Chapter 401: The Comeback Of The Exiled Prince
Prince Alaric stood on the high balcony of his private quarters, his tall frame silhouetted against the molten gold of the early morning. The rising sun bled across the sky in streaks of amber and orange, casting long shadows over the training grounds below. With his hands clasped behind his back, posture regal and still, he watched his soldiers spar with precision and purpose—each clash of steel ringing out like a vow to the kingdom.
The wind tugged at the edges of his deep blue cloak, the finely embroidered threads catching the light like strands of starlight. It rippled around him, not unlike a royal banner raised in silent defiance. His dark hair, unbound and tousled by the morning breeze, framed a face carved by war and responsibility. Beside him, on a low stone table, rested Arespada—a broadsword forged from the obsidian-hued iron of the ancient north. Its edge shimmered faintly with the hue of blue flame, a weapon of legend.
Below, the sound of swords clashing and the shouts of trained warriors filled the air, a symphony of discipline and determination that stirred a fierce pride within him.
A voice behind him broke the silence.
"General Odin says the defectors and the recruits passed every trial."
Alaric didn’t turn. "How’s Logan and the Maro brothers, Raynor and Raymar?"
"They held the line when others faltered. Logan, especially. He reminds me of you, years ago."
The prince allowed himself a brief breath—a flicker of warmth crossing his features. "They’re brave. That much is clear."
He considered assigning Logan to guard Lara. Aramis, now a commander, could no longer remain at her side. But Logan, and perhaps Raynor too—they would die before letting harm come to her. Of that, he was certain.
The chamber was silent for a moment longer. Then Alaric finally turned to face the speaker—Agilus, his companion from young, his spymaster and closest confidante.
Agilus’s tunic shimmered faintly, and his eyes—ever watchful—missed nothing. His being a chatterbox was his front. In reality, he was watching and gleaning information while talking.
"But are they loyal?" Alaric asked softly. But even as the words left his mouth, he already knew the answer.
Agilus tilted his head. "They left behind homes, lands, and titles. Joshua especially. He was offered a seat beneath the Estalis General Council. He refused and walked away. That takes more than courage—it takes conviction."
Agilus raised an eyebrow, then grinned teasingly. "As for Raynor and Raymar, their loyalty is not to you. It’s to Lara. She saved them. That sort of devotion is harder to shake than fear of death."
Alaric nodded. Of course, he knew.
He moved from the balcony and entered his study, to the large war map spread across the central table. Dozens of markers lay scattered across it—a growing number of red flags in the north, where rebellion stirred but had yet to ignite.
"We need to move soon," Alaric murmured. "If we delay any longer," he murmured, "Northem will fall. Zura’s grip will tighten, and the capital will burn."
Prince Alaric and the Oath of the Fallen
That evening, the war hall blazed with torchlight, the fire in the great hearth roaring higher than usual. Banners bearing the sigil of Calma hung from every wall— a firebird whose wings arched and the tips touch each other over a black banner— proud and defiant. At the center stood Prince Alaric, flanked by his commanders, as the heavy doors creaked open and the delegation from Estalis entered, followed by the rest of the recruits.
General Joash Marcus led them—weathered but upright. At his side, his son, Joshua, and two dozen soldiers who had once borne a different flag but now gathered for a different cause.
They bowed low, reverently. No theatrics. Just truth.
Joash stepped forward, his voice clear. "Your Highness. We bring nothing but our blades, our loyalty, and the weight of our past. We seek no reward—only the right to fight beside those who still remember honor."
Alaric regarded him with a quiet intensity. "I remember your name. General Joash Marcus. You led the defense of the northern gate of Carles."
"And failed," General Marcus replied, eyes steady.
"You commanded an army twice the size of your enemy. I hope that you learned from your failure."
General Joash lowered his head in embarrassment before nodding. "I was ashamed of my previous failure, but at the same time, it was an honor to be defeated by such great war heroes. I learned a lot from General Odin and the rest of your commanders, Your Highness." He dipped his head low and kneeled on one knee. The soldiers behind him, including his son, followed suit.
"I’ve learned. And I come now not as a commander, but as a man who wishes to serve. I swear allegiance to you, Prince Alaric of Northem."
The hall was still.
Alaric’s voice, when it came, was low but unwavering. "I can offer shelter for your families. But not safety for you. What we build here is not for glory—it is for survival. Zura’s eyes are no longer only on Estalis. Northem—my home, our home—will fall unless we act."
A beat passed, then Joash replied without hesitation. "We will follow you. Even into death."
Alaric descended from the dais, walking among the kneeling men. He paused before Raynor and Raymar. They met his gaze, unflinching.
"Then rise," he said. "You are no longer fugitives. You are soldiers of Calma."
The hall filled with a quiet murmur. The declaration was not ceremonial—it was binding.
"Angus," Alaric said without turning, "form them into a vanguard company. They will ride to Fereya and protect that town from the Estalis soldiers."
He turned to General Joash Marcus and spoke with deliberate slowness. "Our intelligence names General Abner Gabor as the leader of the attacking soldiers to Fereya. Sometimes, war could be won not with swords but with words. Perhaps he can still be reasoned with."
"Yes, Your Highness," General Joash said. He understood him well. He will try to negotiate with Abner, and he hoped that, like him, Abner would be able to see through Zura’s evil plans.
"May your blades be sharp," he said, "and your hearts unshaken. The real war has not yet begun."
His eyes fell on Raynor. "I hear your wife has recently given birth."
Raynor blinked, surprised. "She has, Your Highness."
"You may remain in Calma. Guard the Gabriella Guild. As it rises, so too will those who covet it. We need warriors here, as much as in the field."
The hall slowly emptied. Only Alaric and his inner circle remained.
At dawn two days after, he would ride north—with Odin and the Phoenix Legion. Primo Lenard would remain behind, with his sons and brother-in-law to safeguard what remained.
The north was calling. And Alaric—banished prince, the rightful heir to Northem—would answer.