The grief did not vanish, but it softened just enough for movement to return to their bodies.
Hands remained on Alfur—firm, steady, unwilling to let him drift too far into the weight of loss.
Albeit exhaled slowly, then tightened his grip briefly on his brother's shoulder.
"We're going inside," he said quietly, his voice carrying both command and care.
No one argued, because there was nothing to argue against.
This was no longer just a reunion—it was a return that needed shelter.
They began to move as one, not in formation, but in instinct.
Four brothers walking with the fifth held at the center, as if protecting something fragile yet unbreakable.
The palace gates opened wider, as though the kingdom itself was making room for him.
Each step Alfur took felt heavier than the last, yet more certain at the same time.
Behind them, the world watched in silence, unwilling to interrupt what was sacred.
Ahead of them, the palace stood not as stone, but as memory waiting to be reclaimed.
A few steps behind, Keyla turned her attention to Alfrida, who still stood near the gates with quiet uncertainty.
The girl's eyes moved between the brothers and the towering palace, as if unsure where she now belonged.
Keyla approached first, her expression softening into something warm and welcoming.
"I'm Keyla," she said gently, her voice steady despite everything that had just unfolded.
Eris stepped forward beside her, already reaching for the luggage without hesitation.
"And I'm Eris," he added with a small nod, lifting the weight as though it were nothing.
Alfrida blinked, slightly startled by the ease of their kindness.
"I… I'm Alfrida," she replied, her voice quieter.
Keyla smiled faintly and gestured forward, her tone lightening just enough to ease the tension.
"Then come with us, Alfrida—we'll walk you in properly," she said, as if this were not a moment of upheaval but a simple arrival.
They began walking, Keyla and Alfrida side by side, with Eris just behind them carrying everything she had brought with her.
Their pace was unhurried, deliberately calm, giving Alfrida space to breathe within it.
"You've traveled far," Keyla said softly, glancing at her.
"That alone makes you strong, really strong." she added, her words simple but sincere.
Alfrida looked at her, something in her expression shifting slightly.
"I followed him," she said, her voice carrying quiet pride beneath its softness.
Eris heard it from behind and allowed a faint smile to form.
"That makes you family already," he said, his tone warm, as though the decision had already been made.
Alfrida did not respond immediately, but her shoulders eased just a little.
For the first time since arriving, she did not feel like an outsider standing at the edge.
Within minutes, the entire group moved deeper into the palace, their destination already decided without needing to be spoken.
They turned toward a long, quiet wing—one that had not seen life in years.
The doors stood closed, untouched by time but heavy with absence.
This had once been Alfur's place, and even the air seemed to remember it.
Servants rushed ahead, pushing doors open, pulling curtains wide, letting light flood into spaces that had long been dim.
Dust stirred, not as neglect, but as something being awakened.
Alfur paused at the threshold for the briefest moment.
His eyes moved slowly across the interior, not seeing furniture, but echoes.
Then he stepped in.
And everything began.
It did not happen gradually.
It happened all at once.
Servants filled the space in a quiet storm of efficiency and precision.
They moved with purpose, each carrying something necessary, each knowing exactly what needed to be done.
Clothes—rich, regal, fitted for his stature—were brought in armfuls.
Fabric of gold and deep royal tones replaced the worn weight of travel and survival.
Warm water was prepared without delay, infused with oils meant to soothe muscle and mind alike.
The scent filled the room, soft and grounding, pushing back against the harshness he had carried for years.
Healing salves followed, carefully applied to scars that told stories no one dared ask about yet.
Hands worked gently but thoroughly, as though honoring each mark rather than hiding it.
Food arrived in abundance, not overwhelming but constant, offered in measured intervals to restore without burdening.
Every detail was considered, every need anticipated before it could even be spoken.
Even rest was guided, shaped carefully between moments of care.
There was no gap, no stillness long enough for pain to settle again.
Alfrida received the same attention, though softer, more mindful of her unfamiliarity with such treatment.
Her fiery red hair was gently untangled, her travel-worn clothes replaced with garments worthy of her presence.
She looked at herself only once, briefly, as if unsure whether what she saw was truly her.
Then she looked away, still adjusting to a world that had opened too quickly.
By the time the sun reached its height, something had changed.
Not everything—but enough.
Alfur stood once more, no longer appearing as the man who had arrived at the gates.
He stood as something closer to what he had always been—royal, steady, and undeniably Aragon.
His golden hair, now clean and tied back, caught the light with quiet strength.
The regalia settled on his shoulders not as decoration, but as something that had always belonged there.
Alfrida stood nearby, equally transformed, though her expression remained more grounded.
She had not forgotten where she came from, and that gave her presence a different kind of weight.
A knock came at the door, measured and respectful.
"It is time," a servant announced softly from beyond.
The walk to the banquet hall felt different from before.
This time, it was not urgency that filled the air—but expectation.
Word had spread faster than any messenger could carry it.
From the moment he stepped through the gates of the capital city, information moved faster than the wind, the high nobles immediately sensed the importance of this man who resembled the Empire's commanding general.
The lost prince had returned, and the kingdom had come to witness it.
Nobles filled the hall, their presence thick with curiosity, respect, and something deeper.
Many among them had stood on that battlefield, had heard the stories, had seen the cost of loss.
And now, they would see its answer.
The doors opened.
And silence fell instantly.
Alfur stepped in first, his posture steady, his expression composed though not untouched.
Alfrida walked beside him, her presence quiet but unyielding.
For a single breath, the entire hall simply looked.
Then—
They rose.
Not in fragments.
All at once.
Applause followed, not loud at first, but building, growing, filling the vast space until it became something overwhelming.
It was not celebration alone—it was recognition, respect, and something close to reverence.
From the moment they entered, the sound did not stop.
It carried them forward, step by step, all the way to the center of the hall.
Alfur did not rush, nor did he hesitate.
He walked through it, receiving it not as pride, but as something heavier—something earned through suffering.
Alfrida stayed close, her eyes forward, her presence steady despite the attention surrounding her.
She did not shrink from it, nor did she seek it.
At the center, two seats had been prepared.
Not placed carelessly, but positioned with intention—where all could see, and none could question.
Albeit watched from his seat, his expression steady, though his eyes carried everything he did not speak.
Beside him, Don exhaled slowly, as if releasing something he had held for years.
Conrey and Lan stood just behind, their presence firm, unshaken.
The five were no longer separated—not in distance, and not in truth.
Alfur sat.
The applause slowly softened, but its echo lingered in the grand hall like a promise that refused to fade.
All eyes remained fixed on Alfur and the young woman beside him, not with curiosity alone, but with respect forged from understanding.
Albeit did not take his seat his seat.
He stood not only as Emperor, but as a brother who had regained something thought lost forever.
His gaze swept across the nobles, the generals, the witnesses of war and history alike.
"Today," he began, his voice calm yet carrying effortlessly through the vast chamber, "is not a day our kingdom believed it would ever see."
He paused briefly, allowing the weight of those words to settle into every corner of the room.
"We have fought wars, buried our fallen, and endured years that tested the strength of our people," he continued, his tone steady but deeply felt.
"And yet, even through all of that, there remained one loss that never truly left us."
His eyes turned to Alfur.
" Our brother was taken, not by death, but by the cruelty of this world," he said quietly.
"A prince stolen before he could become the man we now see before us."
The hall remained still, every word anchoring deeper than the last.
"But today," Albeit continued, his voice lifting slightly, "he returns—not as a memory, not as a shadow, but as blood of this kingdom. Alive and well.As Alfur Aragon, son of this house, brother to us all, and rightful child of Deharan."
A murmur of agreement rippled softly through the hall.
"And he does not return alone," Albeit added, his gaze shifting gently to Alfrida.
"He brings with him one who walked that impossible path beside him."
His expression softened.
"His daughter, though not by birth, but by choice, by survival, and by bond stronger than circumstance," he said.
"Alfrida, who stands here today as family."
The room responded—not with loud applause this time, but with a unified, respectful acknowledgment.
Albeit straightened slightly, his presence returning fully to that of Emperor.
"Let this banquet stand not only as celebration," he declared, "but as recognition of endurance, of loyalty, and of the unbreakable will to return home. And let all present remember this—blood may be scattered, but it does not forget where it belongs."
He raised his hand gently.
"Welcome home, Alfur."
The words settled like something sacred.
Then he sat.
The hall followed, nobles and warriors alike returning to their seats in a wave of controlled movement.
But the attention did not fade—it only sharpened, focusing now on the man at the center.
Alfur remained still for a moment, his gaze lowered slightly, as though gathering something from within.
Then slowly, he rose.
The room quieted again, not out of obligation, but anticipation.
"I remember the day they took me," he began, his voice steady but carrying a depth that immediately commanded attention.
"I was ten years old, and I did not understand what was happening—only that I was being torn away from everything I knew."
No one moved.
"They brought me to the second continent," he continued, his eyes lifting slightly, distant yet precise.
"To a people known as the Lyrons."
A subtle tension passed through some of the older nobles.
"I was not a prince there," he said plainly.
"I was a slave."
The word landed heavily, stripping away any illusion that might have softened his past.
"For years, I endured," he went on, his tone unwavering.
"Not because I was strong—but because I remembered."
His hand clenched slightly at his side.
"I remembered a place," he said.
"A name."
He lifted his gaze fully now.
"Deharan."
The hall seemed to breathe with him.
"That memory became my weapon," he continued.
"It gave me direction when there was none, and purpose when survival alone was not enough."
He paused briefly.
"I escaped," he said simply.
The simplicity of it carried more weight than any embellishment.
"But I did not escape alone," he added, his gaze shifting toward Alfrida.
"There were seven of us, but in end only two of us, I and my daughter who was very young back then made it to the border of the second continent."
"She was seven years old," he said, his voice softening slightly.
Alfrida lowered her eyes slightly, but did not hide.
"She should not have survived," Alfur continued.
"But she did. From cold, fever, heat, she endured."
A faint breath left him.
His voice steadied again.
"From the moment we crossed the continental border, she became my second anchor, she was no longer alone," he said.
"And neither was I."
The silence in the hall deepened, no longer just attentive, but moved.
A few gasps, quiet but present, broke through the stillness.
"When we escaped we were many, when we crossed, We were the only ones," he said.
He let that settle.
"From there, we walked," he went on.
"Not for days or months—but for years."
His voice did not rise, but it carried every mile within it.
"We fought bandits who saw us as easy prey," he said.
"We defended villages that had nothing to give us in return."
A faint shift of pride—not arrogance, but quiet truth—touched his expression.
"We saved people," he added.
"Because we knew what it meant to have no one come."
The hall listened, completely still.
"We crossed forests that swallowed light," he continued.
"Deserts that stripped strength from bone, and tundras that froze even the will to keep moving."
Each word painted the journey not as legend—but as survival.
"And through all of it," he said, his voice softening again, "I held onto one thing.My first anchor."
He paused.
"I was going home."
A breath moved through the room.
"To see my father," he said quietly.
"To see my mother."
His voice tightened, just slightly.
"To stand before my brothers again."
The silence that followed was no longer empty.
It was full.
"And when I no longer wanted to continue coming, I'd look at her, and then continue because I wanted her to have a home too."
"I made it back," he said finally.
"But not in time."
No one spoke.
Alfur lowered himself back into his seat slowly, his expression composed, but not untouched.
Alfrida sat beside him, her presence steady, her silence speaking just as loudly.
Around them, the hall remained still for a moment longer.