The medical ward was far more crowded than one would expect on a day when no injuries were reported among the Knights. There were no wounds to treat, no broken bones or fainting soldiers. Only one doctor had clocked in that morning, yet somehow, one single patient had managed to draw half the palace to his bedside.
It began with a slip of the tongue. The guard assigned to watch over the prince, in his attempt at polite conversation, told one of the ward staff that his charge had stirred. He did not think much of it at the time. He merely mentioned that the eldest prince's hand had moved, and his eyes had opened for a fleeting second. But in this palace, words are never idle things. They ripple. They multiply. Before the guard could even realize what he had done, a whisper had become a wave.
By noon, the corridors outside the royal ward were thick with people. Servants, attendants, cooks, even a few of the scholars found reason to wander past. They lingered in doorways, whispering, inventing reasons to stand there longer. Each step they took was careful, subdued. It was as if they feared that too much noise might wake the prince before he was ready—or worse, remind him of who had been waiting for his return.
Naturally, the sight of half the palace standing idle did not go unnoticed for long.
One of the first to sense that something was off was the third child of the royal family, Prince Mikail. He was in his office that morning, going through a pile of trade documents, maps, and merchant contracts. The room smelled faintly of wax and parchment. His desk was large and polished, the surface arranged neatly except for the pile of reports on the eastern trade routes, which he had been ordered to review by the same patient now resting in the ward.
For a time, he was entirely absorbed in his work. But Mikail was not the kind of man to let disorder linger unnoticed, even in silence. He realized after a few minutes that something about the atmosphere felt hollow. There was no conversation, no shifting armor, no low murmur of guards exchanging words. Only one pair of boots stood outside his door.
He looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Say," he began, his tone measured, "am I not supposed to have two guards during my office hours?"
The lone guard straightened at once. It was not the tone that unnerved him, but the look that accompanied it. The prince's stare had weight. He had inherited his mother's eyes, cold and sharp as polished glass, and they did not waver once they settled on someone.
The guard hesitated, then finally spoke. "Prince Marcus has found the source of his awakening, my prince. He is in the medical ward. The news spread quickly. Many have gone to see him."
Mikail leaned back slightly in his chair. The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown out the sounds from the corridor. He was not a man who displayed his thoughts, but that silence carried something restrained, something uncertain. After several moments, his hand began to move. He tapped a single finger against the mahogany desk. Each strike of nail on wood echoed like a clock marking time. When the rhythm ceased, Mikail stood.
He did not dismiss the guard, nor did he offer any comment. He simply turned and left.
The hallway he walked through was unlike the others in the palace. Where most corridors bore portraits of the royal line, this one was different. Here stood statues, each carved with exquisite precision, depicting not men but animals. Lions, wolves, serpents, falcons, hounds. Each one corresponded to a member of the bloodline. The symbolism was no secret. To those who had the eyes for it, a man's aura, when seen by the right kind of gaze, took on the shape of a beast. The statues were a record of that truth, an eternal display of what each royal truly was beneath all ceremony and grace.
Mikail walked slowly, his steps quiet against the stone floor. He glanced briefly at each statue he passed, though his expression did not change. When he reached a section where there was no sculpture, only a blank pedestal, he slowed. That empty space, as all who knew would remember, belonged to Marcus. Mikail paused for a moment before moving on, wondering what creature would one day stand in that place, and what story it would tell.
By the time he reached the medical ward, the noise had dimmed but the air was still heavy with tension. The corridor was crowded with servants and attendants, their heads bowed in reverence or curiosity. The ward itself, reserved exclusively for the royal family, could easily hold fifty people. Yet it felt claustrophobic, for every inch of it was filled.
Mikail's arrival did not go unnoticed. The moment his figure appeared at the entrance, the crowd shifted and dispersed almost at once, as if a tide had suddenly receded. He did not speak to them, but he watched their movements closely. Their faces carried a strange expression—not fear of him, but of what lay within the room behind him. For all his pride, Mikail had never thought himself intimidating enough to scatter a crowd. Their retreat puzzled him.
Only when he heard a familiar voice beside him did he realize why.
"To think the one most loved among us is our eldest brother," said Princess Hannah, her tone carrying both amusement and melancholy.
Mikail turned slightly. Standing beside her were the rest of the siblings, gathered as if drawn by some unspoken signal. For the first time in many months, all the children of the palace were together of their own accord.
There was Hannah, calm and poised, her presence soft yet watchful. To her left stood Ronald, the third son, sharp-featured and distant, his expression unreadable. Behind them were Gemma and Emily.
For a while, no one said anything. They stood outside the door, each facing it as though it might open of its own accord.
Inside, the eldest brother, Prince Marcus, lay motionless. His chest rose and fell with the fragile rhythm of someone caught between two worlds. The light from the window fell across his face, revealing sharp features that had once seemed almost inhumanly composed. In life, he had been the model of restraint and precision, every word measured, every action deliberate. It was said there was nothing in the palace he did not know, no secret he could not uncover. He had built a reputation as a man of cold logic, a strategist whose loyalty lay more with order than with affection.
And yet, looking at the crowd that had gathered for him, it seemed that even cold men left warmth behind them.
Mikail stared for a long moment through the glass panel of the door. He tried to recall the last time they had spoken without pretense, without that quiet barrier of duty between them. He could not. The distance between them had been steady and polite, like a treaty neither wished to break. Yet in that stillness, some part of him ached in ways he did not fully recognize.
Behind him, Hannah spoke again, softer this time. "Do you think he truly found it? The source of his awakening?"
Mikail's voice, when he answered, was steady. "If he did, then he has paid for it dearly."
The doctor inside adjusted something beside the bed. The soft clinking of glass broke the silence for a moment. The siblings stood watching. None of them entered. It was as if an invisible threshold separated them, not of space but of memory.
Hannah folded her hands before her, her gaze thoughtful. "They say an awakening changes a man completely. Perhaps when he wakes, he will be different."
Mikail's eyes lingered on Marcus's still face. "He has always been different," he said.
There was no bitterness in the words, only truth. For as long as any of them could remember, Marcus had been the quiet sun around which the rest of the family revolved. His influence was constant, his presence inevitable. Even when he was absent, he was never gone. He was the standard they were measured against, the one whose judgment mattered even when he did not speak.
Now he lay silent, and still, the palace bent around him.
Ronald, who had said nothing all this time, finally stepped forward. His voice was low, almost hesitant. "Do you think Father knows yet?"
Mikail did not answer. The question lingered unanswered in the air.
The door to the ward creaked faintly as a nurse stepped out, her eyes wide when she saw the gathered royals. She bowed deeply, nearly trembling, before speaking. "Your Highnesses, the doctor says he is stable. The signs of awakening are confirmed."
The siblings exchanged glances, each interpreting the words differently. Hannah exhaled softly, relief mixed with apprehension. Ronald jaw tightened slightly. Mikail said nothing at all.
When the nurse had gone, the hall grew quiet once more. The guards at the end of the corridor had resumed their positions, the servants having all disappeared. Only the siblings remained.
It was Hannah who finally broke the silence. "Strange, isn't it? How we all came here without anyone calling us. As though something drew us."
Mikail's eyes lingered on the closed door. "Perhaps it is habit," he said. "Whenever one of us falls, the rest gather to see if we are still standing."
The others looked at him, unsure if he meant it as jest or truth. Mikail himself did not clarify. He turned away from the door and began to walk back down the corridor, his steps slow and even. As he passed the empty pedestal once more, he let his gaze linger on it again.
Behind him, Hannah watched him go. "He does not show it," she murmured, "but he feels it more than any of us."
Ronald did not respond. His eyes were fixed on the same door Mikail had left behind.
Inside that room, the eldest prince continued to sleep. The faintest movement stirred beneath the blanket, a subtle tightening of the fingers. The light from the window dimmed as a cloud passed overhead, casting the chamber in muted shade. And for a moment, the stillness seemed to deepen, as if the entire palace was holding its breath.
It is curious, dear reader, how silence can carry so much weight. A man asleep, a family watching, a whisper of power uncoiling beneath the surface. Some might call it fate, others inevitability. But in truth, it is neither. It is only the quiet moment before a storm begins to speak.