Ariella returned to Tyrana, riding atop Ebonwing. The great creature held Darion carefully in her talons, her wings sweeping gracefully through the air as they landed at the foot of the castle stairs. The royal guards, followed closely by High King Alistair Elric, rushed down the stairs. Alistair, hindered by his silver cane, moved as quickly as he could, his eyes filled with concern.

  Ebonwing lowered Darion gently, but her sharp gaze scanned the surroundings, her protective instincts on high alert. Ariella dismounted and, with urgency, commanded the guards to take her brother to the infirmary immediately.

  “What is going on, Ariella?! What has happened here?” Alistair’s voice, though laced with anger, was tinged with worry.

  Ariella stood frozen in shock; her eyes still wide as the guards hurried to carry Darion away. She could sense the tension in Cedric Ashford, the Captain of the Royal Guards, as his commanding shouts rang through the air, demanding that people clear the way.

  Ariella’s gaze met her father's, and her voice broke. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault,” she whispered, her eyes welling with tears.

  Alistair moved quickly to his daughter, pulling her into a tight embrace. “Whatever has happened, I’m sure it’s not your fault,” he said gently, his voice calm and reassuring. “We’ll discuss it in private. We have the best physicians here — Darion will be in good hands.”

  Ariella’s heart clenched, but Alistair continued, his words laced with determination. “And if they cannot heal him, I will sail every sea, from here to the farthest reaches of Mahargor, to find someone who can.” His hand rested gently behind her head, a gesture of comfort.

  Their attention shifted as Ebonwing, still agitated, reared up on her hind legs with a powerful screech. Gryphon handlers scrambled to control her, but the great beast would not be easily subdued.

  “Release her,” Alistair ordered, his voice commanding. “You won’t get her back into the pen until Darion is well. She’ll tear you apart if you try.” Ariella knew his gryphon well — Ebonwing would wait, loyally, at the entrance of the infirmary until Darion was safe.

  Alistair and Ariella began the slow ascent up the castle stairs, with Ariella assisting her father. The rest of the royal guards and counsel followed behind them in a quiet procession.

  They reached the meeting hall, a grand room in the east wing of the castle. A long, ornate wooden table dominated the centre, large enough to seat at least twenty. The table was laden with fresh fruit, honeyed carrots, vegetables, and a scattering of finely sliced meats. The room was bathed in the soft, flickering glow of dozens of candlelit chandeliers, their iron designs ornate and elegant, fit halls for the High King of Tyrana.

  Alistair gestured toward a seat next to the large chair at the end of the table. “Sit, my child. Have you eaten?” His paternal tone carried as he began to prepare a plate of meats and vegetables for her.

  “Only an apple,” Ariella replied quietly.

  “An apple?” Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Is that how you break your fast before sparring with your brother?”

  Ariella froze, stunned. How did he know? Why had he never said anything before? Why wasn’t he angry? A thousand questions swirled in her mind.

  “You don’t think the High King of his own city wouldn’t notice or be told when his heir and his princess leave his castle, secret or not?” Alistair’s voice was light, almost amused.

  Ariella exhaled slowly, her tension easing. There was no anger or resentment in his voice—just calm understanding, as there always had been. It was a tone that had not always worked in his favor. Whispers around the court often painted him as weak, particularly when it came to his children. Even Aerimus, who ignored his royal duties, skipped council meetings, arrived late to ceremonies, and treated his sword training as little more than a pastime, was never truly reprimanded by the king. And yet, Alistair remained patient and kind.

  “We didn’t think a dire bear would be out this time of year,” Ariella explained, her voice thick with emotion as tears welled in her eyes again. “It’s winter… and a harsh one at that. They should be hibernating.”

  Alistair’s expression softened. “If not a dire bear, it could have been a sabretooth—or bandits. Venturing beyond the city walls is never without risk, Ariella.”

  She nodded, but her focus drifted to her food. She was starving, her hunger clawed at her, but all she could think about was whether Darion would be all right.

  “When can I see him?” Ariella asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “I’m not sure, child,” Alistair said, his tone thoughtful. “I will visit the infirmary in the morning.”

  They continued to dine in silence, the only sound in the hall the clinking of silver cutlery and the soft sounds of chewing. Ariella’s mind, however, was elsewhere, her thoughts tangled in growing frustration. Where is Aerimus? she wondered. Why hasn’t he bothered to visit or check on me—or Darion?

  Finally, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. "Where is Aerimus?" she asked, her voice rising with annoyance and frustration, the mention of his name alone twisting her mood from sorrow to pure irritation.

  "I’m unsure," Alistair replied, his voice tinged with disappointment. "He was supposed to attend his lute lessons, but his tutor said he never showed."

  Ariella’s face twisted in disgust. "This is why he’ll never be king," she said bitterly. "Unless it’s as the King of Disappointments."

  "Ariella," Alistair said firmly, his tone warning her of the line she was crossing. She knew well that a princess—or a future queen, as Darion had called her—was expected to maintain composure, especially in front of family. But her frustration was too much to suppress.

  A heavy silence descended once more, the only sound the soft hum of the hearth. Then, the heavy wooden doors creaked open with an abruptness that seemed almost deliberate.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Sister! Father! Good to see you’re both well," Aerimus greeted, his arms stretched wide, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Ariella stiffened. "Can't say the same for Darion, I hear. Where is he?" Aerimus asked, his eyes gleaming with a touch of mockery.

  Ariella shot to her feet, her chair scraping harshly across the stone floor. "Watch your tongue, Aerimus," she hissed, her voice sharp and cold.

  Before Alistair could intervene, Aerimus waved his hands mockingly in defeat. "Oh, I’m sorry, sweet sister. Well done on making it back... unscathed," he said, the words empty of any warmth or concern. Ariella could feel the lack of care in his voice, and it only deepened her contempt for him.

  Aerimus then pulled out a chair, settling himself across from Ariella and near his father, serving himself a generous plate of food and pouring a large goblet of wine, as if the whole spread were prepared for his indulgence. He offered Ariella the wine with a smirk, fully aware that she didn’t drink. She met him with nothing but a cold, irritated stare.

  "Why did you miss your lessons, Aerimus?" Alistair asked, his voice stern, but the faintest hint of weariness lingered in his words.

  "That’s what you care about?" Aerimus retorted bitterly. "Darion is gravely wounded, and you’re asking me about my lessons?"

  Ariella rolled her eyes, sensing the insincerity in his words. She knew it was nothing more than a deflection, a way to avoid being confronted.

  Alistair’s expression darkened, his golden eyes flashing with authority. "There is nothing I can do for Darion right now. You have duties, and you fail at every one of them," he said, his voice raising with frustration.

  Ariella felt that, for once, she wasn’t meant to be part of this conversation. Even she felt a pang of pity for Aerimus, witnessing his quiet shame, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to feel much sympathy for him.

  For a moment, Aerimus remained silent, his earlier cockiness vanishing as he took a slow sip of his wine. The room was heavy with silence once more.

  "Excuse me, Father. Brother," Ariella said softly, rising from her seat. "I must take my leave."

  "Where do you think yo—" Aerimus began, but he was immediately cut off by Alistair's low, commanding voice: "You are excused."

  Ariella exited the room in a quiet rush, closing the heavy wooden doors behind her.

  If the silence had been oppressive before, it was even more so now. Alistair’s gaze remained fixed on Aerimus, his frown deepening as he watched his son sheepishly pick at his food and sip his wine in between, clearly lost in his own world. They shared little in common. Alistair had no tolerance for Aerimus’ reckless lifestyle — drinking, gambling, and fornicating. Worst of all had been the incident with his gryphon, Sunbeak, a creature Aerimus had nearly wagered away in a drunken game of chance. That was, until Darion intervened, stopping him before he could make a complete fool of himself. No one knew why he partook in gambling, he wasn’t desperate for money, after all. As a Prince of Tyrancia, he was well-off, the third largest kingdom in Loria, dwarfed only by Mahargor to the west and Ardor to the northwest, with Cassia lying just beyond Tyrancia's borders.

  Aerimus hadn’t always been like this. Alistair remembered a time when his son had been different. Some whispered that it was after the death of Queen Daria, Aerimus’ mother. Others claimed the turning point came when his marriage proposal to the beautiful Elven Princess Vesaelea of Selenia was rejected by her father, King Galindral, who believed that humans were beneath the elves. The rejection was a public spectacle, and the renowned elven minstrel Finral Cloudsinger even composed a ballad about it, which was performed at court for months after.

  Despite the heartbreak, Aerimus had not been without admirers. His conquests—men, women, and even, according to some rumours, dwarves—were many. He cared little for the opinions of others. Handsome and tall, with ash-brown hair that fell just short of his shoulders, Aerimus had the same golden-hazel eyes as his brother, Darion. They glittered like veins of ore in sunlight. However, unlike his brother, Aerimus didn’t concern himself with grooming or appearances. He preferred stubble and drab colors over the regal hues of House Elric, a stark contrast to what one would expect of a prince.

  Beyond his vices, however, Aerimus shared a strong passion for military strategy and war. He held a prestigious position on the Tyrancia Council, his sharp mind and cunning earning him the title of Warmaster. Though Darion was also a member of the council, Aerimus outranked him. This was one meeting that Aerimus would never miss, and Darion often found himself at odds with him over it. While Darion believed that there was no need for such focus, given that Tyrancia was at peace and had no active conflicts, Aerimus scoffed at the idea. His obsession with training drills and tactics was relentless.

  Alistair, much like his other son, had no love for war. He preferred peace, and he found little admiration in Aerimus’ role as Warmaster.

  “Tell me, Father,” Aerimus began, his voice edged with curiosity, “why were Darion and Ariella outside the city walls? Alone?”

  “That’s none of your concern,” Alistair replied coldly, his voice firm.

  “They are my siblings, are they not?” Aerimus shot back, his tone challenging.

  Alistair paused mid-bite, fixing his son with a hard stare. “Don’t feign concern, boy.”

  Aerimus’ mouth opened, ready to fire back, but he hesitated. He wasn’t winning this battle. Not now, anyway. It often felt like his words fell on deaf ears when it came to his father—and his siblings, for that matter.

  A thought flickered in Aerimus' mind, sharp and cold: If Darion doesn’t recover... would I have a chance to become heir?

  “What about the line?” Aerimus pressed, his voice gaining strength. “If Darion doesn’t fully recover, we can’t have a cripple sitting on the Throne of Tyrancia. Shouldn’t I be preparing for that?”

  “Darion will recover,” Alistair said, his voice tight with irritation. “And once again, the line is not your concern, Aerimus.”

  Aerimus smirked, but the satisfaction didn’t last. His father had already turned back to his meal, dismissing him as easily as one might shoo away an annoying fly.

  Alistair’s voice cut through the air before Aerimus could speak again. “I’ve made arrangements for you. You will marry Princess Floria Harper of Cassia within the fortnight. You meet her tomorrow.”

  Aerimus recoiled, his stomach twisting. “Her? Seriously? She eats like a cow, and her father is a bloated fool!”

  Alistair didn’t respond.

  “Why is it that Darion hasn’t wed Circelia of Lothlor, and Ariella turns away every suitor who comes her way, but I am the one forced into this?” Aerimus’ voice cracked with frustration, a hint of sadness he could not hide.

  “Darion and Circelia will marry. Ariella’s situation is... more complicated. You’ll understand when you have a daughter of your own,” Alistair said, the first flicker of compassion in his voice - a rare, almost imperceptible shift.

  Aerimus was silent for a moment, his mind chewing over the words.

  “Darion’s terrified of Circelia. She’s an elf, after all. Beautiful, yes, but her people? They're hard to please.”

  Alistair’s lips twitched into a smile, the humour in his voice unmistakable. “I’ve heard she’s just as good with a sword as Darion. Perhaps I’ll have them duel at their wedding.”

  “Just don’t make me and Floria compete in an eating contest,” Aerimus muttered, half-joking, half-disgusted.

  “Enough,” Alistair said firmly. “You may grow to love her.”

  “Maybe,” Aerimus replied noncommittally, his voice low.

  A moment of silence passed before Aerimus, shifting on his feet, asked, “There’s a council meeting tonight. Will you be attending?”

  “No,” Alistair answered, his voice softer now, tinged with a sorrow that Aerimus rarely heard. “Tonight, I’ll be in prayer — for your brother.”

  Aerimus didn’t reply. Instead, he pushed his chair back, stood, and made for the door. He didn’t bother with the polite gestures his sister would’ve made; there was no grace in his exit.

  The door slammed behind him with a resounding thud, and in the silence that followed, a single tear — quick and unnoticed — slid down King Alistair’s cheek. He wiped it away, but the weakness lingered. A king’s tears could never be seen, especially not by his own blood.