Chapter 12: New Life

Ikol City loomed before us like a living monument — a sprawling titan of stone, steel, and intricate designed roads. It was like Wolfhiem, only… magnified. At least three times the size. No matter how I looked at it, the city felt endless.

From my seat in the carriage, I watched through the window as we passed the outermost ring. Unlike Wolfhiem, which was neatly sectioned — homes in one part, shops in another — this city was chaos wrapped in beauty. Houses were stacked between restaurants and blacksmiths, with magic shops pressed beside towering estates. Some buildings gleamed with polished stone, while others looked like they’d collapse in the next strong wind.

People were everywhere.

The outer rings were the most modern — fresh-cut stone, mana-lit lanterns, even giant metal gates moved by enchanted mana crystals. But as we moved inward, through the second, third, then fourth ring, the architecture changed. Roofs grew steeper. Bricks grew older. The roads narrowed. Each ring was like a layer of history, wearing the city’s age on its sleeve. Even the walls that divided them shifted in style — some blackened stone, others rune-carved marble.

Sixteen walls. That thought surfaced from nowhere.

A moment later, another detail slid into place — population: around thirty million.

I blinked.

That wasn’t my memory.

I pressed my forehead lightly against the window, watching the city blur past.

Count Leto… just how many memories did you bury in my head?

Even in this vast, unfamiliar city, I felt like I knew it. I recognized a tower we hadn’t even reached yet. I could name side streets I’d never walked. It wasn’t fear I felt. Just… a strange comfort. A ghost of familiarity.

And then I saw her.

The woman in black.

She stood on the edge of a crowded plaza, veiled in the same obsidian cloak, her dark hair moving slightly with the breeze. Our eyes met — or I thought they did. Her hand lifted in a slow, graceful wave.

Then a merchant’s carriage passed between us.

By the time it rolled past, she was gone.

Just like before.

“Did you see something interesting?” the Duke asked casually, not even looking up from his book.

I turned back toward him, still caught in the moment. “Something like that.”

“Well,” he said, eyeing me with mild amusement, “maybe we can visit the city after you and Rias finish your entrance exam.”

I nodded, glancing one last time out the window.

Who was she?

I wonder if we will ever meet face to face again?

An hour passed before we finally reached the innermost ring — the heart of Ikol City.

Massive black gates loomed ahead, adorned with silver trim and ancient runes that pulsed faintly with mana. At our approach, the guards stationed at the front barely hesitated. One glance at the Fenrir crest etched into the side of the carriage, and they opened the gates with practiced precision.

As the gates groaned open, the road led us through a garden of statues — towering depictions of long-dead heroes, wolves, and kings I didn’t recognize… but somehow felt like I should. Another ghost of memory, or just awe?

Then the palace came into view.

It was far larger than I had imagined — a fortress of dark stone, blackened as if scorched by dragon fire. Spires climbed into the sky like jagged teeth, each one capped in silver. Intricate stained glass windows glowed with filtered light, each one depicting scenes of dire wolves — some snarling in battle, others curled beside crowned figures.

At the highest point, fluttering in the wind, was the royal flag: blue and white stripes, and at its center, the unmistakable crest of House Fenrir — a snarling wolf’s head with a dragons wing in its mouth.

Despite being in the center of a city with thirty million people, this place was silent.

No noise. No crowds. Just a heavy, almost reverent stillness.

As the carriage rolled to a stop and we began stepping out, the sound of paws hitting stone echoed beside me. The wolves moved first — Sköll and Hati taking the lead, heads high and alert. Rias followed, with Freki and Geri flanking her like silent guards.

And then he appeared.

A man was already waiting at the base of the palace steps — tall, slender, and draped in robes that shimmered with enchanted thread. His face was long, with hollow cheeks and sharp cheekbones. Eyes like burnished gold studied each of us in turn, unblinking. He looked human… but something about him felt off. Like he belonged to an older world, one that had simply chosen to wear a man’s skin today.

He bowed, low and precise.

“Welcome, Duke Durak. And…” His eyes flicked to me. “The lost heir.”

His voice carried no emotion — no warmth, no surprise.

Just certainty.

Duke Durak stepped forward first, his expression unreadable. “It’s been a long time, Lord Grim.”

The strange man inclined his head slightly. “Time is ever-moving, but some things never change.”

Lord Grim. I made a note of the name.

The man’s eyes settled on Rias next. He stared a little too long, his gaze drifting briefly toward the scar across her eyes. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she stood straighter — chin lifted, wolves steady at her side.

“And the young lady,”Grim murmured, “has inherited more than just blood. Fascinating.”

I tensed at that, but he had already turned away, gesturing for us to follow.

“This way. His Majesty is expecting you.”

I shared a glance with the Duke, but he only nodded and motioned for us to keep close.

As we ascended the palace steps, I could feel something shift in the air — not wind, not temperature. It was the weight of history. Of bloodlines. Of eyes watching from behind silent windows.

This place… it wasn’t just a palace. It was a throne of memory.

And now, I was stepping into its heart.

We entered a vast hall lined with dark marble and silver-trimmed pillars. Tall stained glass windows cast pale blue light across the polished floor. A long velvet carpet ran toward a modest dais, where the King of Dival sat—not on a golden throne, but a plain, high-backed chair wrapped in deep blue cloth.

He didn’t wear a crown.

The man before us was tall but visibly gaunt, his frame draped in elegant robes too loose for him. His skin had the pallor of someone locked in a long battle with illness. Despite that, his posture was dignified, and his gaze—sharp, intelligent, and green as emeralds—cut through the air like a blade.

King Oscar Fenrir.

He looked first at Duke Durak, his brother, and offered a tired but genuine smile. “You actually brought them,” he said, voice gravelly but warm. “I wasn’t sure you’d come in person.”

Durak nodded, his expression unreadable. “There are some things too important to send by messenger.”

Oscar’s eyes shifted to me.

I stood straighter.

He studied me in silence for a long moment. His gaze didn’t scan me like a curious king evaluating a stranger—it was more like an uncle recognizing the shape of someone he used to know.

Then his eyes locked with mine—green to blue.

“…Orpheus’s son,” he said quietly.

I nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

He exhaled slowly, as if the weight of that answer meant more than I understood. “You have his hair… and his stubborn jawline,” he muttered with a small smile. “But those eyes… those are your mother’s.”

I blinked. “You knew her?”

Oscar nodded. “Not well. But I remember her being strong-willed. Proud. She stood with Orpheus even when the court turned against him.”

His voice caught briefly. He shifted in his seat.

Durak stepped forward. “Brother, I brought him here for more than bloodlines. You wanted to see if he was worthy. So see him.”

Oscar looked at me again—this time longer, deeper.

“Arthur,” he said, “I have ruled for nearly Forty years. I’ve outlived wars, betrayals, and half my court. But I will not outlive the next decade. Maybe not even the next few years.”

He tapped his chest lightly. “This heart is failing. The healers delay it, but they can’t stop it.”

The hall fell silent.

Oscar continued, voice softer but firmer. “I never had an heir. I never remarried. The throne has waited—waited in the hope that Orpheus would return. And now he has… through you.”

He rose slowly from his chair, and though his body trembled with the strain, there was strength in his spine — the kind not born of muscle, but of conviction.

“I do not seek power,” he said, voice steady despite the rasp in his throat. “If I did, I’d wear the crown every waking hour. But I do not.”

He looked toward Durak, then back at me, his green eyes tired but resolute.

“I chose not to wear it out of respect — for your grandfather, for your father… and for the people of this kingdom.”

He stepped down from the dais, each word carried with solemn weight.

“A crown should never be worn to instill fear or demand obedience. It is not a shackle, nor a weapon. It is a symbol — one that should inspire courage, not submission. Strength, not cruelty.”

He paused beside me, placing a frail hand over his heart.

“This crown exists because the people willed it into being. Not to elevate kings above them… but to remind kings who they serve.”

The hall fell utterly silent as his voice deepened, steadied by truth.

“It is not the throne that defines a nation. It is the farmers who till its soil. The soldiers who bleed for its safety. The children who dream of tomorrow. When you strip away wealth, titles, and bloodlines — we are all the same. Flesh, bone… hope.”

His gaze bore into mine — not demanding, but searching.

“If you are to carry this legacy, Arthur, you must never forget that. A true king does not rule from above. He walks beside his people — and sometimes, behind them, carrying their burdens when they cannot.”

He took a step forward, eyes never leaving mine.

“So now I ask you, Arthur… not as your king, but as your family: Are you willing to shoulder the burden of this kingdom? To serve its people, not rule them? To lead not because of blood, but because you must?”

I swallowed. My throat was tight.

Then I stepped forward.

“Yes,” I said. “I don’t know everything yet. I don’t have the answers. But I’ll learn. I’ll fight. And I’ll protect the people who can’t protect themselves.”

Oscar’s tired eyes softened, and the faintest smile touched his lips.

“That,” he said, “is all I needed to hear.”

He turned to one of the attendants standing by the side of the room. “Bring the seal.”

The attendant nodded and returned moments later with a small, silver box.

Oscar opened it himself, revealing a signet ring engraved with the Fenrir crest — a snarling wolf’s head clutching a dragon’s wing in its fangs.

He held it up to the light, then turned back to me.

“By the power vested in me as King of Dival,” he said, voice echoing through the chamber, “I name you Crowned Prince of Dival. Heir to the throne. Son of Orpheus. Grandson of Durak Fenrir.”

He slipped the ring onto my hand himself.

“May you rule when the time comes, not with fear or pride—but with heart.”

The chamber remained quiet. Even the wolves were still.

And in that silence, I understood:

Everything had changed.