"What is a king, Aris?"
In the throne room, bathed in light from its many tall windows, only Aris stood there, dressed in the royal academy uniform.
The outfit almost seemed too big for him, even though it had been tailored to his size.The short robe, made for a child, fell just above his ankles. The main fabric was a deep blue, but what caught the eye were the wide midnight-blue trims—thick, rigid, embroidered with tiny silver stars, like a fragment of the night sky sewn by hand.
The sleeves, slightly too long, widened toward the wrists. There too, a band of stars traced the edges, as if every movement left behind a faint trail of light.
On his chest, stitched in golden thread, was the symbol of the Empire:a golden dragon, its neck bowed, four horns curving backward in an elegant arc. Before it stood a tiny yet glorified man, a blade driven into the dragon's throat, a proud smile on his face. The emblem wasn't detailed enough to be grotesque—but clear enough to show who ruled over whom.
A short cape, matching the star-lined trims, rested on his shoulders. It drifted slightly behind him, as if waiting for him to take a step to come alive.
As a whole, the uniform looked solemn—almost too prestigious for a child…
But he was the future king. How could it be anything less?
Aris was not entirely alone.
In the room stood his father as well, positioned near the first step leading up to the throne.
Steps as white as the throne itself. A glow so soft even snow would struggle to rival it. The entire hall was immersed in that pure white, and every ray of sunlight that passed through made the atmosphere even more dreamlike.
To be invited into the throne room was an honor—whether for good or ill.
But the memories of that room were fading along with Aris's failing mind. Details were missing, and even the throne itself felt incomplete.
In his memory, the entire room seemed bathed in a soft yet blinding light that prevented him from seeing—and thus from remembering—the rest.
He knew the cause, of course.
It was the beast's blood taking over his mind, corrupting even his brain. The infection had reached a stage where Aris could no longer see his father's face.
And yet—
He could still see his clothes.
Those noble garments everyone admired.
The outfit was entirely white—or at least, that was how Aris remembered it. In truth, he knew it wasn't. It was cut more like that of a young prince than an apprentice mage. The fabric was thick, immaculate, almost unnaturally bright, as if nothing could ever stain it.
The jacket, short yet structured, fit neatly along his shoulders. It was fastened with a line of golden buttons running down to the waist.
The sleeves, this time, did not flare. They were straight, clean, fitted, with a sharp crease that gave him a serious air despite his small frame. The collar rose slightly, reminiscent of ceremonial uniforms.
Aris couldn't remember the rest.
But he could never forget the golden emblem on his chest, embroidered in fine thread:the dragon, neck lowered, four horns curved back—and before it, a man driving a sword into its throat.
A short, heavy white cape rested on his shoulders, falling straight without ornament.
And for some reason, he also remembered the wind.
A soft, cool breeze entering the room, gently brushing against their cheeks, carrying a melodic whisper mixed with birdsong.
That wind made it feel as though he were floating—
as his clothes moved with it, forming slow, graceful waves.
Aris watched his father, drifting as well upon the gentle waves of cool wind, his face still hidden in the light.
"A king is a man with a kingdom."
Aris was proud of his answer. It seemed obvious enough.
But his father looked at him in surprise—then burst out laughing.
Aris didn't quite understand. What else could a king be?
His father wiped away his tears, still smiling as he answered, his voice light, still carrying the echo of laughter.
"You're not wrong. A king is a man with a kingdom. He holds great power, because a kingdom is vast… usually. But what makes a king a king, Aris? What truly makes a man someone who remains a king—even when he is far from his kingdom?"
Aris thought about it.
To him, it had always been a foolish question. A man with a kingdom remained a king wherever he went.
But… it was true that outside his lands, no one could always tell.
So maybe the question wasn't so foolish after all.
"Well… maybe it's his presence. The way he walks. The clothes he wears. I don't know… I've never really thought about it."
Aris looked at his father, thinking that would be enough.
In return, his father smiled at him—one of those understanding smiles.
"Well, to tell you the truth, my son… I wouldn't really know how to answer either. I've been a king for a long time. I know what it feels like—but I don't know what it truly means. People say I'm a good king… so I suppose I'm on the right path."
Once again, it troubled Aris that he couldn't remember his face.
"But I am certain of one thing, Aris. A king isn't necessarily someone good or evil. Not necessarily someone with a great kingdom, nor even someone powerful. Over time, I've come to realize that what sets a king apart… is the effort he makes for his people and his nation."
His voice grew steadier, deeper.
"The passion he pours into making his country prosper… or leading his troops in war… comforting his people in times of famine… strengthening his walls in troubled times… traveling to other lands to secure peace for his own. A king is someone who lives for his people—for his country."
His father paused for a moment...
"And up there, at the top… the crown is nothing more than a symbol of that weight. The burden of carrying a nation."
Back then, Aris hadn't understood everything.
But now…
It was as clear as crystal.
And yet—it was too late to call himself a king.
Remembering didn't bring him peace after all. He couldn't see his father's face. He couldn't recall the throne room clearly. And now he understood—
Without a country… without a people…
He wasn't truly a king anymore.
And in his memory, his father seemed to notice his sudden sadness. So he knelt before him, one knee to the ground, and gently ruffled his hair.
"But you, Aris… you still have everything of a king. Your people still live through you. And if you refuse to abandon them—if you choose to avenge them—then I will still be proud to call you the King of Arkis."
Aris lifted his head toward him.
But even this close, his father's face remained drowned in light.
"So go. Lead your people toward a new tomorrow. They are all with you."
The words struck deep.
Without hesitation, Aris rushed forward and wrapped him in a tight embrace.
But little by little…
The world around him began to dissolve into light.
The memory—distorted and fragile—faded away.
Soon, Aris no longer felt the warmth of his father's royal clothes—
But the coarse, matted fur of a wolf.
He was no longer bathed in soft, golden light—
But in his own blood… and the beast's.
The wind no longer caressed his face—
The rain struck it like bullets.
He was back to reality, with the wolf lying on top of him.
Dead.
He had won.
In the middle of all that chaos, Aris had won.
And now he lay there, on the cold, gray stone of the western lands, surrounded by beasts feasting on what he had left behind.
An entire wolf pack… brought down by the Mad Beast.
Aris didn't even know how long he had been lying there.
After all that, he simply closed his eyes.
Waiting, perhaps, for a better tomorrow...