It was nearly time for the ceremony — that sacred rite to unfold at the gates of the palace, where nobles of highest stature would stand near, bearing witness in privileged silence, while the common people looked on from afar, gathered in the streets of the city.
Rael's heart was alight with fervor, stirred by the swelling tide of voices, the echo of boots and fine garments sweeping into the grand hall.
He beheld the scene in stillness — the very place where he would soon be declared, by blood and rite, the future and rightful king. Though the crown would not yet be his, the honor alone filled his soul with solemn joy. He longed for the moment to come swiftly.
Even as the noise of preparation swirled around him, Rael remained centered in quiet purpose. He rehearsed his steps, both in body and in thought, aligning himself with the final motions of tradition. It was not a task heavy in complexity — a blessing from the reigning king, followed by the spoken decree of his destiny.
But just as he contemplated the journey that had brought him to that hour, and as he sought to dress himself with the dignity befitting a future sovereign, a voice rang out with urgency:
"My lord, His Majesty — the King!"
One of the seamstresses gasped the words, her hands trembling as they paused mid-stitch.
At once, Rael bowed low, and all within the room followed suit. And when the King entered — casting a shadow long and commanding — he spoke with a tone that parted silence like a blade.
"Leave us."
And so it was done. All servants withdrew, and the chamber was emptied of all but father and son.
"Your Majesty, my King, it is an honor to receive you," Rael said, his voice measured with respect.
Rael's childhood had been sculpted by the silence of books and the thunder of boots in training courtyards.
From his earliest days, he was forged more as a soldier than a son. His hours were ordered by drills, tactical studies, and merciless conditioning. Affection was rare. For the King, love was preparation, and protection was a harder mold — one that would temper the boy against the world's cruelties.
Rael did all that was asked of him, hoping — always hoping — that it would please his father. He searched for approval in glances, in gestures, in the unspoken language of men raised by war. On rare occasions, the King would watch his son with something nearing pride — when Rael bested a seasoned instructor, or led his peers with strength and clarity.
Yet the gulf between them remained wide. The father saw an heir, a warrior; but the boy longed, in silence, to be seen as more.
"Stand, and look me in the eye, Prince Rael," the King commanded. "As future king, you must understand this truth — here in Cronos, the Empire shall never bow its head to any man. Not ever."
"Yes, my lord."
Rael straightened, assuming a posture of strength, though it was still stiff — like that of a soldier before his commander.
"Now, Prince Rael," the King continued, placing his hands behind his back and pacing the length of the chamber, "you will tell me what I have never heard from your mouth before."
Rael's breath caught, but he did not look away.
"As the one who shall inherit this realm, what do you intend to do for the kingdom? What are your goals, your ambitions, your vision for the Empire of Cronos?"
Rael was left in confusion. Though the questions placed before him were valid, the truth was that his father should have already known their answers. After all, what else would a king desire, if not the triumph of his kingdom over all others?
"Father," Rael began, but quickly corrected himself, "I mean—Your Majesty. The truth is, since my youth I have trained to govern this kingdom. All I have ever wanted is to take this great land and make it greater still."
"Will you conquer other kingdoms?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. I will expand our territories and show the entire continent the power of Cronos."
"And if you fail?"
"What?" Rael asked, nearly offended. "With the might of our army… with all our strength… I find it difficult to imagine a scenario in which we would not be able to suppress any who rise against me."
"You are not wrong," said the king, pacing again across the chamber, his long black hair trailing over the carpeted floor like a shadow behind him. "Our army is unmatched. Our culture arms even the youth with steel. And yet… what shall you do if an opponent arises who is greater still? What shall you do if you fail as king? If, by some fate, you are unable to protect the citizens of this kingdom?"
Rael's expression hardened. The king halted his steps, drawn to the fire that now burned in his son's gaze.
"Your Majesty," Rael said, his voice steady and full of conviction, "Truly I say to you: should I fail… should I prove unable to shield this realm from any threat—though in my heart such a thing seems inconceivable—I vow to you this: I will destroy any who would harm Cronos. I will dominate all surrounding realms, by diplomacy, by strength, or by fear. They shall all fear Cronos. And they shall all fear me."
The king was taken aback by the force in his son's words.
"So this… is your ambition?" the king asked at last.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I shall subdue them all, and I shall be more numerous in power than the grains of sand upon the shores."
The king said nothing more. He only bowed his head—an act of reverence Rael had never seen from him before.
And then, with steps firm and thunderous, the king departed.His mind echoed with the words of his son.But Rael stood without regret, for every word he had spoken came from the marrow of his being.
It surprised the king. He had long believed Rael to be a kind soul, and he feared that such softness might one day become weakness.But what he did not know was that, within the gentle heart of the young prince, there burned a secret fire.
From childhood, Rael's truest intention had never been merely to rule—but to conquer. To reduce all other thrones to dust and ash. His gentleness was but a mask, a veil to hide the hunger that stirred deep within.
"As the proverb says," the king murmured to himself, returning to the duties of the day, "Do not fear the beast that roars—but the silence of the one who holds it back."
[THE STAIRWAY OF HONOR]
The sun was nearing its descent upon that sacred place. Golden light bathed the pale stone steps, setting the crimson banners of the kingdom ablaze with glory.
Before the gathered crowd in the lower courtyard, the castle's monumental entrance loomed — flanked by carved columns bearing the tales of ancient victories. It stood not merely as a gate, but as a monument to legacy, and a silent judge of all who dared approach it.
At the summit of the staircase, before the great portal, the golden throne had been brought out into the open, that all might witness the moment which would shape the destiny of the realm.
Closer to the throne stood rows of soldiers in perfect formation, alongside nobles clad in heavy regalia. The common folk, by contrast, were packed tightly below — distant, cramped upon the lowest reaches of the great stairway.
Among the cluster of nobility stood Nil, Higor, and Helena, their voices hushed as they conversed amid the reverent murmurs of the occasion.
"Do you see, Helena," whispered Nil, gesturing ahead. "Your future husband stands right there."
Rael ascended the steps with steady stride, cloaked in a deep red mantle embroidered with the royal crest. His expression was calm, yet his eyes betrayed the weight he carried — the expectation not only of the people, but of his father, who awaited him beside the throne.
"So they say," Helena replied, fanning her face — and her barely-concealed chest, nearly spilling from the dress. It was, after all, the custom of the western courts to favor such revealing attire."But soon enough, I pray that fate shall be altered. How go the plans, Nil? Will it be after the ceremony?"
"Yes," he answered. "Your brother came bearing valuable information. It will serve us well."
"My dear brother," Helena said with biting irony. "A bit empty-headed, that one. But occasionally… quite useful."
"Quiet," murmured Higor from behind them. "I can hear you."
"Don't worry," Nil replied. "No one is paying attention to us. All eyes are fixed on the grand moment."
And indeed, the moment was unforgettable.
The king stood proud, clad in ceremonial armor, a figure of iron and tradition. In his hands, he held his sword — ancient, weighty, and symbolic.
When Rael reached him, the courtyard fell into utter silence.
The king raised the sword, holding it upright between them — as though dividing the boy from the man. Then, with solemn grace, he placed the blade upon Rael's left shoulder… then the right… and finally, gently upon the center of his brow.
"Before the eyes of the gods, and by the blood of our people," declared the king in a voice like thunder,"…I proclaim Rael as heir to the throne. May he lead this kingdom with strength, with honor… and with wisdom."
The people erupted in cheers. Drums thundered.And from atop the walls, a cascade of red petals rained upon the stairway, falling like fire from heaven.
Rael remained still — silent — his eyes fixed upon the throne with a mixture of reverence… and doubt. He was now closer to power than he had ever been.
While the crowd roared with applause, Nil stared at him with something colder than jealousy — something nearer to loathing.
"Yes, Rael… Enjoy it while you can."