Aldric's days as a prince were no longer his own.
From the moment he stepped out of his chambers, duty awaited. Morning lessons with the castle's scholars, followed by hours in the training yard under the relentless eye of Ser Rodric, the knight responsible for shaping him into something more than a poet. The afternoons were filled with council meetings, where lords and advisors spoke of treaties, taxes, and tensions with neighboring kingdoms. In the evening, when his body ached from the day's burdens, he sought solace in poetry, only to be reminded that a ruler had little time for verse.
But poetry was all he had.
His ink-stained fingers stood in contrast to the calloused hands of the warriors around him. In the yard, he stumbled more often than he struck. The weight of a sword was foreign, unwieldy, unlike the familiar press of quill upon parchment. Ser Rodric, a man of iron discipline, had little patience for Aldric's struggles.
"A king who cannot wield a blade is no king at all," Rodric said, his voice sharp as the steel he carried. "You think words will save you when war comes? You think your poetry will stop a charging knight?"
Aldric wiped sweat from his brow, his chest rising and falling in exhaustion. "A sword may win a battle," he said, "but words can win a kingdom."
Rodric frowned, stepping closer. "And what kingdom will you rule if you are slain before you can speak?"
There was no arguing against that.
Each day, Aldric fell and rose again, bruised and weary but unwilling to surrender. His body learned what his heart resisted—that strength was not just found in words but in the will to stand, again and again, no matter how often he fell.
Still, the poet in him refused to die.
Late into the night, when the halls grew silent and the weight of expectation momentarily lifted, he would return to his chamber, light a candle, and write. Not grand proclamations or royal decrees, but quiet verses about the wind against the castle walls, the loneliness of a crown, the unspoken fears that came with ruling a people who looked to him for hope.
One evening, his father found him there, ink-stained and lost in thought.
King Eadric sat beside him, watching as Aldric's quill moved across the parchment. "You remind me of your mother," he said softly. "She, too, saw the world through a poet's eyes."
Aldric set his quill down. "Did she ever wish to be something more?"
His father smiled, a distant sorrow in his gaze. "She did not wish to be more. She simply wished to be herself. And that was enough."
Aldric nodded, though the weight of expectation still pressed upon him. He was a prince, a future king—but he was also a poet. Could he be both?
The words of the song echoed in his mind once more.
Soldier, Poet, King.
Perhaps, in time, he would learn to be all three.
The next morning, Aldric found himself standing at the edge of the training yard once more, the scent of sweat and steel thick in the air. His fellow trainees—young noble sons destined for knighthood—moved with sharp precision, their swords ringing in rhythmic clashes. He envied their ease, their confidence.
Rodric called him forward, tossing him a wooden practice sword. "Again."
Aldric barely caught it in time. His arms already ached from the day before, but he squared his shoulders and stepped onto the field. His opponent, a boy named Gareth, grinned as he raised his weapon. Gareth was two years older, stronger, faster. A knight's son, bred for battle. Aldric braced himself.
The fight was swift. Gareth struck first, forcing Aldric back on the defensive. Every block rattled through his bones, his grip slipping. He attempted a counter, but Gareth sidestepped easily and struck his ribs. Aldric gasped, stumbling back.
"Pathetic," Rodric muttered. "Again."
The second match ended just as quickly. Then the third. By the fourth, Aldric's breath came ragged, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. He felt frustration rising, hot and bitter. He wasn't made for this. He wasn't a warrior. He—
A sharp blow to his side knocked him to the dirt.
Laughter rippled through the training yard, but Aldric barely heard it over the pounding in his ears. He lay still for a moment, staring at the sky, tasting blood in his mouth.
Then, from somewhere distant, a voice rose, quiet at first but growing stronger.
There will come a soldierWho carries a mighty sword.
The words curled around his thoughts like a whisper from fate.
Aldric clenched his fists, pushing himself up. He was not a warrior yet, but he would not be broken. Not by Gareth. Not by Rodric. Not by the weight of expectation pressing upon him like a crown too heavy for his head.
He picked up his sword. He stood.
That night, Aldric sat at his window, a fresh sheet of parchment before him. The castle grounds stretched below, torches flickering along the stone walls. His ribs ached, his muscles burned, but his mind was clear. He dipped his quill into ink and began to write:
What is a king, if not a man who stands?
Through battle, through burden, through time's heavy hand.
Not only in war, nor with steel drawn bright,
But in quiet resolve, in love, in light.
He exhaled slowly, the weight of the day lifting just a little.
Perhaps, someday, he would be a king worth remembering. A king of strength, of wisdom.
A king of words.
Soldier, Poet, King.
Perhaps, in time, he would learn to be all three.