Chapter 2: The Prince of Heartblade

A sword is sticking out in the middle of the gigantic war table. It's the opposite of a needle in a haystack. Upon entering the room, it's the first thing you'll notice. The long sword, with its glittering jeweled handle, appears to be a beautiful decoration. Despite its elegant appearance, it is undoubtedly a masterfully crafted deadly weapon. The heavy figurines, representing different icons on the huge map of Altrion, are scattered throughout the war room. It seems a significant altercation occurred moments ago. 

Despite being mid-summer, the war room is so cold you can taste your own breath. The room is the chilliest by design in the Heartblade castle to keep its occupants level-headed. Disagreements around the war table often lead to quarrels over superior tactical decision-making. Some argue in favor of the people, others for self-centered gains. However, this altercation was different. It went too far, resulting in many casualties. It was more than a quarrel.

There were a dozen dead bodies lying around the space. Some are on the table, the rest are scattered around it. The wounds of the bodies varies between a physical stabs and slash to elemental magic: burnt, frozen and charred crisp and traces of melted metal from the armor. The bloodpool that gushed out of the gap between their armors already went cold. Although there are several dozen bodies in the war room, it still feels collosal yet lonely and empty.

The stone walls enclosing the room lend a gritty, grinding ambiance. The only light source, a massive 5-meter colorful mosaic window depicting King Julius in his famous neutral and calm victory pose, faces the noon sun. King Julius was never an avid chaser of grandiosity. He always fared with calmness and a loving, stoic nature. It is an understatement to say that the King was beloved by his people. The window is one of the last remaining memories of the King. Pure sunlight shines through the heart area of King Julius's mosaic window, as only that part is made of uncolored glass. The pure heart sunlight illuminates the edge of the table, right where the war room's throne resides. On the massive throne, the Prince of Heartblade sits calmly. His shoulder-length blonde hair reflects the sunlight, giving the Prince a radiant presence. The throne seems to have been molded to fit the Prince's proportions perfectly, even though it was originally made for his father, the King.

Out of the shadows, behind the prince's throne, a figure, seemingly made solely of dark hood and cape, emerges. The fabric of the cape appears heavy, yet the figure moves as light and silent as a feather. As the figure draws closer to the prince, it becomes bathed in the colorful light of the mosaic. Leaning in, the figure whispers into the prince's ear: "King Julius has passed."

The prince's reaction is so minute, not even he could notice it. A hint of a one-sided grin appears and disappears just as quickly. The prince slowly directs his gaze onto the sword that has been violently jammed into the table. "So it begins," he mutters to himself.

Soon after his words, the room seems to rumble in an odd rhythm. From afar, the clanking of heavy metal grows louder with each passing beat. As the sound reaches its peak, the figure beside the prince says, "They're here."

The half-metal, half-wooden double doors beneath the mosaic window swing open so violently that the whole room shakes when the doors hit the walls beside them. Two dozen people pour in like hungry sharks following the scent of blood. The raw sound of steel clanking and clashing against each other reaches an uncomfortable loudness and frequency for the ears. Despite being a large crowd of armored individuals, each one knows exactly where to stand, organizing themselves into an almost perfect V-shape emanating from the entrance. After everyone takes their position, their spears point sharply directly at the prince, like a well-trained choreography of war. The sudden silence following the clashing of metals is daunting and intimidating for anyone facing the presence of these armored soldiers. Except for the prince and the figure beside him. They remain impressively unimpressed.

After a brief moment that felt like an eternity in this tense situation, a man emerged from the doors and walked slowly between the soldiers towards the prince. The amount of armor he wore was substantial, his body tall and broad like a solid rock. This man radiated authority without even trying. He wore more metal than anyone else in the room, yet he had such control over his body that almost none of the metal clanked as he walked. His confidence in his skills was evident as he wore no helmet, leaving his head exposed. His long, dark mahogany hair flowed like a lion's mane. He positioned himself at the other end of the table, opposite the prince. Their eyes locked, both glancing past the king's longsword in the middle of the table.

"Your highness," the general's voice was softer than anticipated. His voice commanded respect, but there was a hint of fondness in his tone towards the Prince.

"General Gregg," the Prince responded with few words, yet with clarity and respect. There was a brief pause. The cold air between them suddenly felt ten times heavier. You could sense that this pause was necessary before the atmosphere would become even heavier with what the General had to say.

"Your highness. You are accused of committing treason," General Gregg proclaimed calmly. After a brief pause, he continued: "...for murdering the King."

Everyone's attention was now focused on the Prince's lips. But they didn't move at all for a while. He seemed to be contemplating his next words. After a nerve-wracking moment, his chest began to rise as he drew breath for his next words. Everyone in the room froze. Even the atmosphere seemed to stand still for a moment. Then the Prince spoke: "I'm innocent." Although softly spoken, his words felt like an earthquake that shattered everyone's frozen state. The Prince's voice was clear and lacked any uncertainty.

General Gregg's eyes wandered for the first time from the Prince's eyes to the bodies scattered around the room. "What about these men?" He genuinely wanted to know.

"It was self-defense," said the Prince. His reply was faster this time. 

General Gregg glanced over to the tall hooded and robed figure standing next to the Prince. But he knew it would be trouble for himself and everyone around him if he asked that person any questions. The intelligence and wit of the Arcanist were well known throughout Altrion. But he had to do it anyway. His duty commanded him to assess the situation as quickly as possible, so he could arrest the suspects as peacefully as possible. Even if it's the Prince and his Arcanist. "And you? What are you doing here?" You could hear a hint of tension in his voice for the first time since he walked into the room.

"I'm protecting the Prince." The Arcanist's voice was deeper and slower than expected, a stark contrast to its floaty appearance. Its voice was too high for a man but too low for a woman. This eerie, uncategorizable presence gave the Arcanist a more mysterious and daunting aura around its person.

"By killing all these soldiers?" General Gregg was surprised by himself at how much it almost sounded sarcastic, despite trying his hardest to be sober and clear in this tense situation.

Even if you couldn't see the eyes of the Arcanist under the hood, you could tell from miles away that this person was calculating the best possible outcome of her next words.

"Yes," said the Arcanist with a hint of a smile. That one word felt colder than the room itself. It lacked any form of remorse, so much so, that its reply made even the formidable General Gregg uncomfortable. He hid his discomfort and tried to follow up with a clarifying question. General Gregg inhaled to ask a question. The ever-so sharp-eyed Arcanist broke General Gregg's rhythm by interrupting and saying: "It was self-defense."

General Gregg had had enough. He completely changed the direction and flow of the conversation by saying, "Would you like to escort us to the basement peacefully?" His words came out almost aggressively, but only because he was furious with himself for feeling as though he was losing his self-control. Especially when he had exchanged so few words with a person. But to be perfectly fair, it was the Arcanist he was facing. He wouldn't immediately admit that the Arcanist had easily won the psychological warfare. Which was not surprising: this individual had the magical firepower to back it up. One of few left in the whole world of Altrion.

"One moment," said the Arcanist, reaching into one of its oversized sleeves to retrieve something.

At that very moment, General Gregg reacted instinctively fast. He reached for his sword and was about to draw it out until he realized that his soldiers had moved two steps closer towards the Prince and Arcanist. There was already too much pressure in the room. He didn't want to escalate any further. The sudden clanking of the many metal pieces still reverberated in the room even after they stood still in unison. It was a clear sign of readiness for further violence if necessary. Every soldier, including General Gregg, became increasingly nervous with each passing second.

The Arcanist slowly pulled an ancient scroll from one of the depths of its sleeve and said, "In my hand, I hold the very evidence that the Prince is next in line to be the rightful heir of the King. If you really need to escort him to the basement, then, General Gregg, do what you have to do." Every single word that the Arcanist said felt heavy in the air. Still, everyone felt a little relieved at the prospect that they were likely to comply peacefully. Deep down, the soldiers were relieved that they wouldn't be incinerated by the deadly magic of the Arcanist.

For many, it was clear that the Prince was the rightful heir to the King. Due to the political turmoil in the years leading up to the King's death, a strategically placed brutal rumor from the bitter opposition spread like wildfire throughout Altrion at some point. It suggested that the Prince might have been adopted by the grace of the King due to inability to bear a healthy baby boy by the Queen. It was undeniable if you saw the King and the Prince side by side, but what can you do if some people are capable of believing that the Prince dyes his hair every day to match the King's hair color?

Entrusting that old scroll containing crucial information to one of the most magically powerful people in the Kingdom was a smart move. It was someone the Prince could trust blindly.

General Gregg took a deep breath and moved two steps closer towards the Prince to arrest him. As he was about to go around the edge of the table, the Arcanist said one word that made the whole room freeze again: "Just." Everyone's eyes were locked on the Arcanist's lips. Everyone's nerves were on edge, and they all just wanted to go home to their families at this point.

"Make sure to be aware of what your future King might think about what you're doing to him today," The Arcanist's voice sounded even deeper and almost threatening.

"I'm only doing my duty. Nothing else," General Gregg stood his ground, finding the courage to withstand the idea that he could be charred by lightning by the Arcanist. In his mind, he could live with his actions because he believed they were just. Even though deep within his heart he didn't want to arrest his decades-long martial arts student, his sense of duty left him no other choice.

"It is not for me to decide if he will be king or not. Frankly, it is a decision for neither of us. It will ultimately be the decision of the royal tribunal and the royal tribunal only," General Gregg said with newfound confidence, knowing he was unshakeably right. Despite facing two formidable temporary adversaries, General Gregg knew he was speaking to two reasonable individuals. He felt a glimmer of hope amidst all the fear he was feeling.

"Very well," said the Arcanist after a moment of thought. The Arcanist sounded like it genuinely agreed.

"Do what you must, General Gregg." General Gregg could've sworn he heard an 'or else' in the subtext. But after he made sure there were no threats, he proceeded to walk closer towards the Prince.

He walked over the figurines scattered around the war table. At this time, he didn't know that the whole world of Altrion was descending into chaos with the fall of the King, just like the scattered figurines around the world map of Altrion.

When he arrived by the Prince, he didn't know what to do next. The pressure he was feeling was turning his insides upside down. It was a completely strange feeling for the general. He looked into the eyes of the Prince and saw his young sword apprentice in front of him. And at the same time, he saw a grown-up, not yet an adult but mature enough to make adult-like decisions, person in front of him who was like a son to him. But now he had to take an action that he would never have imagined in his wildest dreams. He needed to take the arms of the Prince and constrict his wrists to make an arrest.

General Gregg extended his right hand in front of the Prince as if inviting the Prince to a dance. The Prince saw the hand and gently reached for the armored hand. The Prince stood up while the general provided soft but solid support so he could stand up flawlessly. The Prince stood up without any resistance.

They looked into each other's eyes, and you could tell the Prince had grown up with General Gregg by his side. The general was like a second father to him. "I'm sorry, Vincent," said the general with pain in his heart while holding the Prince's hand.

One soldier came to the general and brought the heavy handcuffs.

"It's not your fault." The Prince presented both of his wrists. The clanking of the handcuffs sounded loud and lay heavily around the Prince's wrists. They were almost too big for the delicate wrists of the Prince.

"Shall we?" General Gregg said as gently as possible. With these two words, General Gregg reminded the Prince of a situation where they would train with swords. Before every sparring session, General Gregg would always say these two words: "Shall we?". Only this time, he led the Prince towards the prison in the basement of the castle.

"Please arrest and escort the Arcanist also to the prison," pleaded the General to the soldiers. He looked over to the Arcanist and made sure that the Arcanist didn't do anything that would harm anyone. But it showed no sign of causing any harm. At least for now.

The situation was resolved peacefully. As they exited the dark, heavy room, the scorching summer noon sun immediately kissed their cold skin. It was a blistering day with record-high temperatures, something the Prince never thought he'd miss during his imprisonment.

Everyone vacated the room, but the King's long sword remained embedded in the center of the war table. Unnoticed, the tip of the blade was jammed right through Heartblade on the world map of Altrion. Was it a bad omen, or merely a coincidence?