The day Wolfram's grandfather returned from the war was a somber one. The sky above the capital was overcast, the clouds thick and heavy as if they mirrored the mood that had settled over the city. The usual hustle and bustle of the marketplace was muted, the streets quieter than normal as rumors of the Emperor's defeat spread like wildfire. People spoke in hushed tones, casting worried glances toward the castle. The empire, which had always stood strong and undefeated, had suffered a great blow, and it was clear that the capital felt the weight of this loss.
Wolfram stood in the courtyard, his heart heavy with anticipation and dread. He had received word that his grandfather was returning, but the news was not what he had hoped for. The Emperor was returning defeated, his once invincible aura shattered by the hands of the enemy in the east—the Ashina Khaganate. Whispers had reached the castle long before the Emperor's return, rumors of a decisive and humiliating defeat at the hands of the eastern warriors. But none of the rumors could have prepared Wolfram for what he was about to see.
The courtyard was lined with guards, their armor dulled by the mist that had settled over the castle grounds. The banners of the empire, which once flew proudly in the wind, hung limp and lifeless in the damp air. A few noblemen and courtiers had gathered to witness the Emperor's return, but their faces were grim, their expressions tight with uncertainty. No one knew how to react to the defeat. The empire had always been a beacon of strength, and now, for the first time in Wolfram's young life, that strength had been tested and found lacking.
The gates creaked open, and the sound of hooves echoed through the courtyard. Wolfram's breath caught in his throat as he saw the soldiers enter, a bedraggled and weary group. Their armor was battered, their faces gaunt from weeks of hard fighting and travel. These were not the triumphant warriors who had left the capital with their heads held high. These were men who had tasted defeat, and it showed in every step they took.
But it was the sight of his grandfather that truly made Wolfram's heart sink.
The Emperor rode at the head of the column, his once proud posture slumped in the saddle. He was a shadow of the man who had left to fight the eastern war, and Wolfram could hardly recognize him. The strong, imposing figure that had towered over the court now seemed smaller, diminished by the weight of defeat. His once regal face was marked by exhaustion, his skin pale and drawn, but it was the black cloth covering his eye that struck Wolfram the hardest.
An eye had been plucked from his grandfather's head. The man who had once been invincible had returned maimed, a stark reminder of the defeat he had suffered at the hands of the Ashina Khaganate. The black cloth, tied tightly around his head, was a grim symbol of what had been taken from him on the battlefield.
Wolfram's feet felt rooted to the ground as he watched his grandfather approach. He wanted to run to him, to greet him as he always had, but something held him back. There was a new air about his grandfather, one of defeat and bitterness, and Wolfram wasn't sure how to bridge the gap that now existed between them.
The Emperor dismounted slowly, his movements stiff and labored. A servant rushed forward to help him, but the Emperor waved him off, his pride still intact even if his body was not. As he stepped forward, Wolfram moved to meet him, his heart pounding in his chest. The courtyard seemed to grow even quieter as the Emperor and his grandson came face to face.
"Grandfather," Wolfram said softly, his voice barely audible over the silence that hung in the air.
The Emperor looked at him, his one remaining eye dull with exhaustion and pain. He gave Wolfram a small, forced smile, but it did little to hide the sadness that lingered behind it.
"You've grown since I last saw you, Wolfram," the Emperor said, his voice raspy from weeks of travel. "I trust you've been keeping an eye on things here while I've been away?"
Wolfram nodded, but the words caught in his throat. He had never seen his grandfather like this—broken, defeated. The Emperor had always been a figure of strength and authority, the one person Wolfram believed was untouchable. But now, standing before him, Wolfram could see the cracks in the man who had once seemed invincible.
He studied his grandfather's face, noticing the deep lines that had appeared since he had last seen him, the weariness in his eyes, and the way his once powerful frame seemed to sag under the weight of his armor. But it was the black cloth that drew Wolfram's gaze again and again. The loss of the eye was more than just a physical injury—it was a symbol of the empire's defeat, a wound that would not easily heal.
Wolfram wanted to say something, to offer comfort or reassurance, but the words wouldn't come. All he could do was stand there, frowning, as he tried to reconcile the man before him with the image of the grandfather he had always known.
The Emperor must have noticed the expression on Wolfram's face, because he sighed heavily, placing a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "It's all right, Wolfram," he said quietly, though his voice carried little conviction. "We live to fight another day."
Wolfram didn't reply. He couldn't. Seeing his grandfather like this, the man who had always been a pillar of strength, made him feel as though the ground beneath him had shifted. The Emperor had returned, but it wasn't the triumphant homecoming Wolfram had envisioned. Instead, it was a return marked by defeat, by pain, and by a sense of loss that went beyond the battlefield.
As the remaining soldiers filed into the courtyard, Wolfram stood by his grandfather's side, his frown deepening as he realized that nothing would ever be the same again.