Lysos:
"If you permit me, I believe sending Ryan to investigate is the best way to assess the depth of the rebellion."
Vulcan responded with a clear tone:
"Ryan? A good choice, but not enough. Matthew will go with him."
Sharavis, hesitating:
"What about Raven?"
Vulcan answered immediately:
"Raven… is not ready yet."
Sharavis, breaking the seal on a letter in his hand:
"We received this letter at dawn… from a man who used to serve in the border guard units."
He unfolded the paper and read it in an even voice:
"Commander of the Guard, I saw something strange. I swear by the gods, it did not resemble any human."
He fell silent, then slowly folded the letter.
Lysos, mocking:
"Are we to believe such tales? The man was simply frightened… does he expect us to believe someone who deserted the border and his duty and left the battalion?"
But Vulcan kept staring at the letter for several moments, then said in a quiet voice:
"He…"
He looked at Sharavis.
"That night… was he executed?"
Sharavis replied at once:
"Yes. All the rebels were executed, by your order."
Vulcan and Sharavis exchanged a long look. Lysos observed them silently.
Vulcan, firmly:
"Summon Ryan immediately. I don't want noise. Let him go alone with four guards, including Matthew. The mission is secret. Let them leave by morning."
Lysos: "As you wish, my lord."
⸻
Meanwhile, while tension was brewing with Vulcan, someone else in the palace was having a very different kind of difficult day.
In the royal dining hall, where the colored glass cast patterns of light across the floor, little Sheila sat on a velvet chair, swinging her feet and complaining as she watched Mademoiselle Eléonora repeat, once again, the proper way to hold a teacup without bending.
Eléonora, in her thick French accent:
"Left hand on the napkin, right lifts the cup… aligned with the neck, do not lean! This shows nobility!"
Sheila mumbled, unimpressed:
"I swear the cup is starting to look at me with disdain."
At the door, her older sister Nayla stood watching with a mix of amusement and affection.
Nayla:
"That's because you're holding it like it's a broom."
Sheila spun around quickly:
"Nayla! Take me with you, please! I swear I'll attend all the math and physics lessons, just spare me this one!"
Nayla walked over slowly, sat beside her, and took the cup from her hands. She lifted it with perfect grace and said lightly:
"See? No pain, no suffering. Just a teacup… and a bit of pretending you're enjoying it."
At the far end of the room, Prince Alex sat with a book in his lap, barely turning its pages. His eyes moved between Nayla and Sheila, smiling every time Sheila stumbled through etiquette or Nayla whispered something to her.
Alex:
"You know, Lady Nayla… the hardest thing in this palace—harder than any battle—is being forced to do something you hate."
Sheila laughed:
"See, Nayla? Even obedient Alex agrees with me."
Alex rose, approaching them:
"I'm always on your side… except when it's about Mademoiselle. Then she has every right."
Eléonora called out, without turning:
"Merci, mon prince."
Sheila:
"I thought you'd take my side, but never mind… While you master the cup here, I'll master the sword in the training yard."
Nayla, shocked, grabbed her sister's ear:
"What did you just say? What sword? What training, Sheila?!"
Alex, quickly intervening as Sheila winced in pain, took Nayla's hand:
"It's a misunderstanding, Lady Nayla. I was training one day, and Sheila happened to see me. She laughed and said she'd beat me if she held the sword herself. That's all."
Sheila, staring at him in surprise, muttered with a wince:
"Yes, yes… Let me go, please, sister."
Nayla released her, adjusted her posture, and pointed a finger at her:
"Listen, Sheila. I might just scold you or tug your ear… but our father—if he even hears you touched a sword—he'll marry you off immediately. To Mark, the stable boy. You know him, don't you? That chubby one."
Sheila stared at her sharply, laughing:
"Mark? Father would never do that. You know why? Because he's still trying to polish his image, to cleanse his roots, to forget he was once a farmer. You know what he did to get here. Do you think he'd throw away his daughter on someone like Mark?"
Nayla, stepping closer, said firmly:
"He would… if you bring shame with a sword in your hand, he would."
Sheila gulped and looked at Alex in fear. He, too, looked worried.
Sheila said quietly:
"Mademoiselle… where were we?"
Eléonora smiled gently, clapped her hands twice, and said:
"Good. Back to the lesson, Miss Sheila. Try again."
Sheila returned to her seat, trying to appear serious. Nayla sat beside her, watching silently. Alex went back to his chair… but didn't open his book this time. He just stared—at nothing in particular.
Elsewhere in the palace gardens, Raven, Ryan, Kara, Varos, and Silvara gathered beneath a cloudy sky.
Varos lay sprawled on a cushioned bench, carelessly swirling his drink. Kara held up a small mirror, studying her reflection from every angle. Raven sat at the edge of a stone planter, flipping a short stick between his fingers. Ryan—silent as always—watched them all, saying nothing. His eyes moved from face to face, as if memorizing them for a future he couldn't yet name.
Silvara stood off to the side, gazing up at the sky, her thoughts seemingly far beyond the garden.
Suddenly, a guard approached with deliberate steps, halting before Ryan and bowing.
Guard:
"Sir Ryan… His Majesty the King requests your presence immediately in the Southern Council Wing."
A hush fell. The garden stilled. Even the breeze seemed to pause.
Ryan stood calmly. His expression did not change.
Ryan:
"Did he say why?"
Guard:
"It's urgent, sir. No details were given."
Varos, swirling his cup lazily:
"Ah, here we go… I knew this day wouldn't pass quietly."
Raven, frowning:
"My father summoned you? Alone?"
Ryan, fastening his royal cloak:
"I don't know. But I'll find out."
Kara, startled, dropped her mirror and hurried to Ryan, gently grabbing his hand.
Kara:
"I'll wait for you in the hallway, Ryan."
She looked at him for a long moment. He didn't answer, but gave her a small nod.
Raven stood abruptly, voice sharp:
"I'm coming with you."
The guard hesitated, uneasy.
Guard:
"The summons was for Sir Ryan only, Your Highness."
Raven, raising his voice:
"I'm the Crown Prince! How dare you—"
Ryan calmly interjected:
"Perhaps he forgot… amidst the rush. Let's go—Father is waiting."
Raven clenched his fists, his temper boiling just beneath the surface.
Raven:
"Let's go, then."
They walked through the marble halls, Ryan in front, Raven just behind, his steps heavier, slower. The echo of their boots sounded like war drums down the corridor.
Raven leaned closer, voice low and bitter:
"You don't even look worried. Is it because you're used to being summoned… or because you're still the same Ryan—no feelings at all?"
Ryan, without turning:
"Both."
Raven, after a pause, murmured:
"Sometimes I wonder which of us is truly the prince."
Ryan didn't answer. But a flicker passed through his eyes—sharp, dangerous. If he had spoken, they might not have reached the council doors in one piece.
When they reached the Southern Council Wing, an eerie silence hung in the air.
Ryan entered first, with Raven just behind him. King Vulcan sat at the head of the long rectangular table, a map spread out before him and untouched goblets lining the surface. Lysos stood beside him, face blank, while Sharavis was jotting down notes in meticulous handwriting—but the moment he noticed Ryan, his pen halted.
Vulcan, without lifting his gaze:
"You've arrived."
Ryan, with a slight bow:
"As you commanded, your majesty ."
Raven entered and sat down without invitation. His voice was heavy as he spoke:
"As usual… I wasn't summoned."
Vulcan raised his eyes to him. The look wasn't angry—it was worse. It was empty.
"Leave, Raven."
Raven stood abruptly, striking the table with his palm.
"I am your son… your heir. How am I supposed to rule this kingdom if it's Ryan who's sent to carry out your orders, while I sip wine with Varos? If I'm no more useful than him—then what's the point of me?"
A heavy silence followed. Vulcan tightened his fist and lowered his eyes for a moment, then said in a calm but final tone:
"Not this time, Raven. Not today. Leave."
Raven didn't budge. Instead, he raised his voice:
"Then say it plainly. Let the king declare it now—Ryan is the true heir.
He's the one you trust, the one you send, the one you believe in.
And me? I'm just a shadow trailing behind goblets and banquets. Just like Varos."
The room tensed. Eyes turned toward him, and breath became weighty.
Then Ryan's voice cut through the silence. Soft, measured. Not challenging—but far from empty:
"Your Highness… how can a blade be compared to the hand that wields it?"
Raven raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing. Ryan continued, voice low:
"I am sent because your hands are too valuable to stain—not because I stand above you.
I carry out your orders… because I serve, not because I compete."
A pause. Only the king's breath could be heard.
Then Ryan lowered his eyes respectfully:
"And I would never presume to be weighed beside the blood of kings."
Raven looked at his father for a long moment, then rose and left without another word.
The door closed behind him like the end of a chapter.
After a beat, Vulcan spoke:
"We've received reports from the eastern border…
Not only of rebellion. But of something else. Something unfamiliar."
He gestured to a letter on the table. Ryan glanced at it.
Ryan:
"I assume this isn't merely a surveillance mission."
Vulcan nodded:
"You're going as our eyes. But if needed… be our sword. Without hesitation."
Sharavis stepped forward and handed Ryan a small envelope sealed with red wax.
Sharavis:
"A royal order. Do not open it… unless you see something strange."
Ryan, cautiously:
"Strange? What do you mean?"
Sharavis looked toward the king without speaking.
Vulcan rose slowly, met Ryan's eyes, and said firmly:
"Something… not human."
Ryan met his gaze, then gave a single nod.
"Understood, your majesty ."
Lysos stepped forward:
"Four guards will accompany you. Matthew among them."
Ryan, securing the envelope in his belt:
"Matthew and I will be enough. No need for more."
Vulcan stepped forward until he stood right in front of him.
"This mission is secret, Ryan. You know how Raven is…"
Ryan, calmly:
"Three-three-nine."
Lysos, puzzled:
"Three-three-nine? What's that?"
Vulcan waited, eyes on Ryan.
Ryan:
"Three hundred and thirty-nine missions I've completed…
without the prince knowing a single one your majesty ."
Vulcan smirked faintly.
"Then this will be three-forty."
Ryan nodded silently.
The king turned away and said:
"Leave before sunrise."
Ryan:
"As you wish, my king."
⸻
Ryan walked out of the council chamber, his steps steady, unhurried.
At the corridor that led to the southern courtyard, she was waiting.
Kara.
He stopped at the arch, adjusting the strap of his leather glove.
Kara, not stepping closer:
"What did the king say to you?"
He didn't answer. Just finished fastening the glove, then slowly turned his face to her.
She continued in a whisper:
"I heard the guards preparing the horses.
They said you'll be gone before dawn."
He replied dryly, with a faint smirk:
"Did they?"
She took a breath, eyes fixed on him.
"You don't draw your sword like that… just for training."
He didn't confirm, nor deny it. He pulled the other glove on without a word, as if silence was easier than truth.
Kara, her voice softening:
"Ryan… some men die by the king's command.
Others die because of him.
You… I don't know why, but—"
She trailed off.
"Forget it."
He looked at her—just once. A single glance, but it was heavier than anything she could bear.
Ryan, quietly:
"I'm not sent on missions because I'm the best, Kara…
I'm sent because I'm the only one who doesn't mind dying out there."
The words hit her not like a blade, but like truth.
He added, eyes ahead:
"I go… to die if needed.
Or to vanish, if I'm lucky.
Every time, it feels like escape. Not duty."
Silence.
She said nothing.
And he walked away.
⸻
Ryan reached the small room deep within the servants' wing.
It was the same as always—damp, dim, windowless.
Even the air seemed to have stopped moving years ago.
He opened the door and stepped in.
Thalia was sitting in her usual place. Doing nothing in particular.
Just… existing. As if waiting for someone who no longer came.
She looked up as he entered, and smiled.
He sat down opposite her, slowly—like the weight of his silence was greater than anything in his body.
Ryan, finally, voice dry:
"I'm leaving."
She didn't flinch. Her eyes didn't question or fear—just… understood.
Ryan, quietly:
"By the king's command."
She blinked—once. That was all he needed.
Ryan, eyes elsewhere:
"People say I'm sent because I'm the best.
Truth is… no one sends the best.
They send the ones they can afford to lose."
She didn't speak. Didn't move.
He looked at her:
"Sometimes I think…
If you had screamed that day.
If you hadn't stayed silent.
If you had run…
If you hadn't surrendered…
Maybe everything would be different.
Maybe I wouldn't have turned into… this."
Something flickered on her face—so faint, it could've been imagined. But no tears.
He whispered, like the blade of a knife:
"He lives… as he wants.
He took your voice.
And I… I finished what he started.
With silence."
She reached for his hand. Slowly. Gently.
Her skin was cold, her touch rough… like someone who hadn't been held in years.
He said nothing.
Then, softly, pulled his hand away.
And stood.
At the door, he stopped. Didn't turn around.
Ryan:
"You know… I never went on those missions looking for victory.
I went… to escape.
And every time… I end up back here."
A breath.
"Damn it."
He left.
Thalia didn't move.
She stared at the door a while.
Wiped her eyes.
And then, as if nothing had happened… returned to polishing that same old piece of cloth.
In Queen Alessandra's chamber, the night was still. Rain fell lightly outside, and the candles flickered, nearly extinguished.
She sat calmly on a velvet settee, reading an old book with composure.
When she saw Raven enter, she closed the book softly and lifted her gaze to him—without standing.
She said, in her usual calm tone:
"I didn't think you were the type to enter without knocking."
He replied as he stepped forward, his pace quick, his face tense, and his voice strained:
"And I, too… have begun to wonder if I've always been that kind of man."
He turned toward her and sat beside her.
After a moment of silence, he asked:
"Do you think I'm really… his son?"
She froze for a second, then looked at him sharply and said:
"Raven, what nonsense are you speaking?
If you weren't his son, would he have placed you on the throne as crown prince in the first place?"
He looked at her, broken:
"I'm truly lost, Mother…
If you knew how he treats Ryan, you'd understand what I mean—
and why I've started to question everything."
She didn't answer. She only turned slowly to face him fully, then said:
**"Ryan is a piece on the board. A weapon.
Today it's him, tomorrow it's Marcus, next week it's Jesos…
That chain never ends.
But you? You're not a piece.
You're the hand that holds them. That doesn't change.
I know… it may not feel like that to you.
But your father, to protect his heir,
will send every man in the kingdom to fight—
but never the heir himself.
You understand me, don't you?"**
He lowered his gaze to the floor, his voice softer now:
"I just wanted to prove myself to him, Mother.
That's all I ever wanted.
That look, you know?
The one that says: 'I'm proud of you.'"
She looked at him for a long time. Then smiled gently and said:
"He's looked at you with that pride, Raven…
since you were just a baby.
Perhaps you never noticed it…
But I did.
Raven, you and Alex—you're everything we have."
He leaned in and rested his head on her shoulder.
"You're the only one who can quiet the fire inside me…
for hours, with just a minute."
Alessandra wrapped her arms around him, and said softly:
"And you…
you are the peace that finds its way to my heart every time."
To be continued ..