9. Last Night
The heavy knock at the door silenced the royal hall. All eyes turned as a messenger entered, his armor scuffed and his expression grim. His breathing was uneven, as if he'd sprinted the entire way from the borderlands. The tension in the room thickened, and even Eryndor's usual flippancy was momentarily stilled as the messenger bowed deeply before King Altharion.
"Your Majesty," the messenger began, his voice heavy with urgency, "I bring grave news from the western border. Patrols have reported strange activity— creatures unlike anything we've encountered before. They are calling them…" He paused, visibly shaken.
"They are calling them monstrous elves."
A hush fell over the room. Queen Lysithea's hands tightened on the table, her knuckles whitening. Elantha's brows furrowed, concern etched into her face. King Altharion leaned forward, his expression a stony mask of contemplation. Celyndor stood with a face of indifference.
But Eryndor snorted.
"Monstrous elves?" he repeated with a smirk, his voice dripping with mockery. "Really? That's the best name they could come up with? Sounds like something out of a child's bedtime story."
The messenger stiffened, glancing nervously at the king. Altharion's gaze snapped to his son, sharp and unyielding.
"Eryndor," the king growled, his voice low and dangerous, "this is not a matter for your immature humor."
"Oh, come on, Father," Eryndor replied, leaning lazily against the wall, the smirk never leaving his face. "If these so-called 'monstrous elves' are such a threat, I'm sure our mighty army can handle it. Or is the problem that they've never seen an elf with bad hair before?"
The room froze. Queen Lysithea's eyes widened in alarm, and Elantha shot her brother a look that screamed, Are you trying to get yourself killed?
King Altharion rose to his feet, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. His fists clenched at his sides, and his voice boomed, reverberating through the hall. "Enough!"
Eryndor straightened instinctively, the force of his father's anger cutting through his bravado like a blade.
"Your arrogance and lack of discipline have gone unchecked for too long," the king said, his tone cold and final. "You disgrace yourself, your title, and this family. If you will not take your responsibilities seriously, then you leave me no choice."
Eryndor's stomach sank. "What are you talking about?"
"You will leave for the farthest region of our kingdom," Altharion declared, his words like thunder. "You will train under your uncle Thalvarin. Perhaps he can teach you what it means to be a prince— what it means to be a elf."
"Uncle Thalvarin?" Eryndor blurted, his usual cheeky confidence replaced with genuine panic. "You can't be serious! That old hermit? He hasn't set foot in a court in decades!"
"And perhaps that is why he is exactly what you need," Altharion snapped. "You will depart at first light. Elantha will remain here to continue her lessons. You, however, are no longer fit to sit at this table until you prove otherwise."
Eryndor's mouth opened to protest, but the words caught in his throat. His father's glare brooked no argument. He looked to his mother for support, but Queen Lysithea merely closed her eyes, her expression pained but resolute.
"Eryndor," she said softly, "this is for your own good. Please… don't make this harder than it has to be."
Eryndor's shoulders slumped. The weight of his father's decree settled on him like a boulder, crushing any hope of reprieve.
Elantha avoided his gaze and but her lower lip.
Celyndor who was standing next to him whispered in a low voice. "You had this coming a long time, Eryndor."
"Fine," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "I'll go."
The king nodded curtly, then turned back to the messenger, dismissing his son as if the conversation were already over.
Eryndor lingered for a moment, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, before turning and walking out of the hall. The laughter he'd used as a shield was gone now, replaced by a hollow ache. The castle walls seemed taller, the corridors darker, as he made his way to his chambers.
As he closed the door behind him, the system's intrusive voice rang in his mind, as unbothered as ever:
[New Task: Seduce a Village Girl in the Western Lands. Task: Impress Her with Your Wit and Charm. Reward: +5 Affection Points, +2 Charisma.]
Eryndor flopped onto his bed, burying his face in his hands. "Great," he muttered. "Just great."
He screamed into his pillow as tears started to form in his face, he rolled and balled himself. Things were different now, no amount of tricks of cuteness could save him, the word of the king was always final.
"Shit! Why did I just have to mess things up again?" He was afraid that losing his power in the kingdom would make him vulnerable and weak. "I'm just a degenerate till the end. It was only a matter of time till I turned my life to shit again."
He squeezed his blanket tight, "But I don't want to leave."
"Then you should have valued what you had here." Celyndor appeared in his doorway, his hands crossed and his back leaning to the wall. "You're almost eight, it was time you grow up anyway."
In the lives of elves unlike humans who celebrated birthdays every year elves usually did it thrice, it was more like a landmark than an actual birthday.
The first eight years market childhood, the next eight who mark the growth to maturity. After turning sixteen he would be a full adult able to start a family and make his own life choices. Perhaps he should have thought about his future more but he was too scared of what the future had in store for him.
Celyndor sighed and turned to leave. "I will miss your energy but I hope you grow up soon." Eryndor did not say anything even after his elder brother left and shut the door behind him.
He was seventeen and probably the only serious one in the three. Now that he thought of it Elantha had been showing more seriousness for a while now, he had seen the signs but dismissed it. She was fifteen.
"Damnit!" He cried into his blanket.
Shocked by the fact of how his siblings had grown so much while he remained the same. For seven whole years he was still the same degenerate he was before he died. How ironic, of course they would kick him out.