Roel found that his body never seemed to be in agreement with his mind nowadays. His physical self never tired, but at some point, his mind had picked up a heavy weariness. It always felt like his body was dragging the rest of him up a sloping dirt path on a hill.

C’mon, just a little more. You’re almost there. But the destination was never clear, the rest of the road obscured by an aureate fog. He couldn’t even look back to see where he had come from, but he somehow knew it would be a long fall to the bottom.

His last mission had been particularly draining. He hadn’t participated in a besiegement in a long time. Sieges by their very nature were arduous battles of attrition. Or at least they were supposed to be. He could still see the looks of despair on the enemy soldiers’ faces as he destroyed the gate that they had held for two months.

He gritted his teeth and forced back his emotions. He had arrived at the throne room to give his report. Facts were what mattered here. The king silently glared at him from his ornamented throne, and the faces of the Royal Council sitting on the sidelines seemed to leer.

“Your Majesty, as you have ordered, the Republic of Rove has fallen. We have captured their leaders, and the troops are currently marching back with them as we speak.”

“Hmm…” King Matthieu always had a scowl on his face, and it made Roel wary when speaking with him. “Well done, Sir Roel. Were there any problems with the occupation?”

“None.” His answer was immediate, but that was because he had already decided what he was going to say. Of course, there had been problems. Prince Ghislain, the one in charge of the besieging, had dipped his hands in the coffers, and if the king hadn’t explicitly ordered against it, the duke’s army would’ve most likely plundered the entire region. Perhaps they had – having fulfilled his task, he had left almost immediately after Prince Ghislain took the state’s representatives as prisoners.

“Good,” the king said, although he must have guessed Roel’s worries because he then said, “It is important to not further upset a people who have lost their land.”

“Very wisely put, Your Majesty,” Roel said. Almost as important to not further upset the people who had taken the land, he thought. Prince Ghislain had not been pleased by his arrival. He had witnessed the prince voicing his complaints with the king’s decision to one of his officers.

Unfortunately, the king was not known as King Matthieu the Wise. A king’s sobriquet was important. Sometimes, it was decided posthumously, such as the founding emperor who was now referred to as King Gaul the Absolute. Other times, the monikers came and went as the king’s reign flourished or faltered.

He was mostly referred to as King Matthieu the Temperate. In some circles, that translated to King Matthieu the Timid. In his four years of ruling, the kingdom of Calorin had been at peace, the Siege of Rove being the first exception. The official reason was that King Matthieu was focused on stabilizing the economies and governments of the lands that the previous king had won, but the critical opinion was that King Matthieu lacked the same ambition and piety that his father did.

But not once had Roel ever let his guard down around the king. He knew royalty, and he knew what royalty knew of him.

“Ah, also…” The king affectedly cleared his throat, his usual scowl giving way to an expression Roel hadn’t seen before on his face. Was it embarrassment? “The prince has been confined to his room due to his earlier…transgression.”

“Oh.” Roel realized this was the closest thing to an apology that the king could give; royalty didn’t apologize. “Your Majesty, you didn’t have to do that. He caused me no offense.”

“Nonsense, it is no way for a prince to act. That boy hasn’t come to terms with the responsibilities of his position. I fear that by the time that he does –” The king noticed his slip in pronouns and cleared his throat again, his embarrassment now evident on his face. “Regardless, we are grateful for your lenience. And to celebrate your accomplishment, we will hold a banquet tonight in your honor.”

Roel wanted to decline, but of course, no such option existed. If anything, it was ungrateful or even un-heroic to decline. So instead, he lowered his head even further. “You are too kind.”

The banquet was like all banquets. King Mathieu showed up to the banquet hall for a few minutes to give a speech – something about the benevolence of the Lord and the steadfast loyalty of Divine Paladins – and once he was gone, the nobles eased up and surrounded Roel. As he went through the familiar process of quickly learning names to just as quickly forgetting them, the only thing he felt was pity for the chefs who had painstakingly designed tonight’s menu and the bards whose music became subordinate to the chatter of the nobility.

Princess Caroline’s unexpected arrival broke up the monotony. She was all silk – her blue gown with its long, trailing sleeves, her matching slippers with small bows and pointed tips, her glossy dark brown hair braided elaborately. Her appearance, Roel felt, was oppressive.

Silk was expensive, yes, but it wasn’t prohibitively so. However, the pervasive rumor was that a viscount had tried to impress the previous king by wearing a silk coat in his presence; the opposite happened, and King Maxime, whether out of jealousy, spite, or just a typical bout of rage, had ordered it to be burned. Ever since then, only royalty wore silk. Princess Caroline’s attire was double-edged – her appearance stood out from everyone else, but to such a degree that she felt unapproachable.

Her first words, however, were the only things that were not silken. “S-sir Roel, do you not find it unbearable to be in a suit of armor for a banquet?” Her nervous smile seemed to imply that she was trying to banter, but before he could respond, she quickly added, “Not that you can’t be in armor. There’s no rule or etiquette saying you can’t be. I just found it curious, really.”

It did, in fact, go against etiquette to not wear a tunic or a jacket, but he did what he did best and played along. He gave a neck bow, and said, “I find that it’s best to always be prepared, Your Majesty. My duty is to protect you and the kingdom at all times.”

He inwardly shuddered as he said those words, but he knew that humbling oneself was the best approach. “Speak down on yourself when talking to those above you” was a lesson his mother had taught him a long time ago. “If you’re quiet and obedient, they won’t give you much trouble.”

The princess didn’t respond though. Nervous that he had upset her somehow, he looked up at her and saw that her cheeks were flushed. It seemed that she didn’t know what to say. He remembered that she still hadn’t made her societal debut. She was what – thirteen, fourteen? Her appearance then looked less domineering and more affectatious, like a peasant child trying to fit into her siblings’ hand-me-downs.

A warm memory passed through his mind, and although he tried not to, he felt himself smile. “Besides, it’s been so cold recently. I fear it might snow.”

The princes latched onto his sentence. “Yes, yes, this has to be the coldest winter so far!” She must’ve realized how loud she was being because she lowered her voice. “I love the snow. How about you, Sir Roel?”

For a while, they talked about the weather. He told her about the humidity in Rove (of course, he steered clear of the details of the actual siege), and she asked him about the places he had been. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the nobles, who at first had been eagerly waiting to hear any morsel they could report and dissect later, were growing impatient. He didn’t mind; it was far easier to discuss the weather than to suffer through hollow flattery and the forceful invitations to duchies that he had never heard of. But as they continued to talk, he felt a tinge of uneasiness – the young princess had only been accompanied by a few handmaids, and she should’ve arrived with the king instead of now.

“I apologize for interrupting, Princess,” he said as she was telling a story about the winter in which her younger brother had blocked the palace doors by rolling a large ball of snow in front of it, “but I was wondering if the king would be making another appearance tonight. He said he had something he needed to discuss with me.”

Even under her powdered make-up, he could see her face blanche. “Is that so? He hasn’t told me anything about it, but it is possible he might return. Forgive me though, I must return to my chambers now.” She grabbed a fistful of her flowing skirt and gestured at her maids. “Ah, but please do visit me when you have time. It was my first time talking to a Divine Paladin, and I found your stories so enchanting. You must tell me more.”

“Of course,” he said, but she was already scurrying away, nearly stumbling on her dress.

With the princess gone, the nobles moved back in to ingratiate themselves. Fortunately, it was growing late. To shake off the stragglers, Roel excused himself to the balcony, citing that his armor made him feel stuffy. No one followed him; he had heard some servants talking about the princess’ instructor, who had stayed out one night, caught a minor cold, and then died. Aristocrats hated to be reminded of their mortality, but they’d also forget that reminder within a month.

A starless night: there was a pleasant breeze, yet he felt like a deep chill that went straight through his bones. He supposed he couldn’t really blame anyone for not wanting to be reminded. Even with the Lord’s Favor, paladins were still susceptible to illnesses. The Lord would protect you from a thousand severe wounds, but not a minor cold.

A small pebble bounced off his head. Then another. Confused, he looked up. Through the dark, he could see someone hanging to the window ledges. As the person slowly made his way down to him, Roel realized it was a boy. A very familiar boy.