Mero found himself alone in the vast hall of the royal hotel. In the immense room assigned to him, servants bowed silently before him, carrying out their tasks with mechanical precision. Yet, despite the respectful ceremony, an odd absence weighed heavily in the air. The shadow of loneliness seemed to seep into every corner of the room. Mero scanned the place with a troubled gaze: where had Leïla and his master gone? Their presence, once so constant and reassuring in his life, had vanished, leaving behind a stifling emptiness.
The servants, though unobtrusive in their devotion, seemed hardly to notice the young prince’s concerns. Their sole mission was to serve without ever disturbing the heavy silence that reigned in this sanctuary of opulence and tradition. With a heavy heart, Mero wondered if his master had to leave on urgent matters outside the hotel, or if Leïla, who had always been so present until now, had become absorbed in some task she deemed necessary. Whatever the reason, the absence of these important figures in his life only deepened the melancholy that had settled within him.
The richly decorated walls, witnesses to a glorious past, now appeared frozen in cold stillness. The young heir felt isolated in this universe of gilding and tapestries, each object evoking memories of a time when the presence of his loved ones lit up the space. The cold reality crept into every corner, transforming the surrounding splendor into a silent prison. He was now confronted with the harsh truth: he was no longer a child sheltered by the infallible protection of others, but a prince called to choose his own fate, alone in the face of the uncertainties of a future shaped in the shadow of responsibilities.
Determined to uncover the mystery of these absences, Mero left the royal chamber and made his way toward the front door. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he was met with the rigidity of the guards stationed before him. The men, with their hard, almost mechanical gaze, blocked his way. Despite his royal rank, Mero remained a minor in the eyes of the law, and, regardless of his heritage, he could not roam freely in the outer world without the presence of a guardian or relative.
Their gazes were relentless, imbued with a cold authority that revealed a strict adherence to the rules in place. This restriction, though frustrating, brutally reminded the young prince of the duality of his condition: protected by the power of his lineage, yet chained by the constraints imposed by a political system whose inner workings he had yet to fully understand.
Refusing to be disheartened, Mero ventured deeper into the royal hotel's opulent corridors. The hushed silence of the vast hallways was soon interrupted by the discreet murmur of a conversation. Turning a corner, he caught sight of the slightly ajar door of a richly adorned boudoir. Intrigued, he slipped inside quietly. Inside, a group of elegant women was engaged in an animated conversation, exchanging gossip and confidences with an apparent lightness.
Sitting discreetly in a small chair in a shaded corner, Mero listened attentively. The discussions began with topics of fashion and daily life, but beneath these seemingly harmless exchanges were sharper insinuations. Occasionally, amidst tales of family and light anecdotes, remarks about court intrigues, rumors of certain nobles' ambitions, and even whispers of political maneuvers in the background crept in. The young prince knew that, in this world of luxury and secrets, every word could be a key to understanding the forces at play within the Empire.
One of the women, mature and with a sharp gaze, eventually noticed the focused attention Mero was giving to their conversation. Leaning slightly, she said in a soft yet assured voice:
"You seem lost, young prince. The world around you is nothing like the one you come from, is it?"
These words, seemingly simple, resonated within him like an invitation to reveal his most intimate thoughts. Rather than feeling caught off guard, Mero gathered his courage and responded politely:
"Please forgive my curiosity, I have just arrived here. Could you kindly enlighten me about the city and its region?"
The woman smiled, visibly flattered by the young prince's courtesy. With a graceful gesture, she signaled the others to quiet down for a moment and leaned toward him as though confiding a precious secret. With a gaze that shifted between mischief and wisdom, she scrutinized him intensely, trying to discern what lay behind his questioning expression. Then, in a measured tone, she declared:
"You’re not hard to identify, Mero. Each of us has our own means of grasping the truth. As for names, it is customary among influential families to address one another informally sometimes, not out of familiarity, but to better understand the essence of things. Know that it is in the interest of our conversation that I used your name."
The woman’s gaze became penetrating, as if she sought to evaluate the young prince’s reaction to these enigmatic words. Mero, though surprised, responded firmly, as someone who wished to maintain respect:
"Madam, I beg your pardon, but I would prefer not to be addressed informally by someone I do not know intimately."
The woman adjusted her posture slightly, a smile forming that betrayed both amusement and respect. In a measured voice, she replied:
"My apologies, Mero. It seems my habits have taken precedence over proper manners. I will henceforth address you with the respect you deserve."
After a brief pause, she continued in a calmer tone, revealing a glimmer of interest in her eyes:
"It is rare to encounter someone who values proper etiquette so much. You seem to be a well-educated man, and it suits you well. But tell me, young prince, would you like to know more about what awaits you at the Imperial School of Mor?"
Mero, unwilling to lose sight of the reason for his presence, replied with a hint of firmness:
"I appreciate your concern, but please, do not use my name unless you are entitled to do so."
The woman nodded gravely and, with a contrite expression, apologized once more. After this brief exchange about etiquette, she shifted the topic to discuss the city they were in:
"Ah, Mozanb... once a simple fishing port, now the beating heart of the Empire’s industry in this region. Here, the factories, forges, and shipyards stand as a testament to the human hand that has transformed every alley and quay into a theater of ceaseless labor. Yet, in the shadow of this bustle, another life unfolds: that of merchants, politicians, and all those who profit from this large-scale development."
She turned toward the window, letting her gaze wander for a moment over the urban landscape before continuing in a tone of gravity:
"The port of Mozanb is one of the busiest, welcoming ships from all corners of the Empire and beyond. However, behind this façade of prosperity, the wild ambitions of the royal family of Mozanb hide, once a symbol of splendor, now reduced to a shadow of itself by the growing influence of the Empire."
A sharp smile appeared on her lips, mixing mischief and wisdom, as she added:
"And you want to know what lies beneath this appearance, don’t you? Intrigues, secret alliances, betrayals... The Empire’s politics is woven with invisible threads, few dare to speak of openly. But I doubt you are yet ready to uncover it all."
Mero, despite his youth, listened to these confidences with rapt attention. Still, he couldn’t help but express a slight reluctance:
"Forgive me, but what you’ve told me is not unfamiliar. I would have preferred you to enlighten me further about the influential families of Mozanb."
The woman seemed momentarily unsettled by this request, but then her gaze softened, as if she had perceived a deeper aspiration in the young prince’s words. In a more solemn voice, she declared:
"Very well, young prince. Allow me to tell you the names of the two dynasties that dominate this city. First, the Frosin family, led by the formidable Duke Alaric Frosin. Their fortune, built on maritime trade and industry, especially in weaponry, is legendary. Their shipyards rival the largest, and their vessels form the backbone of the Empire’s merchant fleet. The duke is a cold and pragmatic man, who has carved out a prominent place at the Emperor's court."
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle in the atmosphere, before continuing:
"On the opposite side is the Tigran family, older and deeply rooted in local traditions. They dominate the agricultural lands surrounding Mozanb, owning vast vineyards and sugar beet plantations. Their influence on regional trade is considerable. The patriarch, Lord Demetrio Tigran, is known for his great wisdom and prudence, although he maintains discreet ties with the Emperor, contrasting with the ostentatious opulence of the Frosins."
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With a measured gesture, the woman glanced at the other guests in the boudoir, then, speaking in a conspiratorial tone, she added:
"But rumors circulate... Some claim that these two families, despite their apparent power and divergent interests, are secretly seeking to ally. The marriage of sugar trade and weaponry could, indeed, prove to be a most lucrative union. Furthermore, other factions – clans, mercenaries, shadowy politicians – are biding their time to profit from the situation. If you want to understand the true power at play here, know that these two families are just the starting point."
An enigmatic smile appeared on the woman’s face, and, with a hint of invitation in her eyes, she asked Mero:
"Thank you for listening, young prince. Now, allow me to ask you a question in return: what is your purpose here, in Mozanb?"
The silence grew heavy for a moment. Mero, aware of the importance of this question, answered in a calm but resolute voice:
"Mozanb is but a stopover for me. Tomorrow, I will head to the Imperial School of Mor."
The lady appeared surprised by this brief response, and her eyes, once filled with a mischievous gleam, became more piercing, as if she were probing the depths of his motivations. After a moment of reflection, she spoke in a tone of respect and sincere interest:
"The Imperial School of Mor is a prestigious institution, a place where future leaders are forged, where politics, weapons, and the art of governance are passed down to heirs. Tell me, what draws you to this world? Why did you choose this path, which leads you through the winding labyrinths of the Empire and its intrigues, rather than another, perhaps freer and less dictated by conventions?"
Before Mero could respond to this existential question, his attention was drawn to another conversation that reached his ears. One of the topics being discussed was the tragic surrender of the kingdom of Ambrelune. With barely concealed emotion, Mero turned toward one of the ladies present and asked, his voice tinged with both curiosity and pain:
"I read that the kingdom of Ambrelune surrendered. Could you tell me more about these events?"
The lady, whose face lit up with a sly smile behind the fan she held, let out a soft laugh before replying:
"They say this kingdom had the audacity to insult the Empire. They dared accuse a royal figure of deliberately setting fire to a petty town. According to the latest news, the dreadful fire was allegedly started by the Serpent-headed pirates, who came to assassinate an important figure. The kingdom, despite overwhelming evidence, refused to relent and even dared to threaten the Empire."
Around her, a few other guests began to giggle, as if the terrible tragedy had transformed into some kind of grotesque anecdote in the grand political theater. Another lady intervened:
"Justice has been served. One does not threaten the Empire."
Yet, deep within himself, Mero knew perfectly well that this official narrative, carefully crafted by imperial propaganda, did not align with the truth he perceived inside. In his heart, he told himself that the version disseminated by the Empire, although seemingly convenient, masking the established order, might hide much darker and more complex realities.
The words of the conversation echoed in him like a silent accusation. The tragedy of Ambrelune, in which he himself carried a share of guilt, loomed as an inevitable specter in his mind. The memory of the devouring flames and the muffled screams haunted his nights, a reminder that the grandeur of a kingdom could be reduced to ashes in an instant. Yet, far from being overwhelmed by despair, Mero felt a budding determination rise within him, an irrepressible desire to understand and perhaps, to redeem himself.
A surge of rebellion and curiosity then welled up inside Mero. This speech, tinged with sagacity and mystery, awakened in him a desire to pierce the veils of illusion and understand the true nature of power. Yet, he painfully remembered that every answer could come at a high cost, every revelation might open the door to responsibilities he had not yet chosen.
The boudoir then turned into a scene of intense introspection, where every word, every gesture seemed to carry the weight of a destiny already shaped. Mero, the young prince with eyes filled with pain and determination, faced a crucial choice. Should he be swept away by the comforting version of the Empire, or dare to seek the truth, no matter the cost, in the shadows of official lies? The answer remained suspended, as uncertain as the future unfolding before him.
He wandered through the halls of the grand hotel, silently observing the bustling servants and the impassive gazes of the guards. Each moment was charged with a subtle tension, as if fate itself were playing with him in this setting of opulence and frozen appearances. Mero, his heart beating in tune with the inner turmoil of his doubts and ambitions, wondered if he would ever manage to unravel the mysteries of the Empire and find his own way, far from the oppressive shadows of the past.
The young prince now knew that the solitude surrounding him was only a prelude to a far grander inner struggle. He was no longer a child, but a man in the making, a being destined to bear the burden of an ancestral legacy and challenge the laws of a world that saw itself as unshakable. Every encounter, every word exchanged, was a piece of the complex puzzle that made up his future.
Thus, in the relative calm of a dimly lit corridor, Mero found himself before an ancient mirror, a relic of a bygone era. His gaze met that of the image it reflected, and he saw in himself the fragility of a child and the determination of a future leader. The scars of a bloody past, the mistakes made during tragic events—particularly Ambrelune—mingled with the aspirations of a man who refused to capitulate to fate. He understood that the path before him would be strewn with difficult choices, with necessary sacrifices to forge a new era.
As the day waned and shadows stretched across the cold hotel floors, Mero left the corridor and returned to his royal chambers. The heavy silence of the place, filled with memories and intrigues, enveloped him like a cloak of mystery. He knew that soon, he would have to face not only the constraints of his young age but also the heavy responsibilities of an heir destined to change the course of history.
In the dim light of his room, as the dying light slipped through large windows, Mero reflected on the words he had heard earlier in the boudoir. Each phrase, each exchanged glance, etched itself into his mind as essential teachings for understanding this cruel and fascinating world. The city of Mozanb, with its striking contrasts between dehumanizing modernity and forgotten traditions, now appeared as the stage for a perpetual struggle between the past and the future.
The young prince then understood that, to carve his own path, he would have to learn to navigate this ocean of lies and concealed truths, to probe the depths of the political intrigues that governed the Empire. He remembered the lady's words, who had sharply spoken of the intertwined destinies of the Frosin and Tigran families, and vowed to keep in mind that true power is forged in adversity, in the ability to challenge the established order.
With renewed resolve, Mero rose from his bed and approached the grand mirror. His gaze grew harder, filled with the determination of a man who refuses to be defeated by fate. In the reflection, he saw not just the face of a protected child, but that of a future sovereign, whose heart already bore the scars of a tragic past and the hopes for renewal. Each nascent wrinkle, every gleam of determination in his eyes, testified to the relentless struggle that fueled him.
Fate, he thought, was not content with striking only those who dared to stand against it. It demanded that one pay the price for their ambitions, that one bear the responsibility of their mistakes. Yet, it was in this painful clarity that the strength to transform pain into a weapon was found. Mero knew that his future would be full of obstacles, that every step on the path to redemption would be a trial in itself. But he was ready to face the challenge, to forge his own legend despite the shadows of the past.
As night fell over Mozanb, enveloping the city in its veil of darkness, Mero found himself alone in the silence of his royal chamber, meditating on the questions that plagued him. The memory of his master and Leïla, as well as the exchanges in the boudoir, mingled within him to form a complex picture of betrayals, hopes, and unkept promises. But despite the solitude gnawing at him, he knew that each trial, each encounter, was bringing him closer to the man he was destined to become.