As the sun slowly rose on the horizon, Aemon walked in silence, the rhythmic sound of his boots echoing against the rocky ground. He was alone now, with only the wind and the vast expanse of land around him for company. Volcrist was far behind, but its presence still lingered in his mind like a shadow.
He couldn't stop thinking about the situation he had left behind. The chaos that plagued Volcrist wouldn't be solved just by placing a new king on the throne. Aemon knew, perhaps better than anyone, that a kingdom didn't survive solely on the strength of its ruler. A strong king was important, but it wasn't enough. Volcrist needed more—alliances, wisdom, and just leadership. But above all, it needed hope.
His thoughts drifted to the promises he had made, not just to himself, but to the people who now believed in him. He remembered the losses he had endured over the years: friends, family, mentors... Each one left a mark on his soul, a reminder of what was at stake.
The death of his grandfather, King Morwin, was still fresh in his memory, as were the betrayals and wars that had torn Volcrist apart. He had sworn he wouldn't repeat the mistakes of those who came before him. But now, walking alone, he questioned whether he had the strength to change his kingdom's fate.
— A king doesn't live by strength alone, he muttered to himself, eyes fixed on the horizon. He understood that, more than brute force, Volcrist needed intelligence and strategic alliances. That was what he was now seeking in Lysanthor.
Alliances. The word echoed in his mind, reminding him that the future of Volcrist couldn't be built alone. And yet, the thought of relying on others bothered him. Cedric, with all his pride and rashness, would never grasp that. To him, strength and power were the only currencies of value. But Aemon knew the world was more complex than that. Alliances were forged on trust, promises, and sacrifices.
He paused in his walk, looking out over the vast horizon ahead of him. The lands of Lysanthor were just beyond, but there was still a long journey ahead.
Volcrist cannot fall into the wrong hands, he thought, with renewed determination. I need to be more than just a warrior.
Aemon took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his responsibilities but also the strength of his resolve. With one last glance at the sky, he quickened his pace, heading toward Lysanthor. He knew that once he arrived, he would need to use not only his sword, but also his mind and heart to secure the future of his kingdom.
And so, with each step, he wasn't just walking toward a destination, but toward his destiny as a leader, as the protector of Volcrist.
After hours of exhausting walking, the sky began to darken, announcing the arrival of night. Aemon, in no rush, searched for a suitable place to camp. The trees around him were tall and sturdy, their canopies swaying gently to the rhythm of the wind, creating a natural melody that enveloped him. He crouched near a small clearing, where the ground was soft and sheltered by the shadows of the branches.
With skilled hands and the experience he had gained over the years, Aemon quickly set up an improvised shelter using dry branches and large leaves he found nearby. It was simple but enough to give him some protection from the cold wind blowing from the north.
After securing the shelter, he decided to hunt for dinner. His sharp eyes scanned the vegetation as he walked with light steps. It didn't take long before he spotted a small rabbit hopping between the bushes. He acted quickly, with the precision of an experienced predator, and soon had his meal in hand.
Returning to the camp, Aemon lit a fire with pieces of dry twigs, the flickering light of the flame dancing against the growing darkness of the night. The crackling of the fire was comforting, breaking the silence of the surroundings. He skewered the rabbit on an improvised stick and patiently roasted it over the fire. The aroma of the slowly cooking meat mixed with the fresh air, awakening his hunger.
While waiting, he looked around, feeling the tranquility of the place. The sound of leaves whispering in the wind filled the environment, and in the distance, nocturnal birds sang their soft melodies. It was an almost magical harmony—the nature around him seemed to live in perfect sync, and Aemon, for a brief moment, forgot the worries of Volcrist.
After eating, he extinguished the fire with a bit of earth and lay down on the ground lined with dry leaves, his eyes turned toward the sky. The night was clear, and the full moon shone with a silver light, casting its glow over the forest. The stars twinkled around it, as if they were watching Aemon's solitary journey.
He breathed in the pure air deeply, feeling part of that vastness. The ground beneath him was cold, but the blanket of stars and the glow of the moon created an unusual sense of peace. The worries about Volcrist and the alliances he would need to forge seemed distant as he allowed himself to enjoy that solitary but serene moment. The cool breeze caressed his face, and the sounds of nature around him—the rustling of leaves, the distant song of the nocturnal birds—lulled him like an ancient chant.
As he closed his eyes, his mind, though still focused on his goals, wandered to gentler memories, recollections of past times, of dreams he once believed he had left behind. The future awaited him, with all its challenges and uncertainties, but that night, under the moonlight, Aemon found a brief peace.
And so, he fell asleep, with the sound of the wind and the moon's glow guarding his dreams.
As he awoke to the first rays of sunlight piercing through the tree canopy, Aemon stood up with a light crack of his back, the morning chill still lingering in his muscles. He ran his hands over his face, wiping away the remnants of sleep and fatigue, and walked to a nearby stream, where he dipped his hands into the clear, icy water, bringing the freshness to his skin. After washing his face and regaining his vigor, he turned his attention to the road ahead. There was still much to be done.
Wasting no time, he dismantled his small improvised tent, making sure to leave everything as he had found it—a respect he had always learned from the elders: leave no trace. With every step, he was closer to Lysanthor, and the urgency in his heart made him quicken his pace.
During his journey, he avoided the small villages and towns along the way. Aemon knew time was precious, and the sooner he reached Lysanthor, the sooner he could begin negotiating the alliances Volcrist so desperately needed. The mountainous regions of Volcrist, with their imposing elevations and rocky cliffs, began to give way to vast green fields. The landscape around him was transforming into living plains, the vegetation lush, a clear sign that he was leaving behind the cold, shadowy domain of Volcrist.
As his feet touched the damp earth, the wind shifted direction, carrying with it the distant sound of wings beating. Aemon stopped, his eyes fixed on the horizon behind him. A raven, black as night, was flying toward him, its wings beating slowly against the wind. Aemon watched intently as the raven began to circle above his head, descending with a soft glide until it perched on a nearby branch. Tied to the bird's foot was a small letter, sealed with the crest of Volcrist.
He extended his arm, and the raven swooped down, landing on his shoulder. Gently, Aemon removed the letter, breaking the seal. It was from Lilith.
— "Aemon, how dare you leave without even saying goodbye to me?" the first line read, the tone of anger almost palpable. — "You could have summoned me, but no... you preferred to vanish like a thief in the night. Still, I set aside my irritation only to tell you that everything is under control. The castle stands tall, as does the city. The people, under your command, work to restore what was lost, and Volcrist is beginning to rise from its ashes."
Aemon gave a slight smile as he read the mage's words, recognizing the irritation between the lines, but also the relief of knowing that all was well. He tucked the letter into his cloak, looking at the raven, which soon took off, flying back north, disappearing into the clear sky.
— "Then I can move forward in peace," Aemon murmured to himself.
Now, with his mind at ease, he resumed his journey. The sight of the green fields and the lighter air around him indicated that he had finally crossed Volcrist's border. The lands of Lysanthor were no longer far away. And with Lilith's letter assuring the stability of his homeland, Aemon knew he could now fully focus on his mission to secure the future of his kingdom. Destiny awaited him, as did the alliances he would need to forge.
After two long days of walking, Aemon finally saw the imposing city of Lysanthor. It rose at the edge of a vast, endless sea, whose waters seemed to merge with the horizon, as if the ocean itself were trying to swallow the sky. The maritime wind blew fiercely, carrying the salty smell that Aemon had not felt in a long time. The flag of Lysanthor, with its unmistakable symbol, fluttered in the distance, confirming what he already suspected — he was finally before the powerful dominion of Lysanthor.
The sight of the city filled him with renewed energy. The fatigue of the journey was immediately set aside, and excited by the proximity of his destination, Aemon quickened his pace until he was practically running towards the city gates.
Upon arrival, however, his euphoria was interrupted by two heavily armed guards. They crossed their spears in front of him, blocking the passage with hard, vigilant expressions.
— "Who are you, stranger?" one of the guards asked, his voice firm and cold. — "No man enters Lysanthor without permission."
Aemon abruptly stopped, confused. He hadn't expected to be barred, after all, he was a prince of Volcrist, a respected kingdom. He tried to navigate the situation:
— "I am an envoy from Volcrist. I need to speak with the authorities of Lysanthor," he replied in a controlled tone, trying to avoid any tension.
The guards, however, remained impassive, and one of them stepped forward, fixing his gaze on Aemon.
— After the events in Volcrist, no one enters or leaves without authorization. The guard squinted, suspicious. — Haven't you heard the rumors? Volcrist was the scene of brutalities... and there are stories about a man. They say he slaughtered enemies without mercy, with a beastly fury. They call him the 'Butcher of Volcrist,' a warrior whose hands carry destruction.
Aemon frowned upon hearing the nickname, "Butcher of Volcrist." He hadn't realized until that moment the impact his actions in Volcrist had made on other realms. And now, his fame — or infamy — preceded him.
Before the guard could continue, Aemon took a step forward, standing tall and speaking with firmness:
— I am Aemon Valaryon, prince of Volcrist. The man you speak of is me.
The two guards exchanged surprised looks, the tension in the air growing. The guard who had been speaking stepped back, as if suddenly realizing the magnitude of the situation. Clearly, they hadn't expected Aemon himself to be standing before them.
— Prince of Volcrist...? the other guard stammered, visibly shaken.
Aemon nodded, his expression serious and resolute. There was no time for hesitations or bureaucratic protocols. He needed to enter Lysanthor, and his mission could not be delayed by rumors or suspicion.
— I need to speak with your leadership. I'm here to forge alliances, not to spill more blood."Aemon paused, watching the guards' reactions. — Volcrist and Lysanthor share a long history. If there's any future for our kingdoms, it must start now.
The guards were momentarily silent, until finally, the older one nodded, realizing the gravity of the situation.
— We will notify the Lysanthor council of your arrival, Your Highness. Please wait a moment.
Aemon watched as one of the guards disappeared behind the city gates, leaving him to reflect on the reputation that had preceded him. "Butcher of Volcrist," he thought to himself. A name that echoed the scars that time and war had left on his soul.
And, as he waited, Aemon couldn't help but wonder whether the brutality of his past would be yet another burden to carry in his quest for alliances — or if, somehow, he could turn it into a new strength for the future of Volcrist.
After a while of waiting, the great gates of Lysanthor finally opened. Aemon stood firm as an imposing man, dressed in robes that reflected his high position, crossed the gate. His aged face bore the marks of a life filled with experience and power, with sharp eyes that seemed to see through any facade. This was Edrys Talmor, the Right Hand of the King of Lysanthor, a trusted advisor and legendary strategist.
Edrys approached, his boots echoing on the stone path, and stopped in front of Aemon. He looked him up and down before finally speaking, his voice deep and cutting.
— So, this is the man who turned Volcrist into a graveyard... The Butcher of Volcrist.
Aemon felt the weight of those words. It wasn't the first time he had heard distorted rumors about what had happened in his land, but hearing it from someone like Edrys Talmor carried a special pain. He clenched his fists, controlling himself, before responding firmly:
— I do not take pride in that name, Aemon said, his voice deep and serious. — That's not who I am. And it certainly isn't what happened in Volcrist.
Edrys, with a discreet, almost imperceptible smile, shook his head, his eyes analyzing Aemon's every move.
— I was just testing you, boy, Edrys remarked, stepping to the side as if studying him from another angle. — Words can carry many burdens, but they can't hide the truth. He paused before continuing, this time his tone softer, though still laden with experience. — Lysanthor owes you a debt, Aemon. For protecting Princess Fianna and ensuring her safe return.
Aemon hadn't expected that. He knew the importance of Fianna to Lysanthor, but hearing direct acknowledgment from Edrys surprised him. He lowered his head, a mixture of respect and relief, but maintained his firm posture.
— Fianna was brave. She deserved to return to her home. I did nothing more than what was right, Aemon replied.
Edrys made a brief gesture with his hand, as if brushing aside any formality. His eyes were still fixed on the young prince, now with a mix of respect and restrained admiration.
— Be that as it may, Lysanthor does not forget its allies, especially in times like these. Edrys sighed lightly, his hardened features softening for a brief moment. — Come, Aemon Valaryon. The king awaits you. And perhaps here, you will find more than just simple alliances.
As Aemon walked through the streets of Lysanthor, the contrast was glaring. People moved with smiles on their faces, joyfully trading at market stalls, and the vibrant sound of conversations and laughter filled the air. It was a stark difference from Volcrist, a land still scarred by destruction and uncertainty. Aemon felt a slight pang in his chest, realizing how vulnerable his homeland was, but he remained focused.
Edrys Talmor, by his side, noticed Aemon's expression and seized the opportunity to test the young prince once more. His tone, though calm, carried a subtle venom, camouflaged by feigned innocence.
— It must be hard for you to see this, mustn't it? Edrys said, his sharp eyes watching Aemon's every reaction. — Lysanthor... a lively, thriving city. Unlike Volcrist, which is now nothing more than a graveyard, a ruined kingdom. All thanks to... the Butcher.
The provocation was clear. Edrys wanted to test Aemon's patience and self-control, like a wolf gauging its prey. Aemon, feeling the disrespect in those words, took a deep breath. For a moment, anger rose in his throat, but he held it back, knowing he wasn't in his own land and that any outburst could jeopardize his goals. He was in a dominion not his own, surrounded by strangers, and any sign of weakness or loss of control could be seen as a failure in leadership.
Aemon clenched his fists, but his expression remained controlled. He cast a brief glance at Edrys, without responding immediately. He knew that any poorly chosen word could be used against him. He opted for strategic silence, a posture that spoke more than any rash comment.
Edrys gave a slight smile, satisfied with Aemon's self-restraint. He tilted his head slightly, as if acknowledging the inner strength of the young prince, yet continued to observe Aemon's controlled reaction closely.
— I see you've learned the lesson of patience well, Edrys remarked, almost in an approving tone. — That may serve you well, especially in times like these. Let's see if that patience will be enough for what lies ahead.