The royal palace of Elaris stood tall over the capital, its golden spires reflecting the sunlight like burning lances. The walls were carved from pure white marble, each corner engraved with the crest of the Rhise royal family- a dragon with swords crossed beneath it.
Modred stood at the gates, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes narrowing as he took it all in. "So this is how royalty lives," he muttered.
Xeraniel was waiting by the entrance. "Took you long enough," he said, faint amusement in his tone. "Come on. My mother and father are expecting you."
As they walked through the grand halls, Modred's eyes darted everywhere - the chandeliers, the polished floors, the rows of guards standing motionless like statues. As they entered the royal hall, the sound of laughter and chatter filled the air. The queen of Elaris rose from her seat almost immediately, warmth lighting her face. "So this is the boy my son keeps talking about," she said with a gentle smile. "It's been a long time since this place had such youthful company."
The king watched silently, his fiery orange eyes carrying both authority and curiosity.
Behind him stood two older princes and two princesses. One of them, Aria, tilted her head, studying Modred with a mischievous grin.
"So this is the mountain boy?" she teased lightly. "You don't look like much."
Xeraniel frowned. "Aria-"
Before he could finish, Modred turned his gaze toward her. His tone dropped, voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Watch your mouth."
The change was instant. His calm composure shifted, and the air around him grew tense, dark, heavy. His emerald green pupils glimmered faintly, and even Aria felt her throat tighten for a second. Then, as quickly as it came, the pressure faded, and Modred's neutral expression returned.
A small chuckle escaped the Queen's lips, breaking the silence. "Now, now. Let's not scare my daughter on her first meeting with you."
Later, Xeraniel guided Modred through the palace grounds until they reached a large training ground, where several figures awaited. Among them was a tall, broad-shouldered man with grey hair and emerald eyes, the same as his, who carried a quiet command.
Igred Vayne.
And beside him, a woman with soft crimson hair tied back neatly. She smiled faintly, her crimson eyes softening as she studied the boy before her. "So this is my grandson... you really do have his eyes."
Modred froze. "...Grandson?"
Carla chuckled quietly. "He looks so lost. Igred did you not tell him?"
The old man crossed his arms. "I figured I'd let him find out himself."
Igred then exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering across his face. "I didn't tell you much, that's true." His tone sharpened. "Well kid, I'm the captain of the Royal Guard. Secon in command to premier Magnus Liam.... your grandmothers' brother."
Modred's expression tightened, as he turned to look at the woman beside him. "She's one of the Liams!"
The revelation sat heavy between them. Modred remain unmoved, the flicker of surprise in his eyes didn't go unnoticed.
Carla stepped closer, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "Your father never-"
"Don't," Modred cut in, voice low but sharp. His eyes darkened, a faint tension flickering in the air.
Silence fell between them. Carla withdrew her hand slowly, her expression soft with understanding. Igred sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Both of them knew what that meant.
After a moment, Carla smiled again. "Then stay here for a while, Modred. The Liam household isn't what it used to be, but it could use a little a life again."
Igred nodded with a faint grin. "You heard her. Your grandmother's orders."
Modred let out a small smile. "Tch. Fine. But don't expect me to do chores."
Carla laughed softly. "You really are his grandson."
They didn't talk long before Magnus himself arrived, towering and composed, his sharp presence drawing the attention of everyone nearby. The soldiers immediately straightened up.
He stood beside Igred and nodded. "Let's see what your boy can do."
The sparring began.
Modred stepped into the concrete arena, facing Xeraniel. Both drew their blades-one humming faintly with weightless control, the other steady in Modred's grasp, grounded and precise.
The first clash echoed across the courtyard. Sparks flew, the force sending gusts of dust spiraling around them.
Modred's movements were sharp and unpredictable—swift and fluid, driven by raw instinct and agility. He attacked low, pivoted fast, and struck again with brutal precision. Xeraniel matched each move with refined skill, his technique clean and efficient, countering with calm confidence.
"He's fast," Igred muttered with a hint of pride. "Still rough, but fast."
Magnus crossed his arms. "Speed is nothing without balance. Watch the boy's eyes—he's learning."
Modred pressed forward again, feinting, then pivoting midair to drive a strike toward Xeraniel's shoulder. Xeraniel barely blocked it, the ground cracking beneath his feet.
The tension grew. The next few exchanges were faster, heavier. Modred's speed and instinct began pushing Xeraniel back, forcing him to use his full focus.
Then, with a blur of movement, Xeraniel's blade glowed faintly with mana—his stance shifting as he grew serious. He parried Modred's next strike and countered with a clean hit to Modred's chest, sending him sliding backward across the concrete.
The courtyard fell silent. Modred caught his breath, gripping his sword tightly, then lowered it with a faint smirk.
"Guess I'll need to get used to losing here."
Xeraniel smiled faintly. "Not bad for a mountain boy."
Igred chuckled from the stands. "At least you didn't break your arm this time."
After the match, Magnus and Igred exchanged approving glances. The Premier spoke first.
"He's rough, but he's got potential. Let him take the Academy exams. If he passes, he'll start under the Royal Guard division."
As they walked back through the marble corridors, Modred's gaze drifted toward a massive statue standing in the center courtyard—a towering figure carved from obsidian, radiating power.
Everyone around him bowed their heads in silent reverence.
Except Modred.
He stood still, eyes fixed on the statue, expression unreadable.
Igred quickly noticed and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Lower your head," he muttered quietly.
Modred hesitated, the muscles in his jaw tightening—then bowed, reluctantly.
The air around the statue seemed to grow colder, heavier—almost as if it had noticed him.