Chapter 9 – Return of the Heir
The next day—
The day William von Heart would finally return after two long years on the blood-soaked battlefields of the North.
The entire mansion was a hive of activity. The heavy silence that had defined the estate during Ignes's coma was gone, replaced by the frantic energy of servants moving quickly through the halls. Silver was polished until it gleamed like mirrors; the scent of beeswax and expensive incense filled the air.
There was a nervous, electric excitement in every corner. The heir of the Dukedom of Heart was coming home.
Ignes remained in his room, a calm island in the middle of the storm.
Lily stood before him, her hands steady but her eyes bright with the day's importance. She adjusted the fine, dark fabric of his noble attire, smoothing the wrinkles with practiced care. Other maids fluttered around them, ensuring every button was fastened and every thread was in place.
"Young lord, please stand still just a moment longer," Lily said gently.
Ignes didn't resist. He stood like a statue of marble, his red eyes distant as he allowed them to mold him into the image of a Duke's son. When they were finally satisfied, he left the room and descended the grand staircase, his footsteps light and even.
Outside—
Alexander von Heart was already waiting. He stood by the carriage, his posture rigid and his expression unreadable, though his eyes softened slightly as Ignes approached.
Ignes walked toward him calmly, the silver of his hair catching the morning sun.
Together, they stepped into the carriage, and the heavy door closed with a final, muffled thud.
They were not merely going to welcome a son and a brother.
Today was a day of remembrance.
The army that had held the line against the demon tide—the soldiers who had bled to protect the soil of Aeternum—and the thousands who had never found their way back… they were all to be honored.
As the carriage moved through the city streets, Ignes looked out the window.
The crowds were vast. People had gathered along the cobblestone roads in numbers that made the city feel small. Some held vibrant flowers to toss; some cheered until their voices cracked.
But many simply stood in a heavy, echoing silence.
It was a celebration of victory—but it was also a funeral for a generation.
Ignes spoke into the quiet of his mind.
Kurora…
Why is there no Hero?
In a story like this—in a disaster of this scale—shouldn't there be a chosen one? A beacon?
Kurora's voice was faint, reflecting his weakened state.
"I don't know, Your Highness."
"By all laws of the lower realms, a calamity of this magnitude usually triggers the arrival of a Hero. Someone sent to strike down the Demon King and shatter his army…"
Ignes watched a woman in the crowd clutching a tattered soldier's cloak to her chest.
Did the creator or the gods of this world send an oracle? he mused.
A warning like… 'No hero is coming'… or 'This burden is yours alone to carry'?
Kurora answered softly.
"No. There was no such message. The heavens have been… silent."
Ignes stayed quiet for a long moment, the cheers from outside feeling like they were happening in a different world.
"Alright," he said. "You should rest, Kurora. You are fading."
"…Yes," the little penguin replied, his presence retreating into the depths of Ignes's soul.
The carriage slowed to a halt.
Ignes and Alexander stepped out into the crisp air.
Ahead of them, the grand procession of the army began to move.
It was a river of steel and cloth. Knights marched in perfect, rhythmic formation, their banners snapped in the wind. Some soldiers looked forward with chests puffed out in pride; others looked at the ground, their eyes hollow, carrying the invisible weight of the brothers they had left behind in the snow.
Flowers rained down from the balconies.
The cheers rose to a deafening roar.
But beneath the noise—deep in the marrow of the city—there was an ache of sorrow that no victory could truly heal.
The procession moved slowly, a long and solemn snake of silver and black, making its way toward the Temple of the Sword God.
It was the place where the names of the fallen would be carved into stone.
Where the living would look upon the survivors—
And where the survivors would try to remember how to live.