"The past is not merely a shadow—it is a guide, whispering lessons only heard by those who remember."
The carriage wheels creaked softly over the grassy ground, filling the silence with a monotonous rhythm. I sat in the corner, gazing out of the small window beside me as the ever-changing landscape passed by. The wind carried the scent of damp earth mixed with morning dew, adding to the lingering chill that wrapped around me.
The carriage passed the outskirts of the ancient ruins of Kael'thar, a no-man's land shrouded in silence and mystery. As we traversed the ruins, old memories surfaced. This place had once been part of my training—not the kind that focused on mastering the Arcana Codex or the rigorous combat discipline expected of the imperial family.
Instead, I had spent most of my time in the library with the Hierophants, absorbing everything they could teach me until they ran out of material. Then, my grandfather sent me to someone who truly understood my way of learning—my Grandma.
Here, she had taught me many things. How can we listen to the whispers of the wind, understand the language of nature, and hear voices unheard by others? To most, Kael'thar was nothing more than a ruin, but to me, it was still alive with echoes of the past.
Grandma often brought me here, teaching me how to survive by understanding the world around me. Kael'thar stood in its ruinous grandeur, towering pillars rising between wild overgrowth. No one claimed this land—it was as if it had been forsaken by the world itself.
According to temple records, Kael'thar fell more than 1,500 years ago, long before the great war against Gehenna. Yet, its origins remained a mystery. Legends spoke of it as the heart of an ancient civilization that crumbled after defying the gods.
I took a deep breath, trying to dispel the unease creeping into my thoughts. Gods—beings revered and prayed to for centuries—but where were they when Midgaria burned? When this land was bathed in blood for hundreds of years when we pleaded for salvation—why had no prayer ever been answered?
"How can we keep praying to something that seems not to listen?" I muttered under my breath, more to myself than anyone else. I sighed, allowing my frustration to dissipate with the breeze seeping through the window.
"A good question," a voice suddenly interrupted my thoughts.
I flinched slightly and turned to see Tavon stepping inside, closing the carriage door behind him. I hadn't even noticed when the carriage had stopped—I had been too lost in my thoughts.
He had switched places with Zura, taking over the duty of guarding me inside the carriage while leading the vanguard. "But, Your Highness," he continued, "sometimes, it's not about whether they listen or not. It's about protecting what is ours."
The scarred warrior leaned his massive sword against the seat. "No one else is obligated to protect what belongs to us. Only we can defend what is rightfully ours—just like this plan."
I frowned, digesting his words. They were simple, yet they carried a weight that was hard to ignore. He looked straight at me, his eyes as if always ready to read the depths of another's thoughts.
"This plan," he continued, his voice firm yet steady, "is not about waiting for miracles or answers from unseen entities. It's about taking action ourselves—ensuring that what we cherish is not lost so easily."
I lowered my gaze, contemplating his words. He was right, of course. But there was something about the way he spoke that made him sound so certain as if he had experienced a loss that was too great to imagine.
I let out a deep breath, feeling a fraction of the weight in my chest lift. "I don't know if I'm strong enough to take that step, Tavon. There are so many—"
"Your Highness," Tavon cut me off, his tone firm but not unkind. "You don't have to be strong. You just need to take the step. The rest of us will make sure it is not in vain."
I looked at him, searching for confidence within my fragile self. "How can you be so certain, Tavon?"
He gave a rare, small smile. "Because His Majesty, Emperor Theodor, believes in you."
I exhaled sharply. "Yeah… and I still don't understand why that old man would put his faith in me. I think Uncle Arcanis is far more suited to be the crown prince than I am."
"Your Highness," Tavon's sharp yet patient gaze met mine. "Trust is not given without reason. The Emperor sees something in you—something you may not yet recognize within yourself."
"It's not just him—the soldiers and knights of Solaraine believe in you as well," he added.
I frowned, doubtful. "Believe? In what? They see me as nothing more than a crippled, useless crown prince—just like those nobles."
He let out a faint chuckle, his eyes glinting with unexpected pride. "The Battle Architect, the Sculptor of Victory. That is what they call you."
I froze, unsure how to react to such a title. "What do you mean?" I finally whispered.
"They see you as someone who can craft strategy even in the most dire situations. People have not forgotten your role in defending Solaraine's capital, Valoria, last year. You may not wield a sword, but your mind is sharper than any blade," Tavon said, his voice unwavering with conviction.
I fell silent, letting his words sink in. "That wasn't a grand victory," I murmured, trying to downplay an achievement I had never truly considered my own.
"There is no small victory, Your Highness, especially when it means protecting the lives of your people," Tavon replied firmly. "You gave them hope. That's why they bestowed you with that title."
I let out a slow breath, feeling a slight relief in my chest, though the weight was far from gone. But before I could respond, a violent jolt shook the carriage, nearly throwing me from my seat.
Tavon moved swiftly, catching me before I crashed into the empty seat across from me.
A soldier knocked on the carriage door, his urgency clear in the hurried, forceful raps against the wood.
Something about the way he knocked sent a wave of unease through me.
That sudden tremor just now—I was certain something terrible was happening outside.