The camp was unusually still that morning. Cold mist crept over the scorched earth, wrapping the tents in a pale shroud. Robert stood at the entrance of Kael's tent, his fingers tightening around the polished wood of his wand. His eyes followed Reinhardt, who was already mounted on his black warhorse, armor still bearing fresh scars from the Demon King's battlefield.
"Brother," Robert finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "Are you sure the King will listen to you? At least… bring me with you."
Reinhardt's emerald eyes shifted from Robert to the tent where Kael lay unconscious. For a moment his hardened expression softened. "The King requested only me," he answered, voice low but steady. "And I don't think you should go back to the palace right now. Kael needs you. You're the only one among us who understands medicine well enough to keep him stable."
Robert's jaw clenched. He wanted to argue but he knew his brother was right. Kael's condition was still fragile; the fever came in waves, and Robert had been the one applying the tinctures and spells day and night.
Iris stepped forward, her Chesly crest glinting on the clasp at her cloak. "Then I shall go with you," she said firmly. "They cannot mock me. I'm a Chesly, and no one at court dares insult my family's name."
Reinhardt's gaze flicked to her. For a heartbeat he almost agreed, but then he shook his head. "No, Iris. If something happens, no one will defend this camp. Kael needs both of you here. The Demon Army may have scattered, but stragglers remain, and cultists love preying on the wounded. Someone must hold the line."
A heavy silence settled. Even the wind seemed to pause. Reinhardt reached into his coat and pulled out a sealed envelope, the crimson wax stamped with his personal crest. He held it out to Iris.
"This letter carries my seal. Go to the north gate, to the Vaelthorn mansion. The new Duke is our ally. If you give this to her, she will provide reinforcements and supplies. Do not delay."
Iris accepted the letter, her fingers brushing his. She gave a small nod, her usual bold eyes softening. "You've thought of everything already," she murmured. "Just… don't get yourself killed before you come back."
Robert stepped closer to his brother, his grip tightening on Reinhardt's stirrup. "Please, be careful, Brother…"
Reinhardt looked at him, then at the tent again. His lips parted as though to speak but no words came. Instead, he gave a single nod. "I will," he said simply.
He turned his horse toward the road. A handful of loyal soldiers fell in line behind him. As they rode off, Robert and Iris stood side by side, watching until the black silhouette of his cloak disappeared into the mist.
The camp felt colder without him. Robert exhaled slowly, glancing at Iris. "We'd better prepare Kael for the move. The carriage must be ready before noon."
Iris tucked the sealed letter into her cloak. "The sooner we reach the north gate, the sooner help will come. Let's be careful."
They walked back into Kael's tent together. The hero still lay motionless on his cot, his pale hair damp with sweat, his breath shallow but steady. Robert's hand hovered over Kael's brow, brushing away stray locks of white hair. "Hang on," he whispered, more to himself than to Kael. "Brother's doing this for you."
Outside, the sound of hooves faded into silence. Inside, Robert and Iris began preparing Kael for the journey north, wrapping him in thick blankets and reinforcing the wards around the carriage. For now, they would guard the camp and the unconscious hero.
Far ahead on the road, Reinhardt spurred his horse faster, his jaw tight. He didn't look back.
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By the time Reinhardt and his small company reached the Imperial Palace gates, the afternoon sun had already begun to dip, casting long bars of light across the marble walls. The black banner of the Hero—Kael's banner—snapped in the wind above Reinhardt's horse, a reminder of the war they had just survived. He had expected at least some cheers, a murmur of gratitude, perhaps even a trumpet fanfare. Instead, cold silence greeted them.
The line of palace guards standing at the gate shifted as they approached. Without a word of welcome, spears were raised and swords drawn.
"Drop your weapons! You are on Imperial ground!" one of the captains barked.
Reinhardt's emerald eyes narrowed. His hand tightened on the reins before he swung down from his horse. He lifted the Hero's flag high in one hand, letting its black-and-gold insignia snap above their heads.
"How dare you," his voice cracked like thunder. "How dare you raise weapons against the Hero's banner? Lower them before you shame yourselves!"
At his side, with a flash of light, Reinhardt summoned his own spear. The polished silver haft appeared in his grip, its edge glinting as he leveled it toward the guards who still stood in his way. The weight of his mana pressed over them like a storm. Several of the younger soldiers flinched.
Before anyone could answer, laughter carried across the courtyard. A smooth, mocking sound.
A young man strode out from behind the guards, boots clicking on the marble path. He was tall, elegant, dressed in the deep blue of the royal line. He patted one of the guards on the shoulder as if amused at their fear. His smile was all teeth, and Reinhardt recognized the voice instantly.
"It's been a while, Reinhardt. How long has it been since you came home?" the man called, eyes bright with jest.
Reinhardt lowered his spear slowly. His expression didn't change. He stepped forward and bowed stiffly, his armor creaking with the motion. "It has been a long time, Crown Prince Stanford," he said, voice stripped of warmth.
Only then did the guards realize who stood before them—the second prince returned from war. They paled, dropping their weapons and bowing deeply toward both brothers.
Stanford's smile widened as he reached out and clapped Reinhardt on the shoulder as if they were old friends. "So… how was the war? I heard you won. Father will be pleased."
Reinhardt brushed the hand from his shoulder with a sharp flick, straightening to his full height. "I need to see His Majesty immediately. Where is he?" His voice was no longer polite. It was a command, cold and clipped. He wanted this audience over. Kael was waiting, dying, and every heartbeat here was one less there.
"Call him 'Father,' Reinhardt," Stanford said lightly, though his eyes glinted. "You always were the dutiful one."
Reinhardt turned his glare on him but said nothing. The crown prince's games weren't worth his breath.
They walked the long corridor together, the echo of their boots sounding like a drumbeat. When they reached the massive double doors to the throne room, Stanford stopped just short of entering. The palace attendants swung the doors open at once.
Reinhardt stepped inside without looking back. The carved oak shut behind him with a heavy thud. Stanford's smile lingered for a second before it faded into something colder. He muttered under his breath, "Ungrateful bastard," and turned away.
Inside the throne room, the air was heavy with incense and politics. Reinhardt's fists clenched at his sides. He was here for Kael, not for the King's ambitions. He forced his breathing to steady, ready to face the man who had sent them all to war.
The great doors of the throne room swung shut behind Reinhardt with a deep, echoing thud. Incense and candlelight hung heavy in the air, gilding the marble floors and the towering columns. At the far end of the hall, upon a throne of black oak inlaid with gold, sat King Stephen. A young woman lounged across his lap, her jeweled hair brushing his shoulder. Another new mistress, Reinhardt thought bitterly. The king's ministers lined the hall in two rows, their faces sharp with curiosity and judgment as their eyes tracked every step of the prince who had returned from war.
Reinhardt stopped several paces from the throne and went down on one knee, bowing his head low to the floor. "Your Majesty," he said evenly, "I have come at your summons."
For a heartbeat, King Stephen did not move. Then he released his hand from the woman's waist and gestured lazily for her to stay seated. "So you came, my son," he said at last. His voice carried a low amusement. "May I look upon your face?"
Reinhardt lifted his eyes, his expression unreadable.
"I hear from your messenger of your great victories," the king continued, rising from his throne with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Truly, I am overjoyed. You have done well."
He came down the steps slowly, his robes trailing like a dark tide. When he reached Reinhardt, he clasped both of the young man's shoulders with an almost fatherly grip. "Now," he said, "let us discuss what I wrote in my letter." His smile widened as if expecting shared excitement.
Reinhardt blinked once, his eyes widening slightly. "Your Majesty, before that, I must—"
But King Stephen had already turned away. "Bring me the maps," he commanded. A minister hurried forward with a rolled-up parchment. Stephen guided Reinhardt toward a long table at the center of the room.
"I have heard," the king said lightly, spreading the map with a sweep of his hand, "that you are skilled in strategy. In reading maps. Tell me—" he tapped a ringed finger against the parchment—"which nation shall we take first?"
Reinhardt stared at the map. Borders and names blurred under his gaze. This man—this father—was already planning another war when the bodies of the last had not even been buried.
"No, Your Majesty," Reinhardt said, his voice taut. "We have just ended our last war. Yes, we won, but our soldiers are still recovering. The people are exhausted—"
His tone rose despite himself, echoing across the chamber. He saw in his mind's eye the bloodied camps, the shattered eyes of the men who had followed him.
Every head in the court turned toward him. Murmurs rose like a low hiss. Ministers exchanged glances.
"I came here," Reinhardt pressed on, "to ask for aid for the wounded. For those who fought. And for the Hero—"
The king's grip on his shoulder tightened suddenly, cutting him off. Reinhardt's eyes snapped to Stephen's face. Annoyance flickered there like a blade.
"It seems you have spent too long at war," King Stephen said, his voice soft but edged with steel. "Why don't you take a few days' rest here? We will continue our discussion later."
Reinhardt hesitated, every muscle in his body taut. He could not openly defy the king—not yet. Slowly, stiffly, he bowed and stepped back.
As he turned from the table, his gaze swept the court one last time. Ministers lounged in their seats as though the kingdom's wounds were nothing. Nobles compared the jewels on their sleeves, whispering of their estates and riches. The king himself sat back on his throne, already reaching for his mistress, blind to the blood still drying on the battlefields.
Reinhardt's fists trembled at his sides. He lowered his eyes, hiding the fury blazing in them. Inside, a single thought took root, cold and unyielding:
This kingdom cannot go on like this.