The soldiers knelt on one knee in a V-formation around the prince clad in black. Not one of them dared to raise their head or speak without permission. Without their lord's word, the knights of Valene knew better than to openly defy an imperial prince.
Despite the biting cold, the imperial knights did not flinch. Their discipline was absolute. Each one had been positioned with surgical precision to ensure the young prince at the center was guarded from every angle. When it came to military strength, Elicia was unmatched across the continent. That reputation, combined with the prince's opulent attire and the unmistakable crest of the imperial family, rendered Valene's own soldiers paralyzed with rage and restraint.
It didn't take long for the opportunistic Baron to slither into view.
Baron Valerie positioned himself as close to the prince as his cowardice allowed, wearing a sinister, self-satisfied grin. The look he cast toward the kneeling soldiers was the same one he'd give a flea-ridden mutt.
The emperor's orders were being carried out with grim efficiency—much to the town's dismay. Under the young prince's regretful command, the knights had hauled away Valene's precious resources into a steel wagon: blackened blades and polearms that reeked of bitter metal, the scent somehow carried to the tongue through the nose.
And yet, the lord of Valene was conspicuously silent.
By tradition, a city's lord would greet royalty in person, humbled on their knees. To abstain was a clear message. The Lord of Valene would not submit to Prince Darius.
Treason, in all but name.
"It seems you pests were not properly educated—daring to trouble His Highness with your clamor. And this… filthy dump, obstructing his view!" the Baron sneered with disdain. "And where is your so-called leader? Hiding?"
Indeed, there was no sign of the lord.
Instead, a single elder stood before the assembled soldiers. He wore heavy armor, and his weathered eyes bore into Darius with a searing, unspoken hatred.
There he was: the infamous third prince of the Elician Empire, staring straight back at the veteran.
Though none present had ever seen him before, the royal family's cursed red eyes were unmistakable. Once symbols of divine grace—likened to holy rubies—they were now seen only as demonic marks, matching the darkness of those who bore them.
Those very same eyes had stolen the veteran's lord from him. And he was not alone in his loathing.
Tension thickened in the frigid air. The imperial knights were trained, yes—but Valene's soldiers had experience. Real experience. No drills could replicate it. No titles could replace it.
Vincent and Kieran's fears had come to fruition. The emperor had sent his son—naïve and barely tested—into a stronghold of anti-imperial sentiment, backed only by a ceremonial force.
"My liege, we've fulfilled the emperor's orders. We must withdraw. Your safety must be prioritized," Vincent murmured to the prince, low enough that only Darius could hear.
"Not yet,Vincent. The letter," Darius replied, tapping his gloved fingers anxiously beneath his coat.
Vincent's concern deepened. "But—my liege… if we stay any longer, the rebels may grow bold enou—"
"And… I need to confirm the innocents are safe," Darius mumbled, his voice strained with desperation.
As always, Vincent bowed with wolf-like grace. "Apologies, my liege… but any moment longer could place Your Highness in grave danger." His face reflected pain—like a loyal dog afraid of reprimand. You could almost see his ears drooping.
Darius offered a shaky smile. "Trust me, Vincent." He was terrified. He knew he was inexperienced, unfit to lead men into such peril. But perhaps, in that moment, the smile was more about silencing the dreaded "my liege" than any real reassurance.
The green-haired knight beside them, however, remained irritatingly calm.
"Vin, do you dare doubt His Highness's command?" Kieran asked, glancing at Darius with a gleam of adoration in his eyes.
"Never, Sir Kieran," Vincent replied stiffly, ignoring the way Kieran had so casually shortened his name. His posture remained impeccable, polished as ever.
But deep down, he loathed Kieran. Loathed him so much he'd once dreamed of using him in place of a training dummy—a truly glorious dream.
Kieran had a wicked, flowery tongue and loyalty that bent toward power and self-interest. In Vincent's eyes, he and the Baron were carved from the same rotten tree.
Vincent, in contrast, had devoted his life to Darius. He would give everything for him.
Still, Kieran did have a desire—however selfish—to protect the prince. If Darius died, so too would Kieran's dreams of a luxurious future.
"I worry for His Highness's safety. Am I to presume you don't?" Vincent asked coldly, glaring daggers.
"Of course I do! My future—erm, His Highness—is very important to me!" Kieran declared with childish indignation. Then, under his breath, "Stubborn nanny."
But the wind carried the insult straight to Vincent's ears. Sparks crackled in the air between them, visible even to the dullest eye.
"Enough," Darius finally said. "Kieran, ensure this letter reaches the lord."
Kieran hesitated. "But, Your Highness… we're already here. What reason would the lord have to believe me?"
It was a fair point. Between the two knights, Kieran was the less imposing figure. But even so, a random man claiming to carry confidential information from the imperial family would be met with skepticism—
"You're skilled with words, aren't you?" the prince asked quietly. He had no better option.
Kieran bowed with a forced smile, hiding his indignation. "I will… do my best."
And somehow, under the weight of so many watchful eyes, Kieran slipped into the shadows, now cloaked, the prince's letter safely tucked away in his coat.