It was early morning, but Prince Qelmar was already walking through the palace corridors. In his hand he held a letter sealed with wax. Kale, his chytra, had brought it to him just before dusk the day before.
He stopped before the door to Princess Belara’s chamber and knocked softly.
“Come in,” came her voice from within — a little sleepy, but steady.
He entered. The princess stood before a mirror, holding a comb with a silver handle. Her fair hair glimmered in the morning light like fields of wheat. She wore a crimson dress trimmed with gold. As always, it was simple in cut yet carried a regal grace.
“Prince Qelmar?” she said in surprise. “Surely nothing grave has happened that you come so early? Is it something that couldn’t wait?”
“My apologies, Princess,” he bowed slightly. “But this is important. Very important. And I… couldn’t sleep because of it.”
Belara looked into his face, searching for the fatigue that comes with sleepless nights — the dark circles beneath the eyes — but saw nothing of the sort. She hadn’t time to study him further. Setting the comb aside, she turned toward him. “Speak.”
“It’s about a message my chytra brought me yesterday. At that moment, your presence caught me off guard, and I lied deliberately. Kale brought me a letter from the king.” His tone was calm, but there was a strange spark in his eyes.
“And what does your father, the King of Tassas, want of you?”
“It wasn’t the King of Tassas.” Qelmar paused, locking eyes with her as if to read her reaction. Then he said the words that struck Belara like lightning.
“It was Almarin the Ninth, King of Kendelen.”
Belara froze. The comb slipped from her hand and landed softly on the carpet.
“From… the King of Kendelen?”
“Yes.”
“The same one who led two attacks against us?”
“The very same. We’re speaking of the same man, Princess. Don’t worry.” Qelmar smiled faintly, stepped forward, and placed the letter on the small table between them.
“I’ll spare you the reading. In short — he offers me vast lands within the Kingdom of Terres, if I deliver him the last heir to the Terresian throne, Prince Kelen. Alive… or in a body bag.”
Memories shattered in her mind — their walk from yesterday, his touch, their kiss, and lastly his face. It all felt like a dream torn apart by a single sentence. Kelen was no longer just the heir to the Terresian crown — he was the man she’d laughed with, the man who made time itself vanish. Her mind had yet to grasp it, but her heart already knew whom she would save at any cost.
Her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t breathe. For several moments, she was utterly paralyzed.
“You can’t,” slipped from her lips in a whisper.
Belara stared at the letter lying on the table as though it might burn her fingers. “This can’t be true.”
“It is,” said Qelmar quietly, though there was a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “You can read for yourself — it’s there in black and white.”
She said nothing. Still as stone, she stared at the parchment, her breath shallow.
Qelmar broke the silence. “I could act like most in my position… stay silent and take advantage of it.” He looked into her face. “But that’s not who I am. You may think little of me because of Tassasian court rumors, yet here I am — giving you proof that I’m different. My character isn’t as twisted as most of my kin’s. You deserve to know what games your enemy is playing.”
It sounded humble, but pride hummed beneath every word — as if he’d just complimented himself.
“Thank you, Prince. I deeply appreciate this gesture. I don’t know how to repay you.”
“No need,” Qelmar waved it off casually.
Belara took the letter, brushed her thumb over the seal, and lowered her eyes. She began to read quickly. After a moment she looked up.
“Thank you again for bringing this, but now, please excuse me. This matter requires an immediate response.”
Qelmar gave a polite bow and left the room — satisfied. The princess thought better of him now. He felt the spark had returned, one he only needed to fan until Belara fell under his spell again.
Once the door closed behind him, the princess sank wearily into a chair. Her hands trembled; she kept whispering a word to herself again and again. It took a while before she calmed down. She read the letter several more times, growing surer each time of what she faced.
Then she called for a servant and ordered her to fetch Jhalen and tell him to convene a council in the throne hall — immediately.
Within the hour, everyone had gathered. On the throne sat King Velen III, beside him Queen Asarda. Standing before them were the pragmatic advisor Meradan, diplomat Jhalen, Admiral Sharad, and Princess Belara.
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Jhalen opened the meeting. “We’ve gathered in haste because the princess brings important news.”
All eyes turned to Belara. She took a deep breath.
“This morning, Prince Qelmar came to me,” she began, her voice calm but trembling near the end. “He received a letter. But the seal was not Tassasian… it was Kendelenian.”
A stunned silence followed. The stillness was so deep they could hear a candle crackle.
“Is he telling the truth?” asked Sharad.
Everyone leaned forward, tense as drawn bows. Belara produced the letter and held it up, showing the engraved seal.
Meradan rubbed his chin and squinted, as though searching for a hidden advantage. “It truly looks like an original Kendelenian seal. If that’s the case, at least we know our enemy hasn’t changed his insignia since swallowing the Kingdom of Derdelen.”
“I’m more interested in why such a king would reach out to someone like Qelmar,” said Jhalen.
The princess handed him the letter. “He wants Prince Kelen. Alive or dead, it doesn’t matter. In exchange, he offers vast lands in Kelen’s own kingdom. The plan is clear — strike down the prince, and the entire realm will crumble. We all know Kelen’s father is failing; his reign is in decline. The last thread holding that land together is its final heir — Prince Kelen III.”
“That’s brilliant!” Meradan exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. Everyone stared at him in disbelief.
Belara inhaled sharply; an image of Kelen flashed through her mind — tired, smiling, wounded. She felt her resolve harden in her veins. She bit her lip, frowning. She had never liked the royal advisor. Though he always acted for the good of the realm, his methods were cold, calculating, and devoid of heart. He dealt only in numbers.
“We owe that prince nothing,” Meradan continued. “If we hand him over, we win Kendelen’s favor. Or we could capture him and negotiate. Clearly the king wants him badly enough — that gives us leverage.”
“Hand him over?” Belara burst out. “Have you lost your mind?” she shouted, but Jhalen’s raised hand stopped her.
Meradan sighed, covering his face briefly before defending himself. “Think! We have a unique chance to trap our enemy and force him to play by our rules.”
“To hell with your pragmatism,” thought Belara. “You never care about people’s hearts. All that matters to you is the kingdom’s survival. Maybe one day I’ll understand your heartless numbers game — but not today. I won’t let you doom a decent man for the sake of your calculations.”
“Enough, Meradan,” said Jhalen sharply. “You’ve stated your view. That’s sufficient. Does anyone else wish to speak?” His eyes swept across the room.
“As commander of our naval defenses, I suggest we play for time,” said Sharad. “Our fleet isn’t even remotely strong enough to face Kendelen again at sea. The few ships we have — well, we could hang banners on them and send them off as a welcome gift. With our current strength, defense is laughable. So I propose this: we write to Almarin, saying we’re willing to hand over Kelen under certain conditions. We won’t actually do it, of course — but it buys us time, and maybe we’ll learn something useful.”
“Play for time? Why not,” Belara thought. “It’s a way to improve our position without harming Kelen.”
“Thank you for your counsel, my friend,” said Velen, running both hands down his face as though wiping away the weight of the crown. “Jhalen,” he turned to the diplomat, “you have no further comment?”
The young man paused, then began in his usual composed manner.
“If the letter is genuine, and Almarin truly wants Kelen gone, we must ask ourselves whether an alliance with that realm is wise at all. When we sent invitations to Zerboras, Tassas, and Terres, we assumed Kendelen wouldn’t target any of them. But clearly, we were wrong. If, Princess, you were to choose Prince Kelen as your husband, it would bind together two realms — both marked as targets. Almarin already has his eye on us. It seems unwise to ally with Terres when an attack on them may come soon. That alliance could destroy us both. From a pragmatic standpoint, I’d choose either Prince Malgorn or Qelmar. And between those two, Zerboras is the stronger, militarily and strategically.”
“As always, Jhalen speaks sense,” Belara thought. “But like Meradan, he speaks only in numbers, not hearts. If Dusughbarah and Terres unite, survival may be difficult — but we would emerge victorious.”
The king spoke. “You speak wisely, yet still you weigh only numbers — like Meradan. The admiral proposes delay.” He turned to his daughter. “My dear, what are the odds you’d choose Prince Kelen among the three?”
“Velen,” Queen Asarda interrupted sharply, “you can’t just ask her that outright.”
“Why not?” the king frowned.
The queen rolled her eyes and muttered, “Men…” Then said aloud, “Because it’s a delicate matter, that’s why.”
“What’s so hard about it? Either she likes him, or she doesn’t,” Velen argued.
“There’s certainly a chance,” the queen said protectively, “but understand — you’re speaking to a young woman, and there are others present.” Her gaze slid from Meradan to Jhalen and finally to the old admiral. “You’d have her bare her heart before them all.”
“Oh…” the king murmured as it finally dawned on him.
Silence followed. The diplomat and admiral stayed respectfully quiet; the debate had shifted into personal territory. Even Meradan, usually so blunt, held his tongue, studying the princess’s face like a hunter tracking prints in the mud.
Belara pressed a hand to her forehead and took a deep breath. “If my husband must be one of the three, it will be Kelen.” Her voice trembled slightly; sweat beaded on her brow. She hadn’t meant to say it now — not yet. But the words were out, unstoppable.
“Well, we’re doomed,” muttered Meradan under his breath. His tone was icy, emotionless — like he’d spat the words into the void. Something flickered in his gaze, and only Belara noticed. A war was raging in his mind between logic, duty to the realm, and his conscience.
Belara raised her head. “Our alliance with Terres must be our strength, not our weakness.”
“Better to capture him and negotiate stronger terms,” Meradan grumbled, sinking back into his calculations that made her stomach tighten. “That would give us leverage.”
Belara turned sharply toward him. “Enough!” she snapped. Meradan flinched.
“I have the right to choose no one — or to choose Kelen. And since I’m sick of your cold arithmetic, I’ll make this perfectly clear: Kelen will be my husband. Get that through your thick skull, because itwillhappen.”
Velen stepped between them. “Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll hand no one over.” He turned to the advisor. “Remember, our guests have immunity. Nothing will happen to them. And I want no more of your ‘proposals’ today.” His voice carried the weight of judgment.
Meradan lowered his eyes, as though afraid his gaze might betray the plan already forming in his head. Under his breath, he murmured, “For the good of the realm…” But the princess heard him.
“So what do we do about the letter?” Jhalen asked evenly.
The king looked from Belara to his council. “Given what the princess has said,” he replied, “we play for time. We’ll write to Almarin and prolong the negotiations. We need more information, not panic.” He rubbed his forehead tiredly.
“And the tournament?”
“Proceed as planned, daughter.”
“That won’t be possible. Kelen twisted his ankle yesterday.”
A thought flickered through Meradan’s mind:He might be vulnerable now… an opportunity, perhaps.
The princess continued, “The excursion will be postponed. I’ll speak with Qelmar about his nightmares instead.”
Velen nodded. “Very well. You know what to do. We’ll handle the letter.”
As they left the hall, Meradan walked last. His gaze was distant; his hands clenched and unclenched over and over. Something twitched at the corners of his mouth — a smirk or a smile… who could tell?
