So You Decided to Come

The silence was the most unnerving. Akhen was used to the clamor of Solgar’s streets , the hawkers’ cries, the clatter of carts, the gossip flung from windows. The city itself seemed to warp, the very street curving as if to make his path smoother. Akhen, a boy who that morning had been no one, now walked in the centre of a human fortress.

The guards were a wall of polished white stone and gleaming bronze. Their armor caught the light of the setting sun, burning like embers. They moved as one single creature, their boots crashing down in perfect time. The sound was huge, a storm of noise that drowned out everything else.

Ahead of this marching wall, the crowd tore itself in two. People scrambled to the edges of the road, pressing themselves so flat against the ground that their foreheads rubbed the dusty cobblestones. It looked less like a choice and more like a force of nature.

The noisy, chaotic market fell into a dead hush. The vendors stopped their yelling. Mothers grabbed their children, pulling them into a low bow, hiding their faces. Even the tough, scrappy dogs that roamed the streets knew to hide.

Confusion burned, but the weight of the moment pressed harder. He should have resisted. He had no desire to be a prince.

Yet the sight of thousands bowing, the streets silent, the air humming with awe—it was intoxicating.

For the first time, he let himself feel it. The fear began to mix with a slow, warm sense of power. His posture, once stiff from command, now felt natural. His chin lifted not because he was told, but because it felt right.

He was afraid, but beneath the fear was a sense of belonging. The streets bent for him. And he, at last, began to straighten.

The feeling was uncanny. He had never walked this street as anything but a commoner, yet every detail felt deeply familiar. The gilded spires of the skyline, the intricate mosaics of bone and gold underfoot, the sea of people bent in reverence—it was all new, yet felt like an echo of a memory he could not quite grasp.

His chest tightened, but not with fear. It was a profound sense of recognition, as if a part of him, long buried, was finally waking up.

He allowed himself a small smile, a subtle but dangerous curve of his lips.

“So this,” he thought, the intoxicating truth settling into his bones, “This is how it feels to be the desire buried in every heart.”

He did not resist when the guards hailed him as “prince”. He did not correct their captain as the man barked orders to clear the way for “the heir.” Instead, Akhen let the illusion settle over him , a cloak of borrowed power, heavy and intoxicating. For a moment, the sharp edges of his purpose , the hunger, the curses, the endless road , blurred into softness. The fire in his veins cooled to a low hum.

His own mind whispered treason against the destiny he’d carried for so long:

“Why not stay?”

“Why not live , not as a weapon, not as a shadow , but as a man who walks in sunlight?”

“Why not taste the life that was stolen from you?”

The thought was sweet. Seductive. A quiet poison in the deep wells of his resolve. He could almost feel the weight of a crown that wasn’t his, the warmth of a throne he’d never sought. For one breath, he let himself want it.

He straightened his back, and the wanderer fell away like a shed skin. In his place stood the scion of kings , shoulders squared, gaze forward, every movement measured and sovereign. Each bow from the crowd fed a slow-burning fire within him. Each whispered prayer to his name, each awe-struck glance, carved his legacy deeper into the very soul of Solgar.

A golden carriage rolled smoothly beside him, its polished surfaces dripping captured sunlight, an offering of splendor to his presence. One pace behind, the crimson-haired captain walked, his armor still splashed with the blood of the guard he had slain to clear their path. He made no effort to hide the crimson evidence , instead, he wore it like a sacrament. To the people, it was not a stain of violence, but a mark of devotion. It made him not a killer in their eyes, but a holy blade. A living testament to the prince’s terrible grace.

And Akhen ,”Prince” Akhen , let the illusion hold. He did not look back. He did not falter. He walked as if the city had always been his. As if the blood on his captain’s armor was simply the price of belonging.

He leaned close, his breath a hot whisper against Akhen’s ear , a sound meant for no one else.

“So you decided to come.”

The words were a blade wrapped in silk, sharp with a knowing no stranger should possess. They spoke of shared history, of paths long intertwined, of a choice that had always been inevitable.

Akhen turned his head slowly, his dark eyes lifting to meet the boy’s , eyes that burned like liquid gold in the shadow of the gilded arch. A thousand questions clawed at the back of his throat .

But he gave them no voice.

Instead, he offered a single, slow nod.

It was not surrender.

It was an acknowledgment, of the boy, of the moment, of the fate that had finally found him.

Kaels lips curled, not quite a smile, not quite a threat, but something alive with both approval and hunger. It was a look that knew the weight of thrones and the taste of blood.

A ripple went through the crowd, a gasp that became a murmur, then a wave of awe. They fell to their knees as one, bowing so low their foreheads brushed the gleaming stone. Mothers hushed crying children, pressing small faces into silk and shadow. The air itself seemed to thicken with the sound of their whispers, rising like a storm:

“Prince… Prince… Prince…”

Akhen did not speak. He did not lift a hand. He simply stood there, cloaked in borrowed power, his silence louder than any proclamation. His presence, once ignored, once foreign, now carved itself into the very atmosphere of Solgar.

The soldiers moved in flawless unison, their polished armor catching the sun as they formed an honor guard along the wide, immaculate road leading to the royal palace. Each step was measured, each gaze forward, a display of discipline and power meant to honor the heir they believed had returned.

And then, the giant gates, towering structures of white stone and gold, etched with the history of a dynasty, began to open.

The palace did not simply stand, it dominated. To Akhen, it felt less like a structure and more like a mountain carved into the shape of power. It was built from the same bone-white stone as the outer walls, but here the veins of gold ran thicker, brighter, as though the lifeblood of the earth itself had been channeled into its design. Towers rose like spears aimed at the sky.

But it was the Grand Reception Hall that seized his breath.

Massive doors of obsidian and pearl swung inward without a sound, revealing a space so vast its far end was hazy with distance. The air here was cool, still, and carried the scent of chilled marble and aged incense. Underfoot, the floor was a mosaic of onyx, depicting the conquest of nations under the banner of the Bonewalker sigil, a skull crowned in gold.

And the pillars… they were not mere supports. Each was a masterwork of sculpture, carved into the form of a robed figure, a Bonewalker ancestor, frozen in stone, their faces stern and elegant, their hands holding symbols of authority: scepters, orbs, and blades. Between them, tapestries woven with metallic threads shimmered with scenes of mythic battles .

But it was the ceiling that truly held the room in thrall.

Stretching over the entire hall was a fresco of breathtaking scale and detail: the Great Meeting Before the War. In vivid, almost living color, it showed the Bonewalker founders standing united. Their postures were noble, their expressions solemn yet resolute. One figure stood central, a tall, faceless king holding a blade pointed downward, much like the statue outside, while celestial beings descended around him in rays of gilded light. The artwork conveyed not just alliance, but destiny, chosen people guided by divine will toward inevitable victory.

Light fell in precise shafts from high, narrow windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted like forgotten spirits. At the far end of the hall, a dais rose, upon which sat a throne hewn from a single block of luminescent white crystal, a seat that seemed less for a ruler, and more for a deity.

The two young women who approached Akhen moved with grace, their steps silent on the polished stone. They were dressed in flowing gowns of silver and deepest blue, embroidered with patterns that mimicked constellations and woven with threads that seemed to hold their own soft light. Their faces were serene, almost unnervingly so, as if carved from polished moonstone, beautiful, yet distant. Without a word, they bowed in perfect unison, then turned to guide him through an arched doorway to the left of the grand hall.

The hallway they entered was narrower, intimate, its walls lined with panels of sandalwood carved with scenes of blooming night-flowers and coiled serpents.

Then they emerged into the courtyard,

Tiered terraces spilled downward like steps for giants, each level showcasing a different wonder. On one, trees with leaves of silver rustled softly, their branches heavy with fruits that glowed like pale lanterns. On another, midnight-blue blossoms larger than platters floated on a pond so clear it reflected the sky like a second heaven. Pathways of crushed pearl shimmered underfoot, winding between sculpted hedges shaped like mythical beasts: griffins, phoenixes, and winged serpents, all frozen in mid-motion as if by a spell.

But most striking of all were the Bonewhite Roses, flowers cultivated exclusively for the royal family. Their petals were the color of fresh-fallen snow, but at the center of each bloom pulsed a faint, crimson light, like a heartbeat made visible. They lined the courtyard’s central fountain, where water flowed not from a stone source, but from the hands of a slender marble figure, a weeping goddess, her tears feeding the roots below.

One of the young women gestured gracefully toward a low stone bench nestled between two flowering trees whose silver leaves shimmered even in the soft light. “Please have a seat, master,” she said, her voice like chimes on a breeze.

At that moment, a third maiden appeared, silent as dawn. She carried a single crystal flute filled with a liquid that seemed to shift between gold and deep violet, as if capturing both dusk and daylight in its swirl. She offered it to Akhen without a word, her eyes lowered in deference.

Akhen accepted the drink but did not bring it to his lips. His gaze remained fixed on the young women, his voice low and deliberate.

“When am I going to meet them?”

Two of the maidens flinched almost imperceptibly, a slight tightening around their eyes, a quick exchange of glances. But the third did not stir. Her expression remained serene, her posture unwavering. She met his eyes steadily, her tone respectful yet firm.

“Please be patient, my lord. Settle in for now. You will be escorted to them shortly.”

There was something in her calmness that felt less like obedience and more like warning. The garden, for all its beauty, suddenly felt less like a retreat and more like a gilded cage, a place of waiting.

A stage before the true audience began.