Time seemed to drag in Volcrist. Five days had passed since Alaric’s funeral, and the weight of loss still hung over the castle like a dense, suffocating fog. But there was no room for complete mourning. The city still bled, its wounds laid bare in the destroyed streets, the ruined houses, and the exhausted eyes of those trying to rebuild what remained.

  Soldiers patrolled without rest, their armor covered in dust and dried blood. Workers lifted debris while others mourned their losses. And above all, one question lingered in the castle halls and the city’s alleys: would the prince wake?

  In the great hall, Cedric and Thorne sat facing each other. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows across their weary faces. Thorne had his hands clasped together, resting on the table, his gaze serious and troubled. Cedric, on the other hand, looked like a broken man, his shoulders weighed down by the burden of mounting decisions.

  — He may not wake. — Thorne broke the silence, his voice firm but heavy with concern. — The people are restless, and the other dominions want answers. Some may be worried about Volcrist’s future... others may be waiting for an opportunity to strike.

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  Cedric sighed, running a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of his unshaven beard. The sleepless nights were taking their toll.

  — Aemon is a central piece... — he murmured, averting his gaze to the dark wooden table. — If he doesn’t wake, Volcrist will need a leader.

  Thorne nodded slowly.

  — The people are already demanding a commander. Someone to guide them.

  Cedric laughed, but it was a dry, humorless laugh. He leaned back in his chair, staring at Thorne with an empty look.

  — And do you think they would accept me? After everything I’ve done?

  Silence hung between them. Cedric knew the answer. The people might accept many leaders, but not a man they blamed for much of their suffering. The shadow of the past still clung to him, and his name carried the weight of betrayals and spilled blood.

  Thorne didn’t respond immediately. He merely observed Cedric, as if measuring his words. Time was running against them, and every moment without a clear decision brought them one step closer to chaos.

  Outside, the cutting wind of Volcrist howled against the walls, a warning that the

  storm had yet to pass.