The Return of the Victors
The ride back to Kafara was solemn, a sharp contrast to the chaos and bloodshed they had left behind on the battlefield. The royal carriage rolled over the frozen tundra, its wheels creaking under the weight of the cold, hard silence that filled the air between father and son.
King Alexander sat across from Benjamin, his face unreadable. The boy sat straight, his posture composed, but there was something darker in his eyes now—something that hadn’t been there before the battle. The head of Olav the Breaker had been left behind, buried in the snow where it belonged. Yet, the memory of that final battle clung to both of them, as if the echoes of their victory were too heavy to shake off.
Outside the carriage, the royal army marched in disciplined rows, their armor clinking and their banners fluttering in the icy wind. Though they had won a great victory, the weariness of battle had settled into their bones. The soldiers had seen something on that battlefield they would never forget: a young prince who had taken down a king, a child who fought like a man, with magic as cold as his gaze.
As they neared the gates of the capital, the city of Kafara stretched out before them, its towering walls gleaming in the pale light of the late afternoon sun. Word had spread of their triumph, and crowds of citizens gathered along the roads, eager to glimpse their victorious king and the boy who had claimed the head of the enemy. The people cheered as the royal procession entered the city, their voices rising in unison, a roar of triumph that filled the air.
“Hail King Alexander! Hail Prince Benjamin!” they cried, throwing flowers onto the cobblestone streets. The citizens waved banners of gold and crimson, the colors of the kingdom, and their joy was palpable. The kingdom had been defended, the northern territories secured. Peace, at least for a time, had been restored.
But Benjamin hardly noticed the adulation. His thoughts were elsewhere, still caught in the heat of the battle, replaying the final moments when his blade had sliced through Olav’s neck. He remembered the weight of the barbarian king’s head in his hand and the silence that had followed as the enemy forces recoiled in fear. It had been a victory, but it had also been something more—a cold affirmation that he was no longer just a boy. He had crossed a threshold that could never be uncrossed.
The royal carriage stopped in front of the palace steps, and King Alexander stepped out first, greeted by his advisors and generals, who bowed deeply before their sovereign. As Benjamin followed, the eyes of everyone around them were fixed on him. Whispers rippled through the crowd as they took in the sight of the young prince, his expression stoic and his movements deliberate.
The king raised a hand, and the crowd fell silent. His voice rang out, clear and strong.
“Today, we return as victors,” King Alexander proclaimed, his eyes sweeping over the gathered crowd. “Our enemies have been defeated, and the northern lands are once again safe under Kafaran rule. But this victory was not mine alone.”
He turned and placed a hand on Benjamin’s shoulder. “It was my son, Prince Benjamin, who struck down Olav the Breaker. It was his bravery and skill that secured our triumph.”
The crowd erupted into cheers once again, but Benjamin’s face remained unchanged. He didn’t revel in the glory of his father’s words or the praise of the people. Instead, he stared ahead, his mind still focused on the war and the battlefield.
As the crowd continued to celebrate, King Alexander leaned closer to his son, his voice lowering so only Benjamin could hear. “The people cheer for you now, but there is a burden that comes with this kind of victory. You must be prepared to carry it.”
Benjamin didn’t reply, but his eyes flicked up to meet his father’s, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. He understood the weight of what he had done—and what it meant for the future.
Inside the palace, the halls were lit with flickering torches, and the warmth of the fire greeted them as they entered. Servants rushed forward to take their cloaks, while the royal court prepared for the celebratory feast that would take place later that evening. But neither Benjamin nor his father lingered in the great hall.
“Go, rest,” the king said, gesturing for Benjamin to retreat to his chambers. “We will speak more later.”
Benjamin nodded and made his way through the long, familiar corridors of the palace. His footsteps echoed in the quiet, a stark contrast to the noise and cheers from outside. When he reached his chambers, Lily, his personal chef, was already waiting for him, her face filled with concern.
“Your majesty,” she said softly, bowing. “I’ve prepared a bath for you. You… you must be tired.”
But Benjamin didn’t respond to her words. He simply nodded and allowed her to guide him into the room. Lily’s eyes darted nervously to the bloodstains on his tunic and the weariness in his posture, but she said nothing.
As Benjamin sank into the warm water of the bath, the heat slowly easing the tension from his muscles, he closed his eyes. For a moment, he allowed himself to relax, to let the silence of the palace surround him. But even with his eyes closed, the images of the battlefield played on the edges of his mind—Olav’s head, the roar of the barbarians, and the weight of his father’s words.
When he emerged from the bath, Lily had already set a simple meal on the table, a steaming bowl of stew and fresh bread. “I’ll leave you to eat in peace, your majesty,” she said quietly, bowing again before slipping out of the room.
Benjamin sat in silence, staring down at the meal in front of him. He didn’t feel hungry. He didn’t feel tired. What he felt was something far colder, something far heavier. The taste of victory, as sweet as it had been, was already beginning to fade.
That night, as the palace celebrated with music and feasting, Benjamin lay awake in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The cheers of the people and the praise of his father still echoed faintly in the distance, but they felt hollow now. He had killed a king. He had claimed victory. But in the silence of his room, all that remained was the weight of what he had done.
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End of Chapter 6: The Return of the Victors
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