chapter 23.3

In the past, when Alcard was returning from Edenvila after completing a diplomatic mission—delivering a ceremonial gift to commemorate the fragile peace between the two kingdoms—he found himself haunted by his last conversation with Cevral Hamilton.

Cevral, ever the calculated statesman, had not been pleased with the way Alcard conducted diplomatic affairs during his visit. The Supreme Commander of Jovalian had shown neither interest in political maneuvering nor deference to the hidden power plays that governed noble society. It was clear that his blunt approach had irritated the old Prime Minister. And before their parting, Cevral had offered him a smile that did not quite reach his eyes—a smile that concealed something far more sinister.

"I hope you can protect your king well, Commander Alcard. After all, he is the pillar of your nation."

The words, spoken in a velvety tone, had lingered in Alcard's mind long after he left Edenvila. At the time, he dismissed them as nothing more than the usual veiled threats politicians exchanged behind closed doors. Yet, something about the way Cevral had said it gnawed at him, an unshakable unease creeping into his thoughts during the long journey home.

That night, as he and his entourage traveled along the main road leading back to the royal capital of Jovalian, a lone rider emerged from the darkness, galloping at breakneck speed. The messenger's face was pale, his breath ragged, as if he had been pushing his horse beyond its limits.

"Commander! Bad news!" the man gasped, his voice barely holding together. "The king… he has passed away in his sleep. His illness worsened suddenly, and… nothing could be done."

For a moment, the world around Alcard seemed to freeze. The sounds of hooves, the rustling leaves in the wind, even his own heartbeat—everything was swallowed by an overwhelming silence. His eyes bore into the messenger, as if willing his words to be false. But deep down, a dreadful certainty took root in his chest.

Without hesitation, Alcard drove his heels into his horse's sides, leaving his stunned retinue behind as he raced towards the capital. The wind howled past him, but no amount of speed could outrun the ominous feeling that clawed at his soul.

The king had indeed been ill for some time, but the royal physicians had assured everyone that his condition was stable, that he still had years ahead of him. His sudden death was not just unexpected—it was wrong. Too sudden. Too convenient.

When he finally reached the palace gates, the atmosphere was suffocating. The once lively corridors of the castle were deathly silent. Servants moved like ghosts, their eyes cast downward, too afraid to meet anyone's gaze. A chilling sense of foreboding settled in Alcard's gut as he made his way to the king's chambers.

However, just as he was about to enter, a nervous servant stepped in his path, hands trembling as he blocked the doorway.

"Commander… I—I'm sorry, but… you are not permitted to enter His Majesty's chambers."

Alcard's brow furrowed in disbelief. "What?" His voice was sharp, demanding. "Step aside. I need to see for myself. Where is the Crown Prince? Is he safe?"

The servant hesitated before answering. "The Crown Prince… is waiting for you in his quarters, Commander."

Something was terribly wrong.

But instead of arguing, Alcard turned on his heel and strode toward the prince's chambers, moving with urgency. He held onto the hope that at the very least, the prince—the rightful heir to the throne—was safe.

That hope was shattered the moment he stepped inside.

The sight before him made his breath catch in his throat.

The Crown Prince lay sprawled on the cold marble floor, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood pooled around his body, soaking into the ornate carpets. Beside him, discarded carelessly, was a sword coated in fresh crimson.

A sword Alcard knew all too well.

It was the royal short sword—a ceremonial blade that had been bestowed upon him personally by the late king as a symbol of trust and loyalty.

Alcard stood frozen, the sheer weight of the moment pressing down on him. His mind raced, trying to piece together the horrifying puzzle before him. But one truth became glaringly obvious.

This was a setup.

A trap laid with precision.

And he was the perfect scapegoat.

"Drennal…" His voice was a whisper, the name leaving his lips like a curse.

Drennal Faerwyn—the newly appointed Prime Minister of Jovalian. A man backed by Edenvila. The one person who stood to gain the most from the prince's death. With the royal bloodline severed, Drennal and his allies would now hold full control over the kingdom, and any opposition—especially from someone like Alcard—would be eliminated before it could take root.

Before Alcard could move, a piercing scream broke the silence.

"Murderer!"

A servant stood at the doorway, eyes wide in terror—or rather, feigned terror.

"He killed the prince! Seize him!"

Within moments, the sound of armored boots thundered through the halls. Guards stormed into the room, weapons drawn, faces twisted in fury.

Alcard remained motionless as the blades of his own countrymen surrounded him. He knew what was happening. He had been branded a traitor before he even had the chance to speak.

Everything he had done. Every battle he had fought. Every sacrifice he had made.

All of it—gone in an instant.

He was no longer Jovalian's Supreme Commander.

He was now its most wanted fugitive.

"This… this is how it ends?" His thoughts were a mess of anger, disbelief, and a deep, hollow grief. But even as despair tried to take hold, something else burned within him.

Resolve.

He would not die here. Not like this.

He would uncover the truth.

He would hunt down those responsible.

And he would ensure that the ones who orchestrated this betrayal—Cevral, Drennal, and anyone else pulling the strings—would pay.

As the guards advanced, Alcard's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"I will not fall without a fight."