We head toward our respective chambers, the silence heavy after the audience with the King. 

As I walk, I glance at the stranger, Leyart, trailing a few steps behind us. 

What could he have endured to be in such a state? He can barely stand, staggering like a zombie, his emaciated body sustained by a fragile will.  

His red hair, dulled by dust and suffering, falls in disheveled strands over his pale face. 

He’s covered in bandages, and his missing arm leaves an empty sleeve dangling pitifully. Though I itch to question him, out of respect, I hold back. 

His wounds speak for themselves, and I sense he carries a burden I can’t yet comprehend.  

Rikami turns to Yura, her voice firm. 

 “Go fetch Strados. Tell him I’ll pay a million gold Pieces for a healing.” 

Yura nods without hesitation and hurries toward the castle’s medical wing. It’s undoubtedly for Leyart, given his critical condition.  

This decision is wise—an emergency healing could save his life. But a million gold Pieces? That’s a colossal, almost unimaginable sum. 

I’m convinced the Kingdom of Congoire, one of the continent’s richest nations, doesn’t possess such wealth. 

Rikami must be incredibly rich, though nothing in her appearance suggests it. She wears no jewelry or ostentatious clothes, and her austere demeanor sets her far from a noble’s image.  

Rikami turns to Leyart, her tone softening but still authoritative. 

 “Take my chamber to rest. The doctor will get you back on your feet. And find some clothes for tonight.” 

Leyart hesitates, clearly overwhelmed. 

 “Uh… I don’t know where to find clothes…” His voice is weak, barely a whisper, and he lowers his eyes, intimidated.  

I offer him a reassuring smile, hoping to put him at ease. 

 “Come to my chamber when you’re recovered. I have plenty of clothes; we’ll find something for sure.” My tone is warm, an attempt to break the barrier between us. 

Leyart responds with an awkward bow, his stiff movements betraying his discomfort. 

 “No need for that between us,” I say with a gentle laugh. “We’ll be brothers-in-arms, you and I. Call me Arthur, let’s be friends—it’ll be better for us, don’t you think?”  

He straightens slowly, a shy smile lighting his tired face. 

 “Oh! You remind me so much of the Captain… Thank you…” 

In that moment, I see his eyes empty, as if a flash of some tragic past has overwhelmed him. His gaze drifts into the void, and I suspect he’s reliving a painful memory—perhaps Lancelot’s death, or his wife’s. My heart aches for him.  

“Let’s shake on it,” I propose, extending my right hand. “I’ll wait for you in my chamber later.”   
“Thank you!” he replies, his voice trembling but sincere, before gripping my hand with a fragile hold.   
  

Our paths diverge then. I head to my chamber to wash, the brief but intense training with Rikami leaving salty sweat on my skin.  

If we’re going out tonight for the Festival of Heroes, I must be properly groomed. 

A noble leaves nothing to chance: the attire, the scent, the ceremonial items. 

I undress and run my bath, the hot water filling the room with soothing steam.  

It’s wise to enjoy this—it’ll likely be my last comfortable bath for a while. 

Do I have access to water in the villages? Truth be told, I’ve never really left the capital. My father, the King, has always protected me, not out of love, but because I’m his only heir. 

This overprotection has shielded me from the outside world, and my knowledge is limited to news and books.  

Could I become an adventurer like my uncle Lancelot? No, I don’t think so. 

Comparing myself to him isn’t useful—he was a legend, a member of the Big Four, while I’m still an inexperienced prince. 

Before stepping into the bath, I grab a book from the shelf: Tales and Legends of Baba Yaga. This grimoire catalogs monsters beyond the magical barriers, terrifying creatures haunting ancient tales.  

They all share one trait: absolute savagery. I recall a Krampus attack two winters ago. 

Those demons had appeared in the capital, attacking children in their sleep. 

The guards weren’t alerted—either they were drunk on duty, a theory my father angrily endorsed, or the monsters were teleported, which seemed absurd. The only one capable of teleportation was my uncle… A troubling thought.  

After an hour in the bath, lost in my reading, I hear a knock at my door. 

I step out quickly, wrapping a towel around my waist, and open it. 

It’s Leyart, with Yura, who turns away at the sight of me, a sheepish smile on her lips before walking off.  

How odd, that girl, I think, intrigued by her behavior. 

 “Oh, Leyart! Come in!” I invite, closing the door behind him. 

He hurries inside, eyes wide, clearly awed by my chamber. It’s true that to me, it’s grown mundane—a four-poster bed, Zodiac tapestries, a crackling fireplace—but to someone like him, used to Nébiatine’s harshness, it must seem luxurious.  

“I see you’ve managed to clean up. You definitely look better,” I say with a smile.   
“So, what clothes would you like?”   
  

I open my wardrobe, revealing a wealth of options: rune-embellished mage robes, leather-reinforced warrior tunics, noble jackets with embroidery, fur coats for harsh winters. The choices are endless.  

Leyart starts rummaging through the clothes, peppering me with childlike questions. 

He pulls out each piece, holding it to his chest and checking the mirror, a spark of joy in his eyes. He’s like a kid, and it makes me laugh heartily. 

If this can bring some comfort after all he’s been through, I’m all for it.  

After a few minutes, he still can’t decide. 

So, I suggest an outfit: sleek black pants, a fitted white shirt, and a black-and-red jacket with gold stitching, complete with a matching cape and hood. 

 “Take this set. It’d suit your hair perfectly. Black is undeniably great for adventures—it keeps you discreet. But tell me, are you a fire mage?”  

At that, I see him freeze, as if my words struck a nerve. 

He lowers his gaze to the floor and murmurs: 

 “I was a fire mage, yes… but I won’t use my magic anymore. It reminds me too much of my family, the Captain… my wife…” 

His voice breaks, and he collapses into tears, shoulders shaking with sobs.  

I pull him into an awkward but sincere embrace, unsure what to say. His life seems so hard, marked by loss and pain. 

If Yura were here, she’d have the right words, always knowing how to soothe hearts. 

 “We’re here now, don’t forget,” I say gently. “But stay alive for them. Show them who Leyart really is.” 

He wipes his tears with his sleeve, a faint smile returning to his face. 

 “Thank you, my Prince… Uh, thank you, Arthur. That’s kind, and yes, you’re right. I’ll take this outfit.”  

I step out to let him change, leaving several perfume vials on my desk for him to choose from. 

A few minutes later, Leyart emerges from the chamber. 

He smells good—a woody note with a hint of citrus—and the outfit fits him perfectly, the cape flowing slightly behind, enhancing his adventurer’s air.  

Yura passes by at that moment, notices him, and teases with a grin: 

 “Well, look at that! We’ve got our second handsome guy on the team! This outfit suits you wonderfully. If you’re not used to these kinds of nights, watch out. Dressed like that, with a good face and a pleasant scent, plenty of women—even married ones—will try to seduce you for a spot at court.” 

Leyart offers a shy smile, thanking her with a slight blush.  

It’s true—thinking about it, Yura is absolutely stunning tonight. 

She’s braided her hair over her shoulder, highlighting her striking white locks. Her piercing yellow eyes, enhanced by subtle makeup, glow beautifully. She’s not tall—about five feet two—but her gray dress, hugging her generous curves, makes her breathtaking. No doubt, Yura is a strikingly beautiful woman.  

For my part, I’ve donned my usual ceremonial attire: a turquoise tunic with Zodiac crests, a light golden cloak, and a sword with a jewel-encrusted sheath. Nothing extravagant, but fitting for a prince. 

And as always, it’s the same person we’re waiting for, knowing she’ll make no effort for the festival… Rikami. 

The moment I think of her, she arrives.  

She wears pristine white pants, a fitted black top, and a leather jacket from a Rapace—a rare beast from Estugal’s mountains—casually draped over her shoulders. 

As expected, no effort… Well, for once, she’s left her katana behind, a detail that almost surprises me. 

In the end, we’re ready on time.  

When Rikami joins us, she looks us over, sighs, and says with a mix of irritation and amusement: 

 “Pff, always over the top with you. Is this a festival night or a fashion show? I can’t figure it out: to me, a party means taverns, free rounds, and ending up on or under a table.” 

Rikami laughs with us, a rare sound betraying unusual good humor.  

It’s true that when it comes to parties, she’s always there, never turning down an invite. 

She’s a lively soul, and with Yura, nights invariably end in a smoky tavern. 

 “Well, we’re all set,” I say with a smile. “Let’s feast, my dear friends!”