After seven solemn days of mourning for the soldiers who died during the queen's golden jubilee, King Heimdal summoned Prince Alaric. The king was standing in front of the window of his chambers, his eyes lingered across the courtyard, where Astrid's abode stood in quiet shadow, when his firstborn arrived.
Prince Alaric waited in the antechamber outside the royal chambers, his back pressed against the heavy oak door, lost in his thoughts. The creak of hinges pulled him from his reverie. The king's door opened, and Alaric turned, straightening his posture before stepping inside. He crossed the chamber with measured steps, his expression unreadable, and stood with deliberate calm behind the carved mahogany chair, its dark polish gleaming beneath the afternoon sun that filtered through the window.
"You can sit, my son," King Heimdal said, his voice controlled but carrying the weight of age and grief.
