On the long journey to the Citadel, Mork turned to one of the guards seated across from him in the carriage.
"What kind of place is the Citadel?" he asked.
The guard looked at Mork, then turned his eyes to the full moon shining through the window.
"It's a training ground," he said. "They say legends and kings are forged there."
Mork leaned in, eager to hear more. The guard smiled at his curiosity.
"I've only heard stories. But they say the Grand Master of the Citadel is a legend himself. He trained two generations of royalty. Many war heroes call him their master."
Mork looked down, quietly satisfied. He leaned back and let silence fill the space between them as the carriage rumbled through the night.
---
Back at the palace, life resumed its routine. Servants moved through the halls, Acasia and Hana kept busy—but something was missing. The warmth and joy Mork brought to the palace had vanished, leaving behind a quiet dullness.
Draganov stood alone on the balcony, staring at the moon. The strong king looked strangely vulnerable in that moment. Agony noticed but said nothing. She knew: some silences are better left untouched.
---
At dawn, the carriage rolled to a stop.
"Lord Mork," the guard said gently. "We've arrived."
Mork woke, rubbing his eyes. As he stepped outside, a towering gate loomed before him.
With each step closer, the gate creaked open.
"This is where we part ways, my lord," the guard said, bowing.
Mork looked back and gave a quiet nod before stepping through. The gate closed behind him with a deep, echoing thud.
---
Inside, another guard was waiting.
"The Grand Master wants to meet you," he said. "Follow me."
Mork walked beside him in silence. They crossed a narrow bridge that connected two buildings. Through a tall window, Mork spotted a training arena below—and paused.
Two boys, about his age, were sparring with real swords.
Mork stopped walking and stared. The guard noticed but didn't interrupt.
In the arena, the two boys circled each other cautiously. One had curly brown hair, the other black. Suddenly, the brown-haired boy lunged forward and swung his sword. The black-haired boy blocked the strike, but the impact knocked his weapon away.
The black-haired boy retreated, eyes scanning for his fallen sword. But so did his opponent.
Just as he dashed for it, the brown-haired boy charged. It looked like a clean strike—but it was a trap.
The black-haired boy pivoted mid-run, dodged, then wrapped one arm around his opponent's waist. With a sudden heave, he threw him to the ground.
The brown-haired boy hit the floor hard, stunned. His sword flew from his grip.
Before he could react, the black-haired boy climbed on top of him.
Mork watched, wide-eyed.
The black-haired boy looked up at the instructor standing nearby. The instructor gave a nod.
There was a moment of hesitation—then the boy raised his fist and began punching. Brutally. Again and again, until the other boy lay unconscious beneath him.
Mork flinched. His face changed.
He wasn't just shocked—he was disturbed.
The guard who had been escorting him stepped up beside him.
"My lord," he said gently. "We should continue. The Grand Master is waiting."
Mork gave a slow nod, though his mind was still trapped in what he had just witnessed.
---
They reached a large wooden door. The guard knocked.
A deep voice called out, "Come in."
The guard stepped aside, gesturing for Mork to enter. The door closed behind him.
Before him stood a towering ogre with broad shoulders, snow-white hair, and countless scars. One deep scar ran across his face—a reminder of wars long past.
"So, you've finally arrived… Prince Mork," said the Grand Master.
Mork froze. The man's presence was overwhelming.
"I wanted to meet the new prince myself," the Grand Master said. "I trained your father… and his father before him. Now, I will train you. I have high hopes."
Mork took a breath, gathering himself.
"I'll live up to your expectations, Grand Master."
The Grand Master raised a brow, then smirked.
"Very well. Then let's test your potential."
His expression darkened suddenly, his voice sharpening.
"But don't think for a second that your royal blood will grant you mercy."
He stepped past Mork, towering over him.
"I hope you're as good as your father was at your age… because if not, I'll make your life a living hell."
Mork's eyes widened. No one had ever spoken to him like that before. Fear rose in his throat. He swallowed it.