Second Prince Tristan Contzen was a man of few words.

In truth, there was little he was permitted to say.

To be a second prince was to be a lifelong understudy. A role which few found joy in. 

Upon the grand theatre of war, politics and romance, to be the second prince was to be the bearer of duty. A shadow which must cast its way across a stage filled with lights always seeking to drive it to a new direction. And none which the man could choose for himself. 

A second prince did not have that luxury. 

His role was to serve and to sacrifice. 

To offer his shoulder as well as his sword. And yet more often than not, that sword was often driven through the same brother he’d sworn to protect. 

There were few positions more fraught with peril than that of the second prince. 

To be so close yet so far to the position of heir apparent was a torturous existence, even to the most honour bound of young men. Were he to wed a princess, no kingdom was promised to him. Yet were he to wed a noblewoman, no grand manor in the country awaited him. 

Duty was his muse, and also his reward.

Tristan was no youngest son, free to ride his horse and woo in the court of romance as a bachelor. He was not permitted to train his sword as an adventurer, facing threats against his kingdom from afar and within. He was not permitted to even choose his own meals, the fear of poison as acute to him as it was his older sibling. 

All the constraints of the highest office was his burden, with no shoulder offered to him in turn. 

And so the history of second princes was written with ink stained in red.

Rebellion. Treason. Betrayal. 

Those who viewed Tristan could not help but wonder where the wind would blow.

Many believed his placement as commander of the Loerstadt Gate to be a prudent one. As the man responsible for shielding the kingdom against its greatest threat, it was a position held in no small amount of respect. 

At the same time, it removed him from the political court, ensuring that few whispers could reach him from the corridors of Reitzlake Castle and the Royal Villa. 

It came with its own risks, of course. 

To be the commander of the kingdom’s largest standing garrison made him effectively the most powerful military figure beside his own father. And though he was removed from the court, that did not remove him from the grip of ambition. 

Should Tristan raise the banner of rebellion, it would be a civil war which would destroy the kingdom, its carcass not even fit for the Grand Duchy of Granholtz to feast upon.

Few knew where the second prince’s gaze was turned–even if they stood right before him.

In a richly adorned office atop the tallest tower of the Loerstadt Gate, the colours of the Kingdom of Tirea hung upon every wall with fabrics as rich as those which could be found in the Royal Villa. A home far from home. And yet for all the prestige which came from being the commander of the Loerstadt Gate, it was a position of few joys. 

The least of which was the back of Baron Tiblin as he finally departed.

Tristan’s cold gaze followed him until his door finally closed.

This was his 1st meeting in a fortnight.

Many more used to arrive. Nobility seeking his hand for their daughters. Merchants seeking his gates where taxes might be waived. Sponsors seeking his voice should he meet with his father. 

And then there were those without names and faces, seeking his mind should he turn his sword from Granholtz and towards his own kingdom.

Day and night, friends and foes alike flocked to him like rats to a freshly dropped corpse through a well. 

But those of little ambition soon came to realise the folly of dealing with a prince whose insight was beyond theirs, whose military acumen was known even in Granholtz.

Because for all the sharpness of the sword by his side, Prince Tristan Contzen was a man known for his strength of mind. His cunning and his subtlety. And all who wished to know his thoughts must do so through layers of speech hidden behind the smallest gesture.

A wave of his hand. A turn of his chin. The closing of his eyes.

Whereas others spoke with words, he spoke with guile.

In short–

Nobody knew what Prince Tristan was thinking.

Literally. Nobody.

The envoy who asked if he had a preference in mind for a potential suitress? A blink of his eyes. The officer who wished to know which sergeant should engage in sparring with the new recruits? A wriggle of his ears. The garrison chef when he queried if he wished his flambéed steak diane to be rare, medium or well done? A rap of his knuckles.

Whether it be traders, nobility or his own officers at his door, none knew the thoughts of the second prince, other than through deciphering the slight movements of his facial motions as he moved them as a conductor directed an orchestra. 

And that’s exactly what he wanted.

Because Tristan–

Had no idea why he was here.

As the door to his office closed and the baron’s footsteps slowed, the uncertain steps evidence of his deliberations over Tristan’s nostril flare, the second prince immediately placed his face in his palms.

Then, he let out a tiny, almost inaudible groan.

He’d survived.

One more meeting. One more morning. He’d survived.

And soon, he’d need to do it again.

He didn’t know when. If luck was good, it wouldn’t be for another fortnight. Maybe a month. 

And until then, he could find peace in the solitude of his quarters, where he could do no harm.

A bookish and quiet man by nature, Tristan had made it clear to his father he had no wish to surpass Roland. He would do whatever duties were required with pride and dignity, putting aside any thoughts of his own ambitions.

To be the crown prince was to be a king in all but name. And Tristan had no wish to rule. 

He did not consider himself incapable. Just realistic. 

He lacked the charisma required to lead a nation. 

He was not Roland, whose ability to weave plots far surpassed his own. He was not Florella, whose smile was enough to soften the hardest of hearts. He was not Clarise with her unrivalled ingenuity. And he was certainly not Juliette, who could seemingly bend the world to her wishes from her bedroom.

He was the closest thing to an ordinary prince.

An ordinary man.

Tristan enjoyed numbers, history and theory. He spent more time with his mathematics tutor than he did with his weapon master. And yet despite all that, he was given command of the Loerstadt Gate, his academic interest in battles of the past seen as a knack for strategy.

Instead of smiling while making small talk in the safety of the Royal Villa, he was rewarded for his dutiful nature with his own command. A man who only knew war from the history books was now given the task of ensuring the next chapter would not be written detailing the kingdom’s defeat.

And each day–that filled Tristan with despair.

Here, he could make no mistakes.

He was a commander. And were he to offer the wrong insight, the wrong advice, it would mean more than a faux pas. Should the captains of the Rensdraldt Fortress catch wind he could not mount a credible defence, it would be inviting the maws of the dragon.

Thus–

Tristan did the only thing he could.

He left everything to his officers, all the while furiously petitioning his father to send him to perform a task which couldn’t result in calamity.

“Your Highness. Permission to enter.”

Tristan immediately lifted his face from his palms. 

Fixing his expression into a gaze of cold calculation, he gave a single tap of his finger upon his desk.

What that meant, nobody knew.

Not even his own captain, who after a long pause slowly pulled aside the door to his office. 

Seeing the cold gaze Tristan wore was not one of outright anger, his officer breathed a sigh of relief, having successfully guessed his mind. Sometimes, he’d respond with two taps. Sometimes with a rap, in order to quench any possibility of understanding.

Naturally, for any leader to communicate entirely through meaningless movements and gestures was absurd. But desperate times called for desperate measures. 

So long as day-to-day governance of the Loerstadt Gate could be maintained by his experienced senior staff, he could remain a figurehead, meeting only those rare guests of high status who did not yet know the futility of conversing with him.

“My apologies for the disturbance, Your Highness. A matter has arisen which requires your guidance.”

Tristan shifted slightly as his response, drawing a bead of cold sweat from his officer.

“We … We believe it’s prudent to launch a sortie into the forest. These are no common bandits assailing our patrols. We fear that inaction will encourage further hostility. Captain Moors requests permission to lead two companies into the border region, encroaching upon the divide, if necessary.”

Tristan’s cold expression never faltered. And yet all he felt inside was dismay.

The attacks in the border region. 

Despite the beliefs of his soldiers, he didn’t believe Granholtz to be behind this. It was far too crude by their standards. And that meant an ulterior motive. He feared the consequences of sending out a force into the border, for it was the obvious response. And yet any other would all but signal the closure of the trade route and the forfeiture of regional security. 

Both were untenable.

A thought his officers doubtless shared.

Thus, he signalled his approval with a squiggly line drawn in the air, confident that his thoughts were accurately conveyed. 

Even so, the officer before him responded with surprise.

Tristan realised the reason all too late.

That squiggly line … was the same meaningless gesture he’d used yesterday!

And this same officer had correctly taken it to mean he didn’t need a replacement doormat even though his was slightly worn–he was fond of the sleeping cats sewn into the design.

In short … it now meant a rejection!

Panic threatened to unravel Tristan’s permanently fixed expression. As the officer before him blinked in non-understanding, he knew he had only moments before the order to secure the forest would be rescinded.

With no other choice, Tristan stood up, his mouth parting–

“Your Highness … by any chance … do you wish to lead the sortie?”

Tristan blinked.

First at the uncertain question of the officer as he conjured a possible reason for the rejection … and then much later at the shafts of moonlight bearing down upon him through the forest canopy, sat as he was upon a white destrier while surrounded by his cheering knights.

“Prince Tristan!! Incredible! Even after hours of riding, I feel like I can continue into the dawn!”

“Not even nightfall can stop him! The Prince Of A Thousand Gazes will see us through!”

“Victory is assured! Whoever hopes to hide from His Highness’s all seeing eye can only flee before his presence! … Come, my brothers-in-arms, we follow the prince!”

“Follow the prince! Follow the prince! Follow the prince!”

And follow they did.

The mounted knights at Tristan’s command followed him long after they left the sanctuary of the Loerstadt Gate behind. And though he knew only what the maps upon his wall told him, he sped through the forest like a knife soaring through the air.

All to hide the fact he could not return with the disappointment of his knights upon his back.

To do so would shatter the image he had built. One he could feel Granholtz’s eyes watching from their fortress parapets. From the White Citadel and beyond.

And so–Tristan galloped on.

There was something to be said about wandering without direction. And none of it was good. Even so, the size of their company and the unrelentingness of their gallop was to his ears more than the sound of his kingdom’s pride. Whoever was responsible for the attacks against his men, he would find them and defeat them. Even if it was entirely by accident. 

He was a poor prince and a poorer commander. But he would do that much, at least.

He believed that all the way until he saw the blot of death in the sky.

“Heh … heheh … hahahaha … hahahahahah … !”

A creature born of fire and nightmares.

A black wyvern, offering a cackling laugh which echoed throughout the forest.

Tristan never knew wyverns could laugh. 

But then again, he never knew wyverns existed in his kingdom, either.

For a moment, stunned and fearful faces surrounded him as the creature boasted of doom and death. 

Tristan didn’t know how this creature of horrors had come to be, but he knew that were it to fly over the mountains and into the kingdom, the flames that would engulf it would be quenched only by the tears of those who survived.

There was nothing he could do.

Armed with a sword which couldn’t even hope to swipe at the wyvern’s claws, Tristan may as well challenge the stars. And though there were bows held in the hands of his knights, he could not ask them to feign the roles of heroes of old, whose arms had surely trembled less as they looked upon their ends. 

In that moment, faced with a danger beyond his capability–

Second Prince Tristan Contzen forgot who he was. 

And he instead became who he should be.

With the eyes of his fearful knights upon him, he turned his steed towards the direction of the doom.

He said no words, yet open mouths met his declaration all the same. And like a rising tide, the warmth of bravery filled the hearts of those who peered upon their prince. Hushed voices watched him as he encouraged his brave steed onwards. 

And then they followed. 

At least until the prince whispered a word only his destrier could hear. 

His steed broke into a gallop, weaving between the gnarled trees of a forest while skipping across roots which would have felled even a deer. The shouts of those behind him became panicked cries in the distance, before falling away to the shadows altogether.

Because for the plan which coalesced in Tristan’s mind, he could not risk the lives of his knights.

The Loerstadt Gate.

A beacon of the kingdom’s might. An impenetrable wall of stone. And one armed with enough ballistas to bring down even Valerian the Revered … when he was still a whelp.

Tristan’s plan was as simple as it was foolhardy.

He would lure the wyvern to his own door. A dangerous proposition. But to test the stone of his walls was preferable to the lives of his villagers.

He rode his horse through fen and thicket, his mighty destrier never failing him, until finally–

He leapt free of the forest.

At once, the very air became heated as though already in the wyvern’s jaw.

His sword gleamed as it left its sheath, hoping to draw where he’d last seen it to be.

And that’s where he met the most ordinary looking woman he’d ever seen in his life.

Slightly tussled chestnut hair. Brown eyes, her brows raised. And travelling attire frayed upon the edges. Of the wyvern, he saw and heard nothing, and yet judging by the smoking ruins of what had once been the elven ruins his own tourism ambassador ceaselessly requested funds to remodel, he could not have gone far.

Or anywhere, for that matter. 

He saw the embers dripping from her fingertips.

Mage.

“A prince. Now this is new.”

Tristan had no time to think.

Except he did. Because thinking was all he did. And so even as his instincts told him to flee, the slightly more heroic part of him which had brought him here told him to obey his knight’s training. 

When faced with an unknown threat, if horse equals yes, then charge them down.

The principle was simple. The one with the horse usually wins.

But against a mage standing amidst a smouldering ruin where a wyvern was now tellingly absent, Tristan could do nothing but remain fixed, torn between a host of competing decisions.

He was never one for listening to his better instincts.

But as the mage lifted her arms, her hands enveloped in a spell–

He decided to give it a go.

“[Arcane Tele–]”

Unwilling to allow her to strike him down, he did the only thing faster for assailing the mage than charging with his horse.

Namely, throwing his sword.

A gift handed down by his grandfather. An artifact beyond value, matching the blades carried by his siblings. And he threw it as though it were duck feed into the lake beside the Royal Villa.

Crack.

As the mage vanished with a snap of sound, he didn’t know whether to be relieved that he’d lived or his sword had. Both were necessary for his continued existence.

Tristan peered around him, lost amidst the rubbles of a battle he had taken no part in. Of a plot he did not know. And what he found was how much he missed his siblings.

He clenched his fists around his destrier’s reins, still proud despite his unworthy rider.

Yes … he missed them all.

And because of that–he could not retreat.

Not any longer.

Second Prince Tristan Contzen turned his steed around. Soon, he heard the voices of his knights wildly following after him. And when they met, he would endeavour to speak his mind as the commander of the Loerstadt Gate.

One word at a time.