Kael Draven
The sun had barely touched the battlements of Espadaris Castle when I woke, gasping, drenched in a cold sweat that soaked the sheets. The images still burned beneath my closed eyelids: fire consuming the rooftops of Hearts, the stench of flesh and iron, the muffled cry of a child drowned by the roar of a furious army. There was blood on my hands. There always was.
Thirteen years. A number that shouldn't hurt this much — but it does. Every day, at that same hour before dawn, the nightmare drags me back. I see her. The brown-haired woman running through the chaos, the child clutched to her chest as if her heart were outside her body. And I run, shouting for them to wait, to trust me… but the sound of the explosion drowns my voice. The stones fall. And then silence. Always silence.
I rose before the sun. Training awaited me, as always. Steel embraces me better than any bed. Between the stones of the inner courtyard, the clash of metal echoed like a familiar symphony. My soldiers were already waiting — disciplined, alert. Training was more than duty. It was the only way to silence the screams.
"Stability begins at the edge of a blade," I told a young cadet, correcting his stance with a light tap on the shoulder. "But it ends in your mind. Never lower your guard because you trust the treaty. Trust is the final step before the blade."
When the messenger announced that the envoy would depart for Cardan before sunset, a weight settled in my chest. The Council of Seasons. The first in over a decade. Would it be a symbol of a new era or just a masquerade? I couldn't tell. But I knew the taste of betrayal all too well.
The entrance to Cardan was triumphant in the eyes of the civilians. Banners, petals, children waving as if we were all in perfect harmony. But behind the smiles lay old wounds. Espadaris would always carry the blame, even when it fought for justice.
In the great hall of Cardan's castle, I stood beside my brother, the King of Espadaris, clad in his ceremonial armor. His face impassive, but his eyes… always restless. My gaze, however, was drawn to another figure.
Violet.
The Princess of Cardan. Her very name carried the softness of a flower, but there was no fragility in her posture. Her eyes — an impossible shade to forget — held the essence of spring itself. There was something in the way she held her chin high, even under so many gazes. Pride. Pain. Contained fury. Untouchable beauty.
For a moment, I found myself wondering what kind of scars she hid beneath the fine fabric of her royal dress. Not in a carnal sense — but as a reflection of my own. There was something about her that stirred a memory I didn't know I had.
But she was not for me. Not now. Not ever.
The hall shimmered with golden candlelight and embroidered tapestries. All the representatives were there. The King of Espadaris at my side, rigid. The King of Cardan, smiling like a man who no longer knows how to trust. The figure of Aurum — always veiled in black and wearing a golden mask, as motionless as fate itself. And the diplomat from Ignarus, with calculating eyes and a honeyed voice, hiding her intentions beneath layers of courtesy.
"The exchange of resources has been satisfactory," she said, as goblets clinked and plates filled with delicacies. "Trade between Hearts and Espadaris continues to rise."
My brother shifted. Slightly, but I noticed. He didn't believe it. Neither did I. His fingers drummed against the table until he interrupted:
"And what about the warnings?" His voice cut through the room like a blade. "Attacks at border outposts. Disappearances. Unannounced alliances. What does Aurum have to say?"
The masked figure did not react. A heavy silence fell. The Ignarus diplomat smiled, as if wiping away the tension with a graceful gesture.
The King of Cardan stepped in, trying to ease the moment.
"Cartara deserves a majestic future. And I believe this Council is the first step toward it."
My brother said nothing, but the tightness in his jaw said everything. Lost in thoughts of the future, I let emotion take over.
"May fate not cast us as pawns, but allow us to move freely. For peace… and for freedom."
I saw the light in Violet's eyes. She wanted it — almost as much as I did.
But the charm of the moment was shattered by a child's shout.
"FOR LIFE AND ORANGE JUICE!" cried Violet's younger sister, raising her golden goblet with such force she nearly spilled it.
Laughter erupted. Not just from nobles, but from soldiers, counselors — even the servants. And then she repeated:
"As mom used to say: 'If the world is going to fall, let it fall dancing!'"
The hall filled with a joy that felt slightly awkward. Forced smiles, improvised toasts. But for an instant, there was light. A spark of something real.
And I, Draven, found myself lost in the middle of it all. Detached from my post, from my vigil. My eyes returned to her. Violet. So distant. So untouchable. And yet… something in her gaze pierced through me.
As the event drew to a close and the goblets were nearly empty, my brother rose.
"May the treaty remain strong," he said solemnly. "But know this: if the masks we wear tonight conceal intentions that stray from peace… then be prepared. Because if lies prevail, the blood spilled will be as it was… thirteen years ago."
Silence fell. Even Aurum seemed to incline slightly. Not out of respect. Perhaps in recognition.
The meeting ended with tense smiles and rehearsed goodbyes. But I knew.
The cards were on the table.
And Cartara… was about to play.
Later, in the corridors leading to the guest quarters given to Espadaris's delegation, my brother stopped me.
"Your eyes wandered more than allowed tonight," he said, voice low but firm.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I replied, though my tone betrayed me.
"Watch yourself, Draven." He stepped closer, locking his gaze with mine. "The daughter of Cardan is no hallway flirt. She's a valuable piece in a game where what's at stake are profits and balance. One misplaced look can break the treaty faster than any sword."
I nodded, saying nothing. Deep down, I knew he was right.
On the return journey, fate decided to remind us that seriousness doesn't own every hour.
One of Espadaris's carriage wheels snapped as we turned the curve near the main fountain. A sharp crack followed by a jolt that nearly threw one of the guards to the ground.
"Mighty Espadaris, defeated by a wheel!" joked a boy among the civilians still watching from afar.
The children burst into laughter. Even some soldiers couldn't hold back. And for a moment, I laughed too. Not because it was funny… but because, for a brief instant, war, treaties, and nightmares felt distant.
I looked up — and to my surprise, saw Violet's silhouette atop the side tower of the castle. Beside her, a young soldier laughed as well, pointing at our carriage like one watches a performance. Their laughter echoed so freely that, for a moment, I wished I were there — just one more among those who could laugh without fear of tomorrow.
It was good to remember that sometimes, Cartara still knew how to smile.
Back at the castle, later that night, my brother summoned me in private. His expression had changed — tenser than usual.
"The treaty is more fragile than ever," he said, eyes fixed on the map of Cartara spread across the table. "The itch at the back of my mind won't let me sleep. We're surrounded by doubts, and I won't wait to see if they're real."
I crossed my arms, already feeling the weight of responsibility before he spoke again.
"The royal army must move. Not for war — for vigilance. I want constant monitoring of the neighboring kingdoms. Any and every movement, no matter how small, must be reported to Espadaris immediately."
"Silent operation?" I asked.
"Strict, but discreet. We can't leave openings." He approached, placing a hand on my shoulder. "And you, Draven, will lead this operation. As always."
It's what I did. What I'd always done. But that night, as I looked out at the starry sky beyond the balcony, I felt something had changed. As if that night had opened more than diplomatic doors. It had opened paths… dangerous and inevitable.