The stone walls of the palace were cold under Yalamber's hands as he leaned over the balcony. Below, the valley stretched out in the pale light of dawn atches of farmland clinging to the hillsides, narrow paths winding between villages, and beyond them, the dark line of forest marking the border.
Somewhere past those trees lay other kingdoms. Some friendly. Many not.
Yalamber had never seen them, but he had heard enough from the traders and soldiers who came through the gates.
Borders changed hands as easily as coins.
One season a neighbor was an ally, the next they were marching soldiers into your fields.
And their own kingdom?
Small. Mid-tier. Not rich enough to buy peace, not strong enough to demand it.
"Still brooding at this hour?"
Yalamber turned to see his father, King Balambha, standing in the archway. His beard was streaked with grey, his eyes heavy with the weight of ruling.
"I'm not brooding," Yalamber replied. "I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"How fragile all of this is." He gestured at the valley. "One bad harvest, one greedy neighbor, and "
The king raised a hand. "You see only the danger. Good. You'll need that." He stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the mountains. "But a king also sees the opportunity in danger."
Yalamber didn't answer. He wasn't a king yet.
Later that morning, the royal hall filled with voices ministers arguing over tax collections, generals debating troop movements, messengers bringing word of skirmishes at the northern border.
None of it sounded like the grand victories in the stories.
It sounded… exhausting.
And yet, as Yalamber watched his father work listening, deciding, commanding something stirred inside him.
One day, all of this would fall on his shoulders.
And if he failed, their small kingdom would vanish from the map.