After Alex had left, Morgan breathed a sigh of relief as he returned to training—this time, uninterrupted. No more Prince Alex Pendrake of Stormhold looming over him, no more dodging his touches or biting his tongue. Yet, the absence of the prince lingered in the arena like a heady perfume, suffocating, filling the space with tension that clung to the air. The echo of Alex's boots had faded, but still, Morgan felt the reverberation deep in his chest, like the distant rumble of thunder after a storm. It sat there, vibrating through bone and breath, a reminder of something unfinished.
The silence was golden. Peaceful. He could finally focus solely on his target, but for all that quiet, he found he hadn't improved at hitting the bullseye. The throwing daggers embedded themselves into the wooden dummy just shy of center, each blade's placement mocking him. Frustration prickled at his temples. He'd have to fix that by the next practice. But for now, time pressed on; he needed to head to magic and aether enhancement training.
With a sigh, Morgan moved to gather his blades. He whispered the spell, "Thira velas." A glowing green spell circle blossomed in his palm, spinning faintly, ancient runes swirling like echoes of forgotten times. A shimmering, misty tear in space unfurled like a silver wound, and he placed his daggers into this subspace, each one vanishing with a muted hiss that felt almost final.
He turned, striding across the broad training arena toward one of the aether dampener rooms. The sun-drenched arena lay quiet, the wind rustling over the polished stone like a gentle caress. One foot after another, he was nearly halfway across when a voice halted him.
"Morgan Nyxarios."
He froze. Turning slowly, half-expecting a mistake, he found her standing there: Queen Yelena Valenka-Pendrake. Grace incarnate. Her presence bent the world around her, stealing the very air from the arena. Silken gowns shimmered around her, woven moonlight that flowed with each deliberate step she took. Morgan bowed deeply, his heart thudding against his ribs like a drumbeat of anxiety.
She approached him with a voice low and silken. "Care to walk with me? I wish to speak to you... away from prying eyes."
Morgan blinked, noting the eyes that were indeed watching—dozens of knights, mages, staffers. He felt their stares prick at his spine like needles. "Of course, Your Highness," he managed, his voice barely audible, throat tight with apprehension.
Sure, she was known for her kindness, but something about her—the way she moved, the way she spoke, her very aura—commanded respect. The Queen of Stormhold walked beside him, posture perfect, blue eyes scanning the halls they traversed. They moved in silence past the simulation rooms, aether vaults, and chambers carved from ivory stone. She still hadn't spoken. Her steps were slow, deliberate. Regal.
Morgan's palms grew damp, and he wiped his hands against his pants, trying to quell the anxiety churning in his stomach. Why him? What had he done to warrant this? Surely, he wasn't being dismissed; that would've come from one of his superiors, probably in a letter or email. So what was this? His mind raced through every possible scenario, none of them good. Why would the Queen of Stormhold want to speak to him? And why was she remaining silent?
His thoughts were cut short by the queen clearing her throat.
It was only then he realized their wandering had taken them down a path leading toward the castle.
"Morgan Nyxarios," she began, her tone smooth as snow over ice, "you are—by every available record—an average knight. Average scores. Average strength. Average magical potential." Her words didn't cut; her tone carried no mockery, only calm curiosity. They simply were. Honest.
Then her gaze shifted to him, and she continued. "Yet, my son has developed a strange attachment to you."
Morgan felt as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice over his spine. How could he forget? Alex. Of course. That damn prince and his three-year campaign of torment. If this was about Alex's weird obsession with making Morgan's life harder, why bring it up now? It had been going on far longer than he ever thought he could endure.
He looked over to the queen—and to his surprise, she was looking directly at him, studying his face. Her smile widened slightly as she spoke again. "You know, ever since he was young, Alex has had a strange attraction to things that later proved to be much more than they first appeared. So…" She paused meaningfully, "you, Morgan, seem to have caught that same strange attraction from within him. So the question is this: will you remain average all your life, Morgan Nyxarios? Or will you eventually prove my son's instincts... right?"
Hesitation seized his tongue. Morgan was stunned. What did she mean by that? Well—he knew what she meant. But it didn't sit right with him. Why would she care about his skills, his potential? He opened his mouth to speak.
"I do try to do my best... to be better—even a little—every day. If that's what you're asking."
The words left his lips uncertainly, like he wasn't sure even he believed them. She stopped walking, pausing mid-step. Her legs came together as she turned to him. He halted beside her, breath shallow. She took a moment, looking at him—really looking at him. Her cold blue eyes met his brown ones. "If my son sees something in you, I am inclined to trust his instincts. Alex has never been prone to shallow attachments. So tell me plainly, Morgan: do you intend to remain as you are—competent, yes, but ultimately unremarkable—or will you rise to become the man he clearly believes you can be?"
Her stare bore down on him, heavy and glacial. Morgan straightened under it, feeling the challenge in her words. He lifted his gaze, steady despite the heat blooming in his chest. "I have no intention of staying as I am. I will become better. Not for your son—but for the king he will become, for this kingdom... and for myself."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared on the queen's face. "Good." she said. She lifted her chin slightly. "Consider this an opportunity—one I do not extend lightly. I will grant you access to the Royal Library. Within its vaults are tomes of ancient aether techniques, lost magic, and histories your instructors have only whispered about. You will study them. You will train. And you will show me—not in increments, but in leaps—that you are worthy of the faith Alex has placed in you."
Morgan's chest clenched. His breath caught. He bowed his head, deeply and respectfully. "Your Highness… I don't have the words to thank you. This is an honor beyond anything I imagined. I swear, you will not regret your trust." His voice wavered.
"See that I don't," the queen replied. "Now, you are to meet me at the doors of my husband's study tomorrow at 9 a.m. sharp. See to it that you are not late. You are dismissed." She turned, continuing toward the castle with a graceful sweep of her gown.
Morgan stood frozen for a moment, the weight of the day pressing in around him. Somehow renewed, his limbs buzzed with energy and yet felt utterly drained. He turned and walked back to the training arena, the quiet of the day settling around him.
As he entered the building, he headed for his original destination: the aether dampener rooms. Today was going to be a long day. He could already tell. At least the prince hadn't tortured him too much. Whether that was a good thing or not, he didn't yet know. After all, he had only gotten a few minutes of peace before serenity had shattered again. He adjusted the settings on the touchscreen panel near the door.
By the time Morgan emerged from the dampening chamber, the sun had dipped low on the horizon, casting long amber shadows across the training grounds. His limbs ached, heavy with aether depletion, and a dull soreness settled deep into his muscles like the echo of a fading battle. Now, he was just in the regular gym, physical, mindless, grounding. He pushed through the final leg of his workout routine. He'd already completed the daily circuit and was wrapping up on the stairmaster, cooling down. One last breath. After cooling down, he stepped off the machine and headed toward the showers, steam curling in the air from others before him.
A quick cold rinse bit at his skin, sharp and reviving. Once finished, he dressed in uniform fatigues: a fitted royal blue shirt marked with Stormhold's national insignia pressed over his heart, black cargo pants, and heavy boots that laced tight around his calves. Practical. Professional. Invisible.
He collected his water bottle, phone, and headphones, slinging them into place with practiced ease. As he exited, voices echoed ahead. A group of knights walked in loose formation, laughing and exchanging idle conversation as they made their way toward the barracks. They didn't notice him. They never did. And that was exactly how he liked it—unseen, unnoticed, just another face in the uniformed crowd. It was safer that way. Easier. They all moved toward the same place, tucked within the gated walls that enclosed both the castle and the Royal Legion's quarters. The barracks were far enough from the palace to be separate—but close enough to intervene if needed. As members of the Royal Legion, they were stationed close to the royal family.
Morgan glanced ahead. The group of knights had moved out of sight—not that he minded. A quiet walk under the stars might do him good. The stars blinked overhead, soft and watchful. He let his headphones hang idle around his neck and slowed his pace, inhaling deeply. The cool air filled his lungs, grounding him. Then—something shifted. The air behind him changed, the way it does right before lightning strikes or a spell ignites. A flicker of presence. Energy coiled behind him like a predator waiting to pounce. Instinct surged within him. Before thought could catch up, his body moved. aether flooded his fist, sparking heat through his veins as he pivoted on his heel, readying a blow, and swung. He stopped just short—realizing at the last second that he had nearly punched King Romano.
King Romano Pendrake stood before him, mid-dodge, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Morgan dropped to one knee so fast it felt like a collapse, as if the weight of horror had struck him like a blow. His heart thundered against his ribs, frantic and wild, as if it too was trying to flee the consequences of what he'd almost done. Breath caught sharp in his throat, thin and brittle, as if lined with shards of glass. His hands trembled, fingers curled into fists against the stone floor, knuckles white with tension. Panic surged through him like a fever. What have I done?
His eyes clenched shut, not in defiance but in dread, as if by shutting out the world he might also shut out the King's gaze. Every instinct screamed danger, punishment, disgrace—and underneath all of it, the cold, curling fear that he had just destroyed everything. He hadn't struck the King. But by the gods, he'd come close. Too close.
"Your Majesty—I—" Morgan stammered, his voice raw and trembling.
But instead of fury, the King laughed. A deep, rolling sound echoed through the training ground—not cruel or mocking, but full-bodied and genuine, as though Morgan had just delivered the punchline of a well-told joke. His eyes snapped open in disbelief. He looked up to find King Romano doubled slightly, a hand resting on his chest as he chuckled, the rich sound bouncing off the stone walls of the building near them. "Gods, get up off the ground, boy," the King said between laughs, still clearly amused. "You look like I've just sentenced you to death."
Morgan hesitated, confusion swirling in his mind.
King Romano explained, straightening with a smirk,
"I cloaked my presence to test your instincts—and you passed. Frankly, I'd have been disappointed if you hadn't reacted like that. A good knight doesn't wait to ask questions when danger comes at him." His voice softened slightly, though humor still danced in his eyes. "You responded exactly as I hoped you would."
Romano turned, gesturing. "Walk with me. There's something I must speak to you about."
Morgan straightened slowly, throat dry, his body taut with the aftershocks of adrenaline. He gave a sharp nod, still reeling from the encounter. Wordlessly, he fell into step beside the king, his boots somehow too loud on the stone path despite the hush of night.
A hollow, almost hysterical laugh echoed somewhere deep within him. Two royals in one day. What in all the flaming rings of Gehenna was happening? What cursed alignment of stars had dragged him into the center of the Pendrakes' attention?
The king's presence wasn't as icy as the queen's—warmer, perhaps—but it carried the same weight. Heavy. Regal. Inescapable. Even in quiet, Romano Pendrake radiated authority like sunlight bleeding through storm clouds. Eventually, he spoke, voice steady and deliberate. "My wife came to you earlier, yes?"
Morgan gave a sharp nod. "She did, Your Majesty."
Romano nodded. "Then I will echo her sentiment. I, too, want to see what lies beneath your current self. Which is why I want you to train with the front-line divisions—the ones who hunt the beasts that linger outside our borders. You'll fight beside them. Learn from them. Earn your scars."
Morgan's blood ran cold. His breath caught. The air seemed to thicken. "The corrupted beasts..."
"Exactly. The creatures twisted by the ancient war. You will train beside the division that faces them. Learn from them. Fight beside them. They are more dangerous than anything inside these castle walls. But they'll teach you what no book can. You'll gain real experience—and strength worthy of the faith my queen and son have placed in you."
He stopped, turning to Morgan. "I expect growth, Morgan. Not just survival. Greatness."
He hesitated. "But… if I'm on the front lines, how will I continue studying the texts from the Royal Library? I can't carry such rare volumes into the field."
The king smiled faintly. "You won't be out there every day. You'll come and go as needed. Just ensure that every time you return, you bring proof of your growth."
Relief and determination surged through Morgan. "Understood. I'll gladly accept."
"Very well," said the king. "You are dismissed. Rest well. You'll need your strength."
Morgan bowed low. When he rose, the king was already walking away, his footsteps fading into the dark. Morgan stood there for a long moment, the weight of the night pressing in around him. The stars blinked above, silent witnesses to his spiraling thoughts, watching his retreating figure until the quiet was broken by the sound of approaching boots—knights returning to the barracks. He exhaled, shook his head, and turned toward his own quarters.
What a day.