A Fragile Peace

Years had passed since the treaty was signed in Kaisergrad’s hollow banquet hall, its ink drying on a peace that felt both hard-won and hollow. I reclined on a cushioned sofa in Myradel’s marble palace, the heart of Ur’s reborn kingdom, my eyes heavy with the weight of time. The room was bathed in soft afternoon light, streaming through tall windows, painting the white stone walls with golden warmth. Before me sprawled a wide oak desk, littered with parchment inked with the legal codes I had spent years crafting for Ur. No chains bound elf or orc, no noble hoarded wealth while others starved, courts stood open to all. These laws were my legacy, a testament to the justice I had crossed worlds to uphold, yet each word carried the shadow of the blood that paved their way.

Ur had transformed in the years since Fredreich’s fall, a phoenix risen from the ashes of Mittengrad’s collapse. Slavery, the cruel spine of the old order, was abolished, its chains melted into plows for farmers. In Eisenfurst, I walked markets alive with voices, an orc merchant, once a slave, grinning as he weighed grain for an elf, his scarred hands now free to hold a ledger. Feldheim hosted festivals where phoenix banners fluttered, children of all races dancing to Ur’s drums, their laughter a melody of cultural exchange. Luxion thrived under Remus’s sly governance, its ports bustling with ships from distant shores, their sails painted with lion and phoenix crests. I saw Remus once, his blonde stubble catching sunlight, striking deals that turned Luxion into a trade hub, his grin as sharp as ever. The Great Forest, returned to Lianne’s Elves, pulsed with ancient magic. On a visit, I saw Lianne with her daughters, Samira and Laira, young children reunited after Mittengrad’s tyranny tore them apart, their laughter weaving through the groves as they played under ancient trees, their mother’s emerald eyes soft with joy. Nonaggression pacts held, weaving Ur and its neighbors into a fragile tapestry of peace. Yet Kaisergrad lingered, a shadow on the horizon. Its military autocracy sent letters weekly, General Harlan’s name scrawled in sharp ink, their minimal troops a reminder of an uneasy truce. Amber’s decrees had banished chains, her phoenix cloak a beacon, but Kaisergrad’s veiled threats hung heavy, a dark cloud over our reborn kingdom. This world was reborn, but Fredreich’s ashes weighed heavy, their cost etched in every free smile, every open gate.

I closed my eyes, the quill slipping from my hand, and let my thoughts drift to the garden where it all ended. Fredreich’s voice, cracked with memory, echoed in my mind, his words sharp: “I despised my father,” he had said, his hand brushing a rose, his eyes heavy with his mother’s pain, branded as a demon. His final clarity, as arrows pierced him, haunted me still, his blood pooling like petals on the stone. In Tokyo’s cramped offices, I had fought for truth with paper and wit; here, truth came in blood, Fredreich’s arrows my final verdict. In Kaisergrad’s banquet hall, I saw his face as I signed the treaty, his gaze accusing yet resolute, urging me to finish what he began. The All-Mother’s prophecy had promised a monarch and messiah, a path of blood and sacrifice. I had thought it meant Amber and me, her the queen, me the barrister forging justice. But Fredreich was the monarch, breaking his father’s empire with his own life. I was the messiah, the edge that enabled his fall, my hands clean but stained with his roses. My son, Fredreich, named for a king I couldn’t save, carried his memory, a debt etched in every law I wrote, every laugh he gave. I questioned if my punches in the garden were vengeance, not justice, Amber’s dream-accusation lingering: “What did you do?” Yet Fredreich’s sacrifice was the foundation I built upon, his blood the ink of Ur’s new laws.

Sleep took me, soft and unbidden, and the world dissolved into a dream. I stood in a field of silver roses, their petals rustling, catching a radiant light that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air carried a sweet, faint scent, moonlight pooling like liquid stars around the blooms. The All-Mother sat before me, her milk-white form shimmering, red eyes glowing softly as they had when she summoned me to this world. Beside her sat Fredreich, his crown gone, his face unmarred by my fists or the arrows that took him. Her hand rested on his head, fingers tracing his dark hair with a tenderness that tightened my chest. They spoke, their voices a soft murmur, words lost to me like whispers on a distant wind. Fredreich’s fingers brushed a silver rose, his smile soft as moonlight, his eyes meeting mine, calm and at peace. The All-Mother touched his cheek, her red eyes softening, as if absolving us both. My heart ached, yearning to step closer, to hear her words, to ask if Fredreich’s arrows had bought the peace he dreamed. The prophecy whispered in the wind, blood and sacrifice, Fredreich’s calm gaze its answer, but the dream held me silent, an observer to their quiet communion, my chest heavy with questions unanswered.

A shout broke the vision, sharp and joyful. “Father!” My eyes snapped open, the dream’s light fading as my son barged into the room. His dark hair was tousled, his face alight with a grin that mirrored Amber’s warmth. He leapt onto the sofa, his small hands tugging at my arm. “Come play! Uncle Faelar’s teaching me swords!”

I laughed, the sound surprising me, pulling me from the dream’s melancholy. Faelar rushed into the room, his blonde hair tied back, his glimmering eyes sparkling with mischief. He caught my son by surprise, scooping him up and raising him high. “Fredreich, I’ve told you not to bother your father while he’s working, haven’t I?”

Fredreich giggled, squirming in Faelar’s arms. “I’m sorry, okay! It won’t happen again!”

Nadya entered, her pregnant glow radiant, her hand resting on her belly as she grabbed Faelar’s arm. “Be gentle with the boy, Faelar,” she said, her voice soft but firm, a smile playing on her lips. She ruffled Fredreich’s hair, her eyes warm. “Listen to your uncle, but don’t swing too hard, save some for your sibling.”

Faelar grinned, lowering Fredreich but keeping him close. “He can take it, Nadya. This one’s got his father’s fire.” He spun Fredreich, his wooden sword flashing like a star. “Parry like your father, boy!” he cheered, as Fredreich swung wildly, giggling.

I stood, my legs heavy but my heart lifting, and stepped into the sunlit courtyard. Amber was there, her phoenix cloak flowing, as I joined her, standing by her side. Her hands found mine, warm and steady, as she rested her head against my shoulder, watching Faelar play with Fredreich. The courtyard’s roses bloomed red, their scent mingling with the breeze, a mirror to Fredreich’s garden.

“Tired?” her words were soft, comforting, her breath warm against my neck.

“A little, yes.” I pressed my lips against her head, the gesture grounding me, her hair soft under my touch.

She squeezed my hand, her fingers trembling slightly, her eyes distant as she watched Fredreich’s wooden sword flash in the sunlight. “We’ve come so far. From Luxion’s dusty streets to this. Sometimes I wonder if it’s all a dream, with Kaisergrad’s generals sending warnings, their swords still sharp.”

I nodded, my gaze following our son’s laughter as Faelar spun him. “I feel it too. From defending people in Luxion to standing here, with you on the throne. A journey I couldn’t have prepared for, even if I tried.”

Amber’s smile faded, her voice softer, her fingers tracing the rose in her hair. “Do you think what Fredreich did was necessary? All that blood, all that sacrifice?”

I paused, the dream’s image of Fredreich at peace flickering in my mind. “I don’t know if it was necessary,” I said, my voice low. “But his efforts gave us this. These laws, your reign, our son. He broke the world so we could rebuild it.”

Amber’s gaze hardened, her hand tightening in mine. “I don’t know either. But his blood built this kingdom, and I’ll honour it.” She looked skyward, as if searching the clouds. “I hope he’s with our mother now, looking down at everything we’ve built together.”

“I think he is,” I said, my chest lighter, the dream’s calm gaze lingering. “I had a dream. In that dream, he was at peace, Amber. Sitting with the All-Mother, free of his burdens.”

She smiled, a tear glinting in her eye, and rested her head against me again. Fredreich’s laughter rang out, echoing across the courtyard as Faelar cheered, “Good swing!” Nadya laughed softly, guiding Fredreich’s shoulder, her hand gentle. I wrapped my arm around Amber, drawing her closer as the sun dipped behind Myradel’s marble walls, casting long shadows across the peaceful courtyard. Fredreich’s name on my son’s lips stirred the ashes, but his joy eased the burn. The laughter of our son and the gentle murmur of the roses were proof enough. But even as peace settled, the shadow of our past, of prophecy, sacrifice, and the choices that shaped our world, lingered, a whisper in the heart of the new queen and her advisor. Every law I wrote carried Fredreich’s gaze, but my son’s laughter washed the roses’ stains, if only for today. A new age had dawned, but what storms lay ahead for the Kingdom of Ur, and for the family that now ruled it?