than Carlos himself, looked up at the sky.
"We never protected him," he said.
The older captain beside him nodded. "We will, from now on."
And silently, they all agreed: this boy who burned for a kingdom… would never stand alone again.