THE TYRANT'S BABY

Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Little Lord

Amaris groaned, dragging a fallen tree stick through the dirt to absentmindedly write her name on the ground. "My gosh... it's so boring. I can't believe I actually miss my work. Ugh."

Just then, a soft giggle echoed nearby, catching her attention. "You talk funny, lady," a young voice said, filled with amusement.

Amaris looked up, her grumbling quickly fading into a smile as her eyes landed on a small, well-dressed boy, no older than six or seven. His attire was far too fine for a common child—he was clearly of noble birth.

"Hello there," she greeted warmly, her curiosity piqued. "What's your name?"

The boy glanced down at the letters she had scribbled into the dirt before straightening his posture. "You are to address me as Lord Estridsen," he declared, with all the dignity of someone much older. "I am the youngest brother of Duke Estridsen."

Amaris couldn't help but grin. His proud stance and serious expression, paired with those striking green eyes—rare and brilliant—made him both adorable and endearing. "Wow... a lord at such a young age! Impressive. I am... Amaris," she introduced herself, still amused by his formal tone.

"Very well, Amaris," Lord Estridsen said with a regal nod, "come play with me while my brother is busy." He smiled mischievously, his youthful excitement briefly cracking his noble facade.

Amaris chuckled softly. "Alright, little lord. What game are we playing?"

The young lord puffed out his chest and demanded, "You are to chase me and try to catch me!"

Amaris raised an eyebrow, amused by his seriousness. "You mean... tag?"

Lord Estridsen blinked in confusion before waving a hand dismissively. "Yes, whatever that is."

Amaris grinned, shaking her head slightly at the formality of the tiny noble. "Alright then, little lord. You better run fast, or I'll catch you!" She playfully crouched as if preparing to pounce, which made the boy laugh before he darted off with a squeal of excitement.

Meanwhile, in the grandeur of the inner palace, King Alaric strolled beside Duke Estridsen, his closest confidant and fellow warrior. The two men, bound by years of battle and shared experiences, walked in comfortable silence for a moment as the echo of their boots against the stone floor filled the air.

"How did your travel fare, Duke Estridsen?" Alaric asked, glancing sideways at his companion. His tone, though casual, carried the weight of authority, as it always did when he addressed anyone—even a friend.

Duke Estridsen who was a man of similar stature and equally sharp eyes, nodded thoughtfully. "Tolerable enough, Your Majesty," he began, using the formal title despite their friendship. "Though the roads are in dire need of repairs. There was a storm a fortnight ago, and several bridges were damaged. My men and I had to take a rather long detour through the marshlands."

Alaric chuckled lightly, though there was a flicker of irritation in his expression at the mention of the neglected roads. "I shall see to it that the roads are repaired posthaste. I trust the delay did not cause too much inconvenience?"

Estridsen smiled faintly, his demeanor calm but ever perceptive. "No great inconvenience, but my patience was tested." He paused, looking ahead. "Yet, when has war ever allowed us the luxury of ease?"

Alaric nodded in agreement. "True. Ease is for those who sit in comfort, never knowing the weight of a sword. We've been at war with the northern territories for as long as I can remember. It's a wonder we still have men left to fight."

Duke Estridsen sighed, his brow furrowing slightly. "Our enemies are as relentless as ever, and now... now there is unrest from within." His gaze shifted toward the palace, as if contemplating something unspoken.

Alaric, ever sharp, caught the tension in his friend's voice. "What troubles you, old friend? Speak freely."

Estridsen hesitated, but he knew better than to hide things from Alaric. "It is the nobility, Your Majesty. Whispers of discontent spread like wildfire. Some feel you've grown... distant, cold even. They fear the increasing centralization of power into your hands."

Alaric's jaw clenched slightly, though he kept his expression composed. "Is that so?" he murmured. "And what do you think, Estridsen? Do you also think I've become a tyrant?"

The duke shook his head. "I do not, Alaric. But I cannot deny that your methods—efficient as they are—have stirred the pot. Many believe they should have more say in matters of state, particularly when it comes to taxes and land disputes."

Alaric's gaze darkened for a moment, his thoughts turning inward. "They would dare question my authority? After everything I've done to protect this kingdom from falling into ruin?" His voice, though quiet, carried a dangerous edge.

"They do not question your strength, nor your victories," Estridsen replied quickly, sensing the brewing storm. "But there is concern that in securing the throne, you've left no room for their voices. The Duke of Montrose has grown particularly vocal. He believes the crown should not overshadow the council entirely."

Alaric snorted in disdain. "Montrose? That insipid worm hides behind his titles and his wealth, offering no aid when the kingdom bled. And now he dares to oppose me?"

Estridsen placed a hand on Alaric's shoulder. "He is a fool, yes, but a fool with influence. And if he sways enough of the court, they could make things... difficult for you."

Alaric turned his head to meet Estridsen's gaze, his eyes sharp and calculating. "And what do you propose I do about it?"

The duke paused, considering his words carefully. "A show of diplomacy may be wise, Alaric. Not a concession of power, but an acknowledgment of their concerns. Invite the nobles to the palace, hear their grievances—then, once they've spoken, remind them why you wear the crown."

Alaric let out a low hum, his gaze narrowing as he mulled over Estridsen's suggestion. "A show of diplomacy... I suppose there is some merit in that. But make no mistake, I will not bend to their whims. They forget too easily who defends this realm."

Estridsen nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty. And I will stand by you, as always. But sometimes... to win a war, one must fight with words, not just swords."

Alaric allowed a brief smile to tug at his lips. "Perhaps you're right. I'll summon the nobles within the week. We'll see if their tongues are as sharp as their whispers."

Estridsen laughed softly, the tension between them easing. "I suspect you'll leave them speechless, as you always do."

The king's smile faded slightly as he glanced toward the horizon. "And what of your family, Estridsen? How fares your younger brother?"

The duke's expression softened at the mention of his sibling. "Little Nicholas? He grows more mischievous by the day. I swear, he has more energy than ten men combined. But he is well, thank you for asking. In fact, I left him in the gardens, likely tormenting the servants with his endless games."

Alaric chuckled again, the sound lighter this time. "Ah, the joys of youth. We could all use a reminder of such innocence, couldn't we?"

Estridsen smiled. "Indeed, we could."

As the two men shared a brief moment of laughter, a piercing scream echoed through the courtyard, halting their conversation in an instant. Nicholas' voice rang out, filled with the unmistakable tone of alarm, sending a jolt of panic through both Duke Estridsen and King Alaric.

Isaac Estridsen's eyes widened in terror, immediately fearing the worst for his younger brother. Without a word, the two men sprang into action, launching themselves toward the sound with haste, their boots thudding heavily against the stone floor.