Chapter 92: Ch92 The Duke And Little Prince Eilan
Aithur looked bored—painfully, dramatically bored—as he tossed a small glass ball up into the air and caught it again with a flicker of blue light. The same motion, over and over. His sharp eyes followed the spinning sphere, reflecting faint glimmers of his magic, but his mind was far away, replaying the last twenty minutes of absolute nothingness.
He sighed. Loudly.
The sound echoed around the quiet room that the temple had provided—one far too luxurious for his taste, with cream-colored walls, velvet couches, and a carved mahogany table set with untouched fruit and silver cups. A faint smell of incense hung in the air, sweet and distracting.
Across the room stood an apprentice and a temple guard, both standing rigidly straight near the door. Their expressions were caught somewhere between alert and terrified—because the small ball that the Duke kept throwing seemed to come a little closer to their heads each time.
Aithur threw the ball again. The faint shimmer of his magic caught it midair and drew it back to his hand. Then again. And again.
The guard’s left eye twitched.
The apprentice swallowed nervously.
And Aithur groaned, dragging out the sound like a man being tortured. "Is the sky holding those idiots’ hands, or what?" he muttered. "It’s been an hour."
He tossed the ball again, higher this time, and didn’t even bother to catch it. The sphere hit the wall with a soft thunk between the apprentice and the guard’s heads before bouncing to the floor and rolling away.
Both of them froze.
"Oops," Aithur said flatly. "Guess gravity works."
He didn’t even look at them. Instead, he leaned back, pulled his boots off the edge of the table, and shifted into a lounging position that could only be described as kingly insolence—legs crossed, arms stretched over the backrest, head tilted just enough to make it clear he was done pretending to be civil.
The apprentice darted his eyes toward the guard as if to ask, Is he serious?
The guard whispered back without moving his lips, "Don’t. Breathe."
Outside, the chirping of birds filled the silence.
For a fleeting moment, Aithur thought maybe the world had decided to grant him peace.
Then—
The loud neigh of a horse echoed from the courtyard below.
Aithur’s eyes slid toward the window. "Finally," he murmured, his tone dripping with mock enthusiasm.
Before he could stand, a hurried knock rattled the door.
An apprentice poked his head in, breathing slightly harder than he should’ve. "My Lord Duke, the Second Prince—His Highness Eilan—has arrived."
Aithur’s lips curved into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. "Oh... delightful."
He rose, stretching lazily. "Let’s not keep royalty waiting."
The scene shifted to the temple courtyard, where the air shimmered with heat and tension.
A carriage that looked more like a mobile prison rolled to a stop in front of the temple gates. It was strapped behind a dark stallion, and beside it rode six armed guards—three on each side—each one wearing the blue and silver insignia of the royal palace.
But it wasn’t the carriage that drew attention.
It was the rider at the front.
Prince Eilan sat tall on his horse, his jaw tight, his fine uniform spotless even under the dust of the road. He was the very image of authority—if authority had a temper problem and an ego the size of a cathedral.
"I come by the King’s order," Eilan declared, voice loud and sharp. "To retrieve the traitor Harold and bring him before the council for judgment."
The apprentices by the gate scurried to open it. One of them stepped forward to take the reins of his horse.
Eilan dismounted smoothly, patting the horse’s neck with an almost tender gesture.
And that’s when a voice—calm, amused, and horribly out of place—drifted from above.
"Well, don’t you two look sweet."
Eilan froze. The apprentices turned toward the sound.
Aithur was sitting on the ledge of the second-floor corridor, legs dangling over the edge, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. His navy blue hair caught the sunlight, making him look like some smug deity who’d descended to watch mortals squabble.
Eilan’s face twitched. Then reddened.
"You—" He jabbed a finger upward. "—don’t you have anything better to do than tag along on a silly traitor collection, Duke?"
The word Duke came out like poison.
Aithur didn’t reply immediately. He just adjusted his sleeve, studied his nails, and said in a bored tone, "Not really. Thought I’d watch the royal temper tantrum of the week."
Before Eilan could bark back, Aithur stood, balanced perfectly on the ledge—and jumped.
The apprentices below shouted in panic.
He landed with a graceful thud, cloak fluttering, not a single wrinkle out of place.
"Why," one of the apprentices muttered under his breath, "can’t anyone here use the stairs?" He rubbed his temples. "They’re all lunatics. I’m getting too old for this."
Aithur dusted off his coat and began walking toward Eilan.
"You’ve got some bite to your bark for a kid," he said casually, his voice dripping with amusement.
Eilan clenched his jaw. "Watch your tongue, Duke. You stand before—"
"Royalty," Aithur interrupted flatly. "Yes, yes, I’ve heard. A hundred times." He stopped a few paces away, eyes cold and sharp. "I greet whoever is worthy. You are not."
The words hit like a slap.
Eilan’s cheeks flushed crimson, his hands curling into fists at his sides. For a moment, the guards shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to intervene or look away.
Aithur tilted his head, lips curving into something dangerously close to a grin. "Relax, Your Highness. You’re going to pop a vein, and I’d rather not explain to your father why his son fainted from anger."
The guards’ lips twitched despite themselves.
Eilan’s nostrils flared. "You—!"
"What?" Aithur’s tone softened mockingly. "Did I bruise your royal pride? Or is it because your horse listens better than your subordinates?"
A faint snort came from one of the guards. Eilan shot him a death glare so sharp the man immediately coughed and stared at the ground.
Aithur clasped his hands behind his back, studying Eilan as if he were a particularly amusing puzzle. "You’ve grown since I last saw you," he said, voice deceptively kind. "What was it—two years ago? You were shorter. Angrier. Still had that adorable way of pretending not to stare at—"
"Don’t say her name," Eilan hissed, eyes narrowing.
Aithur blinked innocently. "Who? Liliana?"
Eilan’s jaw tightened. "I said—!"
"Oh, come now," Aithur drawled, stepping closer, his smirk widening. "You’re blushing, Your Highness. How sweet. I should’ve guessed you’d still be hopelessly infatuated."
"I am not—" Eilan snapped, only to stop when Aithur raised an eyebrow. "—infatuated."
"Of course not," Aithur said dryly. "That must be why you’re looking for her. Because you’re definitely not here hoping to see the Count."
The guards were now doing everything in their power to look stoic, but their shoulders trembled slightly.
Aithur leaned in, lowering his voice. "She’s not here, you know. I know it breaks your heart."
Eilan glared, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. "Watch your words, Duke. You might be favored by the court, but you are still—"
"Still what?" Aithur’s smile vanished, his eyes narrowing. "A Duke who earned his title with blood while you were still playing with wooden swords?"
The air shifted, tension crackling like lightning.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then, as quickly as it came, Aithur’s sharpness melted into a half-laugh. "Relax, I’m only teasing," he said, brushing invisible dust from his coat. "I can’t have the royal family crying before lunch."
"You’re insufferable," Eilan muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"True," Aithur said. "But charming."
"Delusional."
"Also true."
The guard nearest the gate snorted again and quickly turned it into a cough.
Eilan gave him a death glare. "If you value your position, soldier—"
"—you’ll laugh harder next time," Aithur interrupted smoothly, clapping the guard on the shoulder as he passed. "The man has taste."
Eilan groaned audibly. "I cannot believe I’m forced to breathe the same air as you."
Aithur tilted his head, feigning thought. "Oh, you could always stop breathing."
The guard actually laughed this time.
Eilan looked moments away from combusting.
"You insufferable beautiful man" it came out poisonous.
Aithur tilted his head. "I’ll take that as a compliment. I must say, it pleases me that my little walks in the park have attracted the eyes of the Empire."
He paused—just long enough for the silence to sharpen.
"Though," he continued, tone dropping into a dangerous calm, "I wonder... is it the Empire watching me, or Prince Eilan himself?"
Eilan froze.
A faint blush climbed his neck before he forced it down, crossing his arms in a stiff gesture of authority. "Don’t flatter yourself," he snapped. "It’s simply uncommon to see the Duke without his Count—you seem inseparable."
Aithur smirked wider, his tone turning taunting. "Ah. So you were watching."
The guards’ eyes flicked between them, and though their faces stayed stone still, the air around them screamed: This is hilarious.
Aithur’s gaze softened slightly as he looked up at the sky, letting out a quiet chuckle. "She isn’t coming," he said, almost to himself. "She has a more pressing matter to attend to."
The scene shifted.
The forest road stretched long and endless under the pale morning light. Trees whipped past in blurs of green and brown as six riders thundered down the dirt path, hooves pounding like war drums.
At their head rode Liliana.
Her eyes were focused—hard and cold as steel—as her cloak billowed behind her. The banner of the Empire, marked with a white dove, fluttered beside her, carried by one of her knights. The wind howled around them, and the smell of pine filled the air.
Aithur’s voice, low and steady, carried over the image.
"She’s heading to Noia Town."