The blizzard showed no mercy, each gust of icy wind stealing what little strength they had left. The gates of La Porta, the Southwestern Empire's last bastion, were finally in sight, but their journey had taken a heavy toll. The General's legs buckled first, his once-proud stride reduced to staggering steps.
"Boss… I can't…" Kaelor murmured, his voice barely audible. His body, already ravaged by the loss of blood and his severed arm, failed him entirely. The King, despite his own injuries, tightened his grip around Kaelor, slinging the General's weight over his shoulder.
Behind them, the medic, Nerith, could barely stand. Her petite frame quivered under the weight of exhaustion and fear. Drenn Halvar, the King's guard, noticed her faltering steps and swept her off her feet without hesitation. "I've got you," he grunted, his massive frame carrying her with ease.
The King's arms ached as he balanced the baby they had found in the temple in one hand while steadying the General with the other. The child whimpered, his cries weakened by the cold. The King glanced at him briefly, his sharp instincts screaming that this child was far from ordinary, yet there was no time to dwell on it.
Step by agonizing step, they neared the towering gates. The ancient structure loomed before them, a symbol of safety and despair in equal measure. The snow-covered guards patrolling the wall were few—most of the kingdom's forces had marched to war and never returned. One of the sentries finally noticed the figures trudging toward the gate and squinted through the flurry of snow.
"By the gods… It's the King!" the guard yelled, his voice carrying above the storm.
The gates creaked open with a groan as the guards rushed out. Soldiers and remaining townsfolk gathered, their faces a mix of horror and relief as they saw the state of their King and his surviving warriors. The King faltered, his vision blurring as he pushed forward. His knees gave way just as he reached the threshold, collapsing with the General and the baby in his arms.
"Your Majesty!" one of the soldiers cried, kneeling beside him.
The King's trembling hand reached out, placing the baby into the soldier's arms. His voice was hoarse, barely audible. "Keep… him safe," he muttered, his words a plea and a command all at once. His strength finally gave out, and his eyes closed as he slipped into unconsciousness.
The remaining warriors and citizens rushed to carry the fallen survivors into the safety of La Porta. Cries for medics echoed in the air as they hurried to save their King and those who had endured unimaginable horrors. The snow continued to fall, blanketing the battlefield beyond the gates, a cruel reminder of the sacrifices made.
---
The King slowly opened his eyes to the soft embrace of a royal bed, his senses enveloped by the fine linens and the warmth of the room. As his vision adjusted, he saw the large crest of House Velaire emblazoned on the wall. It was the ruling house of La Porta, and their loyalty to the King was unquestionable. House Velaire had always sworn to serve the monarchs of the Southern Western Empire, and now, it seemed their solemn duty had saved him and his companions.
As the King shifted his weight, preparing to rise, the lady attending to him noticed the movement. Her eyes widened in surprise. "Your Majesty," she whispered, rushing to the door to inform the ruler of La Porta that the King had woken.
King Darion stood, tying his robes with a sense of somber determination. There was nothing to celebrate, not yet. He poured himself some water from a pitcher on the bedside table, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat, though it did little to ease the heavy weight on his heart.
In another part of the room, the King's guard, Drenn Halvar, visited Nerith Caen. There was a bond between them, something unspoken. Despite his gruff demeanor, Drenn had always respected Nerith's courage, especially after the horrors they had faced. Nerith, though younger, had a bravery that matched the toughest of soldiers. She was a beautiful woman, but it was her inner strength that had drawn him in—her calm under pressure and her caring nature that gave hope to their weary group. And though Drenn didn't express it openly, he knew that she had a soft spot for him too.
Meanwhile, General Kaelor Vryn, seated on a nearby chair outside, had already woken before the others. His Orin manipulation gave him heightened senses and a quicker recovery time. He thought about the peculiar temple, its otherworldly aura, and the broken statue. The feeling of unease still gnawed at him. What had they uncovered there?
Suddenly, King Darion's thoughts snapped back to the baby—Ryven Vael. He hadn't forgotten the cold chill that had crept down his spine when their eyes had met. The child was a mystery, and the King needed answers. He rushed out of his room, feeling an urgency he couldn't explain. As he moved down the hallway, he saw a lady walking in the opposite direction.
"Where is the baby?" he asked, his voice steady but firm.
The lady froze, taken aback by the King's presence. Immediately, she dropped to her knees, a gesture of respect. "Your Majesty, forgive me," she stammered. "The child... He is with the ruler of La Porta, in the main hall."
Without another word, King Darion hurried toward the main hall, his heart pounding in his chest. There, he hoped, he would find the answers he so desperately sought.
The conversation unfolds:
The ruler of La Porta, Lord Arundel Velaire, gazed down at the baby, his expression a mixture of curiosity and intrigue. "Where did you find this child, Your Highness?" he asked, his voice cautious but filled with an underlying suspicion.
The King took a long pause before replying. "He is very beautiful," Lord Arundel remarked thoughtfully, still eyeing the baby.
The King's voice was solemn as he spoke, his tone betraying a sense of sorrow. "He was lost in the battle... I will adopt him."
Lord Arundel's expression softened. "How kind of you, Your Majesty," he said, his voice filled with a faint admiration. "So, will he be in line for succession then?"
The King's reply was firm, almost protective. "No, my first son will be the next in line for succession."
A quiet sigh escaped Lord Arundel's lips, a deep, heavy sound that betrayed much more than he intended. The King could feel the weight of that sigh but said nothing, as Lord Arundel's eyes dropped to the floor.
The sigh was not just one of disappointment—it was laced with frustration. Arundel had once had high hopes for king's son, but his elder son had failed to live up to those expectations. The young man lacked fighting skills and had developed a dangerous hunger for lust, which had only corrupted him further. Lord Arundel hated king's son, though he kept these feelings hidden, not wanting to risk angering the King by speaking openly.
Instead, he masked his resentment and said, "Of course, Your Majesty. Your bloodline must remain pure." He then changed the subject, turning his attention to the bigger picture. "But, in the future... what will we do? The war has taken so much from us already."
The King nodded thoughtfully, his mind already shifting to matters of strategy and survival. "We rebuild, Lord Arundel. But we must tread carefully. There are many forces at play, and the future... is uncertain