It was already late. The moon reflected in broken shards within the puddles of the muddy streets of Dornwald, a bustling trade city in the kingdom's southern province—too far from Valenheim, too far from the North.
The streets were filled with muffled sounds: slurred conversations, the clinking of mugs, and the music of lutes and fiddles escaping through poorly closed windows. And then...
Silence.
The door of the "Drunken Goat" tavern creaked open discreetly. There was no crash. No magic. Nothing supernatural. Just a man in simple clothes, a dark grey cloak, and worn-out boots. No jewelry. No crest. Nothing to betray nobility or power.
But the atmosphere died the instant he took his first step inside.
Everyone felt it.
Not with their eyes—but with instinct. Skin crawled. Sound ceased. The air felt too thick for ordinary lungs.
Arkan Valenhardt.
He walked calmly, his eyes scanning the hall as if every corner belonged to him by ancestral right. He stopped before a table occupied by a burly, drunken mercenary with two swords strapped to his back and a scowl on his face.
Arkan (tone casual, yet firm as cold steel):
"What are you doing there?"
The man looked up, confused.
Arkan (eyes fixed, tone unchanged):
"That is my seat."
Before the other could react, Arkan grabbed him by the collar and tossed him as if he were made of straw. The mercenary flew three tables across, knocking over chairs and shouting until he slammed into a pile of barrels.
Arkan sat down as if nothing had happened. Cruelly calm.
Arkan (looking around):
"Where is the owner? Tregar, where are you?"
In seconds, a middle-aged man, sweaty and nervous, appeared from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a rag.
Tregar (tense, trying to maintain his composure):
"Lord Arkan, I... welcome. It is an honor to—"
Arkan (interrupting, dryly):
"Shut up, you animal."
Tregar froze, as if his heart had forgotten how to beat.
Tregar (swallowing hard):
"Forgive me... I am so sorry, by the gods... I didn't mean to offend you..."
Arkan (a gaze sharp as a knife):
"You're sorry, are you?"
He leaned in slightly, his voice low but sharp:
"You'll be a lot sorrier if you don't keep this cup full all night long. All night long."
Tregar (bowing):
"O-of course! I'll see to it right away! Heavens, this is going to be a long night..."
He stumbled away, whispering curses and quiet prayers to no one in particular.
Arkan leaned back in his chair, pulling the cup toward him. Silence still reigned in the hall. The music had stopped, the musicians' fingers frozen over their strings.
Arkan (looking toward the stage, irritated):
"Why has the music stopped?"
He glanced sideways at the counter. Tregar understood instantly.
Tregar (whispering to the girls entertaining the customers):
"Girls... please... go cheer up Lord Arkan. Smiles. Watch your eyes. For the love of the gods."
Three of them approached, dressed in alluring clothes, with trained gazes and soft voices. One sat beside Arkan; another touched his hand.
But his look… was one of absolute boredom.
Arkan (to himself):
"No patience for this."
He raised his hand. A subtle gesture. But it was enough.
The three recoiled as if they had stepped over a forbidden line.
Then Tregar returned, breathless, with a bottle of scarlet wine, pouring some into the cup with trembling hands.
Tregar:
"I hope it is to your liking, Lord Arkan... gods help me, I chose the best..."
Arkan (turning his head slowly):
"Do you think I'm pathetic enough... to believe in that heap of rubbish you call gods?"
Tregar turned pale.
Tregar (stuttering):
"N-no, my lord! Of course not, I... forgive me, I spoke without thinking..."
Arkan (curt and final):
"Go away."
Tregar:
"B-but I can serve—"
Arkan (without looking):
"I'll manage."
Tregar backed away, nearly tripping over his own feet. With every step backward, he seemed to gain more air back into his lungs.
Arkan stayed there. Alone.
The cup spinning between his fingers.
The entire hall—packed—remained mute, looking without looking. Breathing without breathing. Touching their glasses as if they were holy relics.
And at the center of it all, Arkan, looking as if he were bored in a world that was far too small for him.
———
The morning chill swept over Cherry Blossom Mount like a silver veil. Light touched the walls of the **Palace of Silent Mists**, casting long, elegant shadows across the frozen gardens. Cherry petals fell slowly, like pink snow—but here, even time seemed to bend so as not to disturb those sleeping beneath that roof.
Or trying to sleep.
The doors to Arkan's chamber opened slowly, without a single sound.
He had only just entered. He had crossed the dawn in silence, like a ghost the city pretended not to see. He had thrown himself onto the bed still dressed, face-down, buried in the pillow. But physical exhaustion was useless against the constant noise inhabiting his mind.
And before he could lose himself to the numbness, her voice arrived.
Elyria (voice soft, yet heavy with maternal authority):
"Where did you spend the night?"
Arkan didn't move. He only turned his face slightly, eyes still closed. He sighed.
Arkan (voice raspy, disinterested):
"I've already told you not to worry about me."
A pause. The morning light filtered through the curtains of magical fabric, tinting the room a gelid gold.
Arkan (continuing, without moving):
"I am a man. A warrior. Far stronger and more intelligent than any old war general you'd find out there."
The silence stretched for a moment. Elyria didn't answer immediately. She simply watched him.
Dressed in wrinkled clothes, boots discarded on the floor, hair still disheveled by the southern wind. He was there… but it seemed half of him was wandering some invisible battlefield.
Elyria (crossing her arms, voice low):
"Being a man… doesn't stop anyone from being a fool."
Arkan opened one eye. His expression was almost amused. Almost.
Arkan:
"So you think I was a fool?"
Elyria (approaching, her tone calm but firm):
"I think if you feel the need to remind me who you are… perhaps you are starting to forget it yourself."
Arkan closed his eyes again, sighing as if the ceiling were heavier than it ought to be.
Arkan:
"I don't forget who I am. The whole world makes sure to remind me."
Elyria (with a bitter lightness):
"And yet, you keep burying yourself in it."
She sat beside the bed. Not as a noble lady. Not as the patriarch's sacred concubine. But as a mother. As someone who knew Arkan's silences better than his words.
Elyria (looking at him):
"You may be stronger than a thousand generals. Wiser than all the mages of the South. But you are still my son."
Arkan didn't answer. But his body relaxed for a second. Just a second.
Elyria ran her hand through his hair, as she used to do when he was younger. When there was still time for innocence.
Elyria (breaking the silence):
"And what horrible wine was that on your breath?"
Arkan opened his eyes, a slight smile on his lips—tired and mocking.
Arkan:
"Enough to make me forget the bad music."
Elyria (raising an eyebrow):
"One day, you will find something that even wine cannot erase."
Arkan:
"Perhaps. But on that day… I'll drink the whole ocean of wine."
Elyria smiled. Sad. Proud. And she left the room, closing the door behind her with a whisper of a breeze.
Arkan remained there.
Eyes wide open. The room was comfortable, immense, decorated with tapestries and ancestral weapons. But his mind was elsewhere.
A field. A throne. An abyss. It didn't matter where—the world was always expecting something from him.
And he... still didn't know if he wanted to give it.
The door had already closed. Silence reigned in the room once more.
Arkan closed his eyes, finally surrendering to the soft bed, feeling the weight of the world lift from his shoulders—for a brief instant.
But the peace lasted less than a single breath.
The door swung open again, this time with more resolve. The hurried footsteps betrayed the same presence as before.
Elyria (voice sharp, slightly irritated):
"Ah! I knew I was forgetting something."
Arkan didn't move, but he let out a low groan, burying his face deeper into the pillow.
Elyria (firmly):
"You can't just stay sprawled out there all day like a... like a lazy dog, Arkan. You have commitments!"
Arkan (mumbling, without even lifting his head):
"What commitments?"
Elyria (frustrated):
"You know perfectly well."
Arkan (lifting his head slightly, eyes half-lidded):
"If it's anything involving my brothers… forget it. I'm not eyeing the position of Patriarch. I never have been. Let them fight among themselves like hyenas over a bone."
He rolled onto his side, flinging one arm off the bed with no hurry at all, like a king exhausted from ruling an empire he never asked for.
Arkan (with disdain):
"Besides... I'm on 'vacation.' My word is final. If anyone insists, just give them some excuse. Tell them I went to train with an albino dragon in the Infinite Mountains, or that I dove into the Eternal Sea to find a fish that predicts the future. No one will question it."
Elyria (crossing her arms, her tone reproving):
"That isn't how things work, Arkan."
Arkan (glancing toward the ceiling, ironic):
"For me, it works just fine."
She huffed. But behind the frustration… there was a glint in her eyes. A slight smile. Almost imperceptible.
Elyria (amidst a resigned sigh):
"You truly did inherit your father's stubbornness..."
Arkan (smiling thinly, sarcastic):
"He inherited a fear of me, if you must know."
Elyria (shaking her head, heading back toward the door):
"Go take a bath. And be presentable if you change your mind. Or if I have to drag you by your hair. I am still your mother."
Arkan (closing his eyes again):
"On the day you manage to drag me, I'll become a priest to the very gods I hate so much."
She laughed softly, already heading out the door, and replied gently:
Elyria:
"Then you'd best start memorizing your prayers."
The door closed for the second time.
This time, the silence remained. But it was a lighter silence. Familiar.
Arkan lay there, arms behind his head, staring at the room's sculpted ceiling. A faint smile still lingered on his lips.
Because no matter how much the world feared him… inside that palace, she still treated him like a stubborn boy—and for some reason, that never bothered him.