The gardens of the royal palace were lush and beautiful, filled with vibrant flowers that bloomed in a riot of colors, their scent sweet and heady in the warm afternoon air. King Fredrich walked among the beds of lilacs and roses, his steps slow, his hands clasped behind his back. His fire-red hair shone in the sunlight, a striking contrast to the deep green of the foliage that surrounded him. Despite the beauty of the gardens, a storm brewed within his heart, each step weighed down by anger and the sense of inadequacy that had plagued him since he had taken the throne.

The young King was acutely aware of the eyes upon him—nobles who whispered behind closed doors, lords and ladies who compared him endlessly to his father, the late King. The sudden death of his father had thrust him into the spotlight, into a role for which he felt he had never been properly prepared. They all expected him to lead as his father had, to exude the same confidence and strength. But deep down, Fredrich felt the cracks. He feared that everyone else could see them too.

Beside him walked Duke Valderic Valthorn, a man of considerable presence. His hair, streaked with silver, spoke of his age, but his posture was as straight and strong as any young knight. His eyes, dark and calculating, missed nothing, and his tone was measured as he spoke.

"My King, I understand that the transition has been difficult," Valderic said, his voice calm, almost soothing. "Taking the throne under such sudden circumstances is never easy. But the tides are changing, and we must prepare. There are rumblings, signs that cannot be ignored."

Fredrich paused beside a lilac bush, plucking a bud that had yet to bloom. He rolled it between his fingers, his gaze distant, trying to mask the irritation simmering beneath the surface. Valderic's calm, almost condescending tone grated on him. It was as if the Duke, like so many others, was subtly reminding him of his inexperience. "You speak of tides, Duke, but I cannot tax the people further. They are already struggling. The essence they gather is their livelihood. We cannot take more."

Valderic's lips tightened, and he took a breath, schooling his features into a mask of patience. "Your Highness, the frontlines are weakening. The beast-tides grow stronger with each passing season. The enchanters need more essence to forge weapons, to defend our lands. We cannot afford to wait for the Ashwynd experiments to succeed—not when our survival hangs by a thread."

Fredrich turned to face the Duke, his eyes flashing with a hint of anger. The frustration he had tried to contain was surfacing. "My father would never have agreed to such measures. He understood the balance—the need to protect the people, not exploit them. We will find another way."

Valderic bowed his head slightly, though his eyes were hard. "Your father was a wise man, indeed," he said, his tone carrying just the barest hint of something beneath the surface—disapproval, perhaps, or frustration. "But these are different times, Your Majesty. We must be bold if we are to weather the storm that approaches."

Fredrich turned away, his jaw clenched, his fingers crushing the delicate lilac bud. "No more essence will be taxed. That is my decision, Duke. You are dismissed."

Valderic bowed deeply, though the stiffness of his posture spoke volumes. "As you command, Your Majesty," he said, his voice neutral. He turned and left the garden, his steps measured, his mind already working through the implications of the conversation.

Once the Duke had gone, Fredrich stood alone in the garden, staring at the crushed flower in his palm. A sense of helplessness washed over him, mingling with his anger. He wanted to be strong, to be the kind of king his father had been. But the whispers of doubt gnawed at him, and he could not shake the feeling that he was being outmaneuvered at every turn.

He was not oblivious to the fact that Valderic spoke for more than himself. There were factions within the court, lords and noble families who questioned Fredrich's decisions, who whispered about his weaknesses behind his back. Many saw him as merely the shadow of his father—a pale imitation without the steel, without the willpower to make the hard decisions. Fredrich had inherited his father's crown, but none of the loyalty that came with it. The throne was his, yet he felt more like a prisoner than a king.

The whispers of doubt were not confined to the palace halls alone. They seeped into every corner of his life, casting long shadows even in the places he sought solace. Fredrich clenched his fists, feeling the crushed petals fall from his grip. He knew he needed to find his own way, to be more than the shadow of his father, yet each decision seemed to leave him further adrift. How could he ever live up to the expectations? How could he be the king his people needed, when even he doubted himself?

---

Later that evening, Fredrich found himself in a different part of the palace, in a secluded chamber away from prying eyes and judgmental glances. Lila, a court attendant with soft, honey-colored curls and kind eyes, lay beside him on a bed strewn with silken sheets. Her fingers traced the lines of his arm gently, her gaze filled with sympathy. Fredrich had sought solace in her presence, a respite from the weight of his crown.

The room was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of candlelight. The heavy curtains were drawn, blocking out the world beyond. Here, there were no Dukes demanding sacrifices, no courtiers judging his every move. Only Lila, her presence a gentle balm to his troubled soul.

"You did what you could, Fredrich," she whispered, her voice soft and soothing, as if she could sense his turmoil. "Valderic doesn't understand the people like you do. You care for them."

Fredrich sighed, his eyes staring at the ceiling. "But maybe that's not enough, Lila. Maybe they need someone ruthless—someone like my father, or Valderic." He turned his head to look at her, the vulnerability in his eyes clear. "I try to do what I think is right, but all I hear are whispers. They think I'm weak. They think I can't lead."

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Lila cupped his face, her eyes earnest. "You are not weak, Fredrich. You are compassionate, and that is not a flaw. You are learning."

Fredrich looked away, his expression tightening. He could see the reflection of himself in the polished metal of the lamp beside the bed—his red hair disheveled, his face drawn, his eyes haunted. He knew others would see this scene—him lying here, seeking comfort in the arms of a mere attendant—as proof of his weakness. The old lords would shake their heads, Valderic would smile that cold, knowing smile, and his father's ghost would loom ever larger in his mind, a constant reminder of what he could never be.

"I fear that I'm losing control, Lila," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "The nobles don't respect me. They tolerate me because they must. Even my father's allies look at me and see a boy playing dress-up."

Lila shifted closer, her hand resting on his chest. "Then show them they're wrong. Show them that you can be just as strong, but in your own way. Not through cruelty or fear, but through your wisdom and heart."

Fredrich closed his eyes, her words washing over him like a distant echo. It was comforting, but it didn't change the reality he faced. The court was a pit of vipers, and compassion was often seen as weakness. He felt as though he were walking a tightrope—one wrong step, and everything would come crashing down.

Lila could see the struggle within him, the tension that seemed to grip him like a vice. She leaned closer, her lips brushing against his forehead. "It isn't easy to walk your own path, Fredrich. You have so many looking to you, judging you, but you are not alone. There are those who believe in you, who want you to succeed. They need to see you rise above all of this."

Her voice was a whisper, but it carried a weight that seemed to lift some of the burden from his shoulders. Fredrich turned to her, reaching up to take her hand in his. He squeezed it gently, grateful for her presence, even if he couldn't fully believe the hope she offered him.

"I just don't know how to make them see," he said, his voice rough with exhaustion. "I need to find a way to be heard, to prove that I am not just some child thrust into a role I can't handle."

Lila's gaze softened as she studied his face. "Start with the people, Fredrich. Forget about the lords and their machinations for a while. Go out among your people, show them who you are. If they see your strength, if they see your care, then perhaps the lords will have no choice but to follow."

--

In the heart of the capital, the Black Boar Inn was bustling with patrons. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat, the sound of clinking mugs, and the laughter of those trying to forget their troubles for a while. The innkeeper, Marta, a stout woman with a no-nonsense demeanor, moved between the tables, her sharp eyes catching every detail—from a spilled drink to a whispered conversation in the corner.

Marta had owned the Black Boar for nearly two decades. It had always been a place of warmth and community, a refuge for those who needed it. But lately, the atmosphere had changed. People spoke in hushed tones, their eyes clouded with worry. The talk of war and beasts had settled over the inn like a dark cloud, and no amount of ale could wash it away.

Marta wiped her hands on her apron as she approached a table where a group of laborers sat, their faces grim. They spoke in hushed tones, their eyes darting around nervously. The topic of conversation was clear—the rising tensions in the kingdom, the whispers of war, and the taxes that seemed to grow heavier with each passing season.

"Heard the Duke's been pushing for more essence," one of the men said, his voice low but laced with bitterness. "But the King won't have it. Says he won't burden us more."

Another man, older, with lines etched deep into his face, snorted. "The King? He's a boy playing dress-up. He doesn't have the spine to stand up to men like Valderic. And it's us that'll pay the price when the beast-tides come."

Marta set down a pitcher of ale with a thud, her gaze sharp. "Enough of that talk," she said, her voice firm. "The King is trying. He may not be his father, but he’s trying to do right by us."

The older man looked up at her, his eyes tired. "Trying ain't enough, Marta. Not when the beasts are at our doors and the lords are scheming. We need strength, not words."

Marta sighed as she moved away, her heart heavy. She wanted to believe in King Fredrich—wanted to believe that he could protect them, that he could be the leader they needed. But the fear in the eyes of her patrons, the uncertainty that hung over the capital like a storm cloud, made it hard to hold onto that hope.

The Black Boar Inn had always been a place of warmth, a place where people could gather and find some respite from the harshness of life. But now, even here, the tension was palpable. The rumors of war, the whispers of the Duke's machinations, and the sense that the young King was losing control—it all weighed heavily on the people. And as Marta looked around at the faces of her patrons, she couldn't help but wonder how much longer they could hold on before everything fell apart.

She picked up a rag and began wiping down the bar, her mind drifting to the stories her grandfather used to tell her about the old days—days when the kingdom stood united, when the King was a symbol of strength, and the people knew no fear. Those times felt like a distant memory now, a story from a different world. She sighed, her eyes wandering back to the window where the sky had begun to darken.

A man in a tattered cloak approached the bar, his face half-hidden beneath his hood. He spoke quietly, barely above a whisper. "Marta, any news from the palace? They say the young King is struggling. Is it true?"

Marta set the rag down and leaned closer, her expression guarded. "The King is doing what he can. These are difficult times, but he's trying to keep the kingdom together. That's all anyone can ask."

The man nodded, though his eyes remained doubtful. He tossed a few coins onto the bar and took the mug of ale she offered him. As he walked away, Marta watched him disappear into the crowd. The whispers were everywhere, the doubts spreading like a sickness. She knew that Fredrich was trying—she believed it. But she also knew that trying might not be enough.

---

Valderic watched as his advisor moved off, the weight of his decisions pressing heavily upon his shoulders. He turned his gaze skyward, to the distant peaks of the Ashwynd Mountains, their snow-capped summits gleaming in the sunlight. Change was coming—change that would reshape the very fabric of their world. And he would be ready.

The alliance between his daughter and Jonathan Castellio, made in secret and without the crown's blessing, had been a bold move. A calculated risk. But it had paid off. With the Castellio line tied to his, Valderic had consolidated power in a way that even Fredrich could not openly oppose. The young King may wear the crown, but Valderic knew who truly held the reins of power.

Valderic had played his hand carefully, building alliances in the shadows, speaking softly while others shouted. He had watched Fredrich's every move, noting every mistake, every hesitation. The boy-king was compassionate, but compassion was not enough to rule. Not when the world was filled with threats that could tear the kingdom apart.

They would all be ready, whether the young King liked it or not. And when the time came, Valderic would ensure that his family, his name, stood at the forefront of power. He turned his gaze back to the path before him, his steps purposeful. The game was far from over, and Valderic intended to win—no matter the cost.