chapter 23.4

Alcard sat motionless beneath the towering oak tree, its gnarled roots digging deep into the barren earth like an ancient sentinel standing watch over a land long forgotten. The once-thriving village behind him had been reduced to charred ruins, the remnants of homes and livelihoods swallowed by the merciless hands of war. The silence that enveloped the desolate land should have been comforting, yet it only served to amplify the unrest in his mind. No matter how far he rode, no matter how much distance he placed between himself and the ghosts of his past, they always found a way to follow him.

His gaze lifted toward the horizon, where the dying sun painted the sky in hues of gold and crimson, its light slowly fading into the encroaching dusk. He tried to find solace in the serenity of the evening, in the quiet beauty of nature untouched by war, but peace remained an illusion.

"Jovalian is no longer my concern," he muttered under his breath, as if saying it aloud would make it true. But he knew better. His hands, calloused from years of wielding a blade, clenched into fists. No matter how much he tried to distance himself, the chains of his past still bound him to that accursed land.

And in the deepest recesses of his mind, one name lingered like poison.

Drennal Faerwyn.

The mere thought of the man sent a bitter taste to his tongue. A master manipulator, a politician who thrived in the chaos of war, a man who played with lives as if they were mere pieces on his grand chessboard. Alcard could still picture his ever-present smile—calm, composed, masking layers of deceit beneath an impeccable facade.

"He's no different from Cevral," Alcard thought grimly, his jaw tightening.

Drennal had once been a fading shadow, nearly forgotten in the political arena after losing the favor of the Second Prince—the rightful heir to the throne, a man with military prowess and enough influence to silence schemers like him. Everyone believed that Drennal's time was over, that he had been cast aside, replaced by generals and advisors with actual merit.

But Drennal was not a man who accepted defeat.

With patience and cunning, he slithered back into power, weaving his influence into the very fabric of the kingdom's political landscape. And in a move no one saw coming, he found the perfect tool—the Third Prince, a mere child, too young to wield authority, too innocent to realize he was nothing but a pawn. Drennal positioned himself as the regent, building a kingdom within a kingdom, orchestrating the longest-lasting political coup Jovalian had ever seen.

For over a decade, he let the kingdom bleed. He let factions wage war, allowed nobles to fight for scraps of power, all while he remained untouchable, watching from the shadows. His reign was not one of force, but of control, and he ensured that no single power could ever rise strong enough to challenge him.

"He's far more dangerous than they give him credit for," Alcard admitted to himself. "Because unlike kings and warriors, he doesn't fight battles—he controls them."

The realization left a bitter weight in his chest. He had spent years honing his swordsmanship, leading armies, believing that true power lay in the strength of one's blade. But men like Drennal and Cevral had rewritten the rules of war. They waged battles not with steel, but with whispers, secrets, and veiled threats. And in the end, they had won.

A part of him couldn't help but wonder—if he had been as ruthless, as cunning as Drennal, would things have turned out differently? Could he have stopped the collapse of Jovalian? Could he have saved the ones he loved?

His heart clenched at the thought.

No.

That was a path he could not afford to wander. The past was unchangeable, no matter how much he loathed it.

"Jovalian is in the past," he repeated to himself, this time with a forced certainty. "I am an outcast now. A guardian of The Wall. That is all that matters."

But deep down, he knew he was lying to himself.

The scars of betrayal and loss had never truly healed. They had simply been buried beneath years of exile, beneath battles fought in the frozen wastes, beneath the empty promises he told himself every night. And no matter how much he wished to believe he had severed his ties to his homeland, something inside him still smoldered, waiting for the moment it would ignite once more.

As the last light of the sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the ruins in shadows, Alcard remained seated beneath the tree, allowing the wind to brush against his face. He wanted to believe he had left it all behind, that he had no reason to return, but the whisper at the back of his mind told him otherwise.

This wasn't over.

Not yet.