The cart stopped. Ivan hopped down.
His heart hammered in his chest.
He was about to see his family again. He was about to see the people he had watched die.
He took the first step toward the palace gates.
Two guards in polished golden armor, holding spears adorned with the Imperial Sun emblem, immediately stepped forward to block his path.
"Halt. State your business at the palace."
Ivan looked at them. He recognized their faces. They were young, new recruits. They did not recognize the seventh prince in his dirty, torn commoner's clothes.
"I am Prince Ivan," he said, his voice quiet.
The guards looked at each other, skeptical. One of them opened his mouth to argue, but an older guard captain rushed out from the gatehouse.
"You fools!" the captain hissed. "That is the Prince! Stand down!"
The two young guards snapped to attention, their faces pale. They bowed deeply. "Our apologies, Your Highness!"
"It's fine," Ivan said, walking past them. "You were doing your job."
He walked through the massive gates and into the main courtyard. The white marble was clean and whole, not black with soot. Maids and servants bustled about. They stopped and bowed as he passed, whispering among themselves about the state of his clothes.
He entered the palace proper. The grand hallway was silent except for the echo of his own footsteps. He saw a head maid directing some staff near the grand staircase.
"Where is the Emperor?" he asked.
The head maid turned, her eyes widening in surprise. "Your Highness! You have returned! The Imperial family is gathered in the Sun King's Hall. They are awaiting your arrival."
"Thank you," he said, and started walking.
He walked toward the main hall. His heart was a drum in his ears. He remembered this hall. He remembered it filled with smoke and the smell of death. He remembered seeing his brother Alaric fall right there, by the throne.
He pushed the memory away. He had to.
He reached the grand, golden doors of the hall. He pushed them open.
And he saw them.
His father, the Sun King, sat on the throne. His mother, the Empress Seraphina, stood beside him, her expression calm and warm.
And his siblings were there. All of them.
They were all alive.
He had held it in for so long. The fear. The pain. The loneliness of his secret. But seeing them all here, whole and safe, it was too much.
A single, hot tear rolled down his cheek. Then another. He tried to stop them, but he could not. He lowered his head, his shoulders shaking with silent, wracking sobs.
"Oh, look," Alaric said, his voice dry, but not unkind. "He's crying."
"Alaric," Empress Seraphina said, her voice soft. She glided down from the dais. She put a gentle hand on Ivan's shoulder. "Welcome home, my son."
"You look like you wrestled a dog beast and lost," Lyra, said with a grin. "Did you at least win?"
"Leave him be," Elara, said, her voice full of compassion. "He is hurt." She came forward and gently took his arm, her eyes scanning his cuts and bruises with a professional concern.
Ivan could not speak. He just stood there, crying, overwhelmed by a simple, powerful feeling.
'My family,' he thought, his chest aching with a pain that was also a relief. 'I miss them. This time, I will protect this. I have to.'
---
Later that evening, a grand dinner was held in his honor. Ivan, now cleaned and dressed in proper royal attire, sat at the long table with his family. He told them the stories of the test. He edited them, of course. He left out the time travel, the foresight, and the true depth of his fear.
He told them about the duel with Marcus.
"You challenged a Duke's son?" his father, the Emperor, asked, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Bold."
He told them about the alliance he formed.
He told them about the fight with the bear beast. He described the teamwork, the struggle, and the final, desperate victory with Jin's help.
"This 'Jin' sounds formidable," Alaric said, his military mind analyzing the details. "To dispatch a beast of that caliber so easily... He must be a genius"
"He is crazy" Ivan said simply.
The dinner was full of life and laughter. Kaelen played a song about a heroic prince and a clumsy bear. Gareth asked a dozen questions about the bear's anatomy. Elara insisted on checking his wounds again after the meal.
It was perfect. It was everything he had lost.
---
The next forty days were a blur of activity. Ivan did not rest.
His mornings were spent with the royal tutors. He pushed his weak, fourteen-year-old body to its limits. He ran until his lungs burned. He swung a sword until his arms ached. He was not just training; he was punishing his body, forcing it to catch up to the warrior his mind remembered being.
His afternoons were spent in the palace library. He devoured books on history, on military strategy, on the geography of the kingdom. He was searching for anything, any detail he might have forgotten, any clue that could help him change the future.
Sometimes, he would spend hours with Alaric, his older brother. He would listen as Alaric discussed troop movements, supply lines, and political tensions with the border lords.
"You are taking a sudden interest in these matters," Alaric noted one day, looking at Ivan with a curious expression.
"I realized at the academy that I know nothing," Ivan said. It was the truth. "I want to be useful."
Alaric smiled, a rare smile. "Good. A prince should be useful."
The days were calm. They were peaceful. For forty days, Ivan allowed himself to hope. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe the future was not set in stone. Maybe his return had already changed things.
Then, on the forty-first day, that hope was shattered.
They were all gathered at the dinner table. The mood was light. The Emperor was telling a story about a clumsy foreign ambassador.
The doors to the dining hall burst open.
Alaric strode in. He was late. His face was grim. He was still wearing his military uniform, and there was a travel-worn look about him.
"What is it, son?" the Emperor asked, his good mood vanishing instantly.
Alaric stood at the head of the table. He looked at his father.
"There are reports from the Golden Plains," he said, his voice low and heavy. "Multiple villages have been attacked. The reports are all the same. The attackers... they consume everything. The crops, the livestock... even the people."
He paused, his next words dropping like stones into the silent room.
"The survivors are calling them 'The Devourers'."
Ivan's blood ran cold. He dropped his fork. It clattered loudly on his plate.
'The Devourers,' his mind screamed. 'Gluttony's followers. But... no. It's not supposed to be happening now. It's supposed to be happening after at least a year! Did the events change?'
He saw the beginning of the end, arriving a year ahead of schedule.
His heart sank. He realized with a terrifying, gut-wrenching certainty that he had no future knowledge anymore.