"On a new continent, fighting for land and survival is inevitable. War will follow us."
King Harold stared out at the dark horizon, his voice heavy with the weight of prophecy.
"I do not know if I can lead our people to reclaim the glory we held on Utessar. We might rise higher than before, or we might fade into history. By staying here, you ensure the royal bloodline has a second path. We are not putting all our eggs in one basket."
Among all his children, Theodore was the only one with the grit to carve a kingdom out of nothing. He was the only one who could survive without the shelter of the crown.
"Three days from now," Harold continued, his tone hardening, "I will issue an Imperial Decree. I am expelling the commoners—the peasantry, the refugees—driving them north, to you. This is the final mercy I can offer them."
"I expect you to treat them well."
Harold fought to keep his voice steady, masking the storm of guilt raging inside him.
