- Alveron IV POV -

The throne hall of Valor was silent. No advisors, no guards—Alveron had dismissed them all with a single order.

He sat back in the throne, shoulders broad, his frame radiating more strength than regality. The polished floor reflected the crimson and gold banners swaying gently from the high arches. His red eyes, glowing faintly even in the half-light, were fixed ahead, though his mind was far from the empty hall.

The words from the mirror replayed in his head. Nicolas. Broken. His mana core shattered beyond repair.

Alveron leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow against the carved armrest. 'Damn it, Nicolas… you told me you had it under control. I sent my soldiers. I gave the order to move, and I called them back because of you.'

His jaw tightened. He didn't curse aloud—he never did—but the weight of frustration pressed into his chest. He could still see Nicolas's calm expression, the confidence that had convinced him to pull back the army.

Now, Nicolas was alive, but ruined.

Alveron's fingers curled slowly into a fist against the throne. 'You should have let me help. You didn't have to carry it alone.'

He exhaled through his nose, steady but heavy. For a moment, the room felt too quiet, too still. He wasn't mourning as a king. He was sitting there as a man, processing the fact that his closest ally had fallen, and that his decision to trust him had cost them dearly.

Alveron's gaze drifted to the vast doors at the end of the hall. Beyond them, the palace stretched in silence. He could almost picture himself as a boy again, walking those corridors with hurried steps, always trailing behind the same man.

Nicolas.

He was thirty, maybe forty years older—old enough to be his grandfather, and he often acted like it. Strict when needed, but always patient. Nicolas had taught him how to hold a sword before any of the palace instructors even though he is a mage, and he had scolded him harder than anyone else when he tried to skip lessons.

'You were the one who kept me grounded. The one who told me I wasn't just a prince—I was a person who had to work twice as hard to earn the right to lead.'

A memory flickered in his mind: a much younger Alveron, sword wobbling in his hands, while Nicolas barked at him to plant his feet. When he dropped the blade, Nicolas didn't laugh, didn't pity. He simply picked it up, placed it back in his hands, and told him to start again.

Back then, Alveron had hated it. Now… he realized it was one of the reasons he had grown into the man he was.

He leaned back into the throne, his chest tightening. 'You were more than a mentor. You were family. The one I trusted more than anyone in this court.'

His fist slammed against the wooden armrest—not out of ceremony, but sheer frustration. The sound cracked through the empty chamber.

"You should have let me protect you," he muttered aloud, his voice low, roughened by restrained anger. "You were always stubborn. Always carrying the weight for others. And now…"

He exhaled heavily, the words hanging in the air.

Nicolas was not dead, but to Alveron it felt close. A broken core for a mage of his caliber was a slow, quiet death.

Alveron rose from the throne, the echo of his boots against the marble floor filling the hall. He paced slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression firm though his thoughts were tangled.

'Seraphina… for now, she stands ahead.'

His daughter had proven herself again. Even at seventeen, she carried herself with the composure of someone twice her age. The way she spoke in the academy elections for president, the way she addressed him during the call—steady, unwavering. She had already accepted the weight that came with her blood.

Dior… was different.

Alveron's jaw tightened as memories surfaced. His son's arrogance during the incident at the Imperial Academy of Valor, the recklessness that had forced Alveron's hand. He had punished Dior severely for it—not because he didn't love him, but because he couldn't allow such weakness to go unchecked.

'I warned him. I gave him chances. But he squandered them. A king cannot afford mistakes born of pride.'

He stopped mid-stride, turning toward one of the tall stained-glass windows. Light filtered in, painting his reflection on the polished floor. His broad frame, his long blond hair tied back perfectly, his red eyes that never wavered. A symbol of strength—that was what he had to be.

But even symbols cracked when they looked too far ahead.

'Someday… one of them will have to take this burden. The throne. The crown. The weight of every life in Valor resting on their shoulders.'

He thought of Seraphina again: capable, calculating, too young but already carrying herself like an heir. He thought of Dior: gifted, but still ruled by impulse.

His fist clenched slowly at his side. 'I can't choose for them forever. But the throne won't wait. Valor won't wait.'

For a brief moment, Alveron let the truth sink in—not as a king, but as a father. One day, his children would have to bear what he bore now. And when that day came… there would be no room for hesitation.

Alveron stood before the great emblem of Valor carved into the wall above the throne His red eyes lingered on it for a long moment, his mind heavy with the weight of both empire and family.

'Nicolas is gone as I knew him… but he's still alive. That's more than most get.'

The thought was cold, but it was also true. Nicolas had lost his core, but not his life. And that meant Alveron still owed him something.

The king turned sharply, the cape at his shoulders swaying as his boots echoed across the empty hall. He pushed through the tall double doors, stepping into the corridor where a pair of guards straightened immediately at the sight of him.

Their eyes flicked to him nervously, perhaps sensing the tension rolling off their king. Alveron's tone left no room for hesitation.

"Prepare a chamber in the castle," he ordered. His voice was steady, deep, but carried an undercurrent of strain. "Nicolas von Aldros will need it when he returns."

The guards exchanged a brief, startled glance before nodding quickly. "At once, Your Majesty."

Alveron didn't slow his stride. He continued down the corridor, his expression as firm as ever, though inside, the ache remained.

'You were like a grandfather to me, Nicolas. You guided me when I had no one else. If I couldn't protect your core… then I'll protect you, at least. Valor will.'

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