Author's Note:This is a bonus chapter to celebrate 20k views! Thank you all for reading and supporting the story. Enjoy!
The winds from the North swept across the castle, carrying an omen no ear could dismiss. There were those who waited — measuring breaths and gestures; those who held power — whose gazes cut through the air; and those who threw themselves into the eye of the storm, body and will ready for impact.
The cold felt denser, as if the very air anticipated the imminent clash. Tension needed no trumpets: it was in the glances, the postures, the whisper of the wind.
A silent war unfolded there, and none present would be willing to step back.
As the sun slowly tilted toward the horizon, bringing with it the stillness of the afternoon, the queen remained in her chamber, wrapped in thoughts no one would dare interrupt.
The brief encounter of the morning still echoed in her mind, and now she moved with the precision of one arranging invisible pieces on the board of power.
As the queen reread the last paragraph of the report, the quill traced the parchment one final time before the messenger was dismissed.
The queen remained motionless for a few seconds, fingers resting on the marble table, gaze lost in the flame of the candle.
"Two princes, raised far from the throne… and already accustomed to the scent of blood," she murmured. "One studies before he acts. The other… smiles before he strikes."
The counselor inclined slightly. "Should I take that as a threat, Your Majesty?"
"No." She raised the chalice, watching the ruby reflection of the wine. "Just… a reminder that royal blood always finds a way to boil."
"And the temple?" he asked. "According to the count's report, they're involved. Shouldn't we seize the chance to bring them to trial?"
The queen stared at him, cold, calculating eyes.
"Do not ask me to march blindly. Bring me every thread: blades, crossbows, the orphans, and the bishop — everything that sustains this plot. Without a complete map of the poison, nothing moves under my walls. Go, and tell my brother: rewrite the plans of the North."
While the queen finished the parchment in her chamber, the sun fell over the king's hall, illuminating Vaelrion in his imposing silence.
Cassian approached, measured steps, posture firm, golden eyes alert to every gesture of the monarch.
"Report from the North," Vaelrion said, voice grave, slicing the silence like a blade. "War approaches, but not as we imagined. The throne senses the scent of disorder. Can I trust the loyalty of all commanders?"
Cassian inclined, weighing his words:
"All who remain under my command will answer in blood, my king. But there are fissures, inevitable in times like these."
The king remained silent, eyes like embers.
"Then let each fissure be dealt with before it becomes a rupture. Let no one, ally or enemy, perceive hesitation. Let the North remain steadfast… even when the storm blows from within."
Cassian nodded, aware of the weight he carried: hidden forces were already moving in the shadows, and when the storm rose, nothing would be as before.
In the training yard, as the castle breathed tension, other pieces began to move on the board of those who prepared war in silence.
Young men lined up, wooden swords clanged, instructors observed; there, amid sweat and dust, utilities were forged that could decide nights to come.
"The queen didn't seem to enjoy your charm very much," Karna joked."Oh, she did. She just hasn't decided if she'll kiss me or behead me," Ereon replied, and the yard returned to its training, ready for whatever came.
Éon lifted his gaze, calm as ever, voice restrained.
"You should stop tempting fate."
"And you should stop thinking fate doesn't like to be tested," Ereon retorted sharply, that pause always cutting before the other could respond.
Ereon looked at Karna, evaluating him with the same cutting gaze he used in combat.
"How many did we get?" he asked, direct.
Karna hesitated a second, laughing softly.
"Twenty registered."
Ereon raised an eyebrow. "I'm talking about the ones who will be useful."
Karna suppressed his smile and lowered his voice, serious for the first time.
"Five, if we're lucky."
Ereon turned to Éon, purple eyes glinting for a second — the minimal signal of the Void that slept in waiting.
"Five will be enough. Teach them the basics."
Karna started explaining, proud:
"I must say, the skills awakened in them are not promising."
Ereon interrupted, impatient.
"It doesn't matter. As long as they do not betray us, I will make them serve. Now —" he stepped, adjusting his cloak — "we must prepare, Éon. We have to attend the welcome banquet."
Before leaving, Ereon tossed something precisely to Karna. The object spun in the air and landed softly in his hands, small and discreet, but laden with intent.
"Hey… it's not my birthday, you don't need to send gifts," Karna joked, lifting the object with a grin.
"This is for you," Ereon said, eyes cold and calculating. "Keep it until the right moment… it will guide you, and only break it when you reach its destination."
Ereon moved forward, confident, while Karna lingered, holding the object, aware that something was about to happen.
Karna laughed softly, crossing his arms and shrugging with a carefree air.
"I just hope no one dies before dessert."
Ereon smiled, provocative, and the sound of his laughter mingled with the clanging of swords in the yard — fire and ice, ready for the same storm forming over the North.
Night fell over the castle, casting long shadows along the corridors.
Fireplaces lit up, casting golden reflections over tapestries and armor, while the North wind pressed against the half-open windows.
In the princes' chambers, silence was cut by the sound of buckles and fabric being adjusted.
Ereon wore a black outfit with silver details, impeccable cut, etched with discreet Northern symbols; the long cloak fell over his shoulders, aligned with his lean, agile body.
Éon wore deep blue, almost night, with fine silver thread embroidery along the sleeves and collar; the light cloak swayed gently with each step, reflecting candlelight with restrained elegance.
Both adjusted reinforced leather boots, silver belts, and starched cuffs, every detail measured to convey respect and authority, but also discipline and readiness.
After dressing, they walked in silence down the corridor toward the banquet hall; the atmosphere was heavy with expectation, almost tangible.
At the door, two guards stared at them, and one passed the message to the herald, preparing the hall for the princes' entrance.
The herald, with a firm, resonant voice, cut through the murmur of the hall:
"Your Majesty! Second Prince Ereon, son of the throne, presents himself before Your Graces!"
All eyes turned to Ereon, who entered with upright posture, gaze confident, measuring the room as if every noble's gesture could be a chess move.
Then the herald announced:
"Your Majesty! Third Prince Éon, son of the throne, presents himself before Your Graces!"
Éon entered immediately after, steps calculated, body and expression restrained, maintaining the same serenity that always accompanied him.
As they finally entered the hall, the spectacle of power revealed itself in all its magnitude.
Crystal chandeliers reflected candlelight, and the air vibrated with the muted murmurs of well-dressed nobles, their jewels glittering in the warm light.
At the center, the thrones of the queen and king rose like beacons of authority.
The queen raised her chin, cold, assessing eyes.
"Apparently, during this month, not even basic etiquette was taught," she said, voice sharp, slicing the hall like a blade. "How dare you arrive like this, after the king and queen?"
The king smiled, leaning slightly on his throne, a glint of irony in his eyes.
"Well, I could say the same. But tell me… why did your sons not return with you?" he said, voice deep but amused. "Or were you already preparing… a war in the North, perhaps?"
The queen raised her eyes, narrowing them for a moment, chin still lifted.
"Such… perceptive observations," she said, with a faint icy smile. "I hope you are prepared to see if your suspicions are correct."
They exchanged a brief, silent look, full of understanding, before being interrupted by the measured footsteps echoing through the hall.
Ereon and Éon advanced through the hall, measured and precise steps, eyes alert to the nobles bowing, whispering, or casting critical glances.
Some murmured, admiring the princes' beauty and impeccable bearing; others evaluated every gesture, searching for flaws.
Before the king and queen, both performed the proper bow, maintaining the expected composure.
Ereon spoke first, voice clear and controlled:
"My apologies, Your Majesties. We lost track of time during training."
The queen lifted her gaze, cold and calculating:
"Always speaks first, Ereon? And what of the third prince… does eloquence escape him, or should we wait for him to learn to express himself?"
Ereon kept a slight, elegant, restrained smile.
Éon bowed respectfully before replying:
"I beg you not to consider me insolent, Your Highness. Yet my brother has always been more skilled with words since youth." He fixed his gaze on the queen, voice firm: "My advantage lies in eliminating my opponents before they perceive my intent."
The hall fell silent, murmurs ceased, as if everyone awaited the monarch's reaction.
"Almost sounds like a threat, third prince," her voice was icy, each syllable measured.
"I acknowledge, Your Majesty, that my tongue is harsh, and so I leave diplomacy to my brother."
Éon bowed slightly, controlling the faint irony that showed through.
The king interrupted, raising his hand with authority:
"Enough of these words. This is not a court." His firm voice swept through the hall, imposing silence. "Rise. This banquet will last three days, celebrating the queen's return and the ascension of the new heirs to the throne of the North."
The marquis of the queen's faction stepped forward, rigid posture:
"Your Majesty, forgive me, but I could not help noticing that such a declaration might be interpreted as revoking the eldest prince's heir title."
The king smiled, eyes gleaming with cunning:
"In the North, the law of the strongest prevails. Was it not thus that I claimed this throne?"
A brief reminder crossed his expression. "And was it not thus that Queen Seraphyne adopted the name Vaelrion, eliminating all rivals in her path?"
Silence descended on the hall like a heavy cloak. The queen stared at the marquis, who recoiled, aware that any challenge would be met with her cold disdain.
The king, satisfied, raised his hand in command:
"Let the banquet begin!"
Crystal chandelier lights reflected on the audience, the aroma of spices and roasts filled the air, and though the celebration had begun, tension lingered, reminding all that the court would never fully detach from the silent war forming.