I arrived at my father's office long before Benedict.
The familiar dark wooden doors loomed before me, polished to perfection, their intricate carvings reflecting the grandeur of Eldoria's palace. Two guards flanked the entrance, standing as still as statues. At my approach, one of them knocked once and pulled the door open, allowing me to step inside.
Alistair was at his desk, surrounded by stacks of parchment and neatly organized tomes. A single candle flickered beside him, casting a warm glow over the documents. He didn't look up immediately, but I could feel his presence as if it filled the entire room.
"You're early," he finally said, setting down his quill and looking up at me with those piercing icy-blue eyes.
"I don't like wasting time," I replied simply.
A flicker of amusement crossed his features before he leaned back in his chair. His gaze swept over me, lingering just a second longer than necessary. "I've heard much about your first day at the academy," he said. "You've exceeded every expectation."
I said nothing.
"You excelled in Etiquette & Mannerism—even the instructor, a man who finds fault in the very air people breathe, had little to say against you. You outmatched every opponent in Swordplay without so much as breaking a sweat. And in Runic & Arcane Magic, even Solvane, a man who has studied magic longer than I have ruled, was left speechless by your demonstration."
He tapped his fingers against the desk. "Not bad for a village boy."
His words were light, but the scrutiny in his gaze told me he was expecting answers.
"Where did you learn all this?" he finally asked, watching me closely. "Your education was supposed to be nonexistent. Yet today, you performed like someone raised among scholars and warriors alike."
I shrugged. "I read books."
Alistair's brow lifted slightly.
"My mother had a few in the house," I continued. "Whenever she could afford them, she'd buy books on history, magic, language, and swordplay. I read all of them."
"And your skill in magic?"
"Self-practice."
He was silent for a moment.
"Self-practice," he echoed, and for the first time, I detected a sliver of something that almost sounded like disbelief. "So, you're telling me that just by reading books and practicing alone, you were able to reach a level that leaves the academy's best instructors astonished?"
I met his gaze evenly. "Yes."
He studied me, his fingers still tapping lightly against the desk. Then, to my mild surprise, he gave a small chuckle.
"Remarkable," he murmured. "I expected you to be above average, given your mother's blood, but this... You might be the most talented child Eldoria has ever seen."
I didn't respond.
There was a knock at the door.
"Enter," Alistair called.
The doors opened, and Benedict limped inside.
He looked pitiful.
His face was swollen, one eye nearly shut from the bruising. His lip was split, dried blood cracking as he clenched his jaw. His clothes, while changed, did little to hide the stiffness in his movements.
Every step he took was labored, and judging by the way his arm was cradled slightly against his side, he might have bruised a few ribs.
I shot Bernard a glance, and the old man gave the slightest twitch of a smile. He must have ordered that no healer in the castle treat Benedict's wounds.
Benedict stood in front of the desk, hands clenched at his sides, his face tight with pain.
The room was silent.
Alistair did not immediately speak. Instead, he stood from his desk, moving with slow, deliberate steps. His presence alone made the air feel heavier, a weight pressing down on the room.
Benedict shifted uncomfortably but kept his head high, refusing to look weak. The king came to a stop directly in front of him.
SLAP.
The sound echoed through the chamber, sharp and unforgiving.
Benedict staggered to the side, his already bruised face now marked with a fresh, red imprint of Alistair's palm. He hissed in pain, his entire body tensing, but he did not fall.
Alistair's voice was cold.
"You fool."
Benedict swallowed hard but remained silent.
"You have spent your life surrounded by sycophants, praised for meaningless victories in tournaments that were rigged in your favor," Alistair continued, his voice low and venomous. "You have never faced a real opponent. And when you finally did, you were beaten so thoroughly that you now stand before me as nothing more than a wounded dog."
Benedict clenched his jaw, his eyes burning with humiliation and anger.
"You dare to insult the future king of Eldoria?" Alistair hissed. "You dare to demean the queen, my WIFE!?"
Benedict's hands shook slightly. "She's not—"
Alistair grabbed him by the face.
His fingers dug into Benedict's jaw, forcing him to look directly into those icy, merciless eyes.
"If you ever speak ill of Evelyne again," Alistair said, his voice low and lethal, "it will not be Camden who punishes you." His grip tightened, his fingers pressing harder against Benedict's already bruised skin. "It will be me. And it will be your head that rolls."
Benedict's breath hitched.
"Do you understand?"
"...Yes, Your Majesty," Benedict choked out.
Alistair held him there for a moment longer, then released him with a shove. Benedict stumbled back, gasping slightly as he clutched his aching face. Then the doors burst open.
"BENEDICT!"
A woman's voice, sharp with fear and fury, filled the chamber.
Louise.
She rushed inside, her long white braided hair bouncing with each hurried step, her ice-blue eyes wide with horror as they landed on her son. "My boy!" she gasped, reaching for Benedict.
Benedict stiffened as his mother placed her hands on his face, her expression twisting in rage as she took in the bruises, the dried blood, and the slight tremor in his stance. Her eyes snapped to Alistair.
"You did this," she accused, her voice shaking.
Alistair didn't move. His face remained as cold and unreadable as ever.
"I did," he said simply.
Louise gasped, looking at him as if she could not believe the words. "You struck my son? Your son?"
"My son," Alistair said flatly, "is standing beside me, completely unharmed."
Louise's head snapped toward me.
I smiled and her face went pale.
"You allowed this," she whispered, turning back to Alistair, her hands clenching into fists. "You let him beat Benedict within an inch of his life, and then you finished the job!"
Alistair exhaled slowly, as if tired. "Your son was given exactly what he deserved."
Louise shook with rage. "You—you monster! You think I will stand for this? You think I will allow—"
"You will be silent," Alistair cut her off, his tone like a blade against stone.
The room fell still. Louise trembled, her lips parted as if she wanted to scream, but she said nothing.
Benedict remained frozen at her side.
And me?
I just watched in pure amusement.
Alistair exhaled sharply, his patience clearly running thin. His icy-blue gaze settled back on Benedict, who was still stiff with humiliation and pain.
"This," Alistair said, his voice low but commanding, "better not happen again."
Benedict swallowed, his throat working as if he wanted to protest, but under his father's unyielding stare, he only nodded once.
Alistair turned his attention to Louise. "And you—control your child."
Louise's lips parted, but she hesitated. There was no mistaking the threat beneath those words. She had power as royal consort, but Alistair's word was law, and if she pushed too far, even she knew there would be consequences.
She forced a stiff nod.
Satisfied, Alistair let out a breath and turned back to me. For a moment, his gaze softened, and then, to my mild surprise, he reached out and gave me a single pat on the head.
It wasn't particularly affectionate, more acknowledging than anything else. But the sheer act itself, coming from someone like him, was enough to silence the room.
I said nothing.
With that, he straightened. "You're all dismissed."
I turned on my heel without another word and walked out. I could feel Benedict's burning gaze on my back, could hear Louise's sharp breath as she bit back her words, but none of it mattered.
I had won.
[5 months later]
Time passed quickly.
Life as a prince was nothing short of exhausting. My days were filled with training, lessons, social events, and the relentless expectations that came with my new status.
I woke before dawn each morning. The sun would barely be peeking over the horizon when Bernard arrived at my chamber, clapping his hands sharply to rouse me from sleep. There was no room for laziness in the palace, and certainly not for a prince.
My schedule was relentless, mainly focusing on 4 things:
Morning Swordplay: The first task of the day was sparring practice. Each session became more brutal than the last, as instructors struggled to keep up with me.
Strategy and Diplomacy: Hours of learning political maneuvering, the history of war, and how to command an army with precision.
Runic and Arcane Magic: Magus Solvane was relentless, drilling me on the complexities of spellcasting, artifact creation, and the ancient languages of runes. He said I was prodigy, a one in million, which I was of coursee. So the old wizard put extra effort into teaching(most things I already knew but it couldn't hurt to learn more heh).
Public Appearances: I was expected to be present at diplomatic meetings, banquets, and court gatherings. It was as dull as it was necessary.
The academy continued to be a battlefield in its own way.
Benedict had learned his lesson. He never openly insulted me or my mother again, though the hatred in his eyes never faded. He kept his distance but trained harder, pushing himself beyond his limits.
The other students treated me with a mix of fear, respect, and curiosity. My friends—if I could call them that—remained by my side. Those who once doubted me quickly realized they had no choice but to accept my place at the academy.
My academic performance remained flawless. I outperformed my classmates in every field, quickly rising to the top of every course. The instructors, who initially regarded me as an unknown factor, began to acknowledge my talent with thinly veiled awe.
But while my skills grew, so did my understanding of the world I now lived in.
Being a prince was not just about power. It was about playing the game—knowing who to trust, who to manipulate, and who to keep at a distance.
The nobility watched me carefully, whispers always following in my wake. Some saw me as a threat, a wild card thrown into the political landscape. Others saw an opportunity, eager to ally themselves with a rising star.
But I had no interest in their games.
I had one goal: To cement my place so that neither Benedict, nor Louise, nor any noble could ever challenge me again, until ofcourse I leave this blasted kingdom.
And so, I played the role expected of me.
I smiled when necessary. I fought when required. I learned from every interaction, every whisper, every sideways glance.
And just like that...
Five months passed.
=
=
As the days moved forward, talk of my upcoming ninth birthday began to spread through the palace.
It would not be a simple celebration. A prince's birthday was a political event, an occasion where the nobility and foreign dignitaries would gather, their eyes set on the future of Eldoria.
The invitations had already been sent.
Soon, the palace would be filled with guests from far and wide—lords, ladies, warriors, scholars, and even emissaries from neighboring kingdoms.
The celebrations would be grand, but I cared little for the festivities.
[Morning of the Birthday]
[Mid-Autumn]
I had grown used to waking up in cold luxury.
For the past five months, the start of my day had been marked by the sharp claps of Bernard's hands or the quiet shuffle of servants as they carefully pulled open my curtains. I had gotten used to the sensation of being roused by others, by a palace that never truly slept, and by a world where every morning meant stepping into my role as a prince.
But today was different.
I wasn't woken up by the rustling of silk robes or the distant chime of the castle's morning bells.
Instead I was woken up by something far warmer.
A soft, gentle voice carried through the hazy edges of my half-sleep. The familiar melody of a lullaby, so intimately woven into my childhood that my body recognized it before my mind did.
"Sleep, my darling, rest your eyes... Let the moon guard the skies..."
The tune was warm, delicate, and filled with love—a love I hadn't felt in a long, long time. I opened my eyes slowly, despite the fact that the lullaby was meant to put me to sleep.
And there she was, Evelyne, my loving mother.
She sat on the edge of my bed, her face bathed in the dim morning light filtering through the curtains. Her silver hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and in her hands was something I had never expected to see in this grand, gilded palace.
A cake.
A simple one. Nothing extravagant—just a small, homemade cake, with a layer of soft cream and fresh fruit glistening on top.
She smiled at me, her blue eyes shining with warmth. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."
I didn't move for a moment. It felt like I had woken up back in the village.
Like the past five months had been nothing more than a strange, elaborate dream, and I had simply drifted back home, to the small cottage where life had been simple, warm, and safe.
"You made this?" My voice was hoarse from sleep.
Evelyne let out a soft laugh. "Of course I did. What kind of mother wouldn't bake her son a cake on his birthday?"
Something tightened in my chest.
I sat up, staring at the cake, then at her. "You sang that song," I murmured.
Her smile softened. "I always did, didn't I?"
She reached forward and brushed a few stray locks of hair from my forehead, just as she had done when I was younger.
"You've grown so much, Camden," she whispered. "But today, no matter how big or strong you are... you're still my little boy."
My throat felt tight.
I looked down at the cake. It was small, but perfect—not the kind of elaborate pastry made by the palace chefs, but something far more precious. Something real. Something made with love.
She picked up a fork, sliced a small piece, and held it out to me. "Go on, take a bite."
I hesitated, then leaned forward and took it. The moment the cake touched my tongue, something inside me melted. It tasted like home...
Not the grand halls of the palace, not the expensive feasts laid out for royalty—but home. Soft, Sweet and Familiar. I closed my eyes and let the flavor settle in my mouth.
"Make a wish," Evelyne said gently.
I opened my eyes again. She was watching me expectantly, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
A wish.
I had never believed in them.
I had seen the reality of the world—war, human greed, betrayal and so much more. Wishes were for children who still thought life was fair.
But right now, sitting in bed, with my mother beside me and a cake made with love in front of me...I allowed myself, just for a moment, to believe.
I closed my eyes.
"I wish..."
The words never left my lips. [A/N Guess the wish. Best comment will be included in the story(not like ppl comment anyway.)]
I let the thought sit, let it linger in the air, and then blew softly over the cake. Evelyne smiled. "Good."
I exhaled slowly, the moment settling deep in my chest. She leaned forward and kissed my forehead. "Happy birthday, my love."
I swallowed and forced a small, lopsided grin. "Thanks, Mom."
She laughed softly, then cupped my cheek for a brief second before straightening. "Come on, let's get you ready."
***
The warmth of the morning stayed with me as I rose from bed.
I had grown so accustomed to servants fussing over me, dressing me in layers of royal attire, and ensuring every fold, every piece of jewelry, and every inch of my robes were perfectly in place.
But today? Today, I dressed myself.
I pulled on the soft, finely woven tunic, buckled my belt, and adjusted my sleeves with a sense of satisfaction. My fingers worked quickly, muscle memory kicking in as I laced my boots, smoothed out my attire, and even ran a comb through my unruly golden hair.
It had been months since I had done something so simple for myself. And yet, it felt freeing. Evelyne sat on the edge of my bed, watching me with an amused expression. "You look proud of yourself."
I smirked. "You wouldn't believe how many people it takes to put on these ridiculous outfits."
She chuckled. "Oh, I believe it. Nobility does love their layers."
I rolled my shoulders, stretching a little. "No stiff collars today. No suffocating layers. I'm keeping it simple."
She smiled. "Good. You're still my boy, no matter how fancy they try to make you."
Something about that statement made my heart ache in the best way. Once I was ready, Evelyne reached for my hand. I looked down at it for a moment—her small, delicate fingers, still bigger than my own though.
Then, without hesitation, I took it. And just like that, we left the bedroom hand in hand. As we stepped into the halls, the palace staff froze.
The sight of me—the young prince of Eldoria, walking with his commoner mother, hand in hand—was something none of them had expected.
[A/N: In case I never made it clear, Evelyne is of commoner heritage. She married Alistair as an act of love (prince and commoner thing). Louise, the second wife, is the one of noble blood.]
They bowed as we passed, but their eyes lingered, their whispers hushed but present. But I didn't care. For today, I wasn't just Prince Camden Wilder Eldenhart.
I was simply Evelyne's son.
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A/N: Removed the birthday party scene coz I honestly didn't like how it turned out and was just too long (why did I waste my time writing it in the first place *sob *sob). And the chapter would have ended up being 5k words and I really didnt wanna split it and make another chap. So this is where the childhood arc ends.
Onto the prequel of the adventureee!!