With the gentle crackling of the campfire beside him, Aemon lay on the green grass, feeling the warmth of the flame as the stars twinkled above. The silence of the night was broken only by the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets, but his mind was far from at rest. The recent events in Lysanthor still swirled in his head. Reynar's rejection, the humiliation he had faced at court, and the fierce look of Fianna — all of it mixed in his thoughts.
Meanwhile, in Lysanthor, Fianna sat in the private hall with Edrys, her trusted advisor. The torchlight illuminated Fianna's downcast expression, still reeling from the humiliation she had suffered in front of Aemon. Edrys, calm and analytical, did not provide the comfort she had hoped for. With a tone of resentment, she vented, her words heavy with bitterness:
"That man... He dared to humiliate me in front of everyone. How could I have been so naive to even consider an alliance with Volcrist?" Fianna shook her head, her face marked with fury and wounded pride. "I went to Volcrist to try and save that doomed land. Now I see there is no future there. A kingdom on the brink of collapse, with a prince who deserves nothing but contempt."
Edrys watched her in silence, listening to every word without interrupting. He knew that Fianna's anger wasn't just about the public humiliation; there was something deeper. The competitiveness between her and Aemon, a rivalry that had grown since their first meeting.
"Lady Fianna," Edrys finally said, choosing his words carefully, "I understand your resentment, but you must not act purely out of anger. Volcrist may seem weak now, but the winds can change, and a kingdom that appeared lost can rise from the ashes. Do not underestimate the power Aemon may still possess."
Fianna, however, was dismissive and unconcerned. Despite her intelligence, she had grown complacent under the shadow of her father, Reynar, living off the security of the dominion and the influence of her lineage. Now, the idea of taking control of her own life and seeking power for herself tempted her.
"Perhaps Volcrist is not what I should worry about, Edrys. Maybe I should seek alliances elsewhere," she said, an insinuating smile forming on her lips. "Perhaps even with Volcrist's enemies. Who knows?"
Edrys narrowed his eyes as he heard Fianna's suggestion. He knew that the rivalry between her and Aemon was blinding her, leading her to make impulsive decisions rather than calculating risks and benefits. The idea of allying with Volcrist's enemies was dangerous, not just because of the political fragility it could cause, but also the personal danger she might face by involving herself with hostile forces.
"Princess, allow me to suggest caution. The desire for revenge can cloud your judgment. Volcrist still holds its hidden strengths, and if Aemon truly manages to awaken the power he hints at..." Edrys paused, letting the implication of his words settle in. "...he could become a far more dangerous ally or enemy than any other external force."
Fianna huffed, crossing her arms, but deep down she knew Edrys was right. Her discontent with Volcrist and Aemon drove her, but she needed to be smart. She couldn't act rashly and end up trading personal rivalry for a diplomatic risk. Even so, the idea of seeking independent alliances — perhaps even marrying a powerful lord from another dominion — seemed tempting.
"Maybe you're right, Edrys," she replied reluctantly. "But still... If necessary, I will find a way to strengthen my position. Even if it's with the help of external forces."
Edrys simply nodded in agreement, but inside, he knew the situation was becoming complicated. Aemon was an unpredictable piece in this power game, and Fianna, though determined, was being guided more by ego than reason. He needed to keep a close eye on the next steps of both Aemon and Fianna, as the fate of Volcrist and Lysanthor seemed increasingly intertwined — and the future promised to be uncertain.
As time passed, Aemon could see the long, rocky mountains of Volcrist, a familiar sight that made him feel at home again. The cold wind bit at his skin as he descended the slopes, memories of battles and recent destruction flooding back. While the sense of home was comforting, his mind was restless. The shadow of rejection in Lysanthor weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he wondered how the people of Volcrist would react to his return without a solid alliance.
— Will Thorne see me as weak? — he murmured to himself, his face marked with concern. — And Cedric... he'll use this against me.
As the castle drew closer, its walls still scarred from the last battle, bitter memories of destruction returned. He knew he needed to brace himself for a difficult homecoming. Aemon's mind imagined the faces of those waiting for him, from the restrained hope in the soldiers' eyes to Cedric's distrust and Thorne's cold demeanor.
Crossing the castle gates, he felt the weight of his failure, knowing that although it was personal, it was something he would have to bear in front of them all.
Upon arriving at the Dominion of Volcrist, Aemon passed through the castle gates with a heavy expression. The guards, recognizing the prince, opened the large doors, allowing his entry. As he advanced, the citizens, still working hard to rebuild the remnants of the attack, looked at him with hope. The streets, though more orderly than before, still bore the scars of destruction. With every step, he felt the weight of their expectations on his shoulders.
— Prince Aemon! — several greeted in unison as he walked through the central square. But with a tired look, he passed them in silence, unable to deliver the news they had hoped for.
Entering the castle, the atmosphere shifted. The walls echoed with the sound of his solitary footsteps. Aemon walked directly to the main hall, where he found Cedric, lounging on the throne as if the kingdom's chaos didn't disturb him. Upon seeing Aemon's weary state, the king raised an eyebrow and smirked with disdain.
— I see you've returned, Aemon. Brought good news? — Cedric asked, crossing his arms, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
Aemon hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and, with restraint, responded.
— No... the alliance with Lysanthor didn't work out.
Cedric let out a dry laugh, clearly relishing the prince's failure.
— I thought something like that might happen. You went there full of bravado, promises of dragon eggs and alliances... and you return empty-handed. — Cedric leaned forward, his gaze challenging. — Now you see, Aemon, the price of your impulsiveness. Volcrist stands alone.
Cedric's words echoed through the hall, as sharp as a blade. Aemon stood firm, but the disappointment and fury swelled within him. Cedric had no right to mock what he had tried to accomplish, especially when the king himself remained inert in the face of the kingdom's crisis.
Without another word, Aemon turned and left the hall, his firm steps echoing down the stone corridor. He needed to find Thorne, someone who might offer guidance, or at least, a sympathetic ear.
Aemon wandered through the castle corridors searching for Thorne, still feeling the weight of his conversation with Cedric pressing on his shoulders. He headed to the most likely place to find his mentor and advisor: the old library of Volcrist, a refuge for scholars and those seeking to remember the kingdom's past glories.
As he opened the grand wooden doors of the library, the atmosphere was quiet and filled with a reverent air, almost as if the very place mourned the decline of Volcrist and guarded its secrets in sorrow. The shelves, lined with aged books, reached up to the ceiling, with a few candles lighting the rows of ancient volumes. In the center of the room, under the glow of a chandelier, was Thorne, hunched over a dusty book.
The old advisor, with his sharp gaze and commanding presence, was deeply engrossed in reading a treatise on the ancient glory of Volcrist, the victories, and alliances of the past. As he sensed Aemon's presence, he raised his eyes and gently closed the book, his firm fingers resting on the cover as if reflecting on the kingdom's past.
— Aemon, my boy, — Thorne greeted him with a slight nod, his deep voice echoing through the library. — I've been expecting you. How did your attempt in Lysanthor go?
Aemon walked over to the table where Thorne sat, and for a moment, remained silent. He ran his hand over his face, trying to organize his thoughts.
— Disastrous, Thorne, — he said, letting out a heavy sigh as he pulled up a chair to sit. — I arrived in Lysanthor full of expectations, but I was met with disdain. The king himself ridiculed me, and Fianna... she felt insulted by my presence. They believe Volcrist isn't worth the risk of an alliance.
Thorne furrowed his brow and leaned forward slightly, paying close attention to every word.
— Tell me more, Aemon. What did they say? — he asked, his voice calm, but his sharp gaze probing for any hidden meaning.
Aemon took a deep breath, recalling every detail.
— Reynard called me "the Butcher of Volcrist." They spoke of me as if I were a monster... someone who delights in death. I tried to explain, but there was no room for negotiation. They don't trust me. Fianna... — he hesitated. — Fianna said she'd never give me her hand, even if her father commanded it. And the king... humiliated me in front of the court. He mocked the dragon egg, calling it an absurd tale.
Thorne listened in silence, his face impassive as Aemon spoke. When the prince finished, the old advisor leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant for a moment, as if pondering the implications of what he'd heard.
— Lysanthor has always been a proud kingdom, Aemon, — Thorne began, his voice heavy with the weight of years of knowledge. — And Reynard, though a wise leader, is a cautious man. Make no mistake: he didn't humiliate you out of mere arrogance. He was testing you, just as Edrys, the Hand of the King, did. They wanted to see how you'd respond when confronted with disdain.
Aemon frowned, still feeling the sting of humiliation.
— And what did they expect me to do? Bow my head? — he asked, the irritation clear in his voice.
Thorne raised an eyebrow, his gaze appraising the prince.
— Perhaps. Or maybe they wanted to see if you'd react with the same brutality for which you're feared. And you... how did you respond?
Aemon rubbed the back of his neck, thoughtful.
— I tried to stay calm. I didn't want to give them more reasons to call me a butcher. I told Reynard he'd regret not extending a hand to Volcrist... but he laughed. They don't believe our situation can improve. To them, we're a land on the brink of extinction.
Thorne remained silent for a few moments, his fingers tapping lightly on the wooden table.
— You did what you could, — he finally said. — And though Reynard laughed at your words, you weren't wrong. Lysanthor may regret this in the future. But for now, Aemon, you must understand that Volcrist is alone. We cannot rely on external alliances to save us. If we are to rebuild, we must do so with our own hands, with our own people.
Aemon slowly nodded, Thorne's words weighing heavily on him. The failure of the alliance was a blow, but Thorne was right: Volcrist needed to find a way to rise on its own.
— But how, Thorne? — Aemon asked, the frustration still evident. — How can we rise on our own when the king himself refuses to act? Cedric only used this as an opportunity to humiliate me.
Thorne sighed, a flicker of concern in his eyes.
— Cedric is a proud and reckless man. He clings to what little power he has left, even as the kingdom crumbles around him. But there's something you have that Cedric doesn't: the trust of the people. — Thorne paused, his words carefully chosen. — When you arrived, Aemon, the people greeted you, waiting for good news. They believe in you. Cedric may be king, but you are the flame of hope that still burns in Volcrist.
Aemon reflected on Thorne's words. He knew the advisor was right, but the responsibility of carrying the hopes of an entire kingdom felt overwhelming.
— So what am I supposed to do? — Aemon asked, his voice lower, almost a whisper.
Thorne smiled faintly, though there was a weight in his eyes.
— First, you must rally the people. Strengthen your internal forces, show them that Volcrist is not falling into ruin, but rising from the ashes. And as for the egg... if it truly exists, that may be the key to reviving not only Volcrist but the entire realm. — He looked at Aemon, a mix of hope and challenge in his gaze. — But more importantly, you must find your own path. A prince who doesn't live in Cedric's shadow but forges a new destiny for Volcrist.
Aemon looked at Thorne, the silence filled with the weight of those words. He knew the advisor was right. Volcrist's future depended not only on external alliances but on its own people, on his own actions.
The road ahead would be difficult, but Aemon was determined not to let his kingdom fall into ruin.