The once-princely chamber, now stripped of its banners and guards, sat cloaked in silence. Nagara Veldorys stood by the frost-laced window, watching the moon reflect off the waters that had turned against him. His hands were clenched, jaw tight, shoulders coiled with humiliation he had yet to name aloud.
He didn't look up when the door creaked open.
"Still standing," came a voice aged like old stone, steady as time.
Nagara turned slowly. Redris.
The Late King's oldest advisor stepped forward with deliberate pace, robes sweeping behind him. His silver hair was tied back, and his eyes—the same weary blue as Nagara's late father—held a mix of sadness and pride.
"I served your father before he ever wore a crown," Redris said, studying the young man before him. "I never thought I'd see his son brought this low."
Nagara exhaled sharply, voice bitter. "Then why come? To say farewell before they exile me to the North Isles? I hear none survive the cold. Or the monsters."
"I came because your story shouldn't end in frost."
From beneath his cloak, Redris pulled a scroll sealed with the royal emblem—a relic that had not been used since the king's death.
Nagara took it slowly. "What is this?"
"A recommendation," Redris said. "To Paladas Academy, in the center of Aroken. You've heard of it—haven't you?"
Nagara nodded. "The strongest mages, scholars, warriors. The bloodlines that rule continents send their children there."
"And now," Redris said, his voice low and firm, "so shall a fallen prince."
Nagara unrolled the scroll, eyes scanning the words—his lineage, his lost title, his talents and potential—all detailed in Redris's ancient hand.
"Why?" he asked. "Why do this for me?"
Redris's gaze didn't waver. "Because I served your father. Because I knew you as a boy. Because you still carry the blood of kings. And because if you truly believe the Crown of Aqua should be yours, then you must return and earn it—not with inheritance, but with power."
A long silence fell between them, heavy with the weight of the road ahead.
Finally, Nagara rolled the scroll and pressed it to his chest.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Redris placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Reclaim what is yours, Nagara. But do not return until the world fears your name."
...
By nightfall, Nagara had left the palace through the servant's gates, cloaked in anonymity. With only a pack, a weapon, and the scroll that bore the remnants of his legacy, he crossed the kingdom's border with fire in his heart.
He would not perish in exile.
He would rise in Aroken, and one day—when they least expected it—he would return.