In the west wing of the Arcanoria Empire. palace, a heavy silence hung in the air, disturbed only by the occasional rustle of curtains in the wind or the distant clink of armor as the guards made their rounds.
This part of the palace had once been filled with life and laughter, the sounds of a young prince growing up under the watchful eyes of his mother, the late Empress Rena. But now, it was a place of quiet reflection, of lingering sadness, and of secrets kept hidden from the rest of the world.
Izan, sat in his private chambers, staring out at the vast gardens that his mother had once loved so dearly. His once-bright eyes, which had mirrored the sparkle of the palace's golden spires, were now clouded with pain and weariness. His long, slender fingers drummed absently on the armrest of his chair, a subtle reminder of the restless energy that still simmered beneath the surface, despite his current condition.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Izan didn't turn away from the window as he called for the visitor to enter. He knew who it was without looking. The only person allowed to enter his chambers unannounced was his most trusted advisor and childhood friend, Dillon.
Dillon, entered the room quietly, his footsteps barely making a sound on the marble floor. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a stern face and piercing blue eyes.
His loyalty to Izan was unquestionable, forged over years of friendship and shared hardships. While the court had dismissed Dillon as just another bodyguard, he was far more than that, he was Izan's eyes and ears in the palace, the one person who knew the truth about Izan's condition and the schemes that threatened his life.
"My Lord," Dillon said. "The Emperor has summoned you. He wishes to see you immediately."
Izan finally turned his gaze meeting Dillon's for a briefest moment, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Very well," he said, his tone resigned but not unkind. "Let's not keep him waiting."
With practiced ease, Dillon moved to Izan's side, carefully helping him into the rolling chair that had become an unwelcome but necessary part of his daily life. The chair was a reminder of his supposed weakness, of the assassination attempt that had left him seemingly crippled. It was also, as Izan had decided, the perfect cover.
As they moved through the corridors of the palace, the faint whispers of the courtiers echoed around them, barely concealed behind carved wooden doors.
The rumors of the Crown Prince's condition had spread quickly after the attack, and the Empress had ensured that they were exaggerated to the point of hopelessness.
A crippled prince was no threat to her plans, after all. The court believed what they were told, and Izan had allowed them to believe it. The truth, that he could walk perfectly fine, was a secret known only to himself, Dillon, and a select few.
They arrived at the Emperor's private chambers, the doors guarded by two of the most loyal soldiers in the palace. They stepped aside, bowing low as Dillon pushed Izan through the entrance and into the dimly lit room beyond.
The Emperor, a man whose once-vibrant spirit had been worn down by years of loss and betrayal, sat by the fireplace, his gaze distant as he stared into the flickering flames. His hair, once as black as Izan's, was now streaked with silver, and the lines on his face spoke of the burdens he carried as ruler of an empire and as a father who had failed to protect his family from the relentless schemes of the court.
"Father," Izan greeted softly, his voice carrying a warmth that was reserved for the man before him alone.
The Emperor turned at the sound of his son's voice, a tired but genuine smile breaking through the melancholy that had settled on his features. "Izan," he said, his tone gentle, almost reverent. "Come, sit with me."
Dillon, carefully wheeled Izan closer, then stepped back to allow them their privacy, though he remained within earshot, ever vigilant.
The Emperor reached out, taking Izan's hand in his own, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the cold steel of the politics that surrounded them. "How are you, my son?" he asked, his voice heavy with concern. "You look pale. Are you eating well? Are they taking proper care of you?"
Izan smiled faintly, the familiar worry in his father's voice both comforting and heartbreaking. "I'm fine, Father. The doctors say I'm recovering as well as can be expected."
The Emperor's eyes flickered with a shadow of sadness, but he nodded, unwilling to press further. He never mentioned the word 'crippled,' as if by avoiding it, he could somehow protect his son from the cruel reality. "I'm glad to hear that," he said softly, though the words seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken fears.
For a long moment, they sat in silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the distant hum of the palace life continuing outside the room. Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, the Emperor spoke again.
"I miss her, Izan," he confessed, his voice trembling with emotion. "Your mother… Rena… Not a day goes by that I don't think of her. She was the light of my life, and when she died, that light went out."
Izan's grip tightened on his father's hand, his own heart aching with the loss he had felt so deeply as a child. "I miss her too, Father," he said quietly, the words barely more than a whisper. "But she's still with us, in spirit. She's watching over us."
The Emperor nodded, though his eyes were glazed with unshed tears. "She would have been so proud of you, Izan. You've grown into the man she always knew you would be. Strong, wise… a true prince of Arcanoria
Izan lowered his gaze, the weight of his father's words heavy on his shoulders. If only his father knew the full truth, the secrets he was keeping even from him. But Izan had long ago made the decision that it was better this way. The less his father knew, the safer he would be from the Empress's wrath.
"You're too kind, Father," Izan replied, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within him. "I only hope to live up to her memory, and to yours."
The Emperor smiled, though it was tinged with sorrow. "You already have, my son. You already have."
They spoke for a while longer, their conversation drifting between memories of the past and the responsibilities of the present. But as much as the Emperor tried to focus on matters of state, his concern for Izan's health remained at the forefront, each question about the empire's affairs undercut by a worried glance at his son's supposed frailty.
Finally, as the flames in the fireplace began to die down, the Emperor sighed and leaned back in his chair, his energy waning. "Izan, you should rest," he said gently. "You need your strength. I'll have Dillon take you back to your chambers."
Izan nodded, knowing that his father's concern came from a place of deep love, even if it was misplaced. "Of course, Father. I'll rest."
The Emperor's expression softened, and he reached out to place a hand on Izan's shoulder, a rare display of affection that spoke volumes. "Remember, Izan, you are the future of this empire. Your mother believed it, and so do I. Never forget that."
"I won't, Father," Izan promised, his voice firm. "I won't."