A young guard—Kaelith—stood rigid on the stone path, blocking a figure clearly not used to being stopped. Prince Alaric Valterion stood before him, his shadow falling long between the pillars.

  “What did you say?” Alaric asked, his voice low. He stepped forward one pace. “Repeat it. And look me in the eye.”

  Kaelith swallowed. He forced his face up, holding his breath as his gaze met the prince’s. The words stuck in his throat as if they had been caught there.

  “Ka… you—”

  He cut off.

  Because of Alaric.

  The prince’s aura pressed down without any need for shouting or threatening motion. His stare was flat, cold, as if Kaelith were a small obstacle that could be swept aside at any moment. The air around them seemed to harden; the servants’ steps froze, and even the rustle of leaves held still.

  Kaelith did not feel he faced anger—rather something more dangerous: the calm of someone who knew his own power. His breath hitched, not from spoken threat but from the certainty that a single small mistake could be fatal.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” he managed at last, voice trembling. “The Queen ordered that no one disturb this lesson. Especially… you. I was only following orders.”

  Alaric tilted his head, weighing the reply. Then, slowly, he drew the sword from his hip.

  Kaelith reflexively gripped the hilt of his own sword—yet Alaric did not draw his blade. Instead, he placed his sword into Kaelith’s hand.

  “Hold it,” he said curtly.

  He stepped past the young guard, patted his shoulder lightly, then bowed slightly and whispered something.

  “Next time you block me,” he said softly, coldly, “I will make your head part of a collection.”

  Alaric walked away as if nothing had happened.

  Kaelith remained where he was, body rigid, legs trembling. The prince’s sword was in his hand—too heavy, too real.

  As Alaric approached, the three nieces and nephews rose in unison from the stone bench. Their faces brightened instantly and their voices rose together, unprompted.

  “Uncle!”

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  On the bench, Lythienne did not stand. The faint smile that had lingered on her face a moment before vanished, replaced by a hardening calm—not an eruptive anger, but measured displeasure.

  Alaric returned the children’s salute with a light smile, then looked to Lythienne. Their eyes met, but the queen gave nothing back but silence. No nod, no greeting. Only a cool, clear gaze.

  Alaric understood the signal. He turned his attention back to the three children, then glanced at the servants who still held bowls.

  “Continue your tasks,” he said quietly. “Feed the Valterion princes and princess.”

  The servants exchanged hesitant looks, then stepped forward.

  “Wait.”

  One word from Lythienne was enough to halt them.

  “We are still learning,” she said flatly. “Food is given after answers. Rules do not change because there is a spectator.”

  Then she looked at Alaric. “And you—do not disturb us. If your business is not urgent, you had better leave.”

  Her tone was cold, but clean. Not raised, not emotional.

  Alaric breathed slowly. He knew Lythienne was angry—not with the children, but with him. He stepped forward one pace, close enough to speak without the servants overhearing.

  “The court needs you,” he said politely, lowering his voice. “We must decide who the spy is, and how to deal with it. If you want to finish this lesson, allow me to help. At least—supervise.”

  “No need,” Lythienne answered without hesitation. “I said I will come after I finish here.”

  Silence hung for a moment.

  “Very well,” Alaric said at last. “I will wait.”

  He sat on the same stone bench as the three children, but a little apart—apart, not intrusive or judging. The posture was deliberate: Alaric chose to be a shadow, a pair of sharp eyes watching how Lythienne shaped the children’s minds, not merely hearing their answers.

  Yet the leftover tension did not fully leave.

  “We change the topic,” Lythienne said suddenly.

  The shift in tone made the three Valterion children straighten. They knew: this was not a trivial game.

  “Now,” Lythienne continued calmly, “our theme is the Year EK and the Kingdom of Kaereth.” She paused to let the words settle. “Name whatever you know—history, causes, or effects. I will judge the validity of your answers.”

  They all nodded at once, their faces grown serious.

  “We begin with you again, Aeliana,” Lythienne indicated with a small motion of her fingers.

  Aeliana inhaled, then spoke in a measured thread. “The Year EK—End of Kaereth—is called so,” she recited in the tone of a lesson well learned, “because it marks Kaereth’s true end. Not just the fall of a kingdom, but the collapse of an entire order. Since that event, the peoples of Chalentos agreed to mark a new calendar, and the first spring after that fall was set as 1 EK.”

  Lythienne nodded, expression steady. A small sign was given to a servant—an offering of a spoonful as recognition—then her gaze shifted.

  “Aric.”

  “Kaereth,” Aric answered firmly, “was the kingdom that once ruled all of Chalentos. It was overthrown by our great-grandfather—who united three kingdoms and founded Valterion. Kaereth’s fall was a turning point: a single dominant power collapsed, and other kingdoms formed alliances to bring it down.”

  Lythienne signaled again. A small reward followed.

  “Now you, Varian,” she said, this time with a faint smile.

  Varian straightened. “Kaereth stood on abundant food and gold. That made it the center of Chalentos and a dominant force for centuries. Because its influence was so vast, its fall became the defining event—important enough to mark the years for the whole world.”

  A flash of satisfaction crossed Lythienne’s eyes. She said nothing, but the tiny pause—almost imperceptible—was enough to note the answer had been recorded.

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