The Duke of Ervalion carried me to the large window of my chamber. Despite his refined elegance, he lifted me with unexpected strength, as if I weighed nothing.
Outside, night had only just begun to fall, revealing the flickering glow of hundreds of candles and torches. The people had gathered below, singing, clapping to the rhythm of drums, while joyful dances broke out. Laughter echoed, carried on the wind.
The duke smiled, almost conspiratorially, and whispered in my ear:
"See, Majesty. Your people rejoice at your awakening. They loved your parents, they loved the little boy you were, and they will love the man you've become."
My heart pounded faster. This fervor, these voices, this joy… none of it was for the student I had once been. No, it was for the prince I had become.
No matter that this body wasn't mine. No matter that this past wasn't originally mine… From now on, this is my life. My kingdom. My story.
"Duke Ervalion… I would like… two things, please: books, and the presence of the maid I saw when I awoke from that ten-year sleep."
His eyes glimmered with mischief.
"Such modest requests for a prince… Consider them granted already."
He laid me carefully back on the bed, then, with a natural bow of elegance, left the chamber.
Night settled. The people's songs and laughter continued, rising like a lullaby through the thick walls. I let them cradle my mind, and for the first time in a long while, a soft warmth took root in my chest.
No matter my other past. Here, I have a future.
A faint *DING* rang in my head.
My interface opened, and a bluish glow displayed:
[Intelligence +2]
A tired smile touched my lips. But just as I was about to close my eyes, I thought I saw, far off through the window, behind the mist, a strange glow. Round, like a moon—but with a pupil. An eye. Gigantic… staring at me.
My breath caught.
But exhaustion overtook me, and I slipped into sleep.
Was it a dream?
Morning came in a pale light filtered through the stained glass. My first maid entered, head bowed, carrying the breakfast tray. Her clear voice broke the silence:
"Your Highness… representatives of neighboring realms await an audience. They were told by your Ministers than you could not receive them due to your health…"
I fixed my eyes on her for a moment. Then:
"Have a sedan chair prepared. I will greet my people… but after breakfast."
I may not be a hobbit, but there are priorities in life, and even in afterlife!
She started, but did not protest.
The royal physician was summoned and arrived. His dry fingers felt my wrist, then he sighed, halfway between worry and awe.
"For any other patient, I would have strictly forbidden it. But you, Your Highness… you are a miracle of royal blood, so I believe you can do anything."
A few minutes later, well dressed, I was seated in a richly decorated sedan chair, like a walking throne. It framed my head and torso, I looked like a living portrait. The bearers carried me through echoing halls, where the whispers of servants followed me as if I were a divine, almost ghostly, apparition.
When the throne room doors opened, I was struck speechless.
The immense vault rose like a cathedral, painted deep blue and studded with golden stars that seemed suspended on strings above us. The tall golden columns, inlaid with gems that shimmered from blue to green, seemed to touch the heavens.
The light from the stained glass flooded the floor in dazzling shards. And at the far end, like a stage, two royal thrones of gold and midnight-blue velvet stood proudly.
The ministers were there, aligned like soldiers awaiting review, puffing their chests in their sumptuous garments. They bowed almost in unison (their synchronization still left something to be desired), then the eldest, Duke Calistram, stepped forward. His deep voice echoed under the vaults:
"Your Highness, allow me to introduce to you the emissaries from neighboring realms, who have traveled to witness the miracle."
Three figures advanced.
The first was a man of middle age, Duke Guerride, representative of the realm of Gridenne. He was athletic, clad in dark armor with metallic gleams, etched with runes I did not know. His black hair was slicked back, and his brown, chiseled face seemed carved from stone, stern, implacable. His gaze never left my hands, as though measuring my strength by the faintest tremor.
A warrior, no doubt, the sort who believes diplomacy is a luxury for the weak. If his kingdom sends him as envoy, does that mean they want to intimidate me? Is it a threat?
Beside him came a woman, draped in a long low-cut gown of crimson silk embroidered with golden threads. Her deep black eyes gleamed like blades, her fiery red curls burning like a living flame. Her lips curved into a seductive smile, contrasted by the steel in her gaze. She was Duchess Fraymire, emissary of the realm of Flamelle.
Her beauty was breathtaking… so much so it became a threat.
Last came Duke Vipra, representing the realm of Verrige. A tall, slender man with silver hair, clad in a dark green coat with a raised collar. He bowed with excessive courtesy. His almond eyes sparkled with intelligence, yet his nimble fingers nervously fiddled with a silver ring. He reeked of obsequious politeness, but beneath it, everything in him screamed nerves, as if hiding something.
He might not look directly dangerous, but secrets clung to him, one to watch closely.
Behind them, their servants bore ornate chests and lavish gifts. But their eyes weighed on me like invisible blades, measuring my weakness, my gestures, my words.
I greeted the representatives one by one, blending warmth, rigor, and diplomacy. I forgot my role as a fragile prince:
At that moment, I represented a kingdom. My image could shape the lives of thousands. I remained upright, head high, showing that my weakened body was no obstacle to my royal stature and power.
At last, they led me to the great balcony. When the heavy stained-glass doors opened, a roar rose from the crowd gathered below. An ocean of faces, banners, cries of joy.
I placed my trembling hands on the balustrade where the bearers set me down at my sign. The wind lifted my dark hair like a storm cloud.
I drew a deep breath, and my voice rose, frail but clear:
"People of Almaris… I, Dragobert III, Crown Prince of Almaris. Son of Dragobert II, King of Almaris. I have walked with the gods for ten years. But now I have returned among you! Let Almaris be reborn!"
Thunderous acclamations erupted like a sudden storm, resounding in the misty skies.
In that instant, I was no longer a houseplant.
I was their Sovereign.
Almost their God.
Their hope.
The clamor rose higher, but I raised my hand to quiet it. Like a tide receding, silence spread little by little. My legs trembled, but my voice stayed firm:
"People of Almaris… Your pain is mine. Your hardships are mine. Today, I promise you this kingdom will no longer live in shadow. We will rise again, together! For now, feast, rejoice!"
I don't know if my promise will come true, but this people needs hope. Until I can give them more, I can at least give them this…
An explosion of cheers followed. Arms lifted, tears flowed. My words had struck them like a release. And through the mist, I thought I glimpsed a ray of sunlight breaking through.
I stood a moment longer, straight-backed, greeting the crowd from my portable throne, letting them imprint the image: a confident, living prince who cared for his people. Then I turned to my ministers, voice calm but commanding:
"Enough for today. I must rest."
They bowed instantly, servile. Yet I saw in their eyes the nervous glint of jeweled vipers. Duke Bellifort, true to himself, already had a mug in hand, having perhaps taken my command to the people—"feast, rejoice!"—a little too much to heart.
Back in my chambers, I waited for the bearers to close the door. Only then did I let out a sigh, my muscles screaming in exhaustion.
Playing prince drains more energy than a university exam… Thank you, medieval RPGs! You helped me so much for this test!
I collapsed into the softness of the bed. And suddenly, the familiar chime rang again in my head. The interface opened in a bluish glow:
[Intelligence +2]
[Charisma +10]
I froze, speechless.
Ten charisma points in one go?! At this rate, I'll end up a medieval influencer!
A nervous laugh escaped me.
Then my gaze fell on the room.
Piles of books now covered the tables, the chests, even the floor. Leather bindings, illuminated parchments, gilded grimoires. The intoxicating scent of old paper and ink filled the air.
The Duke of Ervalion had kept his word.
I approached, trembling fingers brushing the cover of a manuscript. The calligraphed letters seemed to dance before my eyes.
Books… at last. A weapon more powerful than all their rusty blades. Thank you, Duke… perhaps you've just handed me the means to win the battles yet to come.
Now, the game could truly begin.
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The Awakening of Prince Drago
Chapter 7: The Eye of Mist
Author: Léonardo de Deuille