Morning light filtered weakly through the tall windows of the great hall.
The sky outside had turned a dull silver beneath the heavy clouds, and the banners of Ardenfall hanging along the pillars stirred slowly in the wind that slipped through the high arches.
The bells had finally fallen silent.
The news had already reached them.
Foreign delegations had begun arriving at the castle.
Rowan stood beside Lucien in the great hall as servants and ministers hurried through the corridors preparing for their reception.
The doors at the far end of the hall opened, and an elderly minister hurried inside carrying a small stack of parchment.
Lord Halric.
One of the oldest advisors of the crown.
He bowed slightly before approaching.
"Your Highness."
Lucien inclined his head.
"The delegations?"
Halric nodded.
"They have begun arriving at the outer courtyard."
He unfolded one of the parchments.
"Representatives from the western merchant guilds… minor envoys from the river states… and several noble houses who fought alongside Ardenfall during the war."
Rowan listened only half attentively.
Most of those names meant little to him.
Formalities.
Condolences.
All the rituals that surrounded the death of a king.
Halric turned another page.
Then his tone shifted slightly.
"And from the southern kingdoms…"
He looked up.
"House Lionheart."
Rowan's attention sharpened immediately.
Lucien's expression remained calm.
Halric continued.
"King Arthur Lionheart sends his deepest condolences. Unfortunately, His Majesty's health has worsened these past months, and his physicians forbade him from making the journey."
A small sigh escaped the old minister.
"It is unfortunate. Your father and King Arthur were… quite close."
Rowan remembered hearing Edmund speak of the man.
Arthur Lionheart had been one of the few rulers who openly opposed Valerius Dravenholt during the early years of the tyrant's rise.
Two kings who had once tried unsuccessfully, to contain the growing threat.
Halric adjusted the parchment again.
"In his place, King Arthur has sent his son."
He paused.
"Prince Tristan Lionheart."
Rowan raised an eyebrow slightly.
Halric hesitated for the faintest moment.
Lucien noticed it.
"Something you wish to add, Lord Halric?"
The old minister cleared his throat.
"Well…"
He lowered his voice slightly.
"The young prince has a reputation."
Rowan smirked faintly.
"What kind of reputation?"
Halric chose his words carefully.
"Confident."
Rowan snorted.
"That usually means arrogant."
Halric did not disagree.
"He is said to be… proud of his house's strength."
Lucien folded his hands calmly behind his back.
"A trait not uncommon among princes."
Halric inclined his head.
"Indeed, Your Highness."
He glanced toward the great doors.
"The Lionheart delegation should arrive shortly."
Lucien nodded.
"Then you may attend to the remaining preparations."
Halric bowed.
"Of course."
The old minister turned and hurried away, already calling instructions to servants waiting near the hall entrance.
Rowan watched him go.
Then he looked toward Lucien.
"I suppose I should go greet this famous prince."
Lucien shook his head lightly.
"We will greet him."
Rowan glanced sideways at his brother.
"You?"
Lucien gave him a faint look.
"He represents one of the oldest allied houses of the south."
He began walking toward the hall entrance.
"It would be discourteous not to welcome him personally."
Rowan sighed quietly.
"Politics."
Lucien's lips twitched slightly.
"Yes."
They stepped out into the courtyard just as the Lionheart delegation entered through the outer gates.
Rowan noticed them immediately.
Not because they were loud.
But because they were impressive.
Six knights rode ahead of the group, their armor polished to a mirror shine beneath the grey sky. Crimson cloaks hung from their shoulders, each bearing the golden lion crest of their house.
Behind them rode a tall black horse.
Upon it sat Prince Tristan Lionheart.
Rowan studied him carefully as the procession approached.
Halric had not exaggerated.
The prince was tall, taller even than Rowan and broad shouldered, his build closer to that of a seasoned knight than a nobleman who spent his days in court.
His dark hair fell to his shoulders, and his expression carried the relaxed confidence of someone entirely comfortable with being observed.
His clothing was immaculate.
Deep crimson and gold.
Fine leather riding gloves.
A sword at his side whose hilt gleamed with intricate craftsmanship.
As the group approached the center of the courtyard, Tristan swung easily from the saddle and landed on the stone with practiced grace.
His gaze moved across the courtyard.
Then he spotted Lucien.
A wide smile spread across his face.
He stepped forward and bowed.
"Your Highness."
His voice carried a warm tone that echoed across the courtyard.
"My father sends his deepest condolences."
Lucien inclined his head.
"You honor his memory by coming."
Tristan straightened.
"King Arthur would have come himself if he could."
For a moment, the warmth in his voice seemed genuine.
"Your father was one of the finest men he ever knew."
Rowan noticed Lucien's expression soften slightly.
"I am glad to hear that."
Tristan's gaze shifted then.
Toward Rowan.
"And you must be Prince Rowan."
Rowan nodded.
"I am."
Tristan stepped forward and clasped his forearm in greeting.
A soldier's gesture.
"I have heard much about you."
Rowan raised an eyebrow.
"Hopefully not all of it bad."
Tristan laughed.
"Quite the opposite."
For a moment the exchange felt almost friendly.
But then Tristan's eyes drifted across the courtyard.
Over the soldiers.
Over the servants.
Over the castle walls.
Rowan noticed the change immediately.
The prince's posture straightened slightly.
His smile faded into something sharper.
Almost calculating.
"Well," Tristan said slowly.
"Ardenfall certainly keeps a grand castle."
The tone had shifted.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
Rowan felt irritation flicker at the edge of his thoughts.
Lucien, however, remained perfectly composed.
"We do our best."
Tristan nodded.
"I imagine the war has been… taxing."
His gaze lingered briefly on Rowan.
"Especially for a kingdom that lost its king."
The courtyard grew quiet.
Rowan's jaw tightened.
Lucien answered calmly.
"My father died defending his people."
Tristan inclined his head slightly.
"Indeed."
Then he smiled again.
But the warmth from earlier had vanished.
"Well."
He gestured lightly toward the castle.
"We should not keep the ceremony waiting."
Rowan exchanged a glance with Lucien.
The prince of Lionheart had arrived.
And Rowan already had the uneasy feeling—
That the man had not come only to mourn.
The three princes entered the great hall together.
Inside, the atmosphere had grown heavier.
The candles lining the stone floor had been lit, their flames trembling gently in the draft that moved through the vast chamber. Long shadows stretched across the walls where black cloth draped the pillars that once held the banners of Ardenfall's victories.
At the center of the hall rested the casket of King Edmund Ardenfall.
The polished black wood reflected the candlelight in faint golden streaks. Draped across the lid lay the royal banner, deep blue silk , with the Crest of Ardenfall.
Priests stood gathered near the platform, their white robes falling softly around them as they murmured the final prayers before the procession began.
The nobles of the kingdom had already assembled.
Lords and ladies stood along the edges of the hall in dark ceremonial attire, their voices lowered to quiet whispers that faded quickly as Lucien entered.
One by one they bowed.
"Your Highness."
Lucien acknowledged them with a calm nod as he approached the platform.
Rowan followed closely behind him, aware of Tristan walking at his side.
The Lionheart prince had grown quieter now.
His earlier confidence had settled into something more composed, his sharp gaze moving slowly across the gathered crowd.
For a moment, he simply observed.
The soldiers lining the walls.
The ministers standing near the altar.
The casket resting beneath the banners of Ardenfall.
Then he stepped forward and bowed his head.
"King Edmund was a formidable ruler," Tristan said quietly.
The words were simple, but they carried through the hall.
Lucien inclined his head.
"He was."
The High Priest stepped forward then, raising one hand gently.
"It is time."
The murmurs within the hall faded into silence.
Four knights of the royal guard stepped forward in perfect formation.
Their armor gleamed beneath the candlelight, black sashes crossing their chests in mourning. Slowly, carefully, they lifted the casket from the platform.
The weight of the moment seemed to press down upon the entire hall.
No one spoke.
Even the faint rustling of clothing had ceased.
The great doors of the hall opened slowly.
Outside, the bells began to ring again.
Low.
Heavy.
The funeral procession had begun.
The road from the castle to the royal burial grounds was lined with thousands.
The people of Ardenfall had gathered long before sunrise.
Merchants stood beside soldiers.
Farmers beside nobles.
Families held their children close as the procession moved slowly through the city.
The four knights carried the casket with steady steps, the royal banner shifting slightly in the wind.
Behind them walked the priests, their voices rising in solemn prayer.
Lucien followed next.
His expression was calm, but Rowan could see the tension in the way his brother held himself perfectly straight, shoulders squared beneath the dark ceremonial armor he wore.
The armor of a king.
Rowan walked beside him.
Tristan followed just behind them, his crimson cloak stirring lightly in the wind as he observed the silent crowd.
No one cheered.
No one shouted.
They simply bowed their heads as the procession passed.
Some placed hands over their hearts.
Others knelt in the dirt beside the road.
Rowan saw tears on many faces.
King Edmund Ardenfall had ruled for many years.
For many of these people, he had been the only king they had ever known.
The bells continued to toll as the procession left the city gates and climbed the long stone path toward the royal burial grounds.
The cemetery rested upon a hill overlooking the capital.
Ancient trees surrounded the grounds, their branches shifting softly in the wind as the mourners gathered.
Stone monuments marked the resting places of generations of kings.
The knights lowered the casket carefully upon a raised stone platform before the open tomb.
The priests gathered around it.
Their prayers grew louder now, rising in slow, rhythmic chants that echoed across the hillside.
Rowan barely heard the words.
His eyes rested on the casket.
For the first time since the battle, the reality of it felt completely unavoidable.
His father was gone.
The High Priest turned toward Lucien.
"It is time for the final words."
Lucien stepped forward.
The wind shifted slightly, lifting the edge of his cloak as he faced the assembled crowd.
Thousands of eyes watched him.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he spoke.
"My father believed that a king was not above his people."
His voice carried clearly across the hill.
"He believed a king should stand beside them."
A murmur of agreement moved through the crowd.
"He fought with his soldiers."
Lucien continued.
"He walked among his people."
"He ruled with strength."
Rowan noticed something then.
Lucien's voice never faltered.
Not once.
"And when war came to our lands," Lucien said, "he stood at the front of the battlefield."
His gaze swept slowly across the gathered crowd.
"He died defending the kingdom he loved."
Silence followed.
But it was not empty.
It was full of something deeper.
Respect.
Lucien turned toward the casket.
"My father's duty is finished."
He paused.
"But Ardenfall endures."
His gaze lifted toward the horizon beyond the city.
"And as long as we stand together…"
His voice hardened slightly.
"No tyrant will ever rule these lands again."
The final words carried across the hill.
The priests stepped forward once more.
Slowly, carefully, the knights lifted the casket and lowered it into the tomb.
Stone slid into place.
The sound echoed softly through the burial grounds.
The bells rang one final time.
The crowd bowed their heads.
The King of Ardenfall had been laid to rest.
As the mourners slowly began to disperse, Rowan felt Tristan step beside him.
The Lionheart prince watched the burial grounds in silence for a moment.
Then he spoke quietly.
"Your brother speaks well."
Rowan glanced at him.
"He does."
Tristan nodded slowly.
"But words are easier than crowns."
Rowan frowned slightly.
Tristan turned his gaze toward the city below.
"Let us hope the new king proves as strong as the old one."
For the briefest moment, Rowan wondered whether the words were meant as praise.
Or warning.