Roland felt someone calling him.
"Your Highness, wake up..."
He turned his head away, but the voice did not fade. Instead, it grew louder. He felt a hand reach out and gently tug at his sleeve.
"Your Highness, Prince Roland!"
Roland opened his eyes. The familiar stone walls of his bedchamber greeted him, along with the morning light streaming through the narrow window. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
What time was it? He had been ruling Border Town for three months now, and each day brought new challenges.
"Your Highness, please announce the judgment."
The speaker was the old man who had been tugging at his sleeve—Barrow, assistant to the Minister of Finance, sent to help him govern this remote territory.
Roland stood up and stretched. "Very well. Let us attend to the matter."
He followed Barrow out of the castle and into the town square. A crowd had gathered around the gallows in the center. Roland took his seat on the high platform, the iron chair cold beneath him. Around him, the local nobles watched with barely concealed disdain.
On the gallows stood a prisoner, a hood covering their face. The noose hung ready.
Roland looked at the condemned prisoner. Small, thin—barely more than a child. The figure trembled in the morning wind but stood straight, refusing to cower.
What crime had this person committed to deserve such hatred from the crowd?
Then the answer came to him, clear as day.
She was a "Sorceress."
Tempted by demons, fallen and unclean.
"Your Highness?" Barrow prompted cautiously.
Roland glanced at him. Barrow had been loyal, as had Carter Lannis, his chief knight. Both men served him well in this distant land.
And he was Roland Windsor, fourth prince of Grayfort, sent here to govern Border Town. The townspeople had captured a sorceress and brought her to the Inquisition Court. As the ruling prince, signing the execution order fell to him.
The memories of his life in this world flowed through his mind naturally. He had grown up in the royal court, trained in statecraft and warfare, then sent to the farthest reaches of the kingdom to prove his capability.
This land was poor and backward, but it was his to rule.
What should he do?
The superstitions of the common people were understandable, but executing someone based on fear and ignorance—that was something Roland could not accept.
He picked up the execution order Barrow held, crumpled it in his hand, and tossed it aside. "I am tired today. We shall reconvene tomorrow. You are all dismissed."
The nobles exchanged surprised glances but said nothing. They were used to Roland's unpredictable nature.
Carter Lannis, however, stepped forward. "Your Highness, this is no joking matter! Once a sorceress is identified, she must be executed immediately. If we delay, other sorceresses might come to rescue her. The Church will not overlook this."
Roland looked at his chief knight. "Are you afraid, Carter?"
The knight frowned. "It is not fear, Your Highness. It is caution. Sorceresses possess dangerous powers."
"Then let them come," Roland said calmly. "The more the better."
Carter fell silent, unable to counter Roland's logic.
Roland waved his hand. "Take me back to the castle."
As he walked away, he could feel the nobles' eyes on him—contempt, disappointment, and perhaps a hint of fear.
They did not understand him. But they would.
...
Back in his chambers, Roland finally allowed himself to relax. Ruling Border Town was exhausting, but it was also an opportunity.
His father, King Windsor III, had devised an unusual succession method. The crown would not pass automatically to the eldest child. Instead, all five royal children had been sent to different territories to govern. After five years, the most capable ruler would inherit the throne.
It was a fair system in theory, but in practice, the starting conditions were far from equal. Roland had received Border Town—the poorest, most remote territory in the kingdom. His siblings had gotten fertile lands, wealthy cities, strategic ports.
And there were no clear criteria for judging "capability." Population? Military strength? Economic growth? The king had set no standards, placed no restrictions on the competition.
Some said his siblings might resort to assassination. The queen had died five years ago—there was no one to restrain them.
Roland sighed. This was a harsh, brutal era. The persecution of sorceresses was just one example of the darkness that permeated this world.
But he would change it. Even if he did not win the throne, he was still a prince of Grayfort. He could build a legacy here.
He walked to the mirror and studied his reflection. Light gray curly hair—the distinctive trait of the Windsor family. His features were handsome enough, though his expression often seemed careless. His skin was pale from spending too much time indoors.
He had lived a sheltered life in the capital, surrounded by luxury and privilege. Now he faced the harsh realities of ruling a backward territory.
But he would not complain. This was his chance to prove himself, to make a difference.
"Very well," he said to his reflection. "I will survive. I will thrive. From this day forward, I am the ruler of Border Town, and I will shape its destiny."