Princess Falicia Selastra walked toward Morix with an elegant, composed grace, her gown gliding like moonlit water. She offered him her congratulations in a dignified tone and raised her hand for a handshake an honour few warriors ever received.
But the moment Morix saw her hand extended toward him, something inside him froze.
A flash of memory.
A hand reaching toward him in his dream.
A silhouette he could never forget.
"What if… Princess Falicia is the girl from my dreams?"
The thought struck him like a blade to the chest.
He felt fear genuine fear for the first time in years.
"If she is indeed the one… what would I do? She is to be wed to Prince Rales. And I… I possess no noble blood worthy of her presence."
The weight of duty pressed on him.
"Valarion requires my devotion. My heart has no right to wander."
Lost in this storm of thoughts, he remained still.
Princess Falicia sensed something amiss. Her intuition, sharp as any blade, warned her of a strange tension. She slowly lowered her hand, masking her confusion behind royal composure.
Turning toward the crowd, she addressed them with commanding grace,
"Honoured citizens of Seraphyne, bear witness to this unprecedented feat. General Morix has not only conquered our strongest champion with effortless might but has defeated General Gabriel, undefeated for centuries."
The entire coliseum thundered in awe.
Gabriel stepped down from the arena, his breaths heavy, his armor cracked, his pride wounded but his spirit strangely full. Before he could steady himself, a soft cry broke through the crowd:
"Gabriel!"
His wife sprinted toward him, eyes swollen with fear, her hands trembling uncontrollably. The moment she reached him, she flung her arms around his broad chest with such desperation that even the mighty general froze.
She clutched him tightly as if afraid that if she loosened her grip even for a second, he might disappear forever.
"You fool… you reckless, stubborn fool," she whispered, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her face.
"I-I thought… I thought I had lost you today…"
Gabriel, who had stared down dragons and never trembled, felt his throat tighten. His hands hands that wielded a nation-treasure hammer shook gently as he held her shoulders.
He lowered his forehead onto hers, closing his eyes.
His voice came out softer than it ever had:
"My love… forgive me. I had forgotten… how much my life means to someone."
She sobbed harder, burying her face against his armor.
"Don't… don't you ever do that again. I don't care about victory… I don't care about pride… I only want you. Just you."
Gabriel smiled, a rare, warm smile that melted even the harshest spectators.
"I am here," he whispered.
"And I am alive… because he stopped me, not because I survived."
He gently wiped her tears with his thumb.
"Do not cry for my defeat. Cry only for how blessed I am… that I still have you to come home to."
His wife cupped his face with her trembling hands, kissing his forehead as if confirming he was truly still here.
"I love you," she breathed, voice cracking.
"I love you so much… don't make me watch you die."
Gabriel wrapped her in a protective embrace, holding her with all the strength he had left.
"I won't," he promised.
"As long as I live… I will return to you. Every battle. Every war."
And for the first time in centuries…
General Gabriel undefeated warrior, symbol of Seraphyne's might let himself be vulnerable in the arms of the woman who loved him more than victory itself.
The spectators watched in silence some wiping tears knowing they were witnessing not the fall of a warrior, but the rise of a man deeply cherished.
As everyone's attention shifted to Gabriel, they failed to notice something shocking.
Morix had vanished.
No farewell.
No prize collected.
No footsteps.
He simply disappeared like mist swallowed by the wind.
Gabriel smiled proudly when he realized what happened.
"So he seeks no glory… only purpose. Such is the path of a true warrior."
Morix, having achieved what he came for, rode away from Seraphyne at incredible speed. His horse raced like a streak of silver lightning.
But his mind remained in turmoil.
"What happened to me in that battle…? That bloodlust… vaster than the ocean. A force even demons would fear. What is awakening inside me…?"
And beneath all of it
The fear that Princess Falicia might truly be the girl from his visions.
He shook the thought away with disciplined resolve.
"These matters can wait. A greater duty awaits my attention."
As he crossed the infamous forest known for devouring adventurers monsters lunged from the shadows. Morix struck each down without breaking stride, spear flashing like a comet, his horse never losing speed. Creatures roared; he silenced them with effortless precision. Nothing slowed him.
Meanwhile, in Valarion…
Inside the grand study hall of Valarion Palace, Prince Rales sat behind a mountain of scrolls and ledgers.
Moonlight filtered through the tall crystal windows, reflecting off his ink-stained fingertips.
He hadn't slept.
He hadn't even looked up for hours.
Yet his expression wasn't tired it was focused.
His brows were slightly furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, elegant eyes scanning through border expenditure records, trade deficits, military logistics, and taxation drafts. Every few seconds, he would make a note with calm precision, correcting inconsistencies, adding strategies, and organizing priorities with frightening efficiency.
He whispered softly to himself,
"Father must not see any burden. Not while I can still stand beside him."
Rales wasn't simply working.
He was protecting the kingdom in the only way he truly could through strategy, intellect, and discipline.
A stack of documents beside him carried his annotations:
A revised taxation plan so peasants would pay less during harsh winter.
A new supply chain layout to reduce wastage in military rations.
A diplomatic draft letter requesting immediate reinforcement treaties with nearby allied cities.
Every line he wrote screamed one thing:
This is a man who carries his kingdom on his shoulders without complaint.
His face was calm, composed yet his eyes brimmed with a quiet fire.
A dependable fire.
A loyal fire.
A fire that made people believe in him.
Just as he reached for another scroll, the door burst open.
A messenger staggered inside, gasping so hard his knees nearly buckled.
"P–Prince… huff… huff… P–Prince Rales… the… the King—"
He clutched his chest, struggling for breath.
"Your father's life… is in danger… the enemy nation's soldiers… have surrounded… the eastern border… huff…"
The scroll slipped from Rales's hand.
For the first time in hours, his controlled façade cracked.
"What did you say?" his voice, though calm, shook with restrained terror.
The messenger, still panting, forced out his words,
"They are preparing to invade, Your Highness… the King is at the border personally commanding the defenses…"
Before the sentence even finished, Rales had already risen from his chair.
Not slowly.
Not with hesitation.
Like a man whose heart had been pierced.
His breath hitched a subtle, painful sound only heard by the wind.
"My father…" he whispered, eyes trembling.
In that moment, his composed mask shattered, revealing the raw love he held for the old king.
Love so deep it defined him.
Love so fierce it could move armies.
He wasn't Prince Rales, heir to Valarion.
He was just a son terrified of losing his only parent.
The messenger bowed deeply,
"I–I am sorry, Your Highness… but I came running the entire way. I could not waste a single moment."
Rales placed a hand on the messenger's shoulder gentle, grateful, despite the storm swirling inside him.
"You have done well. Rest. You need not push yourself further."
Even in panic, he cared for his people.
Even in terror, he spoke softly.
But the moment he turned away, his expression grew steely.
Eyes sharp as cold steel.
His jaw clenched.
His fists trembled with urgency and resolve.
I must go to him.
I will not lose him.
Not today. Not ever.
He swept his cloak from the chair, tied his sword at his waist, and ran out of the chamber with a speed and determination no one had ever seen from him before.
He wasn't running away from duty.
He was running towards love.