Chapter 20: Weak Prince
The Queen's Palace.
Sunlight spilled gently across the long garden of white roses.
Their fragrance lingered in the air, mingling with the steady rhythm of footsteps and hushed voices.
Maids hurried along the stone paths, guards stood at their posts, and the stillness of the palace seemed to guide the way toward a certain group.
They walked as though they owned this place.
In truth... they did.
The First Prince, Aven DragonBlood.
The Second Princess, Aella DragonBlood.
And behind them, the sworn knight of the crown... Juliet, the blue-haired commoner.
Aven's golden hair caught the light, his crimson eyes fixed forward with sharp intent.
Maids and guards bowed deeply as he passed, but his gaze did not waver. He did not acknowledge them.
Beside and slightly behind him walked Aella.
Her long golden hair swayed with every step, her own crimson eyes filled with a quiet fire.
Her thoughts were still in the chamber they had just left, yet her heart carried a small brightness... her request had been granted because of her brother.
She allowed herself a fleeting glance at his back.
At the rear, Juliet moved with silent vigilance, every sense sharpened.
In the midst of their walk, Aella's soft voice broke the silence.
"Thank you… brother."
Aven turned his head slightly, his eyes shifting to her profile.
He did not return her gratitude. Instead, his voice was low and serious.
"Is there any problem with them?"
Aella lowered her gaze. Memories stirred... painful ones. She bit her lip, but soon raised her head again, forcing a faint smile.
"No. It is only that… I do not wish…"
Her words trailed away.
Aven studied her but said nothing. His silence pressed down like a weight.
Trying to push past the moment, Aella asked instead, "Then… what do you want of me today?"
Aven's crimson eyes gleamed. His lips curved into a sharp, almost cruel smile.
"We have somewhere to go."
As they reached the grand entrance of the Queen's Palace, another figure appeared, entering from the opposite side.
It was the Third Consort... Mireth.
Her presence carried warmth, a gentle air of love that softened even the cold marble hall.
The moment her eyes fell upon them, she smiled with a tenderness that spoke of affection for all three standing there.
But she was not alone.
Peeking timidly from behind her skirts was a child.
He clutched at the fabric of her dress, his crimson eyes wide yet shadowed by a fringe of dark black hair... different from the rest of his bloodline.
The son of the Emperor and the Third Consort.
Born just after the Emperor's illness, just after the whispers of the Mad King had begun.
A prince with no name bestowed by his father... known only as the Young Lord or the Third Prince.
To the world beyond these walls, however, he was nothing more than a bastard.
Mireth approached them with her gentle smile.
Aella and Juliet immediately stepped forward, bowing in respect.
Aella's expression brightened... truly brightened.
It had been so long since she had seen Mireth.
She remembered, bitterly, the ending that awaited her in the other timeline.
This time, however, she grasped her hand firmly.
"It is… good to see you again, Lady Mireth."
Her voice was formal, but it trembled with genuine relief.
Mireth's eyes softened. The happiness reflected there was unfeigned.
The last time she had seen Aella within the King's Palace… had been under circumstances she wished never to remember.
Their moment was cut short by Aven.
"So, Mother," he said, his voice sharp with authority.
"What brings you here? And... It has been far too long since I spent time with him."
His crimson eyes flicked toward the Third Prince.
The boy shrank further behind Mireth, clutching her dress tightly.
Mireth, noticing this, rested a calming hand on his head.
Her voice remained composed, gentle.
"I heard that both Empresses were here today. I came to visit."
Aven's gaze swept over her.
First her pale face, then her frail body, then the child.
"It would be better if you rested," he said coldly. "Your health declines by the day. But since you are here…"
His voice rose.
"Juliet."
The knight immediately straightened.
"Escort the Third Consort inside."
Aven's gaze dropped to the boy.
"As for you... you will come with me."
The young prince froze. His grip on Mireth's skirts tightened desperately.
Mireth's heart clenched at the sight, but before she could speak...
"Hey."
Aven's voice cut like a blade.
"Do you not wish to come?"
The prince lifted his gaze.
Those blood-red eyes of Aven's... eyes steeped in power and cruelty... left no room for refusal.
Slowly, trembling, the boy released his mother's dress.
He stepped forward without a word.
Aella watched him, her expression clouded.
Juliet moved to support Mireth, her arm steady beneath the frail consort's hand.
"Thank you, Juliet," Mireth said softly, offering her a gentle smile.
Her eyes, however, lingered on her son. She did not speak further.
Juliet returned her smile, then guided her inside.
And so, at the palace gates, only three remained.
The First Prince.
The Second Princess.
And the nameless Third Prince.
Silence thickened the air.
Aella's thoughts turned briefly to Juliet. Juliet the commoner… That was her title now.
But she remembered the future.
The war would change everything.
Juliet would earn the name Mad Dog of the Emperor. She would stand even after the death of her own brother. She would fight for vengeance alongside the youngest prince.
Aella admired her. She respected her.
And deep within her heart... she wanted Juliet for herself.
Aven noticed her gaze.
"Are you interested in her?" he asked, his voice sharp with mockery.
"Shall I gift her to you?"
Aella turned to him. For a moment, she considered her answer.
But her pride flared.
"You should not give away your people so carelessly… brother."
Her voice carried anger.
Aven only smirked, eyes gleaming with malice.
"I only wished to give you what you desire."
He paused, then added with a cruel twist of his lips.
"But that one... my Knight... I would never hand over. Not even to you."
His smile darkened.
"She is mine."
_____________
Far from the Ashkar Kingdom
The green of fields and the pale stone of palaces gave way to a land where life itself bowed before the desert.
An endless ocean of sand stretched as far as the eye could see, broken only by jagged mountains of rock and dunes piled high like waves frozen in time. The wind howled through the barren expanse, carrying grains that stung the flesh and scoured the stone. Yet, in this harsh emptiness, people thrived.
Between two towering ridges of sand-colored stone lay a city.
The stronghold of the Zhar Tribe.
They had carved their home into the desert long before the kingdoms of men rose to power. No invader dared march against them here... for in the desert, the Zhar ruled as kings.
Their city was no marble palace nor golden hall, but it held a beauty of its own. Houses of white-brown rock, shaped with ancient hands, stood firm against the storms. Their walls bore the weight of centuries, crafted by techniques older than the kingdoms themselves. Sunlight gleamed on their surfaces, warm and timeless, as though the desert itself acknowledged them.
Life here was harsh, but never weak.
The people of Zhar were tall, their skin bronzed by the sun, their hair deep shades of brown like the dunes that surrounded them. Their bodies were hardened by the desert's trials... lean, strong, and unyielding. Food was wrested from the land with skill: water drawn from hidden springs, beasts hunted across the dunes, fruits gathered from thorned shrubs that only they knew how to cultivate. To outsiders, this was a wasteland. To them, it was home.
And none would challenge them here.
For in the desert, the Zhar tribe's will was law.
At the heart of the city rose a great stone hall, not adorned with silks or jewels, but with spears, shields, and the banners of their bloodline. It was there their leader ruled... not by birthright, but by strength.
The Zhar chose their head by trial. Strength of body and sharpness of mind both were demanded, for the desert would not bow to a fool, nor would the tribe follow a weak hand.
The one who bore that mantle now was Kharzak.
A man whose name was spoken with weight, even in the distant lands of kings.
Broad-shouldered, his skin as dark as the desert sun had burned it, his gaze sharp and steady as the edge of a drawn blade. In his youth, he had wrestled the sands themselves, rising from warrior to war-chief, and from war-chief to leader of the Zhar. His mind was as dangerous as his strength... cunning, patient, and merciless when needed.
Under his rule, the tribe endured. Under his watch, the desert remained untamed.
And though the kingdoms beyond the sand often forgot them, the Zhar tribe never forgot the world beyond the dunes.