Valdemar sighed, the sound echoing through the grand throne room, a heavy exhalation that carried the weight of his responsibilities. He leaned back into his throne, his expression serious, his sharp gaze sweeping across the assembled council members. The silence in the room was thick, pregnant with unspoken questions and the lingering weight of his recent pronouncements.
"Now, do you understand?" His voice was quiet, yet it carried the weight of finality.
The council members exchanged glances. Some lowered their eyes, chastened; others clenched their jaws.
Macron, raised a trembling hand. His silver beard, usually well-kept, was frayed at the edges, as though he had been tugging at it in contemplation. Valdemar nodded once, granting him leave to speak.
"My liege," Macron began, his voice rasping with age, "I must beg forgiveness for my earlier doubts." His fingers twisted in his beard again, a nervous habit. "To think that Lord Areion, a child of only six years, could carry himself with such… such presence." He shook his head, marveling. "It is nothing short of a miracle unfolding before our eyes," he continued, his voice gaining strength, infused with a sense of awe. "Lord Areion was born merely six years ago, yet he stands before us with the body of a teenager. But it is not his accelerated growth that astounds me—it is his mind. His words, his gaze… they are nothing like those of an ordinary child. He possesses a depth of understanding, a quiet wisdom, that defies his apparent age our ignorance towards time flow in different dimensions is something we should work on."
A murmur rippled through the council. Some nodded in agreement; others frowned, still grappling with the impossibility of it.
Lucian, standing at the king's right hand, remained still as marble. His expression betrayed nothing, but his fingers tightened imperceptibly around the hilt of his sword. When Macron's gaze flicked to him, Lucian merely inclined his head.
"My humble apologies, Sire Lucian, but… you were oblivious to many things. Lord Areion, however, possesses an awareness far beyond his years—almost as if he were an adult trapped in a youthful form."
Lucian, however, remained unaffected by the remark. His expression remained calm, his gaze steady, his voice devoid of any hint of defensiveness. "I'm well aware, Sire Macron," he replied, his voice calm and authoritative. "I understood that long ago. That is precisely why I have full confidence that Areion will bring honor to our kingdom and thrive in the Order of Odysseus."
A chuckle broke the tension—Caius snorted before quickly schooling his features. But the flicker of resentment in his eyes had not gone unnoticed.
Macron, oblivious, stroked his beard again. "All thanks to Her Highness," he murmured, almost reverently.
At his words, Caius subtly turned his face away, a flicker of something unreadable, perhaps resentment, flashing in his eyes. However, no one seemed to notice the small shift in his demeanor—except Lucian. But Lucian, ever the master of composure, showed no outward reaction, choosing instead to continue the conversation with Macron as if nothing had changed.
Valdemar leaned forward, his piercing gaze sweeping over them all. "Enough speculation. Areion's path is set. Now lets discuss about the case you presenting."
One noble raise his hand expecting audience, valdemar nods allowing him to speak, "My lord, it's related to royal library."
.
The moment the throne room doors closed behind them, Romona exhaled as if she'd been holding her breath for hours. The weight of the council's scrutiny had been suffocating.
Beside her, Areion walked. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting fractured colors across his face—gold, crimson, emerald—each hue catching in his piercing eyes.
Romona stole glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking.
He doesn't even seem real, she thought.
At six years old, he stood taller than most grown men, his frame lean but corded with the promise of future strength. His hair, golden as sunlight, fell in loose waves past his shoulders, and his features were sharp—elfin, regal. But it was his eyes that unsettled her the most. They were too knowing, too old.
"You're staring," Areion said without turning.
Romona nearly tripped. "I—I wasn't—", Romona, startled, quickly looked away, her cheeks flushing crimson. "I… I was just admiring the architecture, Your Highness," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.
A smirk tugged at his lips. "It's all right. I'm used to it."
She swallowed hard. "Apologies, Your Highness."
A small smile touched Areion's lips, a hint of amusement dancing in his emerald eyes. "You don't have to be so formal, Romona. Just call me Areion."
Romona's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. "But… but Your Highness…"
He chuckled, a low, melodic sound that sent a shiver down Romona's spine. "Please, no formalities. I'm not your king yet."
Romona, feeling a surge of relief mixed with a strange, unfamiliar warmth, nodded. "Areion… it is… it is as you say, the architecture is… magnificent."
Areion smiled, his gaze sweeping across the vaulted ceilings and intricate tapestries that adorned the hallway. "Indeed. This palace holds a thousand years of history within its walls. Every stone, every carving, has a story of it's own." He paused, his expression turning thoughtful, his gaze shifting back to Romona. "Tell me, Romona, what do you think of the Order of Odysseus?"
Romona, taken aback by his sudden question, hesitated, her mind scrambling for an appropriate response. "It is… renowned, Your Highness. The most prestigious institution of its kind."
"Renowned, yes," Areion mused, his gaze distant, as if lost in thought. "But also challenging. A crucible, they say. Are you… are you nervous for me?"
Romona hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. She had never been so close to royalty, so intimately involved in their lives. She finally admitted, "A little. But mostly excited to see how it goes, and either way I'll be on your side even in the institute."
Areion nodded understandingly, a hint of gratitude in his eyes. "I understand. It will be an adventure."
He turned to her, his crimson eyes twinkling mischievously, a playful glint that belied the gravity of their conversation. "Perhaps we could spar sometime, Romona. See if you can keep up with me."
Romona's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. "Spar? With you, Your Highness?"
Areion grinned, a flash of boyish charm that transformed his regal demeanor. "Why not? I could use the practice. And it would be… interesting, to see how you fare."
Romona, despite her initial apprehension, felt a surge of excitement, a thrill that chased away her lingering nervousness. Sparring with an elf prince, It was an opportunity she couldn't pass up, a chance to test her own skills against someone who possessed a power far beyond her own. A small, almost hesitant smile touched her lips. "I would be honored, Your Highness."
As they continued down the corridor, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble floor, Romona couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation, a thrilling uncertainty about the future.