With backpack and blade secured in their rightful places, Vichtor began his usual walk-of-shame back home. Head bowed in quiet resignation, he trudged through what passed for the “wild and untamed forest”—though in truth, it was little more than a forgotten path of cracked earth. The once-proud grass that lined its edges had withered into brittle, sun-scorched strands, crumbling underfoot like ancient parchment.
The air hung heavy with the scent of dry soil and defeat. Above, the merciless sun reigned unchallenged—for now.
He passed a weathered mill, its blades creaking faintly with the wind, and without sparing it a glance, cleared away the branches and vines to reveal the gleaming sight of Castle Renova, the undying heart of his kingdom.
His home.
✮⋆˙
Castle Renova, the undying heart of the Kingdom that mainly lodged the human race—not just Vichtor—stood as an awe-inspiring monument to power, splendor, and history.
A bastion of royalty—an enduring symbol of power and grandeur. Its towering walls, sculpted from white gold and veined with streaks of sapphire tears, shimmered under the sun, reflecting a brilliance that seemed almost celestial. These formidable barriers, both beautiful and unyielding, stood as a silent testament to the kingdom’s enduring might.
The main gates, carved from obsidian jade, loomed like the threshold to an ancient legend. Two gargoyles flanked their sides, grim sentinels with hollow eyes that seemed to watch all who dared approach.
They were once living nightmares, monstrous entities whose existence defied nature itself. Long ago, they had terrorized these realms, their obsidian claws raking through the lands, their fanged maws thirsting for destruction.
The air itself had trembled beneath the weight of their unholy presence, dreading most of warriors to speak their names only in hushed whispers. Despite this brutal display of power, their reign of terror met an abrupt but fitting end.
It was Aetherion—a 2 and half meters tall wandering dragon-golem of enigmatic origins—who delivered their final reckoning. With powers beyond mortal comprehension, he subdued the beasts and bound them in their coffins of eternal stone. Now, their petrified forms loomed at Renova’s gates, frozen in grotesque agony, their twisted figures serving as both a warning and a monument to the kingdom’s triumph over the darkness.
Each gargoyle was accompanied by a sentinel clad in pristine silver armor, its surface enchanted by the combined mastery of mages and alchemists. The metal gleamed with an almost ethereal radiance, runes faintly pulsing along the engraved plates, reinforcing both the soldier’s resilience and the sheer authority they commanded.
These two warriors stood as the unwavering gatekeepers, their presence as imposing as the petrified horrors at their sides!
A total of eight elite guards maintained a constant vigil, ensuring that no force—mortal or otherwise—would breach the palace gates unnoticed. With only two entrances carved into its formidable walls.
Duty was divided with unwavering precision—four guardians standing watch beneath the sun’s golden gaze, while four others took their post beneath the cold embrace of the moon.
Together, they formed an unyielding line of defense!
Should the vigilant guards permit passage, one would step onto an immaculately designed pathway of polished stone bricks, each piece laid with purpose, guiding visitors toward the castle’s heart. But Renova was more than just its regal keep; it was a kingdom within a kingdom. Rising on either side of the grand avenue stood an array of structures—manor houses, barracks, libraries, and halls of governance—all forming a vibrant tableau of wealth and history.
Above them all, countless spires and towers float toward the heavens, each one an ambitious tribute to the kingdom’s aspirations. Yet, for all their might and majesty, they fell woefully short of piercing the sky. Though they failed to reach the divine, they exuded an undeniable aura of chivalry—proud and unyielding, like the knights who swore their oaths beneath these shadows.
But today, the palace itself was not the center of attention, nor was its King—a man whose piercing blue eyes and flowing white hair effortlessly mirrored the very gems that adorned his grand citadel. No, not this time.
Instead, all eyes were drawn to what lay beyond the grand window—a sight that could steal the breath of even the most seasoned nobles.
The Garden.
I will spare you the vivid imagery of flower beds overflowing with color, weaving a fragrant tapestry around the ancient, three elegant fountains that were often visited by winged creatures—majestic and mischievous alike—imagery of eternal grace captured under the warm embrace of the setting sun.
Instead, focus on its crowning jewel, standing proud at the heart of this oasis: a very-very special cherry tree.
Near it, on a simple wooden bench, his mother often sat. This was her favorite spot, a small sanctuary in a palace of grandeur—a place where even royalty could pause, breathe, and dream.
✮⋆˙
Vichtor arrived at the entrance of the garden, unharmed but weary. Unlike the obsidian gates guarded by petrified horrors and silver-clad sentinels, this door was alive with green. Vines curled and intertwined in intricate, almost magical patterns, glowing faintly where the sun caught them. His mother’s touch was evident in every leaf and bloom; she had cultivated this sanctuary with meticulous care, shaping the garden into a living work of art rather than hiding it behind walls.
The two royal knights stationed at the entrance lowered their weapons and bowed deeply. Their heads dipped in respect, acknowledging Vichtor’s status and offering him unspoken passage. The subtle rustle of their armor was the only sound as they silently cleared the path.
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Vichtor stepped forward, feeling the soft crunch of grass beneath his boots, and allowed his gaze to settle on the cherry tree at the garden’s heart. Its delicate branches stretched gracefully, pink blossoms shimmering faintly in the sunlight. And beneath it sat his mother, serene and expectant, the very image of warmth amid the grandeur of the palace.
Each step brought him closer, the weight of the day fading slightly as the familiar presence of home and family enveloped him. The garden, with its gentle magic and careful beauty, seemed to welcome him—not as a prince, not as an adventurer, but simply as Vichtor.
He was home.
✮⋆˙
The quiet of the evening was shattered by his voice, piercing through the stillness like the toll of a bell.
"I'm home! Mother! I've... returned!"
Seated on the bench, she turned her head toward the sound of her son’s voice. Her eyes remained closed—not from blindness, but from choice. Comfort, to her, mattered more than sight. It was a habit shared within the family: mother like son, and son like father.
She replied, her soft and frail voice, singing with warm curiosity.
"Vicky? Are you home already?"
Vicky.
A nickname that held the tender weight of memory, a name spun from love by his mother from the days he still rested in her arms.
Her words, spoken as nothing more than a simple greeting, struck him with the force of a hammer blow.
'Already?', that single word churned the shame he had been trying to bury on his way back home, dragging it to the surface like a corpse dredged from the depths.
Before he could fully grasp the sting of her question, a massive hand lashed out with the precision of a seasoned marksman, landing a sharp smack against the back of his head.
SMACK!
It was none other than his father, the King.
“Idiot!” He barked.
The man’s presence alone bent the space around him. Nearly two meters tall, broad and solid, he looked less like royalty and more like a walking monument—muscle and bone shaped as if the world itself had needed a guardian and carved one from oak and iron. Arms like tree trunks. A chest built for war rather than ceremony.Legs that could outrun a lion.
It was clear; this was a warrior in a garden, one that had become fit for his title of King!
His appearance was as striking as his stature. Every strand of his hair, from the wild mane atop his head to the thick, untamed beard framing his jaw, burned with a deep amber hue. His eyes carried the same molten glow, sharp and alive, as though the sun itself had decided to watch the world through them. The only soft rebellion against that rugged image was a single silver earring dangling from his left ear, catching the dying light with quiet defiance.
One of the few kings who refused to let a crown decide how he lived—at least in private.
He wore no silks, no jeweled robes. Just a faded brown tunic tied with a leather belt, leggings suited for comfort, and simple sandals—perfect attire for an evening walk through the garden rather than a throne room audience.
“Ouch!” Vichtor protested, though there was no surprise in his voice.
He rubbed the back of his head and looked up, barely wincing. By now, the sting had become… familiar. Thirty-seven defeats had a way of training expectations.
“Why did you smack me already?!”
The king’s brow twitched.
“…Already?”
The word hung there.
Ah.
Vichtor’s eyes widened as the realization hit. His body moved before his thoughts could catch up—slow, careful steps backward, eyes locked on his father, feet inching toward the gate he’d passed through moments ago.
Too late.
“Thirty-eight,” the Queen said softly.
The world stopped.
Both men froze.
The King turned, slowly.
She smiled—small, warm, and entirely merciless. “It was thirty-seven defeats, wasn’t it? Today would make it thirty-eight.”
Vichtor felt his soul pack its bags and file for early departure.
The King looked at her.Then at Vichtor.Then back at her.And back to Vichtor...
The silence stretched, thick and sticky, like sap refusing to drip.
Then—
“Haaaaah…” The King exhaled deeply. “Boy, if nothing else, you’re consistent.”
Vichtor blinked. “…You’re not mad?”
“Oh, I’m furious,” the King said, smiling far too easily. “Tell me—did you pull a Vichtor again?”
Vichtor tilted his head, genuinely lost.“…A what?”
His father glanced deeply, a smirk tugging at his beard—equal parts pride and irritation.
“During training hours, when kids throw away their weapons and resort to headbutting, the elders shout things like, ‘Don’t do a Vichtor!’”
The color drained from Vichtor’s face, then rushed back with interest.
“W-What?!” he spluttered, heat flooding his cheeks.
His father shrugged, his amber beard catching the last rays of sunlight like molten gold.“Just saying.”
The words lingered—light, teasing, impossible to swat away—as his broad frame turned and headed back toward the palace.
Vichtor’s mother lifted a hand to her lips, attempting—failing—to hide her smile. A soft chuckle escaped her anyway, gentle and melodic, as though she were careful not to poke the wound any deeper.
“I’ll change my clothes now,” the King said over his shoulder. “I still have a few royal duties left. I only came out here to clear my head.”
“Oh dear,” the Queen asked, concern threading her voice, “is something wrong?”
“Not at all,” he replied easily. “Just...”
A pause.
“Now, excuse me.”
And with that, he was gone.
The heat in Vichtor’s face finally began to ebb, though the bruise to his pride remained, tender and unmistakable.
He turned toward his mother.
She seemed almost unreal.
Ethereal in a way that defied both crown and common sense, she carried a beauty that felt out of place—not only in the palace, but in the world itself. Not exaggerated, not overwhelming, just… wrongly perfect.
Her features were striking in their warmth and perfection. That smile of hers—it could melt the iciest of hearts, a beacon of comfort and kindness. Her skin, smooth and flawless, carried a radiance that rivaled the dawn. And her nose—small, delicate, and endearing—added a charm that made her irresistibly approachable.
For the briefest moment—no more than a heartbeat—she gently opened her eyes.
They were impossibly blue. Not the flat blue of paint or cloth, but something deep and living, like sapphire drowned in light. Looking into them felt less like meeting a gaze and more like standing at the edge of an uncharted sea, aware that one careless step could pull you under.
And her hair—
It spilled down in a cascade of gold, sun-kissed by day, glowing warmly as though it remembered every sunrise it had ever seen. By night, beneath moonlight, it softened into pale silver-white, blurring the line between light and shadow, as if she belonged effortlessly to both.
Yet her most dangerous trait was her voice.
It wasn’t merely sound. It was closeness. An invisible embrace that settled around the listener, easing aches they hadn’t realized they carried. A voice that could calm storms—whether they raged in the sky or inside the chest. If she wielded any weapon, it was that.
She noticed the embarrassment creeping up Vichtor’s neck. Her gentle giggle only worsened it—but restraint was never her strength when it came to him. A mother’s instinct won out.
Before he could react, she pulled him in.
His face vanished against her chest, enveloped in warmth, in the faint, comforting scent that meant home. Her heartbeat was steady beneath his ear, louder than his thoughts, drowning them out one by one.
It helped.
Briefly.
Then the humiliation took over.
What had been a manageable flush erupted into a full blaze. His face burned, his body stiffening as her laughter bubbled softly above him, affectionate and entirely unapologetic.
She was longer helping.