The ride home was smooth as silk, the distance closing at a breathtaking speed. The cart was enchanted—far beyond what the Prince had realized. If not for the memory of the rough, common carts, he might have assumed all travel was such luxury.
"You did nothing wrong, my lord," Yarla said from his side, even as she wrote reports spinning their delay into something noble—justifications, excuses, careful phrasings. It sickened him to hear those words. They were no comfort. He could see the lie clearly.
Worse, he could see her clear belief in them. That made it hollow.
The royal retainer sitting across from them watched with indifference, nodding when the Prince gave him a look but offering nothing unless asked. His duty was to retrieve the Prince, nothing more.
So this is my time for judgment, the Prince thought. I'll be shackled and presented to my father to face my shame. I let my ego push beyond what was allowed, threatened innocent lives for personal gain.
He hoped he could at least plead his case for leniency. He didn't mind judgment, but a chance at redemption... that he hoped for, if his father had any mercy left.
Passing through the castle gate into the capital, he was surprised. Word seemed to have spread of his arrival—random people cheered, trying to peer inside the cart. Or perhaps it was just the idea of someone famous entering. They stirred with pride, wanting to welcome whoever was within.
If only they knew the real beast inside...
"Looks like they're happy to see you, my lord. You should feel honored," Yarla offered.
A mild grunt was all he could muster, torn between words he'd regret and accepting that she cared. From the corner of his eye, he saw her still writing. She hadn't waited for a reply. He settled on worrying about facing his father instead.
Inside the castle walls was a familiar sight he'd somehow forgotten. Rows of servants lined up, waiting. At first, he assumed it was to stop him if he tried to run. But as he passed, each repeated the same phrase—"Welcome home, my lord"—and he lost that belief.
Yarla shifted to shadows and went ahead to clear the way with the necessary reports. The Prince braced for the demand to see his father post-haste, to face his reckoning.
A servant approached. He braced for the words he knew he'd hear.
"Are you hungry, my lord? Or shall I prepare a bath before you eat?"
"Um... what?" He couldn't help but ask, unsure how to respond. The servant's face morphed into concern—not fear of the beast they should fear.
"Forgive me, my lord. It was foolish to ask. Of course you wish to bathe. Your meal will be waiting when you return."
He nodded meekly. Everywhere he looked, heads were already bowed, waiting to see if he needed more.
Ah. They want a clean, well-fed man presented to Father—make sure I can't claim mistreatment before judgment.
Clever.
They'll show I was well cared for, to prove how I SHOULD have treated others. A lesson in humility before the sentencing.
He held his head high with pride as they led him through the usual rituals, not letting them see his shame. He would not give them more ammunition to use against him.
It was an odd contrast. Every corner, every turn, another servant was there, caring for his needs. He'd forgotten how much they did for him after two weeks of fending for himself. Yet before his hand could reach for anything, it was already there. Before he could ask, things were offered.
The inn's food had been high quality—dare he say, a challenge even to palace fare. The herbs those beastkin used were handled skillfully, worthy of praise. But the meal was an afterthought now, the fussing over his looks finally settling as they reached the heart of the matter: meeting his father.
He knew the delay was a brilliant tactic—his judgment would come when they were ready, not him. It was fine. He was ready. Leena had shown him what a hero was. He could show a little more humility and accept his fate.
They beckoned him to the throne room, where he was welcomed with endless praise at his return. The massive doors stood open to the throne itself. None would openly challenge his father, even without him present—and without the hidden second weapon made for war, Tanya, his last true assassin, who roamed the lands scouting in his name, deeming the palace guard sufficient.
No, his father's true enemy was here now, openly mocking the peace he'd brought to the kingdom by demanding heroes bow as if they were objects to amuse his whims.
His father was casually talking with Yarla, too far to hear. But the smile on his face as he saw the Prince spoke clearly—Yarla's lies and excuses weren't enough. Judgment was near.
He approached the throne and knelt, refusing to look up at the judgment that would come.
"I'm glad you made it home safely, son. I do have a matter that needs settling."
Here it is. Remember, you brought this on yourself.
"We're trying to train a new set of recruits for the elite guard, but I fear the captain can't pick a favorite among them. We need to see if any stand out for promotion to lieutenant. I thought you might test your mettle against them."
The Prince looked up, confused. What?
The king saw his face and made his intent clear. "I won't force you, of course. I just thought you'd be happy to test your skills in a friendly spar. I heard you were looking for duels—that frustration was made clear—so I wanted to offer you more chances to train here."
No judgment? Just... accepting my actions as "looking for duels"? Nothing more?
He nodded meekly, unable to say no.
"Splendid. Yarla had the idea, I confess. I was busy with other matters and didn't notice you felt burdened by a need for an outlet. Feel free to speak up if you have needs, son. We don't mind accommodating you."
Accommodating it? Everything he'd done to force others was just an unmet need they would see filled? No judgment?
No. This was worse.
This was the truth.
He was always loved. Always given. Always... right.
The days kept passing in a blur—one melting into the next without distinction. It was as if he'd never left. Everything that happened before felt like a bad dream. He was always loved, always respected, and never wanted for anything.
Except the one thing he hadn't known he wanted: someone to listen.
Oh, they listened to him here. They listened to the point it sickened him. Every response was the same when he tried to explain his shame.
"Nonsense, my lord. They pushed you." "I understand, Prince. They forced your hand." "Please, my lord, understand commoners lack insight. It's why they are beneath you." "Even heroes can be wrong, my lord. It's why you are the Prince, not them."
Not one said he was wrong. Not one challenged his view. And if it were any other time, he would've laughed and joined them. But now he knew clearly what he really felt:
I hate my life.
Perhaps that was dramatic. Shameful to admit, even to himself. He did love the attention, the met needs, the effortless luxury.
He just... wished someone would tell him "no." And mean it.
He made sure to thank the servants more, which was always met with surprise—entertaining at first, then just more praise he didn't like.
He was finally given some free time as the days kept passing in that blur. He was allowed a dungeon dive, a pastime he'd once relished. Now it felt somber. After facing Leena, he had a better understanding of his limits—and why he'd never felt them before.
He was always offense—a duelist, even in chaotic battles, relying on flowing form and quick strikes, his water mana healing minor cuts and renewing his stamina to outlast beasts or challengers.
Except for Leena. The way she conserved her strength, challenged his every move with such skill... He wished he could train with her. Or, gods, even her master. He'd love to know what her training regimen was. It had to be brutal to match him.
Flowing through the dungeon's depths was a breeze. Each floor passed with indifference until he reached an old milestone: Level 7. The creatures here were interesting—the dungeon tried a swarm of weaker monsters to overwhelm him, but they fell easily. With little effort, he debated ending it there.
Yet the need to feel something different pushed him deeper.
Level 8.
The realm was odd. Everything was a crystalline blue, shining with a soft glow. It likely had value, but the exact worth was lost on him. He sensed something deeper, watching him, yet saw nothing.
He walked gently on the crystal floor, a light tapping sound his only companion. The only other objects were his mirror-like reflections on some surfaces, while others remained blank—strange. But something else drew his focus deeper in.
As he progressed, he saw what looked like a golem made of crystals—just another part of the scenery, were it not for the glowing blue eyes, a slight tint brighter than all the other blue in the air.
It did not move toward him. Instead, it looked at one of his mirror reflections. He almost pitied the poor beast, unaware he wasn't really there, as it pulled back its fist and struck the image, shattering the crystal.
He wanted to laugh at the absurdity.
Instead, he nearly vomited as an unseen fist slammed into his stomach, knocking him backward. He tried to recenter himself, swinging his sword at the air where he'd been struck, sending water blades flying in disks at different levels. All strikes met only air.
He risked a glance. The same golem stood in the distance, watching him passively, not moving, not seeming to care.
As he tried to catch his breath—more stunned than hurt—he finally saw the golem moving, slow as molasses. But the sting of that hidden fist still hung heavy as he tried to sense movement. Random, thumping steps carried it toward a different crystal, farther from where he stood—one that now mirrored the Prince's own uncertainty.
It was odd. It wasn't even looking at him, but at a random reflection of him as it wound up its fist. A cold fear clenched his stomach. Was it really doing what he thought?
He shifted his blade to block as his mirror image mimicked the action. The fist slammed into the crystal, and a moment later, an identical fist appeared and smashed into his sword, shattering it.
Well, it wasn't one of his better blades—he'd rushed here undergeared, lost in his mood. With focus, he drew upon his mana and formed his water blade easily enough. He wasn't sure if it could slice crystal. He'd never know if he didn't try.
The golem passively watched as he rushed forward, slicing three times to its indifference. It was like striking air, even though it was mere feet before him. The golem turned to find another of his reflections.
Mounting dread filled him. He had never fought something he could not strike, something that ignored him in the fight.
But not his reflections.
He watched, amazed, as it slowly moved toward another image. He tried swinging as the golem wound up a strike. Confusion met him—he could see around the golem, and it did not appear in the reflection, even as it stood mere feet before his mirrored self. He dodged as the fist smashed the crystal, and he felt the shift of air from the miss.
Everywhere he looked seemed to be a reflection of him, showing the same panic he tried to hide. An unknown level of fear was creeping in. He had never run from a fight before. He could now—but in doing so, it would be proof he wasn't a kingdom-level weapon.
He was a failure.
He was no hero.
If Leena were here, she would defend the strikes and learn a way to counter. She would watch and observe where he floundered...
So what is he missing?
He calmed, even as the golem slow-walked to another image. From here, he ignored it, seeking something more.
There.
In the distance, a sole image of the golem walked in place—its own reflection in a large, clear crystal.
He tested his theory, hoping for the best, and rushed forward, thrusting his blade deep into that crystal. It cracked, crumbling as if made of ash. His strike showed how fragile it was—not true crystal, but a form of glass? He wasn't sure.
He risked a look. The calm golem now had a mark on its form, and its eyes glowed brighter.
He smiled. "Don't like that, do you?" he mocked, knowing its trick.
Yet a blur that defied his eyes rushed toward a distant image of his shocked face and smashed the glass, knocking him back with shattered ribs before he could think to counter.
Coughing blood as the ribs mended slowly, he was reminded of a pain he'd long since forgotten from his early days learning to fight—before he was too fast and tireless to be challenged.
Now he faced something that could not tire and had endurance to match. He risked a glance for more golem reflections and saw only his own, as another distant smash heralded his incoming fate.
He rolled, avoiding the blow, and heard another soon after.
Tsk.
It seemed the golem had relied on his ignorance before to get easy strikes. The smashing and dodging did not stop. He kept watching as his form randomly appeared and a blue blur would target it.
Focusing as best he could between letting momentum carry him forward, he finally saw in the distance the sight he wanted: running in place and smashing air was a new image of the golem. He flowed closer to the mirror he sought.
He arced his blade into a deep slash and heard another satisfying crack. The golem was kneeling now, a deep gouge in its back.
He wanted to pity the thing. It fought well. But it had struck first with intent to kill, so he must show the same.
He saw the kneeling form mirrored in the distance and started to move toward it when the golem did an odd thing—it smashed downward at the image on the ground.
And he felt his leg shatter. He glanced through the pain to see fragmented floor near the golem, still kneeling. It seemed his reflection could be struck in the ground, too.
He focused, trying to ignore the slowly mending pain, and threw a water disk at the golem's mirrored head. It flowed through too easily, and he feared it was an illusion—until the crystal's top half fell and he heard the golem shatter, too.
Now, in the silence with only his own heavy breathing for noise, he heard it: a sound like wind chimes, a gentle melody after a brief respite. He lifted his tired form and found the golem's remains. Kicking at the pieces, he was surprised he could touch them were before they were like air.
Among the crystal fragments was a gem—Level Seven Wind. A rare one, but nothing a team could not farm if serious enough. For a solo prize, however, it was a fine one indeed.
He decided after this he would train with the guards—partly to help pick a new lieutenant and aid the captain, but also to learn a little more humility. He had been assuming for too long that he knew the truth.
Back at the castle, he received endless praise for his valor and ingenuity in besting the golem. But he felt that if he were as clever as they believed, he would never have been touched.
The remainder of the day was boring meetings. After a few of those—on foreign affairs, trade routes, minor disputes—he was finally free for the night.
It would be his last act before moving forward: to try and apologize to Leena, and let it go. He would say his peace, share his regrets, and leave it at that. He would be king one day, so he would be the king they needed—not force them to be the people he wanted.
He sat at his desk, quill in hand, staring at blank parchment.
How do you apologize for something you didn't know was wrong?
He started writing.
Lady Leena,
I apologize if my presence caused discomfort. I meant only to—
He stopped. Read it. Crumpled the page.
That wasn't an apology. That was minimizing. "If my presence caused discomfort"—as if it MIGHT not have. As if there was doubt. She'd made it clear. There was no "if."
He started again.
Lady Leena,
I was raised to believe persistence was strength. I didn't understand that—
He stopped again. Crumpled it.
She didn't care about his upbringing. She cared that he'd hurt her. Explaining WHY he was wrong wasn't the same as admitting he WAS wrong. It was just another excuse.
Third attempt. He took a breath and started fresh.
Hello, Hero Leena,
I fear addressing you as anything less would be an insult, yet I now know the title carries a burden I could not bear. I regret how I addressed your fellow heroes, who stood and fought beside you, and I apologize.
If you're still reading, or have not just torn this up—I'm not trying to worm my way back. I regret only that I now see the folly in my actions. I seek not forgiveness, merely understanding: I had no ill intent.
I know now I felt trapped and saw you all as an escape. Instead of learning and growing, I demanded you become what I wanted. Ironically, I was no different than anyone else who sought you—but as the Prince, I was supposed to be better than that.
I did hide who I was, but only for a chance to be equal. You showed me that, as an equal, I was unworthy of being seen as such. So now, I will try to be better.
I guess the long, drawn-out point is: thank you for being the hero, and for showing me what it means to be one. I hope one day I can be more like that.
Sincerely, Prince Rylan of the Kingdom of Dragon Keep
He laid down the quill and stared at the letter for a long moment. It wasn't perfect. It probably wasn't enough. But it was honest.
He would mail it tomorrow and move on. Maybe Leena already had—that's why she'd ignored him so easily.
It didn't matter. This was for him. And with this, he would try to be better.
With that, the Prince went to sleep and, for the first time, dreamed of something he did not know he wished to keep:
A friend.89Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkIHdGe75DJ
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