Chapter 45: Reporting Again to Father
The scent of pinewood and old paper lingered in the corridors of the Palacio Real. Evening sunlight poured in through the long stained-glass windows, casting golden patterns across the polished marble floor. It had been days since the parade that swept Madrid in a tide of celebration. Yet the true reckoning—of power, legacy, and future—was about to begin in the quiet heart of the palace.
Regent Lancelot paused before the high double doors of the royal chamber. Two palace guards stood to either side, their halberds resting at attention. They nodded once, then stepped aside.
The doors opened.
Inside, the royal chamber was warm and dim. A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering light over the rich red carpet and shelves of aged tomes lining the walls. In the far corner sat a high-backed chair, carved from oak and velvet-cushioned, where King Edric of Aragon rested. The old monarch looked smaller than Lancelot remembered—his once-broad shoulders draped in a heavy blanket, his cane resting at his side like a forgotten scepter.
"Enter," the King said, his voice hoarse but steady.
Lancelot stepped forward, his boots muffled on the carpet. Alicia remained outside, respecting the sanctity of blood and throne. Montiel had not accompanied him—this was not a military report. It was a homecoming.
"Father," Lancelot said as he bowed.
"Regent," the King replied, a faint smile touching his lips. "You left as my son. You return as something more."
Lancelot approached the chair and knelt beside it, not as a prince, but as a son before his father.
"The war is over," he said. "Paris has fallen. The treaty has been signed. The provinces are stable."
"And the price?" Edric asked, his hand gently resting on Lancelot’s shoulder.