The gates of Ro's capital loomed at last, their stone walls rimed with frost, banners snapping hard in the winter wind.
Alexis reined in his weary horse, his men riding close behind—faces gaunt, cloaks stiff with snow, every line of their bodies marked by the long two-month ordeal through storm and peril.
At the outer square he raised a hand, his voice carrying above the biting wind.
"Rest. Find warmth. You have given more than enough."
A ripple of relief passed through his riders as they bowed heads and dispersed, scattering into the city's inns and barracks.
Alexis lingered only a moment, watching their backs disappear into the streets. They had followed him through winter's wrath and returned alive—he would not drag them further into the maelstrom until duty demanded it.
His own steps turned toward his mansion. Within its quiet walls, he shed the worn leathers of travel for garments fit for a king's court, the black and silver threads of his attire stark against his pallor.
But before donning the final cloak, he called for the reports his shadows had prepared in his absence. The air of the chamber thickened as the words were read to him.
The King had moved swiftly.
Already he had proclaimed an open war against the Eastern Alliance, seizing the tragedy in Eldara as tinder for his ambition.
He had declared that their noble attempt to "aid" Eldara had been sabotaged, twisting the murder of the Eldaran king into proof of treachery. The nobles, ever eager for blood and plunder, had roared their approval.
But one voice had stood against the tide.
The Prime Minister, iron-backed and stubborn, had refused to authorize the mobilization of Ro's armies until Alexis returned. His obstinacy had soured the air of the court, straining tempers, setting factions to whispering in corners.
Alexis closed the report with a snap, his frown deepening. His uncle's hand was moving faster than he had expected, and the court's fevered joy for war would be near impossible to cool once stoked.
Already, he felt the tide pulling him toward a storm of words and veiled blades.
For a long moment, he stood before the tall mirror, gazing at his reflection. The garments were regal, the poise practiced—but his eyes betrayed the weight pressing behind them.
The shadow of Hiral's broken smile lingered, sharper than any memory he wished to carry into the hall.
Drawing a steady breath, he pulled his cloak around his shoulders, fastening the clasp with a resolute click. There was no room for hesitation now.
He would face the court—not as the weary rider who had braved storm and sorrow, but as the heir who bore the will of his people.
With steps that echoed through the stone halls, Alexis readied himself to enter the lion's den.
The audience chamber of Ro was ablaze with firelight, golden chandeliers spilling their brilliance over crimson carpets and polished stone.
The air hummed with voices—nobles in silks and furs, their laughter sharp with wine, their faces fevered with anticipation of war. The murder of Eldara's king and prince had become for them a providence, a justification, an excuse.
Trumpets sounded. The herald announced Alexis's name.
He entered with measured steps, every movement precise, his cloak whispering behind him like a shadow. His presence silenced the chamber just enough for his calm restraint to cut against the nobles' jubilation.
They watched him, some with grudges buried deep, others with a predator's curiosity.
The King reclined upon his throne, iron circlet pressing against his brow. His eyes glittered with the triumph of having already swayed the court.
"You arrive at last, nephew," he said, voice heavy with satisfaction. "The storm has not claimed you."
Alexis bowed low, voice even.
"Nor my men, Majesty. Though it tried."
A ripple of polite chuckles, then the King leaned forward, seizing the moment.
"You see, lords and ladies? Even the heavens raged at our patience. The Eastern Alliance has shown its treachery. They slit the throat of Eldara's king to frame us. And now, they think us weak enough to sit idle as they poison our borders."
The chamber roared with agreement—fists striking tables, rings flashing in firelight.
Alexis did not raise his voice. He let the silence carve its way back to him, standing calm while their fury burned.
"The heavens raged indeed," he said at last. "But not for war. They raged for grief, for the innocence that has been lost. If we charge blindly to war, we will play the part scripted for us. The Eastern Alliance would welcome our rage. They would use it to divide, to paint us as aggressors—and the world will not see truth through the smoke of our ambition."
A few murmurs. The nobles shifted, unease stirring beneath their hunger.
The Prime Minister seized the moment, his voice sharp with authority.
"The general speaks wisely. To march now would be folly. We must gather proof, secure our own borders, and strengthen Ro before we bleed her on foreign fields."
But the King laughed—a booming, contemptuous sound that drowned reason.
"Proof? You speak of proof while our enemies sharpen their knives? Nephew—tell me, what proof did you find in your two months abroad? What victory did you claim? What banner did you bring back from the East?"
The words struck like hammer blows, and the court leaned in.
Alexis's jaw tightened, though his posture did not falter.
"My task was survival, Majesty. My task was knowledge. What I gained is not glory on a banner but clarity of what is to come. That is how wars are won—not with blind charges, but with foresight."
But the King's smile widened, vicious as a blade.
"Foresight does not rouse armies. Foresight does not feed the coffers of my lords. You return empty-handed, and you dare restrain us when the blood of our allies cries out? Tell me, Ro—shall we wait and wither under caution, or strike as lions while the enemy still quivers?"
The chamber erupted again, nobles shouting for war, their voices crashing like surf. The Prime Minister's protests drowned in the tide, his reason swept aside.
Alexis stood motionless amidst the storm, his composure like glass—still, cold, unyielding, though cracks threatened beneath.
His presence was a blade in its scabbard: restrained, gleaming, but surrounded by hands that itched for violence.
He knew then—the King had already won this court. The tide was against him, the nobles drunk on fire and blood.
And yet, even as they jeered, Alexis's eyes did not waver. For if he could not halt their steps, he would at least carve a path through the darkness for those who still had ears to hear.