The day Wolfram had long dreaded had finally arrived, though it came not with triumph but with a sense of bitter defeat. The courtyard was eerily quiet, the usual bustling activity of the castle stilled by the news that had preceded the Emperor's return. Word had spread quickly—his army had been defeated, the great Holy Roman Emperor had been brought low, not by a familiar European foe, but by the mysterious forces of the East, the Ashina Khaganate.
Wolfram stood at the entrance to the courtyard, watching as the gates creaked open. His heart raced, not with excitement, but with a nervous anticipation that had been building since the first news of the defeat reached the capital. He had been prepared to see his grandfather return in triumph, scarred but proud. But as the bedraggled remnants of the imperial army entered the courtyard, it became clear that this was no victorious return. The men, bloodied and exhausted, walked with a heavy weariness, their heads down and their armor dulled by the long campaign. And then, at the center of them all, was the Emperor.
Wolfram's breath caught in his throat as he laid eyes on his grandfather. The once imposing figure—the man who had stood so tall and strong, who had led countless armies and returned victorious time and again—was now slumped in the saddle, his armor dented and his face pale. A black cloth was tied tightly around his head, covering one of his eyes. The other eye, bloodshot and filled with pain, stared forward, avoiding the gazes of the men around him.
Wolfram frowned. His grandfather, the pillar of strength he had always admired, looked broken. As the Emperor's horse trotted closer, their eyes met briefly, but instead of acknowledgment, the Emperor turned his head away. He did not even glance at his grandson, his only heir, as he dismounted from his horse.
The Emperor's once powerful strides were now heavy and slow as he walked past Wolfram without a word, heading directly into the castle. His presence, which once filled every room, now seemed diminished, overshadowed by the weight of his defeat. Wolfram watched in silence, his frown deepening as his grandfather disappeared into the stone walls of the castle, the remaining soldiers trailing after him like ghosts.
That night, as the cold wind howled outside, Wolfram sat in his chambers, staring at the flickering flames of the fireplace. His mind raced with questions, fear, and frustration. His grandfather had returned alive, but the man who had come back was not the same. And though Wolfram had no details, he knew something dark had transpired in the East. A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and a servant entered, bowing low.
"His Majesty requests your presence in the solar," the servant said, his voice soft.
Wolfram stood immediately, his heart pounding. He had been waiting for this, for his grandfather to speak with him, to explain what had happened. As he made his way through the dimly lit corridors of the castle, the shadows seemed longer, the stone walls colder. His footsteps echoed in the silence as he approached the Emperor's solar—a private room where the Emperor held his most important meetings, or sought solace away from the court.
The solar itself was a grand room, though it had an air of age and wear. The walls were lined with shelves of books, maps, and scrolls, detailing the empire's history, its victories, and its borders. A large tapestry hung on one wall, depicting the empire in all its glory—lands stretching from the Alps to the distant seas, a reminder of the vast power once held by the crown. In the center of the room was a large wooden desk, cluttered with letters, wax seals, and the remnants of an unfinished meal. A massive hearth burned in the corner, casting flickering shadows across the room, but the warmth from the fire did little to ease the tension that hung in the air.
The Emperor was seated in a high-backed chair, his posture rigid, his face half-shadowed by the dim light. The black cloth was still wrapped around his head, covering the empty socket where his eye once was. He did not look up as Wolfram entered.
"Sit," the Emperor said, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.
Wolfram obeyed, lowering himself into a chair across from his grandfather. The silence between them was thick, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Wolfram's eyes darted to the black cloth, then back to his grandfather's face, waiting for him to speak.
"It was the Turks," the Emperor began, his voice filled with a heavy weariness. "The Ashina Khaganate. We had underestimated them. They were many—far too many for us to handle. Their tactics… they fought like demons, swarming us from every direction. Our lines broke, and once they had us surrounded, there was no hope. I tried… but we were overwhelmed."
Wolfram listened in silence, his heart sinking with every word. The Turks. He had read about them—fierce warriors from the East, led by the sons of Ashina, a lineage said to be blessed by the gods. But hearing about them now, knowing they had bested his grandfather, made the stories all too real.
"They came in waves," the Emperor continued, his voice distant as if recalling a nightmare. "They never stopped. Thousands upon thousands. We tried to hold them off, but our men… we couldn't. They surrounded us, cut off our supplies, and waited until we were weak."
Wolfram's chest tightened as he watched his grandfather speak. The man who had always been so sure, so confident, now looked as though the weight of the world was pressing down on him. His hands trembled slightly as he spoke, and his remaining eye glistened with unshed tears.
"We were forced to make peace," the Emperor said finally, his voice breaking. "It was the only way."
Wolfram leaned forward, his heart racing. "What terms, Grandfather? What terms did they demand?"
The Emperor's face twisted into a grimace, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet Wolfram's eyes, his expression filled with pain.
"They demanded you, Wolfram."
Wolfram blinked, the words not sinking in at first. "Me?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The Emperor nodded, his face pale. "As a hostage. To ensure our compliance. You will go to the East, to the Ashina Khaganate. The ruler of the Turks, the one they call a son of Ashina, has demanded it."
The room seemed to spin as Wolfram stared at his grandfather in shock. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the distant howl of the wind. The weight of his grandfather's words settled on him like a cold stone, and for the first time in his life, Wolfram felt truly powerless.