"We have arrived, My Lord."
Ulrich stared blankly ahead.
Beyond the carriage window, the main road was already bustling with chaotic traffic. Carriages of all shapes and sizes converged from every direction, weaving through throngs of pedestrians traveling on foot, all flowing in lines toward the same destination.
Looming in the distance were the colossal, stretching stone walls that delimited the Skargardian Royal Capital.
Ulrich had only visited the Capital a handful of times in his life, actively avoiding it whenever possible. To him, the city was just like any other capital, a rotting core hidden beneath layers of wealth. It certainly did not help that the King ruling over it was just as rotten and incompetent as the city itself.
The carriage rolled forward, bypassing the slow ordinary queues to enter a secondary lane exclusively reserved for the nobility. However, because Ulrich ranked among the highest echelon of the Kingdom's lords, he did not even have to wait in the noble line. His carriage was immediately waved through the iron portcullis, granting him swift entry into the city's heart.
Unfortunately, passing the outer gates meant his carriage now had to drive through the endless, winding roads leading up to the royal castle.
Ulrich pulled the curtain aside just a fraction, peering through the narrow gap with an expression real distaste. Everything in the Capital was far too noisy, far too animated, and entirely too disordered for his liking. The streets actually looked even more disorganized than during his last visit two years ago.
Nonetheless, the Capital still flaunted its immense wealth. Nearly every pedestrian walking the inner districts wore clothing spun from high-quality silk, and the surrounding carriages rivaled his own in extravagant craftsmanship. He did notice, however, that several new cobblestone pavements and pedestrian pathways had been constructed. It was a necessary and thankful addition; given the volume of traffic and bodies pressing through the streets, the city would have devolved into a complete, gridlocked mess without them.
The deeper Ulrich's carriage advanced into the center of the Capital, the richer and more immaculate the surrounding architecture became.
The people walking these inner streets were entirely different from the outer crowds. These were court nobles. They were a completely different breed from provincial lords like Ulrich, who personally governed and defended their own territories.
Naturally, the two factions despised one another.
Provincial nobles like the Rubenhart family were independent of the Crown. In their minds, their territories belonged exclusively to them, paid for in their own blood and sweat, rather than merely being on loan from the King. Ulrich's father had never missed an opportunity to flaunt that independence. He had been a proud man who ruled his lands with an iron grip, and Ulrich had inherited every ounce of that identical pride.
Eventually, after nearly an hour of tedious travel through the sprawling city, the carriage slowly approached the towering eastern gates of the royal castle.
The vehicle ground to a halt as a squad of armored royal knights immediately stepped forward, raising their hands to block the path.
"The Count of Rubenhart is here," the coachman said clearly from his seat.
The knights advanced to inspect the cabin, but before they could even reach for the handle, Ulrich swept the curtain aside, revealing his very post travel annoyed face in the window.
The leading knight met Ulrich's impatient dark red eyes and instantly flinched.
"M—My Lord," the knight stuttered, hurriedly taking a step back. Turning sharply, he ordered at his men to throw open the gates.
Without further delay, Ulrich's carriage was swiftly allowed inside the royal grounds.
Inside the royal grounds, the knights promptly directed the carriage toward the stables, where the other carriages of guests and nobles had already been gathered.
Ulrich stepped down without delay, and one of the royal knights silently motioned for him to follow.
He was clearly not alone.
As he walked through the castle's inner corridors, Ulrich could spot nobles here and there, court nobles, gathered in small circles, speaking in low voices. Yet the moment their eyes landed on him, their expressions hardened almost at once. It was impossible to mistake a Rubenhart. Their bloodline was too distinctive, marked by that dark crimson hair and those deep red eyes. Ulrich possessed all of it, the full inheritance of his House. Only his face differed somewhat, lacking the harsher, more severe angles of the Rubenharts and instead bearing the softer features he had inherited from his mother.
Naturally, Ulrich could not have cared less about their looks.
He did not bother greeting anyone. He did not offer a nod, not even to those of rank close to his own as he passed them by. In that regard, he resembled his father greatly, equally proud, equally arrogant, and just as openly dismissive of the capital's noble circles.
Ulrich's father had been a man quite hated in the Capital.
In truth, Ulrich was not much different, and he didn't help to salvage it either since he took over two years ago.
He continued forward until he reached a tall set of doors. The knight accompanying him stopped and pulled one open.
"My Lord, please wait here. I shall inform His Majesty of your arrival," the man said.
Ulrich stepped inside.
It appeared to be a large reception hall reserved for private audiences and formal meetings with distinguished guests. The room was spacious and richly furnished, though Ulrich barely cared enough to notice more than that. His gaze swept over it once, and his expression twisted immediately.
It seemed he was not alone after all.
"Ulrich?"
Ulrich froze for the briefest of moments before turning around.
Standing there was a breathtaking woman, about his age, with long snow-white hair cascading down her back and eyes of a rare, beautiful shade between icy blue and pale grey. Her skin was just as fair, almost untouched in its whiteness, giving her a wintry beauty that was difficult to ignore.
He recognized her immediately.
Ashara Frost.
She was perhaps the only person who could truly be called his childhood friend.
After all, her mother and his own had once been very close. But after his mother's death, everything had changed. His father had changed. Ulrich himself had changed. And with that, his bond with Ashara had become one more thing left behind, altered beyond repair.
Most of that distance had come from his father, who had severed the ties he once maintained with Arcadia, the homeland of both Ulrich's mother and Ashara's mother. Yet Ulrich himself had not done much to preserve that bond either. Whenever they met afterward, he had shown little warmth, and even less effort.
And still, if there was someone who could be called as Ulrich's first love, crush, childhood sweetheart, and all of that, it would definitely be Ashara.
Even now, after five years without seeing her, the sight of her struck him harder than he would ever admit. She was no longer the girl he remembered. She had grown into a woman of stunning beauty, dressed in a flowing tunic of white and blue that made her exactly like a winter Princess.
Though maybe it wasn't far fetched to call her a Princess since she was from one of the Four Arcadian Houses, directly descending from the Saint God Kaelor.