Dobroslav strode into the courtyard with hands clasped behind his back, steps measured and unhurried. No word was spoken, yet every soldier, every family member, even Pajoslav, fell in behind him without hesitation.
He stopped at the center, still facing away, the palace's pale marble glowing faintly in the winter dusk.
"Soldiers…" His voice came gentle, almost warm.
He turned slowly, a bright, righteous smile lighting his face—eyes shining with hope, the perfect image of a benevolent prince returned.
"…this is now your new home. Protect it."
He closed his eyes for a brief second. When they opened again, the look in them spoke of absolute trust, of shared destiny.
"Scour the nearby areas. Find our scattered brethren. Bring them here."
He swept his gaze across the ranks.
"If space grows short, build beyond these walls. There are no great cities near—those abominations should be few."
A pause, letting the words settle like fresh snow.
"Make this place a sanctuary for our kind."
The commander dropped to one knee, fist to chest. The rest followed in a wave—bamm—the sound rolling across the courtyard.
"Yes, Prince!"
The chant rose again, softer this time, but fierce with purpose.
"All hail the Prince."
He took a few moments, standing motionless in the courtyard as the soldiers' chant echoed one last time—"All hail the Prince!"—fading into the cold winter air. The sound washed over him like a tide, feeding the quiet satisfaction in his chest.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward the palace entrance. His family and Pajoslav fell in behind him naturally, footsteps soft on the marble path. The heavy double doors opened at his touch, revealing the grand foyer lit by soft blue crystal chandeliers that had waited centuries for this moment.
Inside, the air was warmer, scented faintly with old pine and frost-kissed stone. Dobroslav stopped in the center of the hall and faced them.
"Everyone, please take any rooms you like," he said, voice calm and steady. "Our soldiers will protect you and provide for you."
His mother looked around at the elegant arches and sweeping staircases, still a little dazed by the sudden grandeur. She stepped closer to him.
"Dobciu… how do you know so many things? We only saw fragments—snow, towers, nothing clear."
Dobroslav met her worried eyes with a gentle, reassuring smile—the perfect image of a dutiful son.
"Mother, do not worry. I simply saw more than the rest of you."
He lowered his voice, adding a touch of reverence.
"Not only saw. Our ancestor spoke to me directly in the vision. He guided me—told me to bring our people here, to this sanctuary."
The lie flowed smooth and convincing. His mother's expression softened with relief and pride. She squeezed his hand.
"Then the bloodline truly chose you. I'm proud, my son."
She turned and followed the others upstairs, her footsteps light with renewed hope.
Pajoslav lingered a moment longer, waiting until the hall was empty except for the two of them.
He smirked faintly. "Ancestor spoke to you, huh? Nice touch."
Dobroslav's smile shifted—just for Pajoslav—into something sharper, private.
"Pick a room near mine. We'll talk later—alone."
Pajoslav nodded once, the only one who truly understood the game being played. He headed up the staircase, leaving Dobroslav standing alone in the glowing foyer.
Dobroslav's private chamber lay high in the palace's eastern wing—simple yet regal, pale stone walls hung with ancient tapestries of snow-covered forests, a wide window overlooking the living wall of trees.
He closed the heavy door behind them and slid the bolt.
Pajoslav dropped into a chair, still rubbing his shoulder from the day's ride. "So, prince. What's the real lesson tonight?"
Dobroslav sat opposite him, posture relaxed but eyes sharp.
"First—the binding spell I used on Cysio."
He raised his left hand, fingers tracing slow seals in the air. Black-red sparks flickered briefly at the tips, then vanished.
"Concentrate infernal Qi here. Shape it into needles. Chant silently until you feel them form. Then release with the words: I call upon the Seventh Monarch. Judge the blasphemous. Arrest the wicked. Infernal Binding."
Pajoslav watched closely, repeating the motions. A single weak spark danced on his fingertip before dying.
"Good start," Dobroslav said. "Practice alone. Never in front of the elves."
He leaned forward.
"Now—cultivation. We're both in Body Tempering realm. Nine minor stages to strengthen flesh, bones, meridians. After the ninth, a bottleneck. Break through it and you reach Foundation Establishment."
Pajoslav nodded slowly. "And the spells? The fire, the needles?"
"Demonic methods don't wait for pure body refinement. They let us borrow power early. That's why we can do things the Snow Elves can't yet. But it's a secret, Pajojo. Wise men don't stand out. They grow in the dark."
Dobroslav's voice dropped lower.
"At night, slip out. Find lone goblins. Weaken them, use Infernal Battle Law. Absorb everything. If a human straggler crosses your path and no elf is near… take them too. Quietly. No traces."
Pajoslav met his gaze, the weight of it settling.
"Get stronger faster than anyone expects. When the time comes, we won't need to hide."
Pajoslav's lips curved into a slow, matching smile.
"Understood, my prince."
Dobroslav allowed himself the faintest smirk.
"Good. Start tomorrow night."
He rose, unbolted the door.
"Now go choose a room before my mother assigns you the smallest one."
Pajoslav laughed under his breath and slipped out.
Alone again, Dobroslav stood at the window, watching torchlight flicker along the living wall.
The palace slept.