Caldor (while striking): — Strength is important, boy, but a king's true skill lies in patience and strategy. Attacking without thought leads only to ruin.
Aemon (breathing heavily while blocking): — I... I understand, sir.
Thorne (worried, murmuring to Edric): — This is going too far. We need to end this before something goes wrong.
Edric (also uneasy but with a different motive): — We need an opportunity, Thorne. Maybe this will work in our favor.
Alaric (watching with a weary yet confident gaze): — Let them continue. I want to see how far Aemon can go. He needs to learn that the throne is not just glory; it's responsibility and sacrifice.
Lady Fianna (watching closely, with a slight smile): — This young man has something special, don't you think, Alaric? I'm curious to see how he handles real pressure.
Caldor (intensifying the duel): — Now, let's see how you react under real attack. Are you ready, prince?
Aemon (determined, nodding): — Bring it on.
Caldor (with an almost paternal smile): — Very well, prepare yourself.
Thorne (in a low voice, trying to hide his anxiety): — This could be dangerous. He's not ready to face someone like Caldor.
Edric (smirking): — Exactly what we need. If he fails, it'll be easier to convince him to step aside.
Alaric (resolute): — Silence, both of you. Aemon needs this lesson.
Caldor (striking with precision, but still teaching): — Every strike must have a purpose, Aemon. Every move, a reason. It's not just strength; it's control.
Aemon (struggling to maintain balance): — I understand... I'm learning.
Caldor, as the strikes continue: — A king must not only wield a sword but also leadership, Aemon. A true leader knows the weight of his decisions, every move calculated, every choice considered.
Aemon, deflecting a blow from Caldor with force: — Spare me your lessons, old man. I'm here to fight, not to listen to sermons about royalty.
Caldor remains calm but intensifies his movements, pressing Aemon: — Arrogance is the first step to a king's downfall, boy. Don't think you can ignore the weight of the crown and get away with it.
Aemon, beginning to get irritated, counters with a quick attack, which Caldor easily defends: — Maybe I don't want that damned crown! Maybe I'd rather be myself, without these chains you all call responsibility.
Thorne, from afar, worried: — Alaric, this is going too far. Aemon needs to understand the implications of his words.
Alaric, watching the duel, impassive: — Let him be, Thorne. He needs to face his own demons.
Fianna, crossing her arms and watching with interest: — The young prince has fire in his blood. I want to see how far that rebellious spirit will take him.
Caldor makes a move to disarm Aemon, managing to knock his sword away. In a harsher tone: — If you don't want the crown, Aemon, someone will take it from you. And that someone will show no mercy.
Aemon, now without a sword, steps closer to Caldor, his eyes burning with rage: — Let them try. I won't go down without a fight.
Caldor, surprised by Aemon's audacity, smiles slightly. In a quick move, he throws the sword back to Aemon, who catches it in the air.
Caldor: — Very well, then. Show me if there's a king inside you or just a boy with a sword.
Aemon charges forward with all his might, ignoring technique and letting his anger take over, his strikes strong but clumsy. Caldor defends easily, but now there's a different gleam in his eyes, a mix of respect and concern.
Aemon, panting after another series of blocked attacks: — I'm sick of your words! I don't need your lessons!
Caldor, firm but with a hint of compassion: — Maybe not, boy... But one day, you'll understand that true power isn't in the sword, but in who wields it.
The duel ends with Aemon clearly exhausted but still standing, his eyes still burning with fury. Caldor makes a slight bow.
Caldor: — You have the strength, Aemon. Now, you need to learn to control it, or it will destroy you.
Aemon doesn't reply, just throws a fierce glare at Caldor before turning and walking away, still boiling inside.
Fianna, in a low voice to Thorne: — That boy... he's either going to be a problem or a legend.
Thorne, with a worried look: — Perhaps both.
Aemon leaves the training grounds, his face flushed with anger and his fists clenched. Caldor's words still echo in his mind, fueling the frustration he feels from everything he's being forced to endure.
Caldor, noticing the intensity of Aemon's reaction, turns to Alaric and makes a slight bow: — I apologize, Your Majesty. Perhaps I went too far.
Alaric, sighing but maintaining his composure: — Don't worry, Caldor. I knew this would happen. Aemon is under too much pressure. It was only a matter of time before he snapped.
Thorne, with a look that suggests he expected this: — I warned that this approach would wear him down. He needs space, Your Majesty.
Edric, nodding in agreement: — Pushing a young man so hard, especially one with his temperament, always leads to this kind of reaction.
Fianna, who had been watching in silence until now, decides to act. With a determined look, she withdraws from the group and heads towards the exit: — I'll talk to him.
Alaric watches her leave but does not stop her: — Let her go. Maybe she can reach him in a way that we couldn't.
As Fianna follows Aemon through the castle corridors, she calls out to him: — Aemon! Wait!
But Aemon, still boiling inside, doesn't seem to hear. He quickens his pace, wanting to distance himself from everything and everyone.
Fianna, undeterred, continues to follow him: — Aemon! Please stop! I want to talk to you!
Even without a response, she doesn't give up and continues her determined pursuit.
Aemon finally stops walking, taking a deep breath, and turns to Fianna with a suspicious look. — What do you want?
Fianna takes a step forward, her expression serious: — I came to talk about the future of our dominions, Aemon. Volcrist and Lysanthor are both facing crises, and there's an opportunity to form a new alliance.
Aemon frowns, clearly irritated: — Alliance? What are you talking about?
Fianna keeps her gaze steady on him: — Volcrist needs a new king, but a king without a queen isn't enough. We want to propose a union between our houses. There are ladies of Lysanthor who would be perfect to be your wife. Alaric hasn't given a response yet, but...
Aemon interrupts her, his tone cold and cutting: — I don't care about these things. I don't need a wife. I don't need a forced alliance.
Fianna, not intimidated by his response, continues: — Aemon, this isn't about affection. It's all a matter of strategy, of alliances. Marriages like this are a way to ensure stability between the dominions.
Aemon, now even more enraged, steps forward, his eyes burning with anger: — I won't join with anyone out of obligation, Fianna. If it were up to me, I wouldn't be part of this game. Surely there are other ways to form alliances without tying me to someone I'll never love.
Fianna stares at him for a moment, trying to find the right words, but realizes that Aemon's anger is too intense to be easily calmed: — Aemon, I'm just trying to...
Aemon interrupts her again, this time with a lower but determined voice: — If you want this to work, find another way. I won't be manipulated.
With that, he turns and begins to walk away again, leaving Fianna standing, reflecting on what had just happened.
At dusk, Aemon and Lord Thorne are in the library, immersed in ancient maps and detailed books. The soft sound of turning pages is almost soothing.
— Volcrist is a mountainous region — says Thorne, tracing a line along the map with his finger. — The topography gives us a natural advantage. The passes are narrow, the valleys deep. An enemy army would stand no chance against us here.
Aemon looks at the map, but his mind seems distant.
— That makes Volcrist a fortress. But what good is a fortress if the enemies are already inside the walls? — Aemon asks, his voice heavy with skepticism.
Thorne pauses for a moment, considering Aemon's words.
— Strategically, you're right. Geography is a weapon, but only in the hands of a capable commander. You need to understand the terrain as well as the men you lead, Aemon. If you want to rule Volcrist, that's essential.
Aemon crosses his arms, clearly frustrated, but remains silent.
In the garden, Edric, Alaric, and Cedric walk under the shadow of the trees, discussing the problems plaguing the dominions.
— The situation is delicate — Edric begins, his tone serious. — The smaller dominions are conspiring, seeking to strengthen themselves at the expense of the more powerful ones. If we don't act soon, Volcrist and Lysanthor will be swallowed by treachery.
Alaric stops walking and looks at Cedric with a weary expression.
— If only we still had dragons... — Alaric murmurs, his voice full of regret. — They not only made us strong but also instilled fear in the hearts of others. Today, we are kings without crowns.
Cedric nods in agreement, his face grim.
— With dragons by our side, no one would dare challenge us. But without them, our strength disintegrates, and our enemies see it as an opportunity.
Edric adds, trying to find a solution.
— We need strong alliances. We need to consolidate power before these traitors have a chance to act. Alaric, can we discuss a possible union between Volcrist and Lysanthor, one that strengthens both dominions?
Alaric sighs, looking up at the sky.
— It's not a matter of alliances, Edric. It's a matter of survival. Without the dragons, we're not what we once were. We can unite forces, but it won't be enough to stop the tide that's coming.
Cedric glances sideways at Alaric, concern in his gaze.
— Then what do you suggest, my king?
Alaric responds with unexpected firmness.
— We must prepare Aemon for what's coming. He will be king, with or without dragons, and he needs to be ready to bear that burden. There's no time for sentimentality or hesitation.
The trio stops, exchanging somber looks.
— Let's see what Aemon is made of — Cedric says, trying to maintain optimism.
— If he survives the forge, perhaps we have a chance — Alaric replies, his tone grave and determined.
Meanwhile, in the library, Aemon slams one of the books shut, clearly exasperated.
— What's the point of all this, Thorne? Sitting here studying while the kingdom falls apart? What good is knowing the name of every hill and river if I can't change what's happening?
Thorne remains calm, trying to guide the young prince.
— Knowledge is a king's first weapon, Aemon. Knowing where to step, when to advance, and when to retreat. Without it, you're fighting blind.
Aemon abruptly stands up, unable to contain his frustration.
— Maybe fighting blind is better than being trapped here with these yellowed pages!
Thorne observes Aemon for a moment, sensing the internal storm within the young prince. He steps forward, trying to remain calm, but with a tone that begins to reflect his own frustration.
— Aemon, I understand your impatience — Thorne begins, choosing his words carefully. — But this impatience could be your downfall. You might think brute force is what governs a kingdom, but it's not. It's strategy, it's the knowledge you dismiss.
Aemon stares at Thorne with fiery eyes, his voice rising in defiance.
— Strategy? Knowledge? And where did that leave Corvinus? Where did that leave my mother? Both dead! And the kingdom? In ruins!
Thorne narrows his eyes but keeps his composure.
— Your mother and Corvinus knew that a king needs to be more than just a warrior. They understood the value of these yellowed pages you despise. What do you think you're going to do, Aemon? Go out there with a sword and fix everything by force?
Aemon steps closer to Thorne, clearly irritated, his voice low and full of restrained fury.
— Maybe that's what's missing, Thorne. Maybe what Volcrist needs now isn't a king who hides behind books and advisors, but someone who acts!
Thorne slams his hand on the table, finally losing his patience.
— And what do you think will happen if you act without thinking? If you go forward without a plan? You'll destroy everything your father and Corvinus built! This kingdom didn't survive wars because of foolish impulses but because of calculated decisions!
Aemon takes a deep breath, trying to control the anger threatening to spill over.
— Calculated decisions... and while we calculate, our people die, our allies turn against us. And what do we do? Wait? No, Thorne, I won't stand by while the world collapses around me.
Thorne looks intently at Aemon, seeing both potential and danger in the young prince.
— Anger can be a weapon, Aemon, but if you don't learn to control it, it will consume you and everyone around you. I'm not here to stop you; I'm here to prepare you so that when the time comes, you're ready to act. But acting without thinking? That's suicide.
Aemon turns away, his fists clenched at his sides.
— Maybe suicide is preferable to living in this prison of fear and indecision.
Thorne takes a deep breath, his voice low and more controlled.
— You feel trapped, but that prison is what keeps you alive. One day, Aemon, you'll realize that a king's true strength isn't in the sword he wields but in the knowledge he possesses and the choices he makes.
Aemon doesn't respond immediately, but it's clear Thorne's words have struck a chord, even if he doesn't want to admit it.
— So, continue with your studies — Thorne concludes, sitting back down. — Learn everything you can because when the time comes, you won't have another chance to do the right thing.
Aemon stands still for a moment, the tension in the air palpable, before finally returning to his seat, reluctantly resuming his studies. But it's evident the war within him is far from over.
Alaric and Edric continue their conversation in the garden, with the sun setting on the horizon, casting a golden light over them.
Alaric looks out at the landscape with a worried expression, recalling the old times.
— Edric, do you remember the old war? The one that devastated the kingdom and changed the balance of power among the dominions?
Edric nods, his expression somber.
— Of course, Alaric. It was an era of chaos. Many dominions clashed, and the battles spread like wildfire. Dragons were killed in large numbers. Only a few eggs survived, and even those are at risk.
Alaric sighs, his eyes fixed on the garden.
— Those were terrible times. The war spared no one. Men and women died in droves. And now, the dominions that were once powerful are deteriorating. It's as if the war left deep scars that will never heal.
Edric shakes his head in agreement.
— Yes, and the weaker dominions are banding together, forming alliances to try to gain power. They see the weakness of the larger dominions and are ready to seize the opportunity. This could change the balance of power once again.
Alaric takes a sip from his glass of wine, his expression growing more serious.
— If only there were still dragons, if only those majestic beings still existed to influence the fate of battles and kingdoms, perhaps we wouldn't be facing this current situation. The dragons were a stabilizing force.
Edric looks at Alaric with an understanding expression.
— No doubt, Alaric. But the dragons are nearly extinct, and the world has changed. Now we're witnessing a new form of power balance emerging, and many are fighting to ensure their dominions remain relevant.
Alaric looks thoughtful, his voice laden with fatigue.
— It's an era of transition. The new generation, the young leaders and heirs, need to understand the complexity of what's at stake. They must learn to navigate these intrigues and betrayals to protect what remains of what was built before.
Edric nods, agreeing.
— And that's why we need strong and well-prepared leaders. Unfortunately, it's not an easy task in such tumultuous times. Every decision now can have a profound impact on the future of the dominions.
Alaric takes one last look at the garden, the twilight softening his tired features.
— So be it. Let's hope that the new generation, including Aemon, can handle the weight of the choices that must be made. Perhaps, just perhaps, they can restore the balance that was lost.
As twilight turns to night, the conversation in the garden ends with a sense of resignation and hope, each aware of the battles and challenges still to come.