The ride back from Calma was long and bitter.
The once-proud banners of the capital’s army now fluttered limply behind General Vidal’s retreating column. Dust choked the air, kicked up by a hundred hooves, and silence reigned—thick, awkward, and simmering with frustration. Not even the clank of armor or the creak of saddles could soften the humiliation that hung over them.
Balder Vidal hadn’t spoken since Calma’s gates were closed in his face. His jaw was locked, his knuckles white against the reins, and his mind raced with questions he dared not ask aloud.
How had Prince Alaric done it? How had the banished prince turned a forgotten border town into a fortress? Who was helping him—and why?
Prince Alaric stood atop the Argus tower. From there, he could see the fires of Vidal’s army dwindling in the distance. A cold wind tugged at his cloak, and below, the gate buzzed with quiet activity—patrol rotations and final watch checks.
Behind him, a shadow stepped in and leaned on the high and narrow window.
"You defied a royal seal," said the woman in the crimson mantle. "You deny them entry. That could be considered treason."
Alaric didn’t turn to look at her. "They were pursuing the generals and the ex-prisoners, and I cuddled them. Definitely, I will be charged with treason."
She stepped beside him now, her eyes were very bright in the afternoon sun.
"You’ve drawn the first blade, my prince."
Prince Alaric smiled at the address.
"No," he replied. "They drew first. I simply refused to bow to it."
A long pause stretched between them. Then she asked, "Do you think Balder Vidal will go quietly?"
Alaric finally turned, his gaze hard. "No. That man is like an old wolf—wounded pride makes him twice as dangerous. He’ll crawl back to the capital and howl until someone sends him back with steel and fire."
She nodded. "Then we need to prepare. And you’ll need allies."
"I already have allies. But don’t worry. Reuben will have enough troubles of his own; he will forget about me." Alaric shifted his gaze to the east, beyond the triple peaks of Mount Ourea. "Zurik has made his move, and Estalis has started marching.
Lara glanced at the scrolls on his hand. So he came to gather information.
Alaric glanced down at the city below—his city. Stone walls, iron gates, and towers that had risen like a challenge to the capital that cast him out. He had built Calma in silence, in exile, and now it stood like a sword waiting to be drawn.
"...then we’ll face the capital with all that we have. And we will not bend."
Lara nodded in agreement.
Then she squinted her eyes and noticed that there were carriages going toward the gate.
"Did you see that? They look like merchants." She asked.
"I don’t think so. It looked like they disguised themselves to be merchants, but they are something more."
Lara was about to say something when the occupants of the carriages got off for inspection.
Then her heart skipped a bit. A boy about nine years old with dark hair that stopped right below his ears got off the carriage.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face as he looked at the gate. Then his gaze trailed upwards and it stopped to meet the gaze of brown orbs.
"Oh, heavens!’ Lara exclaimed.
Meanwhile, Balder Vidal’s journey back from Calma stretched on, each mile dragging like a heavy burden. They paused in each town along the way, taking brief respites that felt far too fleeting. As they traveled, it became clear that the towns nearest to Calma radiated a certain vibrancy and prosperity, their bustling streets alive with activity and the warm glow of thriving businesses. The air was filled with the sounds of laughter and the tantalizing aromas of fresh food, creating a striking contrast to the desolation that lay further afield.
They stopped briefly at a stream near dusk. As the soldiers watered their horses, Vidal stepped away and pulled a sealed scroll from a leather case strapped to his saddle. It bore the sigil of Lord Malik—the man who was supposed to be watching Calma.
He opened it again, reading the brief, dismissive words for the third time:
"Calma remains quiet. No unusual activities reported. Prince Alaric continues to honor his oath of exile. —M."
Lies. Or incompetence. Perhaps both. He guessed that Malik had underestimated Alaric and Calma.
Vidal crumpled the scroll and threw it into the stream.
His deputy approached quietly. "Shall I send a raven to the capital, General?"
Vidal didn’t answer at first. Then, with slow deliberation, he turned. "No. I’ll deliver the message myself. If I write to the crown prince, Malik’s allies will intercept it—and bury it."
In reality, he sought glory for himself. He would deliver the news on the transformation of Calma and warn the prince. Then the crown prince would honor him.
He looked out across the horizon, where the last golden rays of light painted the hills in blood.
"No," he said, voice low and sharp. "This needs to be heard in person."
In the Capital — Two Days Later
Prince Reuben read the report in silence. His fists were clenched and she gritted her teeth.
He was seated in the council chamber—an oval hall lined with crimson banners and marble statues of dead kings. The candlelight flickered across his face, hiding the fury behind his calm exterior.
Lord Malik sat across from him, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
"Your Highness," Malik said carefully, "I can assure you, the prince’s activities were not reported because—because they were not known. Calma is far from the center. It was supposed to be a place of quiet exile, not—"
"A fortress," the prince interrupted, folding the parchment.
Malik swallowed. "Perhaps... we should summon Prince Alaric back to court. For questioning. Before rumors begin to spread."
The prince tapped his ring against the table, thinking.
"Summon him?" Reuben said slowly. "If I summon him, I show that I see him as a threat."
He stood, casting a long shadow across the chamber.
"No. Let us observe a little longer."