Chapter 12 — A King's Warning
Location: Royal Residence near the Central Arena
The temporary royal residence was situated near the Central Arena.
Royal guards were stationed outside, patrolling at regular intervals, their presence quiet but disciplined. This was not a place meant for comfort—it was secured, monitored, and prepared solely for the King's stay.
Inside, the room was calm.
Near the entrance stood a single man.
Sir Gerald Hawk.
His gray hair was kept short, streaked with white at the temples, and a long scar traced diagonally across his cheek—an old wound, cleanly healed. He wore well-maintained royal armor, polished but not ornamental, with the royal crest engraved into the chestplate. Despite the scar and his stern expression, there was no denying he was a handsome man, his bearing disciplined and dignified.
Gerald was the current Knight Commander of the Royal Army, a veteran of countless campaigns. In strength alone, he stood at the peak of SS-rank, and among the royal guards, none questioned his authority.
His eyes remained forward, alert, guarding both the room and those within it.
At the sitting area near the window, two figures shared tea.
One was the King.
King Reinhardt Valenor
He appeared to be in his early forties, with the signature blond hair of the royal family—though time had dulled its brightness, lending it a more subdued, mature tone. His eyes were sharp, the eyes of a ruler who had spent decades weighing decisions that shaped the fate of a nation.
Yet, when he looked across the table—
That sharpness softened.
He wore ceremonial royal robes, deep navy trimmed with gold thread, and beside his chair rested a ceremonial sword—symbolic now, but once wielded in earnest during his youth. Few remembered that the King himself had once walked the path of an adventurer, reaching the mid SS-rank before taking the throne.
Across from him sat his youngest daughter.
The Third Princess.
Princess Iris Valenor
She could not have been older than thirteen.
Her face still carried a childlike softness—one that instinctively drew protectiveness from those around her—yet there was no denying her beauty. Her eyes were a clear, gentle blue, bright with curiosity, and her hair was a pale blond, almost white in the light, carrying a soft luster rather than the sharp gleam common among the royal line.
She wore a soft blue dress, accented with silver embroidery—chosen carefully to complement her hair and eyes rather than overwhelm them. The fabric moved lightly when she shifted, elegant yet appropriate for her age.
She held her teacup with both hands, listening as her father spoke, occasionally nodding or smiling in response.
"Lucas should have arrived by now," King Reinhardt said mildly, setting his cup down.
The princess tilted her head slightly.
"He's probably just running late again," she replied softly, her tone innocent, unconcerned.
The King chuckled.
"…That does sound like him."
Despite the calm moment, there was an unspoken tension in the room.
They were waiting.
Waiting for the Second Prince.
Waiting to depart for the VIP seating at the Central Arena, where nobles, guild leaders, and powerful figures from across the continent would soon gather.
Their conversation was interrupted by a knock.
Gerald turned immediately and opened the door. A royal soldier stood outside, posture rigid.
"Sir Gerald," the soldier said, saluting sharply. "The Second Prince has arrived."
Reinhardt looked up from his tea.
"Guide him here."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The soldier saluted again and withdrew.
A short while later, Lucas Aureth Valenor entered the room.
His posture was still arrogant by nature, but tempered—carefully controlled. Even Lucas knew better than to test his father openly. He stepped forward and bowed, just deep enough to be acceptable.
"Father."
Reinhardt acknowledged him with a nod.
Iris stood from her seat and offered her brother a polite smile.
"Welcome, Brother."
Lucas's gaze flicked to her.
For a split second, his eyes lingered too long—tracing the gentle lines of her figure, the soft glow of her pale hair. The look was unmistakable.
Lust.
Then he caught himself.
His expression snapped back into place, his posture straightening as if nothing had happened. He knew better than to let that be seen. If his father noticed even a hint of it, there would be consequences he could not escape.
Reinhardt set his teacup down.
"We'll be departing shortly," he said. "The VIP guests from neighboring empires have already entered the city. Representatives from three Guardian families are expected at the guest residence near the Arena."
Lucas nodded silently.
Then, His eyes sharpened slightly.
"And before we leave, there is something we need to address."
Lucas stiffened.
"I've received reports from the guards stationed in the market," Reinhardt continued calmly. "I believe I made myself clear before today began."
Lucas exhaled slowly.
"I was only trying to speak with Lady Claire," he said. "She was the one who escalated things."
Reinhardt's gaze hardened.
"That is irrelevant."
"I told you not to interact with Cecil Ashborn's granddaughter," he said. "You ignored that warning once before and caused an incident that brought shame upon this family."
"Do not make it worse," the King continued. "Today, we are receiving important guests. Any disturbance—any scandal—reflects on the crown itself."
Lucas lowered his head and clenched his jaw.
"I didn't do anything wrong," Lucas snapped. "She treats me like I'm beneath her—"
"Enough."
The word carried weight.
Reinhardt leaned forward slightly.
Lucas lowered his head, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his fury.
"You continue this behavior because you resent Cecil Ashborn," the King said. "Because she dismissed your proposal and refused to offer her granddaughter as your bride."
Lucas's lips twitched.
"What's so special about her?" he muttered. "She's just an old woman sitting in a chair—"
"That's not true."
Iris spoke, this time.
Her voice was quiet, but firm.
Lucas turned toward her, startled.
"Please don't speak ill of Lady Cecil," Iris said. "She isn't just an old woman sitting in a chair."
She met his gaze without flinching.
"She's a hero. During the Age of Calamity, a Calamity-class monster reached the capital. If Lady Cecil and the others hadn't stopped it, none of us would be here."
Lucas scoffed.
"You idolize her too much—"
"That's enough."
Reinhardt's voice cut through the room like steel.
"This discussion ends here."
Lucas froze.
"You will not approach Claire Ashborn again," the King said. "And you will not provoke Cecil Ashborn."
His eyes narrowed.
"I will speak with Cecil personally and attempt to calm the situation."
A pause.
"I expect both of you to behave appropriately today. We have guests whose attention we cannot afford to lose."
"…Understood," Iris said immediately.
"…Yes, Father," Lucas replied—his voice tight, restrained.
Inside, he was seething.
Claire Ashborn…
His fist clenched so hard his knuckles turned white.
Reinhardt noticed.
He said nothing and sighed.
Instead, he turned to Gerald.
"Prepare the carriage," the King ordered. "And inform the ministers that all preparations must be finalized."
Gerald bowed once.
"Understood."
He left the room.
Reinhardt returned to his seat and lifted his teacup again. Iris sat beside him. Lucas took the opposite seat in silence.
After a moment, Iris spoke softly.
"Father… do you think the Champion of the Dragon and Pegasus will appear this time?"
Reinhardt paused.
His gaze drifted—past the walls, past the city—to where the Shrine stood in the distance.
"I don't know," he said quietly. "Even now… I regret not standing beside the previous Champion."
His grip tightened around the cup.
"I chose my crown over what was right."
Iris lowered her eyes.
She lifted her teacup, hiding her expression—but her thoughts wandered elsewhere.
Silver hair.
White, angel-like wings.
Strong arms holding her safely as the world burned around them.
I wish I could meet him again…
She didn't know it yet—
But her wish was closer to reality than she imagined.