Dressed in his war armor, Renher strode down the torchlit corridors, his heavy boots echoing against the marble floors.
The war room awaited him, where his most trusted generals, Alison and Thymur, would be gathering.
Yet, halfway to his destination, his steps slowed—then stopped altogether.
Before him stood the polished mahogany doors of Kaileen's chamber.
Renher's hand hovered in the air for a moment, hesitation flickering across his otherwise steady features.
The memory of last night still lingered—the way her sapphire eyes had clouded with worry, the way she had left without another word.
His heart, armored though it was, felt the ache of that wound.
Drawing in a steady breath, he pressed his palm to the door and pushed.
It did not move.
"Kaileen?" His voice was softer than usual, stripped of imperial authority, colored instead with quiet concern.
Silence.
His frown deepened. "Kaileen… it's me."
Still nothing—no answer, no sound but the faint rustle of curtains stirred by the breeze within.
The sinking weight in his chest grew heavier. She was inside; he could sense her, yet she refused him.
Jaw tightening, Renher turned sharply and called toward the adjoining servant quarters.
Within moments, a young attendant hurried into the corridor, skirts brushing the floor as she bowed deeply.
"Yes, Your Majesty?" she asked, her tone respectful, though her wide eyes betrayed nervousness.
"Where is the Empress?" Renher's question came curt, but not unkind.
The attendant clasped her hands. "Her Majesty has not left her chambers since last night. She… refused her morning meal, despite my efforts to persuade her."
For a heartbeat, Renher said nothing. His broad shoulders shifted slightly, the faintest sign of the guilt gnawing at him.
He could break down the door with ease—his strength could reduce it to splinters in one strike. Yet he remained still.
"No," he muttered under his breath. "This is her choice."
Instead, he raised his voice to the attendant. "Bring me a quill and ink."
The girl blinked, startled, but quickly bowed again. "At once, my king."
As she departed, Renher's eyes wandered. A small table stood against the corridor wall, adorned with a vase of delicate pink roses. Kaileen's favorite. Imported at great cost from lands far across the sea, where the climate allowed such fragile blooms to thrive.
He had ordered them scattered through the castle, so that no corner Kaileen walked would lack the flowers she adored.
When the attendant returned, arms laden with parchment, ink, and a silver quill, Renher dismissed her with a wave and lowered himself to the table.
The vase was shifted aside without a word; the servant, perceptive enough, quickly moved it for him.
With calloused fingers, Renher began to write. The strokes were uneven, not from lack of literacy—he was well-schooled—but from the weight pressing against his chest.
Letter
My love,
I know you are angry with me for not listening, but bear with me this one last time. When I return, I will take you to a place I discovered long ago, hidden beneath the wide sky.
There, I shall braid your hair with my own hands, and we will feast upon the dishes you love most.
So, my sunshine, do not starve yourself. If you do, my thoughts will remain with you on the battlefield, and I may falter. You would not want that, would you?
I will return soon, and we shall finish our conversation from last night.
Yours, always,
Renher
He plucked a rose from the vase, stripping its petals one by one.
With surprising gentleness, he wrapped them around the folded parchment, securing it with a strip of ribbon.
Just as he bent to slide the note beneath the door, he froze.
A sound.
Footsteps—soft, hesitant—moving within.
His head snapped up, every nerve alight with anticipation. Straightening, he tucked the note against his chestplate and waited.
His heart, so steady in war, pounded wildly now.
But the door did not open.
Inside, Kaileen had long since sensed his presence. As an 8th-circle mage, awareness came as naturally as breathing.
She stood just beyond the barrier, back pressed to the wood, hands trembling at her sides. His voice reached her, deep and warm.
"I will be back, my love," he murmured through the door. "Wait for me, my sweetheart."
Kaileen drew a sharp breath, eyes stinging. Her pride, her frustration—both urged her to remain silent.
And yet her heart ached to throw open the door and cling to him. She did neither. She stood still, listening.
Renher saw the faintest shadow stir beneath the gap at the door's bottom. He knew she was there. He knew she heard him. But she would not relent.
After a long pause, he exhaled and stepped back. "Take care of her while I am gone," he instructed the attendant quietly.
The girl, who had been watching the exchange in silence, bowed so deeply her forehead nearly touched the floor. "With my life, Your Majesty."
Renher's eyes lingered on the door one last time. Then, with the steel of resolve, he turned away, his heavy armor clinking with each step as he strode toward the war room.
The long corridor leading from the royal chambers to the barracks stretched before him. Torches flickered along the walls, their light catching on the polished plates of his armor.
Normally, the short walk gave him time to collect his thoughts. Today, every step felt heavier, as though Kaileen's silence had chained itself to his boots.
Renher forced himself to straighten, pushing his pace faster. The marble floors trembled faintly under his strides.
Then, with a sudden burst of determination, he broke into a jog.
Maids carrying linens gasped, flattening themselves against the wall as the Emperor thundered past. A young boy, barely old enough to hold a broom, nearly dropped it in shock, his mouth hanging open.
"Was that…?" one maid whispered breathlessly.
"The Emperor," another hissed, eyes wide. "Running!"
"Running?" The boy blinked. "In full armor?"
The women exchanged glances, their astonishment already turning into the seeds of a story they would eagerly share with their families that evening.
Renher caught fragments of their whispers but paid them no mind. He had no time for appearances, no patience for protocol.
The war demanded him, and hesitation was a luxury he could ill afford.
By the time he crossed into the outer courtyard, his breath came steady, his body betraying none of the exertion. He moved like a predator in motion—silent, controlled, unstoppable.
Two guards at the council building's entrance stiffened as they spotted the armored figure charging toward them. For a heartbeat, they mistook him for a reckless soldier.
Then recognition struck, and both men snapped into perfect posture, their spears raised in salute.
"Your Majesty!" they barked in unison, their voices edged with both respect and disbelief.
Renher slowed his steps, inclining his head in brief acknowledgment. His expression was unreadable, though his gaze lingered on the men for an instant—measuring their composure, their discipline.
One of the guards, younger than the other, swallowed nervously before blurting, "May the gods shield you in battle, sire."
The older guard shot him a glare for speaking out of turn, but Renher only gave a curt nod. "Stand firm," he said simply, his deep voice carrying weight. "The kingdom relies on you as much as it does on me."
The young man's chest swelled with pride at the words.
Inside, the council building buzzed with motion. Officers hurried through the halls with scrolls clutched in their arms, voices overlapping as strategies were debated, supplies tallied, formations adjusted.
The air reeked faintly of ink and burning wax, a sharp reminder of the bureaucracy that shadowed every war.
Renher's presence drew attention instantly. Men and women halted mid-sentence to salute, their expressions shifting from surprise to admiration. Whispers rippled behind him as he passed—snatches of awe that followed the Emperor wherever he walked.
Yet Renher barely heard them. His mind still drifted toward Kaileen, toward the letter pressed against his chest beneath the steel of his breastplate.
Focus, he commanded himself. War waits for no man.
By the time he reached the massive oak doors of the council chamber, he realized he had arrived far earlier than expected.
The room beyond lay silent, its great table empty, chairs neatly aligned as though waiting to be filled with voices and decisions.
Renher stepped inside, the echo of his armor filling the stillness. For the first time since leaving Kaileen's door, he allowed himself a slow breath, his body settling into the familiar weight of duty.
Behind him, a shadow stretched across the floor.
He turned—and met the steady gaze of Alison, his most trusted general.
The grand war table stretched across the chamber like the spine of a beast, its polished surface marred by countless nicks and scars from daggers once slammed into it in heated debate.
Maps sprawled across its length, their inked borders marked with fresh annotations, lines of attack, and bold red strokes where enemy forces had been crushed.
Renher lowered himself into the high-backed chair at the table's head, the weight of command settling over him like a familiar cloak.
He allowed himself a single flicker of thought toward Kaileen—then extinguished it. War waited for no man's grief.
Alison was the first to step forward.
Tall and broad-shouldered, clad in armor dulled by countless campaigns, his every movement spoke of soldierly discipline. He saluted sharply.
"My Emperor," Alison said, voice firm, "Skairus' blades are ready to march. Morale is high. The men believe in you."
Renher inclined his head slightly. "Morale is only half the battle. It wins us nothing if strategy fails."
A faint smirk tugged at Alison's lips. "Then it is fortunate you have both, sire."
Before Renher could respond, the chamber doors swung open, and Thymur strode inside. His golden hair caught the torchlight, lending him an almost unearthly aura.
Robes of deep blue brushed against the floor, the hydra emblem on his chest shimmering faintly with enchantment.
In his hand, the rune-etched staff pulsed with restrained energy, as though alive.