Paris stared at the candle in the keep’s master chamber, his gaze drifting like smoke, as if old tides were pulling him back.
Knock, knock, knock—slow and even, the sound hauled him up like a rope from dark water. “Enter.”
A slightly plump, ordinary-looking middle-aged man stepped in, a scroll in hand, his eyes bright like abacus beads, neat and calculating.
“Your Majesty, everything’s ready.” He passed the letter up, his calm voice caging a fluttering bird of excitement.
Paris took the letter and skimmed it like a leaf caught by wind, then said, “Go. Wait for my signal.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The man wore a smile with hidden hooks, and he called Paris king without a blink.
Paris burned the letter; ash rose like gray moths into the night.
He moved to the window, and watched star and moon like cold coins on black water, his gaze deep and aching like a late tide.
After a long breath, the last pity and longing melted from his eyes like thawed frost, leaving only hard stone.
In their place, a blade-lit glare cut through. “Elyu, you won…”
“No—say it right. You and Medith won.”
“But the fight starts now; don’t hope for an ending. As long as I breathe, the curtain won’t fall.”
He recalled the tight air of their standoff and Elyu’s unfamiliar eyes, and a winter-cold smile showed like ice under bark.
Afternoon of March 22, Paris summoned Elyu and Ostos; father and sons sat, while the room thickened like a storm before rain.
“Paris, turn back while you can, if you truly—” Elyu began, but Paris cut him off like a knife. “Your Majesty, Father, tell me—why did Uncle go mad, swell the army, and obsess over the Divine Stone?”
At Osnath’s name, Ostos’s brow knotted like a tied cord, his face dark with shadows he didn’t want to touch.
“Power makes minds slip, and power swells hunger, until the roots get ignored,” he said, voice like a whetstone.
“Strength is only a tool; without a true hand and a true direction, it turns into a demon’s claw.”
“Osnath made a grave mistake, one beyond mending; he thought mining the value of the Divine Stone and growing troops could save Eunomia, which wasn’t fatal if corrected in time.”
“But he shut his ears to the people’s laments like rain on stone, and he treated loyal counsel as thorn and bramble.”
“Those so-called Segireneto, the strongest war-band under him, even turned their spearheads on loyal ministers and common folk.”
“All this sprang from swelling power and an unsteady mind; a king leads like a helmsman, he doesn’t own like a gaoler.”
“That is why Eunomia could stand in such weather, like a tree gripping rock in wind.”
Ostos’s gaze flashed like a drawn sword, point set on Paris.
Paris’s lip curled, disdain sharp as ice. “That’s your take? Sure. It’s the tale everyone loves to hear, isn’t it?”
“Paris! What do you mean?!” Elyu jolted, horror flooding him like cold water.
Ostos’s chest heaved, his face twisted, a volcano shaking under snow.
Paris leaned in, face clouded like a coming squall. “Eunomia’s lasted without a Southern Kingdom invasion because of our famed Heavenly Edge, and the Northern Kingdom as a strong ally, hasn’t it?”
“You preach ‘the people,’ yet you stoked the forges and built the army all the same.”
“A million men—there’s your proof, a black tide rolling the plains.”
“This world is the strong devour the weak; before power, kinship, friendship, and love are paper lanterns in rain.”
“Tell me, do you still think this world has hope?”
Elyu’s mind went blank like a snuffed lamp; the words felt like walking into a net, his lips went white, his body shook.
Ostos raised a hand, asking silence; his beard trembled like dry grass in wind, and disappointment weighed in his eyes like lead.
“Paris, I know; I’ve always known,” he said, voice low as evening bells. “You’re my son, and you’re too much like me.”
“At the same age, we shouted at the world’s unfair sky; we burned with hot blood like torches, spending youth and life.”
“We tried to move mountains, and found our hands were dust and wind.”
“You and I are both motes in a small world, drifting in sunbeams.”
“I admit, the world is rotten in many corners, full of hunger, hatred, rage, violence, cruelty, and injustice, like a river muddied by storms.”
“But there is also charity, kindness, sympathy, love, and friendship, like lamps kept through the night.”
“Because of that, we work to build a better world, and every sacrifice is for tomorrow, for a brighter dawn.”
“Not for a chain of hate; we’ve learned enough hard lessons, like scars on bark.”
“Stop here. You’re still my son, and the kingdom’s prime minister; in five years, you’ll have what you want.”
Paris listened and went silent, then laughter burst out like a cracked bell, wild and rising until tears shone like rain.
Elyu’s face twisted with fear; most of Ostos’s words rushed past like wind, but that last promise nailed down Paris’s rebel intent.
Paris laughed long, then stopped; he wiped his eyes like brushing dew, and bared a smile. “Father, do you know?”
“This world was born cruel and is fated for ashes, like a winter field.”
“You think you’re a sage-emperor for the ages?”
“No. You’re mortal. As you said, we’re dust; we’re chess pieces; we’re discardable stones in a war that spans time.”
“Only if I succeed is there a hair-thin thread of hope.”
“Only me. Only I can do it,” he said, like a lone blade pointing at the sky.
“Universal unity is the only road; only by forging godhood through force can we end all this.”
“What’s mine, I’ll take back with my own hands; I don’t need alms.”
“I! Scorn it!!”
Ostos shook his head sadly, seeing him step onto Osnath’s same cliff path, his words already fraying into madness.
“Delaia—!” Elyu’s eyes burned red, and he called Delaia up to the watchtower, his order striking like iron.
“Prime Minister Paris is tired. Escort him back to the castle to rest.”
“Starting tomorrow, without my command, no going out. Recuperate in the castle.”
Delaia looked at Paris’s near-maniacal smile, then at Elyu and Ostos, and his unease hardened like frost.
He gripped Paris’s shoulder without a word, took Hippo along, and they headed for the castle as the corridor shadows stretched long.
