Four days passed.
The Imperial army crossed back into Empire soil, leaving Eldrath behind. The convoy stretched for miles—wounded soldiers, supply wagons, and at its center, the golden carriage bearing the Crown Prince.
Common folk lined the roads, cheering and waving as the procession passed. Another victory for the Great Empire. Another triumph to celebrate.
Inside the golden carriage, the atmosphere was opposite.
Mikhail sat slumped against the crimson cushions, staring at nothing. Beside him, Miyako sat in silence. Across from them, Maria remained perfectly still, watching.
No one spoke.
When the convoy reached the Imperial Palace, a maid appeared at the carriage door with a message.
"His Imperial Majesty requests an audience with the Crown Prince."
Mikhail didn't look at her.
"Tell my father I will see him after the funeral. Tomorrow."
The maid hesitated, then bowed and retreated.
That night, deep in the palace, Mikhail sat alone in his private chamber.
Miyako had fallen asleep hours ago, her breathing soft and steady in the bed behind him. But Mikhail remained in the chair beside her, a goblet of wine in his hand, staring into the darkness.
He looked down at his hands.
Blood.
Hilowat's blood, dripping from his fingers, running down his wrists.
He knew it wasn't real. He knew.
But he couldn't stop seeing it.
He wiped his hands frantically on his clothes, scrubbing at skin that was already clean.
The blood remained.
The next day, the Imperial Knights marched to the Great Church of Solis Dei in full ceremonial armor.
The funeral was grand. Elaborate. Fitting for a hero of the Empire.
The Emperor stood at the altar. The High Priest delivered speeches about duty and sacrifice. Incense filled the air. Bells tolled.
Mikhail wasn't there.
He watched from a distance, standing alone in the shadows of a high balcony. His eyes were dull. Cold.
Beside the Emperor stood a figure that drew every eye in the cathedral.
The High Commander.
Seven feet of walking, breathing muscle and divine judgment. His armor was pristine, gleaming gold and white, inscribed with holy script. He had never been seen without it. Some whispered he couldn't remove it—that the armor and the man were one.
No one had ever seen his face.
Only the Emperor knew the man beneath the helmet.
The High Commander's voice rang out across the cathedral, deep and resonant:
"In darkness, I shall be light.
In times of doubt, I shall keep faith.
In throes of rage, I shall hone my craft.
In vengeance, I shall have no mercy.
In the midst of battle, I shall have no fear.
In the face of death, I shall have no remorse.
Solis Dei guides us all."
The congregation echoed the prayer in unison.
Mikhail's lips didn't move.
Footsteps approached from behind.
An Elder—the one who had opposed the Eldrath campaign—stepped up beside him, hands folded behind his back.
"How are you doing, brat?" The Elder's tone was light, almost mocking. "Enjoying your first victory?"
Mikhail didn't look at him. A weak smile touched his lips.
"Aye, Elder. I apologize... for how I treated you at court." His voice was quiet, distant. "Sometimes I wonder if you were right. And I was wrong to go."
The Elder's expression softened. The mockery vanished.
"Don't worry about your behavior, son. I was the same at your age." He clapped a hand on Mikhail's back—firm, but not unkind. "We all were."
Mikhail's jaw tightened.
"I lost the Vice Commander trying to save a neighbor kingdom. He was... like an older brother to me."
The Elder nodded slowly, his gaze distant.
"I know, son." He paused. "But sometimes... the hardest thing and the right thing... are the same."
He turned to leave.
"I'll be on my way, then."
Mikhail stared down at the ceremony below, his voice barely a whisper.
"The right thing to do..."
He turned suddenly.
"Elder. I never got your name."
The old man paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Rowan Valecrown."
Then he was gone.