After yet another frustrating court session, Dakota stormed out of the council chamber, his boots striking the polished stone floors like war drums. His face was etched with disappointment, his jaw clenched as though holding back words too sharp to utter before the crown prince’s advisers.
He had warned them—again—that Estalis and Zura were planning a direct strike on the capital. But Reuben’s inner circle had scoffed, dismissing his suspicions as paranoia.
Instead, they insisted on fortifying Fereya and the northeastern borders of Alta-Sierra, as if guarding distant walls could save the heart of the realm.
Dakota felt the weight of their ignorance like chains around his chest. With a grim resolve, he turned away from the palace hall and made his way to Astrid’s chambers, where Heimdal, the once-mighty king, lay confined.
When Dakota stepped inside, the sight before him cut deeper than any sword. Heimdal was a shadow of the ruler he had been just a year ago. His once broad, commanding frame had withered, his skin pale and drawn tight against his bones. Deep creases lined his forehead, and his hair—once as dark as raven feathers—had faded into a brittle gray.
The king who had once led armies now looked like a man already half-swallowed by death.
The royal physicians, baffled, muttered endlessly about unknown ailments that struck the king. But Dakota knew the truth. He could see it in the way Heimdal’s legs lay lifeless beneath the sheets. This was no natural sickness—it was poison. The kind that left no trace, that hollowed a man’s strength until even standing became just a memory.
Dakota’s eyes burned red with unspoken grief as he lowered himself onto the chair beside Heimdal’s bed. The sight of the once-mighty king lying frail beneath the silken sheets wrenched something deep within him. He leaned forward, his voice soft and tender, almost reverent.
"How are you, my dear nephew?" He asked, his voice had a slight tremor despite his self-control.
Heimdal attempted a smile, but it was hollow, the kind that never reached his tired, clouded eyes. "Half-dead, I suppose," he murmured, his voice little more than a whisper. The words hung heavy in the chamber, and for a moment, silence reigned between them, broken only by the occasional crackle of his coughs.
At last, Heimdal’s eyes flickered with curiosity, a remnant of the keen ruler he once was. "I heard that Connor visited Calma... and has returned," he said with visible effort, each syllable sounding as though it cost him breath.
"Drink this first," Dakota said gently, reaching for a small wooden box which his loyal servant placed on the bedside table. He withdrew a green pill and placed it carefully into the king’s trembling hand, signaling a servant to bring water.
Heimdal obeyed without protest, swallowing the pill. A faint, minty coolness spread down his throat, and for the first time in days, he exhaled with a slight sense of relief.
"This was concocted by Lara Norse, Alaric’s betrothed." Dakota explained, his tone earnest. "She believes it will strengthen your immune system and purge any lingering toxins." Dakota held the box, its scent faintly herbal, and handed it to Mariam, Alderan’s mother—the woman who had served the king faithfully for over a year.
"Give him one of these each day," Dakota instructed firmly, his gaze locking with hers. "By the way, thank you for taking care of him all this time, Mariam."
"It is my duty, Your Grace." Mariam replied tenderly. She was the embodiment of a submissive and virtuous wife.
King Heimdal dismissed her and the servants with a simple wave of his hand.
When they were alone, Heimdal’s eyes softened, though they still carried the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts. "How is Alaric?" he asked, his tone laced with quiet hope.
Dakota’s face broke into a rare, weathered smile. "Connor says he is building his own kingdom in the south. A fortress city—stronger, grander, and more prosperous than Northem itself. That boy..." he chuckled, shaking his head, "...that brat is doing better than we ever dreamed."
For the first time in many months, a genuine smile touched Heimdal’s lips. It transformed his tired face, if only for a heartbeat, into the man he used to be—the king who had once commanded legions and inspired loyalty with nothing but his presence.
As Dakota left the chamber, lost in thought, he nearly collided with someone at the corridor’s bend. He frowned.
She stood before him like a storm contained in human form. Her once soft gaze had hardened, her eyes burning with a fierceness that unsettled him.
"I’m sorry, Uncle. I didn’t see you," she said, her tone carefully measured. "Did you come to see my husband?"
"Yes," Dakota replied, his sharp eyes studying her every movement. "I feel sorry for what befell him"
"Yeah. His sickness is a mystery to us." she said with a dismissive shrug. "His legs are weak. He cannot stand." A faint bitterness laced her words. "What I cannot understand is why he still insists on staying in that godforsaken place."
Dakota paused, his gaze heavy and probing. "Didn’t you know the reason?"
Helga’s lips pressed together, as if holding back words, and she turned to leave.
"Helga," Dakota’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Why did you do it?" His tone carried accusation, unflinching. "He named Reuben as his heir, yet you still harmed your husband."
Helga stopped in her tracks. For a moment, her composure faltered—her foot caught on the hem of her gown, and she almost stumbled. But then, like steel reforged in fire, she turned, her eyes blazing.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about, Uncle," she said, her voice sharp with venom. "But you should be careful with your words. Even a prince can be sued for defamation. Your noble title as the Grand Duke of Arches would not be able to save you."
Dakota only chuckled, but it was not a laugh of humor—it was hollow, bitter.
"You should not have been impatient," he said slowly, his voice low and grave.
"Reuben is still too young, too green to face what’s coming. I tell you this—now that the Norse generals are gone, Northem will face its greatest trial. And I hope, for your son’s sake... for all our sakes..." His voice faltered, tinged with sadness, "...that Northem survives."