The gates of Alferan's capital, wrought of white stone and trimmed in silver, glimmered beneath the late afternoon sun as the procession approached. Hooves struck the paved road in a steady, united thunder, the kind that spoke not of retreat, but of victory hard-won. Banners rippled in the northern wind-deep blue, emblazoned with the silver crest of Alferan: a lion crowned with sunrise.
At the head of the host rode Crown Prince Alistair Klifford von Alferan.
He cut a figure so striking that even the gathered townsfolk, hardened by years of border tension, felt their breath catch. His armor was full plate honed to a mirror sheen, catching the sun like a second dawn. Though steel usually weighed heavy upon a man's shoulders, Alistair wore his with an ease that made it no more burdensome than a cloak. Beneath its polished plates, he remained lean, elegant, and deceptively lithe, as though sculpted by an artisan intent on capturing grace itself.
Tousled by days of Northern wind, his white hair fell around a face both noble and gentle, its sky-blue eyes clear as the first thaw of spring. It surveyed the capital with quiet, thoughtful pride. And though his frame reached nearly 189 centimeters, nothing in his posture boasted arrogance; rather, he carried himself with the composed dignity of one who knew both the weight of command and the fragility of human life.
As he rode, children darted forward with small banners. Vendors paused mid-call, their goods forgotten. The very guards at the gate, schooled to rigidity, could not conceal their smiles.
"The Prince returns!" someone cried from a balcony.
"Victory from the North! The Finnol forces retreat once more!"
Alistair bowed his head in modest acknowledgement, though fatigue darkened his eyes. For all the cheers, he could still see the flickering campfires of the Northern front, the weary soldiers, the wounded carried silently through the snow. War, even when won, left an aftertaste of iron.
His horse-a tall, obsidian stallion named Stormlight-moved with regal composure beneath him. The pair looked carved of myth: the pale rider upon the dark steed, sun glinting off armor and mane alike.
Waiting for them, as they entered the gates, stood a figure well-known on the steps of the citadel: King Theodor von Alferan, tall and broad-shouldered, his once-raven hair with streaks of dignified silver. Beside him stood Queen Marienne, in her emerald gown flowing like a forest breeze, bright-eyed with a mother's relief.
Alistair slid from his horse with practiced ease, handing Stormlight's reins to a waiting squire. For a heartbeat, the prince hesitated; emotion softened the proud lines of his face.
Then he strode forward.
"Father. Mother." He bowed, a gesture deep and sincere. "I have returned, as promised."
Queen Marienne made the first move, reaching for his face, her hands trembling as they cupped his cheeks.
"Oh, my son… you return whole." Her voice cracked with both exhaustion and gratitude. "The gods are kind."
The king stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Alistair's armored shoulder. "Welcome home, my boy. Alferan owes you another debt for the North." His voice carried warmth that was tempered by pride—yet also, beneath it, a thread of something heavier. Something only a king could bear.
Alistair removed his gauntlets and took his mother's hand, brushing his forehead against it. "The men fought bravely; the victory is to all of them."
"A noble answer," King Theodor said, though a faint smile tugged at his lips. "But the people will sing your name nonetheless.
He gestured to the citadel doors. "Come. You must be exhausted. Supper waits, and your sister sends her love from the academy."
Together they entered the marble-lined halls. The interior's warmth enveloped Alistair like a long-forgotten cloak: soft lamplight glinting on polished stone, the familiar scent of cedarwood and old tomes brushing old memories awake.
Overview Why we often encounter sales while shopping in a store? Why, at times, do we see sales in almost every store we enter? Why is it that whenever we go shopping in any store, we often find sales? Why is it that we sometimes find sales in almost every store we enter?
Dinner was a quiet affair.
The grand dining hall, so spacious, now seemed strange with only three seated. Servants were there, moving soundlessly to replace one dish with another: roasted herbs, soft breads, and warm broths intended more for comfort than to impress.
Alistair ate modestly, though hunger pressed at him. After weeks in the North, even simple fare tasted divine. His mother watched him carefully between sips of broth.
"You are thinner," she murmured. "And there are shadows beneath your eyes."
Alistair gave a small smile. "Winter campaigns are harsher than most. But I am well, Mother."
"You would say that, even if you'd lost half your limbs," she muttered, not quite joking.
King Theodor leaned back in his chair, studying his son with a strategist's gaze. "Your report mentioned the Finnol forces retreating deeper into their forests. No further incursions?
"None for the moment," replied Alistair. "But their new commander is crafty. He probes our defenses. The North will not stay still for much longer."
A silence fell. Only the crackling hearth replied.
She reached across the table and took her son's hand in her own. "For tonight, at least, rest your thoughts. Let war wait outside these walls."
Alistair nodded, though he knew war rarely obliged such wishes.
Supper ended with polite talk—his mother inquiring after his soldiers, his father listening with furrowed brows, every now and then remarking on some point in a muted tone. Even as the prince talked serenely, he felt the unspoken weight behind every question.
As they rose from the table, Alistair bowed to both of them.
"If you will excuse me, I shall take my leave and remove this armor. It has clung to me long enough."
Queen Marienne smiled. "Go, then. Rest."
But the king raised a hand.
"Alistair. When you have changed… come to my study."
Alistair paused. His father's tone was soft, its firmness leaving little room for interpretation. "As you wish."
⸻
Having changed, Alistair walked the long corridor towards the royal study.
His footsteps resounded softly against stone. The halls at night felt heavier, with shadows stretching like dark tapestries across the walls, while moonlight spilled through tall windows to paint pale silver upon the floors, mirroring the hue of Alistair's hair as it brushed his shoulders.
He wore simple clothing now: a dark tunic, sleeves pushed to his elbows, boots still dusted with the remnants of travel. Without the armor, he moved with a quiet fluidity that reminded him he was more than a symbol—more than a shining knight on a battlefield. Here, he was simply a son returning home.
Yet, the North had etched its memories upon him. He felt them even in the peaceful corridors: the howling of wind through broken fort walls, the weight of fallen comrades, the frost biting through gloves and bone.
He let out a soft sigh.
Duty does not stop with victory.
He paused at the study door. Beneath it, candlelight flickered soft and warm. He lifted his hand, knocked once.
"Enter," the king's voice echoed.
Alistair stepped inside.
:
The Royal Study
The walls were lined with bookshelves, their leather spines aglow with gold in the firelight. A large map of the continent stretched across the far table, marked with colored ink. King Theodor stood beside it, one hand braced on the wood, the other holding a sealed parchment.
As he raised his head, his face had lost all that softness of the dinner table. Here stood not just a father—but a king burdened with the fate of a kingdom.
"Close the door, Alistair."
He did so.
Neither spoke for a moment.
The king studied his son-not his armor, not the titles he bore, but him. The man shaped by battlefield frost and the weight of expectation.
"How fares the North?" Theodor finally asked.
The question held layers deeper than the words alone.
Alistair let his breath out slowly. "Tense," he replied. "The Finnol Kingdom grows restless. Their scouts press harder, their skirmishes bolder. The retreat we forced. may only be the calm before their next strike."
The king nodded, but his jaw tightened a fraction. "I feared as much."
Alistair stepped closer, eyes drifting to the map. "If they attack again, it will not be a mere border dispute. The Finnol court seeks leverage—and they will take it where they find it."
"And our allies?" asked his father.
Alistair's eyes hardened. "Watching. Waiting. Too many fear the shadow of Aurelis." He hesitated. "The empire's influence grows long."
The king let out a sigh, his eyes lifting from the map. "The world shifts, my son. Faster than our walls may stand against."
Alistair lifted his chin. "Then we strengthen them."
The king's eyes softened; pride flickered through their steel. "You speak as a future king should."
Yet something in his father's tone unsettled him. A quiet gravity. A tightening of truth preparing to break.
Alistair waited.
But the king only folded his hands behind his back and said: "Tomorrow, we speak of plans. Tonight… I wished only to look upon you and know that you returned." Alistair bowed his head. "I am here, Father." "And for that," Theodor said quietly, "Alferan breathes easier." The fire crackled; the wind murmured against the glass.