The night of the banquet proved long for painted lovers, yet fleeting for steadfast hearts. As Helios displayed a demeanour his subordinate had never witnessed, the royal hall sustained its festive glow—drowned in romance, laughter, melodies, flowing dance steps, and refined wine.
Beyond the notice of common observers, Benedict—the king's mandated representative—kept a measured watch over Helios, in quiet contemplation, striving to discern the loneliness he bore as a proud medal of honour.
Meanwhile, the Auronites carried on their celebrations in the streets, surrendering to their own vibrant rhythms as the night stretched toward its depths, calling upon its twin—the morning—to grant it rest.
The following day was pure. Nothing resembled the savage battlefield that lay far from the peace the Auronites now enjoyed. After completing their morning exercises—meant to keep their bodies tempered and their blood aflame—the battalion gathered near an isolated fountain in the southeastern quarter of Auronis. Standing at their centre, drenched in sweat, Helios delivered his orders with measured brevity.
"We are to spend a week upon our motherland and today marks only the second day. Look around you—behold the splendour of our kingdom. This is the reason we stain our hands with blood and drench our bodies in sweat. Go. Dwell among your families. Feast. Dance, if it pleases you. Honor their patience and their prayers. For in exactly five days, the world shall be turned upside down. And only then will we learn whether we are carved from the same wood."
At that moment, the battalion could not yet grasp the depth of their supreme commander's words. Still, they welcomed the chance to stand once more beside their families—perhaps for the last time. For war, unlike the epics of old, offered no promise of safe return.
With that, the battalion scattered through the streets of Auronis like dust upon the wind, cloaked in civilian guise, striving to live as ordinary men for the few days that remained.
Helios, for his part, had a rendezvous with Princess Victoria.
She had been waiting for him since early Lauds, well aware that he would not be free until shortly after Terce—a silent testament to her impatience to see the man bound so deeply to her heart.
That day, as the sun climbed to its zenith with gentle warmth, the princess wore a simple, elegant raiment, crowned with an ordinary straw hat—enough to pass for a common Auronite at a glance. She had always embraced the ways of common folk: their freedom, their laughter, their lives unburdened by atlas-like responsibility. To her, being born a princess of mighty Auronis meant submission to a predestined, immutable fate—a role she had never fully accepted. Life, she believed, was far richer when every son of man stood master of his fate and captain of his soul.
When Helios arrived at the royal palace, he beheld—once again—an undeniable beauty born of human imperfection. Like a miner glimpsing the glimmer of a diamond through depths of mud, he found himself momentarily disarmed. Princess Victoria possessed a radiance capable of stirring even a heart hardened by war. Her magnificence was dazzling, yet free of grotesque excess—so much so that Helios scarcely registered her humble attire.
As the old saying of the Children of the Rising Sun came unbidden to his mind: "The weapon matters not—only the one who wields it."
In that moment, the princess embodied the truth of it. Upon her, even a commoner's raiment hinted at a Grand Habit of State.
***
In the streets of Auronis.
Through the winding streets of Auronis, Helios and Princess Victoria rode in a modest carriage, its wheels creaking softly upon the cobblestones. Around them, the city moved in its usual rhythm, but none gave heed to the royal pair; they passed in near-total anonymity, cloaked by the bustle of merchants, children, and travellers. The life of the city was painted upon the stones, in the laughter of vendors and the clatter of hooves—a tapestry of existence that brought delight to the princess. Her lips curved into a soft, unrestrained smile, and Helios, watching her, felt a stir of curiosity and wonder at a joy so natural, yet so alien to him. He did not ask the cause of her mirth; to disturb a moment she had long awaited would have been sacrilege.
At last, the carriage emerged onto a path that opened onto a field of mimosas, golden blooms swaying gently in the morning breeze. The field bore a reputation: it was ill-omened to tread there on the second day of the week. Yet superstition held no power over Victoria. She considered such beliefs quaint relics of a simpler age. To her, the gesture was romantic, a spark of light in a world often darkened by war, a place where her heart could freely acknowledge what it had long carried: a love for Helios that would endure, no matter the shadows around them.
Helios, for his part, set aside the burdens of command. In the midst of the swaying mimosas, he felt for the first time in years the liberation of being unbound—formless as the wind, carried only by the moment. The laughter and smiles he had shown at the banquet had carved a fissure in his stone heart, allowing a glimpse of something long forgotten: profoundrelief.
Together, they followed a silent accord, a law unspoken yet instinctual. Each step among the golden blooms was measured, yet unafraid, their fingers brushing the delicate leaves, feeling the softness and fragrance as if each touch were a secret covenant with the fleeting day. It was a dance with danger, some superstition whispered, yet they moved with grace and ease, savouring every heartbeat, like a mortal dancing with death.
Eventually, they took refuge beneath an isolated cypress, its dark boughs forming a natural canopy. Helios remained silent—not from shyness, but from unfamiliarity with such tender moments. Victoria, however, was fully immersed, having absorbed countless tomes of love and courtly romance. With the poise of one who had long studied the language of hearts, she cast aside pretence and asked a question that would define the truth of their feelings.
"Do you know of love?" she asked softly, her gaze steady.
"What is love?" Helios answered, his voice betraying genuine confusion. Years of battle, of bloodshed and betrayal, had skewed his understanding; love had become an abstract, distant concept, tangled with duty and survival.
Victoria only smiled, a brief, knowing curl of her lips, and then laughed—a sound as clear as a mountain stream. Helios, caught off guard, felt the warmth of confusion settle into him.
"Did I speak amiss?" he asked, uncertain.
"Not at all," she replied gently, the light teasing in her tone. "Your honesty is rare, and I cherish it. If you know not what it is to truly love, will you allow me to teach you?"
"True love? What is that?" he asked, curiosity kindling like fire in his chest.
"True love," Victoria said, drawing closer, "is marked by deeds so memorable they are etched eternally upon the body, soul, and mind."
Slowly, she lowered herself to sit upon his lap beneath the cypress, their foreheads almost touching, arms entwined. Helios's hands rested uncertainly, yet instinctively, upon her waist. The grove around them was hushed; even the whispering wind seemed to pause, allowing the rhythm of their hearts to resound louder than any bird or brook.
Victoria's breath carried the scent of strawberries and something more ineffable, a fragrance that seemed spun from the very essence of peace. She whispered, almost reverently:
"Let me etch my love upon your heart."
For the first time, Helios felt himself undone, stripped of the inner restraints that had governed him for years. Where Victoria had known love through the distance of written words, he faced it now without mediation—alive, demanding, and perilously real. In a world scarred by war, it emerged not as illusion, but as something disturbingly pure, echoing the cruel beauty of courtly romances that never promise survival.
Victoria, impatient to leave her own mark upon his heart, pressed her lips to his. The touch was delicate yet profound, and in that first kiss, their existences intertwined. Though brief in the measure of the world, the moment stretched into eternity for them.
When they parted, only a faint trace remained, vanishing almost immediately. Faces flushed, breaths coming in shallow gasps, Victoria gazed into Helios's eyes, steady and unwavering.
"I love you," she said.
Helios remained silent, stunned, speechless in a way he had never known. Without hesitation, Victoria folded herself into his embrace once more, the cypress overhead cradling them in shadow and shade.
Unseen, the princess's guardian, Alice, observed. A member of the king's all-female guard, sworn to protect Victoria, she bore witness to the moment with awe. Having shared countless stories and tomes with the princess, Alice knew that no words could truly capture what her eyes had seen. And in the quiet of her heart, she thought: "Love is truly a magnificent thing."
***
The following days became a quiet testament to the romance of the warlord and the princess. For Victoria, each hour spent in Helios' presence was a blissful recompense for all the long years of patient restraint she had endured. For Helios, those same hours unfolded as a journey of discovery, a rare unveiling of emotions long buried beneath the weight of war.
Together, they traversed the Kingdom of Auronis as if strangers, exploring every quarter and hidden lane, yet remaining unseen, unremarked by the Auronites who bustled about their ordinary lives. Alice, ever a lover of tales and the romances of old, watched in rapt delight. She had been granted a seat at the most intimate theatre of life, witnessing a love story that could never be captured by ink alone—one lived, breathed, and whispered across glances and laughter.
With each day passing under the gentle hand of love and the intrigue of hearts newly revealed, four days slipped away, swift as light itself, leaving only a residue of warmth and longing.
***
The fifth day marked the final calm before the departure of the Night Dreads. Helios and Victoria had not seen one another that day, for the supreme commander claimed the pressing duties of army preparation and an audience with the king—matters he said demanded his full attention.
Part of him spoke the truth; another part, a lie. For the morning lay open and unclaimed, yet he excused himself, seeking solitude to relive, in quiet reflection, the moments he had shared with the princess over the past days. In that stillness, he allowed himself the forbidden thought that perhaps, just perhaps, a warrior could embrace love—an emotion he had long regarded as a cancer gnawing at the heart.
It was then that a raven, black as the void of night, descended silently behind him, perching with a deliberate grace. Its piercing gaze cut through the fog of his thoughts, drawing him back to the present.
Helios had known such birds well. Years of battle had shown him their patience, their cold diligence as they scavenged the aftermath of war, feeding upon flesh and bone once men had fallen silent. To him, they were witnesses to death, implacable and impartial.
The warlord and the raven regarded one another in solemn silence, a stillness that stretched like a taut string between them. Even a madman might have faltered at the sight.
For a fleeting heartbeat, in the depths of the raven's eyes, Helios glimpsed the totality of his life: the boy, the soldier, the warlord, and the man he had become. Most men would have shivered, called fear their bride, and read an omen of death in such a vision. But Helios was no ordinary man, and his interpretation was his alone.
He saw the raven's visit as a summons, a reminder of his path, a divine call to the destiny he had chosen long before love dared touch his heart. With a measured breath, the supreme commander inclined his head in silent acknowledgment of both messenger and message, offering gratitude to a creature he had long considered one of the lowest of living things. For even birds of night, he knew, had their place in the grand design of fate.
***
Royal palace, the king's domain.
The night was bitter, heralding a frost that would punish the idle and favour only those tempered by diligence. Helios moved through the corridors of the royal palace, his boots echoing against the stone floors as he made his way toward the king's chambers. His presence had been requested by His Majesty himself, for the harsh winter had left the sovereign frail, his body weakened by illness and preventing him from leaving his quarters.
At Helios' side walked four warriors of the Night Dreads, each a shadow of lethal precision. Yet among them, one figure stood apart—Medraut. A man whose loyalty and submission to Helios ran so deep that he would have laid even his own family in the earth if commanded. Baron alone had witnessed something few others ever had: the first smile, the first laugh of the warlord in many years—a fissure in the stone fortress of his heart. That secret, sacred and silent, had been kept from everyone, even Helios himself, for Baron understood the weight of what he had seen.
Step by step, Helios and his retinue moved through the king's domain, their passage overseen by the Abaddons with their customary rigor—inspections sharp and unyielding. Finally, they arrived at the chambers that welcomed only those who had either served the realm with blood or been touched by its grace.
Expecting to find his uncle confined to his bed, Helios paused at the entrance. The god-king, though frail in flesh, radiated a resolve so absolute that even mountains would bow before it. At the balcony of his chambers, exposed to the merciless cold, the king stood, gazing over the vastness of Auronis—the very kingdom that had forged his divinity in the eyes of men.
Helios restrained himself from speaking, sensing that to interrupt the king would be an affront to what appeared to be a moment of profound meditation. It was then that a work of art seized his attention: a painting of a man on his knees, drenched in blood, within a field of mimosas.
"Are you a fan of art, nephew?" the king inquired, his steps carrying him back toward the painting.
"Not particularly, Your Majesty," Helios replied, bowing his head slightly, "but I must confess… this painting is captivating."
"For one so unversed in the ways of artistry," the king said, his gaze steady upon Helios, "I am compelled to admit that your taste is commendable."
"I am honoured by your words, Your Majesty," Helios murmured, the weight of the king's praise settling upon him like a mantle.
"Mark my words carefully, Helios," the king continued, his voice lowering to a tone of solemnity. "There are no coincidences in the world. That your eyes have fallen upon this work, and that you have perceived the beauty buried within its tragedy, demands that the tale it holds be entrusted to you. Do you accept this responsibility?"
With unwavering attention, Helios inclined his head. "Yes, I humbly accept," he said, fully aware of the weight carried by the words of a figure he had long revered.
"This painting holds the tale of a commoner, a man blessed by the heavens with a singular gift, one for whom fortune and misfortune intertwined without measure. His name… Espeto Hidalgo. Day and night he painted, driven by passion, by necessity, to provide for his family. At that time, Espeto had no child—only an apprentice who accompanied him to the markets, where he displayed his works upon a modest stall. His art, subtle and demanding of the eye, was not easily grasped by all. Many passed without understanding; others scoffed at what they could not name. More than once, his earnings proved insufficient to cover the dues imposed by the market lords, the rent of his stall, and the daily toll demanded of craftsmen who dared to sell beneath their banners.
It was during one such day of humiliation—when a lord's men, unmoved by plea or explanation, ordered him to dismantle his stall for failing to meet his obligations—that Espeto encountered a man named Khādiʿ. Where others saw inconvenience, Khādiʿ saw promise. He intervened calmly, paid Espeto's dues in full, and lingered before the paintings with a gaze too attentive to be feigned. He spoke words of admiration, rare and precise, then purchased every work Espeto had brought with him—not at the paltry price the market would have allowed, but at twice its worth, urging him not to undervalue what the world had yet to understand.
From that day onward, the pattern endured. Whenever Espeto came to sell, Khādiʿ would appear, acquiring all that he offered, unfailingly and without negotiation. The arrangement spared Espeto from want and ensured the wellbeing of his pregnant wife, which he placed above all ambition. Yet it came at a hidden cost: with his creations passing always into the hands of a single patron, Espeto's name never took root among the people.
Espeto continued thus, serving his family faithfully, until the day his son was born. A healthy boy, whom he and his wife named Valerian.
Valerian grew beneath his mother's care, tending to the flower fields she cherished so dearly. And Espeto, devoted to her joy, granted her a generous share of the fruits of his labour throughout the years.
When their son reached manhood, and Espeto himself approached the threshold of old age—he was fifty-nine—he embarked on a journey, presenting his works far and wide. It was a strategy he devised to increase his earnings, for what he received from Khādiʿ alone could not sustain them. Though he had known this man for years, Espeto would not raise his prices, fearing to ruin the fragile trust between them. Yet, this arrangement, though secure, closed him from the world beyond Khādiʿ's influence.
Buyers encountering his paintings for the first time offered pitifully low prices, unaware of the depth and mastery of his art. Yet there were others who understood every nuance, every intention behind his work—but who, seeing Espeto as a poor, lowly man, deliberately undervalued it. They saw no worth in him and, therefore, no reason to pay what his talent demanded. In both cases, he remained at the mercy of buyers who neither honoured the hand that had birthed his creations nor recognized the true beauty before them.
When word reached him of a grand celebration to be held in the capital—a gathering said to draw nobles, collectors, and patrons from distant lands—an audacious thought took root.
Espeto had never set foot within the capital's walls; the journey alone demanded a sum far beyond the reach of most craftsmen. Yet such an occasion was rare, perhaps singular, and he understood that opportunities of this magnitude did not return twice to men of his station.
With measured patience, he gathered and set aside what little coin he could, sacrificing comfort to secure passage. When at last the cost was met, he wrapped his remaining, unsold paintings with reverence, and without hesitation set out toward the capital—driven by the fragile hope that there, at last, his art might command the worth it had long been denied.
But upon arrival, he was taken aback—the festivity was in honour of Khādiʿ. Espeto had never imagined this man to hold such stature. And yet, what struck him most painfully was the sight of his own works displayed, credited to Khādiʿ, hailed as a prodigy of the age. Nobles and courtiers cheered him as he rode proudly upon a horse, their acclaim for a man who had claimed Espeto's genius as his own.
As the two men came face to face amidst the revelry, Espeto, stunned beyond words, called softly to the one he had considered his truest patron. But Khādiʿ, with disdain and arrogance, denied him, casting Espeto into a grave of despair. Indeed, he had seized every painting and sold them at the royal court for prices a hundredfold higher than Espeto could have imagined.
Espeto's apprentice, who had not witnessed the scene, was perplexed when his master ordered their return. On the way back to their modest home, Espeto, consumed by grief, left his apprentice at the door, refusing his company. In that moment, he chose solitude, seeking only the comfort of the love of his life, burdened by his thoughts and the weight of betrayal.
Upon arriving at his home, Espeto sought refuge in what he believed to be his final sanctuary. But before he could even enter, he noticed farming tools strewn carelessly across the entrance. He had long scolded his son for such negligence. Methodically, he set each tool in its rightful place, his hands steady, though his heart churned with a quiet storm. A hoe remained in his grasp.
Then he heard them—voices, strange in rhythm, haunting enough to arrest his every step. Drawn by the sound, he followed them to his marital chamber. And when he opened the door…"
At this point, Helios, whose attention the king already commanded, could no longer conceal his curiosity. The king, however, pressed on without pause.
"There, he found a man entwined with his wife. In the heat of the moment, with the weight of the frustration and despair Khādiʿ had left burning within him, Espeto struck the intruder dead with the hoe. Blood spilled across the floor, mingling with the anguished cries of his wife as she screamed: 'What have you done?'
Espeto, both furious and betrayed by the woman for whom he had laboured his entire life, felt his blood run cold when he recognized the corpse of his wife's lover—it was his own son, his only son, Valerian."
Helios' expression mirrored the intensity of the king's account, yet deep in his chest, the warlord's long-standing disdain for love, which he deemed a cancer upon a man's heart, surged anew.
"With his wife still screaming, Espeto's rage reached its zenith, for she had driven him to kill his own child. Consumed by fury, he seized her, strangling her as he demanded: 'What mother lays with her own son? What are you?'
She answered, her voice trembling yet resolute: 'What man abandons his wife for his works?'
Espeto, shocked by the absurdity of her claim, loosened his grip for a heartbeat. In that instant, memories surged—decades of sacrifice, of hunger endured, of sleepless nights spent chasing a future he believed would spare his family from ruin.
"How can you utter such a thing?" he cried, his voice breaking under frustration and despair. "Everything I did, I did for you—for us. I sheltered you, I fed you, I gave you the child you longed for! When did your heart become so stained?"
She recoiled, then laughed—a brittle, unhinged sound.
"Stop right there. Do you even hear yourself? All you ever cared about was your miserable art. For years we starved—years—before you met your benefactor. While you wandered the roads and markets, exposing your so-called talent, how do you think I survived? How do you think I ate? How do you think the child in my womb was sustained?"
Though submerged in despair and confusion, Espeto's mind raced through every possible meaning behind her words, desperate to grasp the accusation she hurled at him. Then, like a blade of light piercing an apocalyptic sky, understanding struck. His face stiffened, drained of all colour.
Sensing it, his wife's expression twisted into a smile—cold, unhinged, almost triumphant.
"You see now," she said softly. "Your mind finally acknowledges something other than art. You guessed correctly. The flower field caretaker was the one who kept me alive after I lost our first child—after starvation and malnutrition claimed it."
"Our first child…?" Espeto whispered, sinking further into the abyss.
"I gave birth too early," she continued, her voice steady, merciless. "The baby was stillborn. I nearly died. It was he—the caretaker—who saved me, who fed me, who gave me warmth when you gave me absence. Valerian was his, not yours."
Her voice sharpened into a scream; "And you murdered him!"
Espeto froze. The world seemed to hold its breath. The air crushed his lungs, his mind emptied.
Rage rose—not a flash, but a suffocating tide—black, absolute, unrelenting. His hands moved on their own, trembling, then gripping her throat with dreadful resolve.
She struggled, nails scraping, breaths broken, eyes wide with terror. Tears, blood, and sweat blurred his vision, yet he did not look away. With every convulsion, something within him shattered further. Resistance faded. She stilled.
When life left her, his hands remained, frozen, trembling. Espeto collapsed over her, weeping, drenched in blood, aware that in extinguishing her breath, he had severed the last thread of the man he once was.
Covered in blood, hoe in hand, he stumbled outside, his mind aware of the bitter truth: not only had he laboured for another man's glory, but those he cherished most had perished by his own hands.
For a man who had long created astonishing works of beauty, this act of horror was too grotesque to be called art. Drowning in despair, his soul stripped of purpose, he wandered to the closest of his wife's fields—a mimosa field. With the hoe pressed to his neck, tears streaming freely, unable to bear the weight of his sins, Espeto ended his own life, collapsing to his knees among the golden blooms."
The king paused, letting the weight of the tale settle. Then he spoke again:
"You might ask yourself how this moment came to be captured?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Helios replied, voice tight with curiosity, "I am most eager to know."
"Well, Espeto's apprentice made his way to his master's house. Though he did not know the cause of his master's distress, he took it upon himself to offer him comfort. Upon arriving, he noticed the door of the house stood wide open, as if inviting him in. Stepping inside, he called for his master, searching room to room. Then, his eyes fell upon a scene soaked in blood—the lifeless forms of his master's wife and son.
Before the apprentice could fully grasp the horror, something stirred within the belly of the deceased woman…"
"A child!?" Helios asked, eyes wide, his reaction a rare glimpse of mortal vulnerability—an innocence shaped by the influence of Princess Victoria.
"Yes," the king continued, his voice unwavering. "A child. A concealed pregnancy—so deeply hidden that not even the mother herself had been aware of it. It was the abominable consequence of an illicit bond with her late son. After Espeto met Khādiʿ and began returning home more frequently, the flower field-caretaker withdrew, avoiding any further intimacy so as not to arouse suspicion or invite trouble. In the void left by that withdrawal, Espeto's wife developed a twisted attraction toward her son, a perverse form of compensation; for Valerian bore an uncanny resemblance to his father, alike in both body and spirit."
The king paused briefly before resuming.
"When the movement was noticed, the apprentice did not hesitate. He seized a razor-sharp fragment of shattered glass and cut open the murdered woman's belly. With the same shard, he severed the final bond between mother and child. Wrapping the newborn in a blood-soaked bedsheet, he carried it away."
It was only then that his gaze, betrayed by the silence and the crushing weight of horror, drifted against his will toward the body of his deceased master. Where others might have wept, the apprentice saw something more profound: a beauty beyond ordinary human comprehension, a beauty that could awaken inspiration rather than grief. It was a beauty that would not allow him to sink into despair, for he had found purpose even in the midst of death.
Finding his master's painting tools, he poured every ounce of his skill, every year of apprenticeship, into crafting a farewell worthy of his master. He captured the moment in all its facets—the setting sun, the weather, the gentle sway of the mimosa field, and the still figure of his master cradled in death.
With reverence, he named the work The Espeto Mimosa, in memory of his master and the field that lent a final artistic touch to his passing. Over the centuries, this painting became the most celebrated piece of art, its renown eclipsing the wealth Espeto had never earned in life."
Helios, still digesting the weight of the tale, asked quietly, "And the newborn?"
The king's eyes softened, though his voice remained resolute.
"The child was frail—premature—yet bound to struggle for his place beneath the sun. As the sole inheritor raised in the shadow of his father's apprentice, he would bear his surname, Strassfey, and from that borrowed name carve his own fate. In time, he would rise to forge a financial empire—one so vast and unyielding that it would lay the very foundations of the Kingdom ofAuronis. The same kingdom you defend today with unbroken will, iron resolve, and soil darkened by the blood of those who came before you."