The sun dipped low in the mid-afternoon sky, covering the palace courtyard in a warm golden glow. Prince Marcel stood in the training ground, breathing steadily. Sweat beaded on his brow, yet his grip remained firm around the hilt of his sword. King Basque stood on the nearby balcony, his gaze steady and inscrutable.

Sir Acheron Martin—a knight of the king's guard—lunged forward, his blade piercing the air. But the prince was quicker, pivoting at the last moment, the blade barely grazing his armor. He responded with a strike of his own, cutting with power and precision. The knight blocked the blow, but the force knocked him off balance. With one fluid motion, Acheron was on his knees, Marcel's blade at his throat.

A quiet murmur of shock rippled through the audience of courtiers and guards. Marcel lowered his sword, his chest heaving with exhaustion, but his eyes darted around, searching for his father. The king remained impassive, his face cold and stoic, giving his son a small nod of approval.

> "Well fought, young master. Your swordplay is truly magnificent,"

Sir Acheron said as the prince helped him to his feet.

> "I could say the same for you, Sir Acheron. I don't think I've fought so hard in my life!"

Marcel replied, a grin peeking through his fatigue.

> "You flatter me, young master,"

the knight chuckled.

> "That is enough for today. You may all return to your tasks,"

the king's voice echoed across the courtyard, and with the wave of his hand, the attendees began to disperse.

The men sheathed their blades and stepped towards the balcony, wiping the sweat from their brows.

> "You did well, Marcel,"

the king said as he began to descend the stairs, his expression softening as he drew closer. Towering and broad, with thick brown hair framing his stern features, the king resembled a bear in both stature and presence.

> "Thank you, Father. I owe it all to your guidance,"

He replied, eagerly anticipating his father's praise.

> "Your progress is truly remarkable. Sir Acheron has proven to be a worthy mentor,"

The king said, placing a hand on his son's shoulder.

> "It is an honor to instruct the young master, and as you were my mentor, it is only natural that the credit is all yours, Your Majesty,"

Sir Acheron said with a bow.

> "Soon, you will be ready for real battle,"

the king said, his voice brimming with stoic pride.

> "Sir Acheron, you may leave us. I believe my son wishes to speak with me in private."

The prince gave a small nod, and the knight bowed again before exiting the courtyard.

> "Father…"

Marcel's voice faltered, his words lined with hesitation.

> "Do you ever doubt yourself?"

Silence hung in the air for a moment before the king replied, his tone solemn.

> "Doubt is a burden every ruler must bear. It is a specter, one that shadows every choice—a constant reminder of your shortcomings and mistakes. It haunts your days and whispers in your nights. But how you wield that doubt—whether it bends you or fortifies you—will shape your future. I have faced doubt countless times, haunted by choices I've made, regrets I carry to this day. Yet I refuse to let it overcome me. What we do as rulers is far greater, far more vital than our personal peace of mind."

The prince tapped his thumb against his chin, deep in thought.

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> "When I ascend the throne, I wish to be strong—but above all, I wish to be just. Someone whom our people can trust and of whom you can be proud."

The king's face softened, a rare smile forming across his face.

> "You already are, Marcel. You'll grow into twice the man I ever was, and in that, I will take the greatest pride."

He met his father's gaze, savoring the brief moment of warmth.

> "Thank you, Father."

Basque gave a brief nod before turning to the palace. Marcel remained in the empty courtyard, the cool evening breeze brushing against his face. He glanced at the sword on his side, then towards the empty training ground.

Tomorrow, he thought. There would be more battles—on the field and within his heart—but for tonight, he would rest. He sheathed his blade and began to follow his father's footsteps as the last golden rays vanished over the horizon.

* * *

As the day waned, the soft glow of torchlight flickered through the halls of the palace. Prince Marcel made his way to the royal gardens, a sanctuary where he often sought refuge from the pressures of courtly duties. Tonight, however, the gardens were not his alone.

His footsteps echoed across the stone-paved courtyard, its expanse framed by tall hedges. Glimmering lilies caught his eye, their petals glowing faintly in the moonlight, while the rich fragrance of salvia blooms filled the air. The soft, melodic notes of a harp drifted through the night, as if the flowers themselves were singing for him.

Beneath the canopy of a blooming hawthorn tree sat Celine Auclair, her fingers dancing across the strings of the harp. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her deep green eyes reflected the moonlight. She looked up as Marcel approached, a smile touching her lips.

> "Marcel!"

she exclaimed joyously.

The prince knelt, gently guiding her hand closer and laying a delicate kiss upon it.

> "I was hoping you'd come,"

she said, her smile widening.

> "And I was hoping you would be here,"

he replied, returning the smile, letting a wave of calm wash over him as he settled next to her.

> "After a day's trials, your presence is the greatest relief."

Celine rested her head on his shoulder, her fingers gently caressing his calloused hands.

> "My father's expectations are as high as ever, and so are his praises,"

he murmured.

> "I fear that both may be higher than my own capabilities."

>

> "He has faith in you,"

Celine said gently.

> "The whole kingdom does. We see your potential. You don't need to bear the pressure alone. You have many who would stand by your side, no matter the circumstance. Strength can be found in relying on others."

Marcel's mind relaxed a little, listening to her encouragement.

> "It seems I'll have to rely on you more often than not."

His gaze drifted toward the stars, his expression thoughtful.

> "But sometimes, I wonder if I will ever be able to live up to his legacy."

Celine's fingers tightened around his hand, offering him strength.

> "You have something special, Marcel. Something many rulers lack: a heart. A heart much bigger than our fathers'. That is what will make you a great king."

>

> "I truly do not know what blessings I have to have been gifted you,"

he sighed softly.

> "I'm not sure if I'd still be all there if not for your words of affirmation."

They sat in silence for a moment, the melody of the harp weaving its way through the night. As the moonlight bathed Celine's face, her sharp green eyes were outlined—eyes like her father's, he thought to himself.

Celine Auclair's father, Loppe, had always been a man of many complexities—unyielding and speaking with absolute certainty, much like Marcel's own father. Although he respected Loppe a great deal, there had always been a distance between them that he could never quite bridge.

> "Do you think your father is still upset?"

he asked gently, turning the conversation toward Celine's burdens.

Her smile faltered, and she let out a sigh.

> "My father means well, but he is a proud man. He has always seen me as someone to protect, to shield from the world. He would sooner have me locked away in a gilded cage than let anyone have my hand. To him, our elopement is akin to theft."

>

> "I hope that one day he will see that I am worthy of his trust as well as yours."

Celine's smile returned.

> "He will. I know he will. And no matter our fathers' objections, I will never leave your side."

The moon rose higher in the sky, casting silver rays across the garden. They sat basking in the moonlight as the melody of the harp whispered promises only they could hear.

* * *

Candlelight flickered throughout the palace's opulent halls, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. A rich aroma of spiced wine and roasted meats permeated the winter air, mingling with the faint scent of burning wax. Loppe Auclair, lurked unseen in the shadows of the banquet hall. From within his dark blue silken robes, he drew forth an ornate red vial, carefully pouring the viscous liquid into the king's goblet

King Basque sat at the head of the table, his voice booming as he raised his cup in a toast. Unaware of the treachery that laced his wine, he drank deeply, the golden liquid disappearing down his throat.

The palace settled into a somber stillness as the king, unknowing, retired to his quarters. Moonlight poured through the window, casting a silver veil over his tranquil visage—a peaceful mask for what would be his last breaths. He lay nestled in satin sheets, the fabric cool against his skin, unaware of the poison spreading through his veins. The room was adorned with tapestries depicting his triumphs and heirlooms of his lineage, silent witnesses to his final moments.

His breathing grew shallow, each exhale a labored whisper against the silence. The poison worked swiftly, lulling his heart to sleep, as his blood slowed and his veins narrowed. A faint tremor coursed through his body, and his mind began to cloud. In his final moments, a fleeting memory surfaced—his son's laughter, bright and carefree, echoing in the palace gardens and the vision of an infant, surrounded by a sea of hellfire. A pang of regret pierced his heart, but it was too late. The clock struck midnight. The king was dead.