Shortly afterward, he appeared in the royal garden. Curled walkways and groomed bushes were bathed in sunlight.
Amid the colorful flowers, monuments of historical monarchs and heroes stood with majesty. On top of rose-flower-woven trellises, birds sang. It was a power-encased paradise. Steven continued walking till he came to a peaceful garden pond. The water remained motionless, almost too ideal. Kneeling, he gazed at his reflection once more. He extended his arm slowly and rubbed his hand across the surface. As ripples swept across the pond, the illusion was broken. "It feels real," he muttered. Then—"Your Highness." Although Steven had no knowledge of the voice, it was firm, low, and distinctly familiar. Glancing around, he saw a tall guy wearing a scarlet and black armor. A sword sparkled at his left side, and a long fur-lined robe hung from one shoulder. Although his face was harsh from years of fighting, there was an odd tenderness in his eyes when he gazed at Steven. "Sir Clinton..." Steven remembered the name without asking. One of those men who only bowed to the throne. Clinton said with a nod. "The King has asked you to come into the throne room." Slowly, Steven rose up, wiping the dirt from his cloak. "Lead the way." "Yes, Your Highness." Clinton replied with no change in his expression. Narrowing his eyes, Steven looked around Clinton for further details. "Is he aware of what took place last night?" The Knight was hesitant. "He is aware that you passed out. The specifics, though, are still unknown." Steven quirked his mouth. "But he desires to see me early in the morning?" "Maybe he did not see your endearing humor," Clinton remarked sardonically. Steven snorted gently. "Alternatively, he might be getting ready to strangle me in front of the stained-glass windows. The knight curled into a smile. Steven turned to look at the pond again, the waning ripples reflecting his ambivalence. Still, he did not feel like he belonged in this body. He murmured softly, "Sir Clinton. If I told you that I am an entirely different man from who I was the day before, would you trust me?" Clinton narrowed his eyes. "That depends. Have you become better or worse?" Steven had a small smile. "To put it simply, I have matured in several ways." The knight nodded a little. "So maybe it is not a call to chastise you, but to see what you have turned into." Steven was taken aback. "You do not talk like a guard." In response, Clinton said, "I am just doing my duties, safeguarding this family. I am aware of the impact of abrupt change." With that, he gestured while turning on his heel. "Your Highness, please come. We must avoid keeping the lion waiting." They passed through the twisting corridors, lined with tapestry conflicts, lamps that glowed despite the early morning light, and stone walls carved with old banners. Guards bowed as they went by, their gazes staying a fraction of a second longer as though they were attempting to read the changes overnight. Steven sensed it as well. The manner of walking was modified, but the physique remained the same. Smaller steps. More conscious. At last, they arrived at the imposing doors to the throne chamber. The handles featured golden lions with eyes that shone as if they were observing trespassers. Clinton stopped and turned to face him. "The King has not called you in private for nearly a year," he remarked softly. "Not since the last time you had a mishap." Steven gradually nodded. "Then perhaps he ought to meet the new Steven." Clinton shoved the doors open. The enormous doors, their gilded lion handles split, moaned open. When Steven entered the throne room, his breath seized in his throat. Under a vaulted ceiling featuring a cosmic painting depicting gods, stars, and past kings, the room was indefinite. Towering marble pillars flanked each side like silent guardians, and the scarlet banners with House Carnet—a silver wolf and crown emblem—fluttered softly in the wind from lofty arches. However, it was not the grandeur that made Steven quiet. King Ascot stood next to the throne in silence. He had a powerful presence. His hair was thick and brushed back with royal pride, although it was stained with silver around the temples. He was the type of man that sculptors could only hope to recreate, handsome in a manner that appeared to have been chiseled out of marble. Ascot called out, "Come," his voice resonating through the deserted hall. "Allow me to take a look at the son I was afraid to bury." Before he could consider it, Steven turned and walked slowly and solemnly across the black floor. He descended his right side as he got closer, instinctively, without knowing why. Ascot scowled. "When did Steven start bowing down to his father at first sight?" Steven raised his head. "Because he has forgotten what it means to be your son." It made the King think. He took a long time to examine Steven. "Your speech is distinct, and your eyes are more sparkling than I have observed over the years." "I can see things better now," Steven answered. "I see what I nearly lost as well as what I never really comprehended." Ascot turned and made his way to the throne gently. He placed a hand on the sculpted head at its side. "This throne is more than merely oak along with gold." He inquired. "Are you aware of its requirements for its heir?" Steven got up. "More than indulgence and charisma." Ascot clenched his jaw. "Steven, you were raised in luxury, every wish was fulfilled, and everything that goes wrong is covered." He lamented. "It was my love for your mother that led you astray." Long stretches of silence. "I know my wrongdoings," acknowledged Steven. Ascot answered softly, "You overlooked your royal duties, and that is terrible." Steven tightened his fists. "So let me honor her by imitating the man she would have desired." The King reexamined him. Surprisingly, a tiny smile appeared on his lips. It was short, tattered, but genuine. Moving to the side, he pointed to the throne. "Take a seat." Steven took a blinked. "What?" "Sit down and feel the weight," Ascot said again.
Latest Chapter
Return
The lantern flickered softly, illuminating Steven with gentle glows. He was staring at the map spread out on the table. Pins with symbols on them were placed at different points throughout Headow.There was a knock on the door, and Rosina entered first, then a tall, wiry man with a half-burned ear and a cheeky smile. The bandit who had given up following the hillside skirmish was Beaver."Lord, you sent for me... Beaver, his eyes bright with interest, bowed slightly.Steven gestured to the seat on the other side. "Yes, sit down."Twyford raised his eyebrows but remained silent. Steven remarked. "You have smuggled weapons, led men through the woods, snuck past soldiers, and stolen from nobles. You are familiar with the inner workings of a city."Beaver smiled. "Commander, you flatter me. Even so, all of that is accurate.""I need information," Steven uttered. "I want names, not speculation. The secret meetings, bribes, and dark whispers."
Stronghold
After examining him for far too long, the guard vanished into the estate.The gate moaned open after a few minutes.Baron Atkins sat in the hall in a chair that looked like a throne. Each finger had a ring. A plump goblet of wine remained unopened, quivering a little as he moved around in his chair.Atkins said, feigning laughter. "Has House Talvace really dropped this low? Mercenaries are now coming and demanding people." Steven did not bow or make any small talk. He just moved forward and met his gaze. "I am here to see Rosina Talvace released, the young lady that you locked away."Laughing, the Baron said. "Her family owes me more money than you or individuals like you could ever imagine."Steven curled his mouth a little. "Then your dreams might be too insignificant."The room became quiet.Baron Atkins giggled and leaned forward. "You have self-confidence, I find that appealin
Rage
"You believe that debts disappear like mist?" the man mocked. "Lord Atkins is owed thirty gold marks by your family. Thus, this is your fate until your family reimburses him." One of the battered men screamed, "Please! We paid the dues last week, and we need more time to gather the money." Pinel scoffed and poured his wine over the man, saying, "Try selling your niece, and a gold mark will be obtained." Steven gritted his teeth. He felt a quiet rage burning in his chest. Clinton already reached for his sword as he asked. "Should we get involved?" Steven moved forward without saying a word as he walked through the crowd. He kept his gaze on the nobleman. Steven remarked in a composed yet firm tone. "You appear to take pleasure in torturing the weak." Pinel squinted as he spun. "And who are you t
Headow
A blood-soaked, bare-chested man barked at his men. "Cowards, get up and fight." Steven moved forward with his sword ready. "Who is he?" He saw Twyford beside him, breathing heavily. "He is called Murdac, one of the five captains. He fought in border conflicts before going missing five years ago." Murdac gave a loud roar. "Come, die like the others!" Calmly, Steven raised a hand to stop his men and said, "Hold." He spoke in a clear voice. "Twyford. Do you recall that you said two strikes?" Twyford let out a sigh. "Yes, I did." Steven nodded a little. "Show it." Twyford walked onward toward the captain of the bandits. Murdac gave a mocking grin. "Are you sending your dog to confront me?" Twyford gave a smile. "The blade that cuts at his command is me." Murdac took a defensive stance, forcing Twyford to take a step back.
Victory Favors the Bold
Clinton made a double-watch post. They moved with grim precision. Sitting close to the fire, Steven prodded at a scorched pork on a tin plate. Twyford groaned and sat down next to him, massaging his shoulder. A shout, however, came from the edge of the camp before the warmth had subsided. "East side, movement!" In a moment, the camp came alive. Swords drawn. The second attack was less coordinated. The bandits were chased away in a matter of minutes. Steven had battled once more. There was no freezing this time. He made no hesitation. The men witnessed it. Clinton, too, nodded curtly as he went by. The following afternoon, it occurred once more.
Fight!
The droning DREAM machine and the weak light of monitors showing a young man's vital signs. A pale body lay motionless within the translucent pod, his upper body moving up and down with deliberate breaths. Two people were standing close by, their faces illuminated by the monitors' flicker. Justin, Steven's father was at the bedside and the other was the chief medical officer, Dr. Adeyemi, who was in charge of Steven's health as well as the machine. "It is amazing," the doctor muttered faintly. "We weren't prepared for the level of integration with his physiology. His vitals are steady, which is much better than anyone could have anticipated for a guy with his condition. Justin clasped and murmured slowly. "How much time can this go on? How much longer is the DREAM able to suspend him in this manner?" Silently, Dr. Adeyemi said as she looked over the readings. "Weeks, maybe even months. The machine anchors his consciousness inside the simulatio
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