The following morning, once the carriage released him at the edge of the city, Cassian did not look back.
He walked through the streets as though they had always belonged to him, his boots striking the cobblestone in a steady rhythm that drew quiet glances. The city lay half-awake. A few merchants were already lifting their shutters, and smoke curled lazily from chimneys as dawn crept higher.
The path to the palace had never left him. Even after years buried in darkness, it remained carved into his memory. He followed it without hesitation until the towering gates rose into view.
He knocked once.
The gates parted, and a guard stepped forward. Older now, his hair threaded with gray, but unmistakable. One of the guards who had served the palace for decades. The moment his gaze landed on Cassian, his eyes widened.
"P-Prince Cassian," he breathed, recognition flooding his face.
"Why do you look like you have seen a ghost?" Cassian asked, his tone mild.
The words lingered between them, heavy with an irony neither of them missed. Cassian had been mourned, buried, spoken of in past tense. If ghosts were the dead returned to haunt the living, then perhaps the guard was not wrong to look afraid.
The man's hand flew to his sword, steel sliding partway from its sheath. Cassian slipped his hands into his pockets, unbothered.
"Relax…" Cassian trailed, watching the guard's hand tighten around the hilt of his sword as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.
"Philip," the guard blurted, as if reminding himself of his own name.
Cassian nodded once. "Relax, Philip. I did not come here to kill my family. Step aside and let me in."
Philip did not move. Conflict flickered across his face as duty wrestled with disbelief. Cassian took a step forward.
"You do remember this is my home," he said quietly. "Do you not?"
Philip's grip tightened, yet his feet remained rooted to the ground.
Cassian withdrew one hand from his pocket and revealed a small object resting in his palm. A signet ring, worn but unmistakable, bearing the royal crest. It had been given to him as a child, a symbol of birthright and belonging. By some cruel twist of fate, it had been buried with him.
Philip's breath caught.
No order was spoken, and none was needed. The signet in Cassian's hand granted him the right to pass freely through the palace gates.
"Excuse me," Cassian said, already moving forward.
The gates opened wider. He stepped inside without another glance back. After a brief hesitation, Philip followed, silent and shaken, escorting the prince who had returned from the dead.
Cassian's footsteps carried him through familiar corridors and toward the third wing, where the courtroom lay. He slowed as he drew nearer, then stopped altogether. Voices carried clearly through the thick doors.
One was unmistakably his father's. The other belonged to his older brother.
"_If you sent the letters across Virelle, then why have only a handful answered?" the king demanded, irritation sharpening his voice. "We need more men."
"I had them delivered to every province," Prince Edgar replied. "When the news spread, most men fled. And the peasants who remained are barely fit for battle. We are already at a disadvantage. Perhaps a truce—"
"Do you think I have not tried?" the king cut in. "They want no negotiations, Edgar. They want conquest. They want Virelle."
Cassian took one step forward. Then another.
He lifted his hand and gave a single knock before pushing the doors open.
The courtroom fell into silence.
Both men turned, their faces draining of color. Shock mirrored Philip's earlier reaction, disbelief freezing them where they stood.
"I will lead the war, If you will allow it, I will bring Virelle victory." Cassian said calmly. His bow was shallow, nothing like the one he had once shown.
The king stared at him, eyes wide, struggling to reconcile the living man before him with the one that was said to be dead years ago.
"Cassian," he breathed. "Is this you?"
"Yes," Cassian replied, his gaze steady. "It is me, Father."
He stressed the word 'father' deliberately. The weight of it hung heavy in the air, though neither the king nor Prince Edgar seemed to notice, still trapped in their shock.
"H-how?" the king asked. "The news brought to us said you were dead."
That one hurt.
Not because they believed it—but because they had accepted it.
Cassian did not let it show. His face remained impassive, his posture unchanged, but something tightened in his chest. If they had cared enough, they would have questioned it. They would have demanded proof. They would have retrieved his body and laid him to rest with the dignity owed to a prince. And maybe then, they would have found out that he wasn't dead.
His eyes scanned the room, lingering briefly on the faces of those who should have loved him, registering every flicker of shock and disbelief. The hurt was there, coiled tightly in his chest, burning quietly, a reminder of how little he had truly mattered.
Cassian recounted that fateful day to his father, carefully leaving out the name of the one responsible. He let the story speak for itself...the poison, the betrayal, the coffin that should have been his grave—but the culprit's identity remained his alone. He would be the one to deliver justice.
"What matters is that you are here, and that you are safe," the king said, relief softening his voice.
It was relief not born from paternal love, but from the knowledge of what Cassian had been to Virelle: a weapon forged and wielded to win wars, one who had delivered victory time and time again. Cassian knew that. And he also knew why he was truly here. Not just for the crown—he was here to make those who had hurt him and his mother pay.
While the king's relief was palpable, the same could not be said for Prince Edgar. Cassian had never been close to most of his siblings, and Edgar had always been the thorn he tolerated least. But there was no room for resentment now.
He cleared his throat before asking,
"Where is Mother? It has been a long time before I last saw her.
The king opened his mouth, "Cassian…" but no words formed. His lips pressed together painfully, a deep crease forming at the corners, and his hands twitched slightly at his sides. The years of distance, of indifference, all clawed their way to the surface, leaving him momentarily wordless, caught between relief and the silent shame of neglect.
Cassian swallowed, a pang pressing against his ribs, and kept his composure. "Where is her grave?"
The king hesitated again, swallowing hard. "I shall take you," he finally said, but the tight line of his jaw betrayed the struggle to remain steady.
Cassian shook his head lightly, a gesture firm but controlled.
"I want to be alone. So… where is she buried?"
Once given the directions, he turned and left the courtroom without another word. The doors closed behind him with a soft click, leaving only the echo of his footsteps in the hall.