"-Then, using the power of the arcane and his strong bloodline, Lord Falker was able to stop the tsunami from crashing into Salto, saving the heart of the north from destruction. The church built a statue in his honor, but he – Lord Byron?"
The sun beamed down into the grand library's study chamber. Being widely considered one of two bastions of knowledge in Arcadia, Stormwynter's grand library holds strong as the hearth for all lorekeepers. Stouting an impressive eight floors of seemingly limitless information, there could be hundreds of people inside at once and they could never come into contact with one another. In one of the thirty private study chambers in the library were the Grand Chronicler and the prince, Byron Phoenix.
Inside of this study chamber were rows of books all categorically separated on subject and level, ranging from history, to mathematics, to even lessons on the old elvish tongue. All the knowledge many men would have killed to gain access to, but none of it piqued the interest of Byron, whose attention was focused on the windowsill of the chamber. A row of small flowers, planted last fall, had begun to finally bloom. 'Guess it's spring, then', he thought to himself. Every room had flowers similar to these, all of different colors, and all were cared for by Grand Chronicler Alrem, protector of all knowledge, who had retained that title for the last eighty years. Ignoring the old instructor in front of him, Byron stared at the bright poppies across the room, lost in his mind once again.
Byron's thoughts were interrupted by a waving hand in front of his face, making him recoil at the sudden movement in the otherwise still room. The one waving the hand was his instructor, Grand Chronicler Alrem, an old, wrinkled man garbed in the traditional robes of the chroniclers, adorned with golden colors and red accents, a symbol of House Phoenix. Although age was not kind to Alrem's appearance, he was in excellent shape, able to climb the stairways of the library with ease, carry books to and from different floors, and even give instruction to other chroniclers in the library without his voice wavering.
"Lord Byron," he started with a stern tone at the boy, "are you even paying attention? This information is crucial if you are to form alliances with the north."
Byron looked up at Alrem, blinking a few times and shaking his head to bring him out of thought. In truth, Byron was an incredible student, understanding all the material thrown at him near instantly. He attributed it to his teacher, the grand chronicler, whom had been educating Byron for as long as he can remember. Recently, however, Byron's scores had been slipping. "I don't want to hear about the tales of better men," he had told Alrem weeks ago. As a result, he had dozed off more in his studies, uninterested in what lord chased outlaws out of his land and what adventurer found a secret whatever. Byron would prefer to live those stories, not hear of them.
The young lord was seventeen but was dressed to look like he was nearing his thirties. His naturally curly hair was wetted and slicked back to appear older and more sophisticated. His clothes were that of a student of wealth, an elegant golden long coat made of silk patterned with vertical rows of red, a sash draping over. Underneath the coat, a satin shirt cuffed at the wrists with neat black leggings held up by his leather belt and finished off with his shining black boots. His sunset eyes, staring off into a future he wished he could have, were finally brought back to reality by the teacher in front of him.
"Lord Byron," Alrem started again, his tone and voice calming as he regained the boy's full attention, "if you're going to rule in your father's absence, you must know of these people. It's important you know their tales to make a good impression on th- "
"But I don't need to know these stories," Byron interrupted, his tender voice paired with a bored tone, no doubt from the hours spent studying this day alone. "If these stories are what these people are known for, then they won't shut up about them when I do eventually meet them. Leave it for when Dad wakes up, Sage Louis says he's due to awaken any day now."
Alrem frowns, his voice dropping deeper in empathy, "My lord…"
"Besides," Byron continued, "what are the chances Giles Falker comes all the way here from Northwind? Or another one of the eight arcane come here requesting help to fend off some 'world-ending' threat? These kinds of things happen once in a lifetime, and I've got plenty of time left. When they do happen, Dad will be there to handle it."
The room fell silent as Byron stood out his chair, stretching his arms outward as he walked towards the window. He opened the curtain, letting more light into the room as he admired the poppy's bold redness in front of him. As he looked out the window, he saw patrols of guardsmen walking around the courtyard of Castle Pathus, clad in their traditional House Phoenix colors and light clothing to allow for swifter movement.
In the reflection of the window, Byron saw Alrem approaching him, a hesitant look in his eye, "I don't wish to be pessimistic, my lord," Alrem started, almost a whisper with his calming yet soothing voice, "but it's been two months now. Despite what that questionable sage says, his chances of waking get lower with each passing day. Even if he does wake, it could be another couple of months, it could be a day, it could even be years before he does. King Derrick is a hero, and we'll never forget his sacrifice, but in just a few months' time you will be of age to take over responsibility. I must prepare you for that future."
Byron closed his eyes, breathing in deeply at his words. He knew this was true, deep down, but he had to hold on to the hope his father would awaken from his slumber. If he lost hope, he thought, wouldn't everybody else? Is it right for a fresh adult to inherit a kingdom as large as Arcadia? Would it be better to just leave it all in the hands in Maximillion Chulux, to let him continue to bear the responsibilities, until his father awakened? These are all questions Byron had asked himself over the last months.
Yet, still, he was Byron Phoenix. Had he been born Byron Coast, or Byron Moonway, or perhaps even Byron Sphinx he could pursue a life of adventure and thrill. Unfortunately, he was Byron Phoenix, heir to the storm crown, nephew of Maximillion Chulux, and son of Derrick Phoenix. No matter what he wanted with his life, he was stuck in servitude to the crown, to tradition, and to his people. There was nothing in this world that could change that. The young lord turned around, opening his eyes, and forced a smile to Alrem.
"You're right, Grand Chronicler," he spoke with a somber tone, "I apologize for troubling you."
"It is only natural," Alrem expressed tenderly, "You're still young, and the responsibilities you will inherit are immense. I pray every morning to the thirteen for King Derrick's awakening."
"As do I," Byron paused. "I miss him."
"We all do."
Byron turned back towards the window, watching as the guards continued their patrols. Alrem, meanwhile, had walked back towards the table they were studying at, gathering his books into his satchel. His belongings packed, he began to make his exit.
"I believe our time for the day is over, my lord," Alrem spoke, "I have much work to do around here."
Byron said nothing as he continued watching the courtyard, lost in his own head. The old wooden door creaked open, eliciting a loud squeal as it closed once more. Just before it closed all the way, however, Alrem peeked his head in once more.
"Ah, I almost forgot. You ought to train with the kingsguard next week. The Leviathan Guild has arrived at the capital to give their annual training."
Byron still said nothing, not even an acknowledgment of his teacher. Still, he remained staring out the window into the courtyard. Alrem let out a half-smile before closing the door completely with a thud.