After six months of escalating conflict, Pyrefall finally withdrew its forces from the border. A decision born from King Allesio's fatal strategic mistake—a miscalculation that turned the tide of war.
With tensions easing, King Balderick VII decided to return to Aetherlyn, leaving the Isle of Chronicle under the command of selected, valiant generals. At the palace of Calonia, news of the king's return spread quickly, stirring a flurry of activity. Servants and guards raced to prepare for the homecoming of their sovereign, who had been away for nearly half a year.
The palace of Calonia stood tall and majestic, its towers piercing the heavens. Its beauty reached its peak at night—when the lights of the palace flickered to life, casting a golden silhouette like a castle from the skies.
Among the paths leading to the palace, a lone teenager walked in silence. His hair was jet black, and his eyes the clear blue of an autumn sea—radiating both serenity and deep curiosity. His handsome face wore a cheerful, genuine smile, yet his unguarded presence raised questions.
He was Arion Balderick VIII. The king's eldest son, heir to the throne of Aetherlyn. A young man destined to one day bear the great legacy of royal blood.
Arion paused, watching a group of people hastily leaving the palace. Curiosity tugged at him, compelling him to follow—but his steps halted when a voice called out from behind.
"Arion, stay in the palace. Don't follow us. This won't take long. Go back to your room."
A woman passed by without turning her head. Her words were brief, but cold. Arion said nothing. His voice caught in his throat—especially when he overheard one of them whisper:
"Born without a Blessing. A disgrace for a prince."
The words cut deep. His steps faltered, and the smile he wore slowly vanished. He wandered alone through the halls and corridors of the palace, which now felt emptier than ever. Though sunlight streamed through the tall windows, the palace felt cold to him. Silent. Too silent.
His feet carried him to the grand hall, where seven statues of past kings stood, guarding the royal throne. His eyes settled on the likeness of his father—King Balderick VII—standing proudly among the ancestral figures.
In silence, Arion asked himself:
"Am I truly worthy? Why do the ἄπειρος turn a blind eye to my struggle? Is this fate a test—or a curse?"
His solitude didn't last long. Three teenagers, his age, approached. Without warning, one of them shoved Arion harshly. He stumbled and fell, unable to dodge the insults and jeers hurled mercilessly at him. Among them, a boy named Lugter kicked him without hesitation, repeating the assault until Arion's face was bruised and bleeding.
"Future king? What a joke. You're nothing but a stain on this kingdom's history."
Then they walked away, leaving Arion in the middle of the grand hall, which felt colder than ever before.
Trembling, Arion tried to stand. Tears threatened to fall, but he forced a smile. He tried to convince himself he was fine.
"Mother... do I look happy?"
His sobs broke free. No longer held back. But amid his cries, a hand touched his head. Gentle. Warm. A familiar figure pulled Arion into an embrace.
And in that embrace, Arion broke down completely. All the pain he had endured over the past six months came pouring out.
"Everything will be alright," the voice whispered.
"One day, you'll become a great king. Your father and I have always believed in you"