Chapter 13 — The Uneasy Stillness
POV: Near Western gate
Five carriages moved through the heart of the city in measured formation.
Their wheels rolled steadily over the stone streets, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. Shopkeepers paused mid-sale, citizens leaned from windows and doorways, and conversations softened as the procession passed.
Knights of Aurethia rode alongside them in disciplined formation, their polished armor marked with the imperial crest. Interspersed among them were foreign escorts—Westermark knights draped in deep green cloaks and Thalassarian guards clad in ocean-blue steel.
These were the delegates of allied kingdoms.
---
At the head of the procession rode the first carriage, guarded more heavily than the rest.
Inside sat the Guild Master of Westermark—a seasoned veteran whose name alone carried weight among adventurers. Broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, he had personally taken responsibility for escorting the delegation, a clear signal of how seriously Westermark viewed this visit.
His presence ensured that no threat—political or otherwise—would be taken lightly.
---
The second carriage carried King Aldric of Westermark.
A man in his early forties, Aldric bore the calm confidence of a ruler who had earned his crown rather than inherited it lightly. His dark blond hair was streaked faintly with silver, and his steady gaze reflected years of battlefield command before he ever sat upon a throne.
Across from him sat his daughter—
Princess Selene of Westermark.
Young and lively, Selene's presence filled the carriage with energy. Her silver-gold hair was tied loosely behind her shoulders, and her eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement. Unlike many noble daughters, she carried herself without arrogance—more eager than entitled.
"Iris will be there already, won't she?" Selene asked brightly. "She promised she'd sit with me this time."
King Aldric smiled faintly. "I'm sure she will. Just remember—this is still a formal event."
Selene nodded, enthusiasm undimmed.
---
The third carriage was silent.
Inside sat Prince Rowan of Westermark, the eldest son.
Tall, sharp-featured, and perpetually scowling, Rowan carried himself with the entitlement of someone who believed the crown should have been his by right. His gaze remained fixed on the window, jaw clenched, resentment simmering just beneath the surface.
Across from him sat Crown Prince Cedric of Westermark.
Younger by a year, Cedric lacked his brother's hostility—but not his presence. Calm, observant, and deliberate, he was the chosen heir not by birth order, but by merit. His expression was neutral, his posture composed, a stark contrast to Rowan's barely restrained bitterness.
Neither spoke.
The silence between them said enough.
---
The fourth carriage rode smoothly behind them.
Inside sat Crown Prince Kaelen of Thalassar.
Broad-shouldered and disciplined, Kaelen possessed the quiet authority of a man accustomed to responsibility. His short dark hair was neatly kept, and the faint scars along his hands spoke of years spent training rather than ruling from comfort.
Across from him lounged his sister—
Princess Seraphina of Thalassar.
Seventeen and unmistakably martial in spirit, Seraphina's athletic build and sharp eyes marked her as a battle enthusiast long before her tomboy demeanor did. Though undeniably beautiful, she carried herself like a warrior rather than a court lady.
"You remember what I said," Kaelen spoke calmly, without opening his eyes."No unnecessary fights."
Seraphina huffed."I know."
"And no provoking nobles."
She turned away, expression clearly unconvinced.
Kaelen sighed quietly but said nothing further. He had already learned that repeating himself would change nothing.
---
The final carriage brought up the rear.
Heavily reinforced, it carried no passengers—only ceremonial gifts from both kingdoms. Chests bearing the sigils of Westermark and Thalassar were secured within, filled with tributes meant for the Aurethian royal family.
Gestures of alliance and expectation.
The carriages continued onward, escorted steadily toward the Arena.
Inside the city, everything moved according to schedule—guards in formation, officials in place, and crowds watching in quiet anticipation.
But far from the capital's streets and gathering spectators, the kingdom faced a different reality.
---
POV: Northern Border — Aurethian Forward Camp
The northern plains were bright under the afternoon sun.
Rows of tents stretched across the open ground in precise formation. Banners bearing the crest of the Kingdom of Aurethia fluttered steadily in the wind, visible from far across the plains.
Soldiers moved throughout the camp in constant motion.
Some stood watch along the perimeter, eyes scanning the horizon without rest. Others gathered near campfires, preparing meals while exchanging low conversation. Even in moments of rest, armor remained on and weapons stayed within reach.
This was the northern post.
The site of the recent demon incursion.
Though the invasion had been small in scale, the kingdom treated it with full seriousness—especially with powerful figures and foreign delegates gathering in the capital.
At the center of the camp stood a tent larger than the rest.
Inside, three figures stood around a wide wooden table, maps and reports spread across its surface.
Vice Commander Marcus Hale rested one gauntleted hand against the table. A broad-shouldered man with iron-gray hair and a scar cutting across his collarbone, he carried the presence of someone who had spent most of his life on the battlefield. His armor was practical and well-worn, repaired countless times rather than replaced. A mid-stage SS-rank knight, he was one of the most reliable commanders in the Aurethian army.
Across from him stood Prime Minister Halvar Kane. He wore no armor—only simple, finely tailored robes—but his posture was upright and steady. His sharp eyes took in every detail, and his expression remained calm. Sent by the King himself, Halvar's role was to observe, advise, and ensure that no political or military misstep occurred on the frontier.
Between them stood the First Prince.
Alexander Valenor.
He wore the legacy armor of the royal line—silver and gold plates etched with runes that had once protected his father in battle. The armor was clearly not ceremonial; faint marks and scuffs showed it had seen recent combat.
Alexander's blond hair was tied back neatly, his expression focused and serious. There was no arrogance in his stance—only responsibility. Despite his age, he had already reached the initial stage of SS-rank.
"The scouts report no movement beyond the barrier," Marcus said, tapping a section of the map."No reinforcements. No formation changes."
Halvar nodded slowly."Given their losses during the last engagement, a withdrawal would be reasonable."
Alexander remained silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the markings.
"That's what concerns me," he said at last.
Both men looked at him.
"Demons don't retreat this cleanly," Alexander continued. "Not without a reason."
Marcus frowned slightly."We've confirmed no Archdemons. No Demon Generals either."
"And that's exactly the problem," Alexander replied."If this were a true offensive, at least one would have appeared by now."
Halvar crossed his arms."You believe this was a diversion?"
"Or a test," Alexander said quietly.
He gestured toward the battlefield marked on the map.
"They never committed fully. No reckless pushes. No high-ranking commanders. It felt restrained."
Marcus exhaled."A single Demon General could have overturned the entire fight."
"Yes," Alexander agreed. "And yet none showed."
Outside the tent, the camp buzzed with disciplined activity.
Morale was high.
Alexander's presence on the frontlines during previous skirmishes had seen to that. He had fought beside the soldiers rather than commanding from safety, and casualties had been kept low as a result.
Still, the unease in his chest remained.
His gaze drifted eastward, toward the borderlands where demon movement had been reported.
And then, the ruins.
Ancient structures recently uncovered, believed to date back to the old wars. Ruins that, in theory, could serve as anchors for gateways to the demon realm.
There was no proof.
Only speculation.
Yet wars had been lost over less.
Alexander's jaw tightened.
Could it be…?
He shook the thought away.
"…It shouldn't be possible," he muttered.
But the doubt refused to leave.