The journey to Castle Ardent was long, and silent for the most part. A heaviness hung between them—not of anger, but of weight finally uncovered. Elian walked ahead at times, then fell behind, as if unsure of the pace of his own destiny.
The gentle hills of Dunmoor slowly gave way to jagged cliffs and broken paths, the land growing harsher with every mile. Trees grew sparser, wind colder. Signs of ancient battles—blackened stones, twisted iron, forgotten graves—marked the way like grim milestones.
Cael said little.
“It’s just over this ridge,” he murmured at last.
Elian crested the hill—and stopped.
Below stretched the ruins of Castle Ardent.
What once must have been majestic now lay in jagged pieces, like a shattered crown. Tower stumps clawed the sky. Walls lay crumbled and broken. Vines clung to ruined archways like time refusing to let go. A silence hung over it all, dense and mournful.
“It’s… worse than I imagined,” Elian whispered, the ache in his chest no longer confusion—but grief. “It’s… dead.”
“It’s a grave,” Cael said quietly. “A grave for a kingdom. And for a family.”
They descended into the ruins, boots crunching over fallen stone. Every shadow seemed to whisper. Every doorway breathed sorrow.
“This was the Grand Hall,” Cael said, gesturing to a wide, roofless space where wildflowers now grew through broken flagstones. “Here, your parents spoke to the people. Here, the kingdom gathered.”
Elian stepped up onto the raised dais, imagining it. The faces. The voices. The warm strength of a king and queen.
He saw none of it—but he felt it.
“They don’t feel like rulers,” he said quietly. “They feel like… parents.”
Cael’s breath hitched. “They were. And they loved you more than anything. Your mother… fought to the last breath to keep you safe. Her last words were your name.”
They moved deeper into the castle. A corridor opened into a half-burnt chamber.
“This was the royal gallery,” Cael said. “Where the portraits hung.”
One mural still clung to the wall—blackened, damaged—but clear enough. A king. A queen. Their eyes kind, proud. They looked not like legends, but like people.
“My parents,” Elian whispered. He reached up, his fingers tracing the ghost of his mother’s smile.
“Why, Cael?” he asked, voice trembling. “Why would Varyn destroy this?”
“Because he wanted power,” Cael said bitterly. “And power... devours.”
Just then, a cough—dry, hacking—echoed from the shadows.
An old man stepped forward, bent with age, robes once regal now ragged. His eyes, though clouded, held a strange glimmer.
Lord Varyn.
“So,” he rasped, voice thin, “the ghost finally walks among the living.”
Elian tensed.
“I had heard whispers,” Varyn said, wheezing. “A boy. A face. But to see it… Stars help me… you are your father’s mirror.”
Cael moved protectively, but Elian raised a hand—calm, composed.
“You’ve grown, Prince,” Varyn said. “Seventeen years. How time flies… when you’re building an empire on the ashes of another.”
Elian stepped forward. “You destroyed this. My family. My kingdom.”
Varyn smiled bitterly. “Yes. I did. And what now? A sword at my throat? Vengeance? Claim your throne, boy.”
“No,” Elian said firmly. “I didn’t come for blood. I came for truth.”
Varyn stared, taken aback. “Truth? There is no truth left. Only bones. I expected fury. I deserve fury.”
“I don’t care what you deserve,” Elian replied. “My parents wanted peace. You brought war. You built a kingdom on fear—and it left you here, alone, dying in the ruins.”
The old lord sank to a broken column, coughing.
“Then… take it,” he wheezed. “The kingdom. The crown. The legacy. If you truly are your father’s son—rebuild.”
Elian looked around—the cracked stones, the silent halls. The faces in murals. The weight of seventeen years.
And then he shook his head.
“A kingdom built on fire needs more than a crown,” he said softly. “It needs healing. And I… I won’t rule over ashes. Not like this. Not now.”
Varyn blinked. “You… refuse it?”
“For now,” Elian said. “I’ll rebuild—but not with blood. Not with thrones. With people. With hope. One step at a time.”
Cael’s eyes glistened. Varyn, for the first time, looked… defeated.
“Then… perhaps the kingdom is not lost,” the old lord murmured.
The walk back to Dunmoor was slow, but peaceful. The weight in Elian’s chest had changed—it no longer pulled him down. It guided him forward.
“You meant it?” Cael asked, after a long while. “You walked away from the throne?”
“I meant every word,” Elian said. “A crown doesn’t make a king. A heart does. And a people.”
He smiled faintly. “You raised me, Cael. Not to wear gold—but to carry truth. That’s the kingdom I believe in.”
“So, what now?” Cael asked, a dry chuckle in his voice. “Back to the goats?”
Elian laughed. “Maybe. But not just goats. The people. They need something real. Something that can’t be taken in a fire.”
He paused, gazing at the hills of his childhood.
“I’m not just a villager anymore, Cael. But I’m not a king, either. Not yet. I’m… Elian. And that’s enough.”
He breathed deeply—the air fresh, the sky wide.
“Let’s go home. We’ve got work to do
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