348: Discovering the true Noctavian (Arkin's POV)

Discovering the true Noctavian (Arkin's POV)

The initial hours spent in Lanark at his father's bedside in the infirmary were filled with regret and self-reflection for Arkin. But when Leopold regained consciousness, he welcomed his son back into his life with a generosity that Arkin felt he didn't deserve.1

The subsequent hours were spent by the two of them at Sasha's bedside, with Leopold hovering anxiously around his wife. During this time, they exchanged brief questions and answers about their lives during the years they had been apart.

They had not yet discussed the reasons behind the significant changes in Lanark, but two things became apparent to Arkin from the murmurs of physicians and patients as he moved in and out of the infirmary's confines: Kaiser de Lanark was now the King of Emoria, and the Archduchess appeared to be the authoritative figure in Lanark.

None of this seemed to make much sense to him, and as he walked away from the infirmary, things continued to grow even stranger.

"…Well, at least this arena hasn't changed since the last time I was here," Arkin remarked aloud as he followed behind three men in blue Latoran robes.

Initially, he had suspected them of being undercover warlocks and willingly trailed them, hoping to confront and defeat them wherever they chose to make their move. However, as time passed, their calm and clean aura as well as their attentive gazes on the ground and the sky revealed their true Latoran identities—qualities that couldn't be faked.

It became clear that the Duke of Latora had sent them.

Two of the larger men had stealthily emerged from behind the trees surrounding the infirmary where Arkin was getting some fresh air. They simply gestured with their heads for him to follow them without providing any details. The third, faster man joined them along the way between two adjacent estates, whispering in a Latoran accent about a meeting in the knights' arena, which they had now reached.

"I'm really back, aren't I?" Arkin mused.

As he inhaled the familiar fragrance of the arena, memories of his past flooded his senses. Each nook and cranny in this place knew stories of his time with the Baron – hours of rigorous training and camaraderie among fellow knights. Every part of the arena was marked with his blood and sweat, and now, all of it demanded answers.

His thoughts lingered on the familiar pain he felt whenever he remembered the Baron's disappointed expression just before his ungrateful son had left. Being in this place seemed to intensify that pain, and Arkin knew he needed a distraction.

"...You three aren't much for conversation, are you? Well, I can't say I'm much of a talker myself. You should have seen my last client; I bet the three of you would have turned into canaries around him," Arkin quipped sarcastically as he followed the Latoran men. He absentmindedly let his hand graze the edge of his blade, a habit he had developed over the years.

"Hey... Where are all the knights?" He wondered aloud, realizing that at this time of day, the arena was usually bustling with activity. It was right then that he noticed a figure emerging from the southern door of the arena and recognized the man who had brought him here.

Rauul wore a broad smile that did not quite touch his peculiar eyes as Arkin approached.

"...A true Emorian falcon, returning home no matter how far your wings have taken you. Welcome back, Commander."

That was the kind of noble banter Arkin had largely left behind in the years he'd spent away.

"You certainly have a unique way of summoning someone, Duke Rauul. I was halfway considering ending the lives of your men if they so much as breathed the wrong way." 

Rauul's eyes twitched at the insult, but he appeared more interested in pursuing a different course.

"I'm not the one who summoned you, Commander."

Arkin spat disdainfully to his left and casually shifted his weight to one side, further flouting the conventions of nobility. "I'm nobody's Commander, My Lord. Just your run-of-the-mill mercenary."

"That's enough."

Arkin's gaze shifted toward the shadows near the southern door where Rauul had emerged from. The voice belonged to a young boy, but the authority behind those two words belonged to Kaiser de Lanark himself.

Stepping into the light was indeed, a boy who appeared to be around twelve years old, his hair proclaiming his Emorian noble lineage, but his eyes left Arkin perplexed.

Where have I seen those eyes before?

The boy standing beside the Duke of Latora now seemed to radiate an aura that defied his age, nobility, and the luxurious royal purple Emorian attire he wore. It felt entirely out of place and uncanny, akin to the predatory vibes Arkin had sensed from creatures on a distant continent just before they attacked him.

"Is that him?" the boy asked, pinning Arkin in place with his intense, dark gaze.

"Yes, Your Highness. That's Sir Arkin von Conradie, in the flesh," Rauul responded with an inexplicable hostility.

Arkin, a bit tongue-tied, finally managed to speak. "…Who?" he asked a moment too late.

Under the boy's scrutinizing eyes and amidst his contemplative silence, Arkin instinctively straightened into the posture of an Emorian knight. Any desire inside of him to impress someone had been forgotten until this moment.

Noctavian's voice, heavy with frosty disdain, cut through the air like Arkin's cherished sharp blade. "An Emorian subject under my rule, blissfully unaware of my existence... Explain yourself."

The boy's words were like acid on a newly scarred skin. Part of Arkin's mind spun strange theories, including one where Kaiser de Lanark had taken a mistress and produced a male heir. Yet, another part of him simply wanted to find favor in the boy's eyes, to stand as a trusted protector and confidant, much like the Duke of Latora.

As a free, honourless mercenary, Arkin had come to understand that it was unwise to suppress his most compelling urges when they arose. Driven by that impulse, he knelt on one knee and placed a clenched fist over the left side of his chest then bravely looked straight into the boy's eyes, hoping to convey his sincerity.

The boy's hostility seemed to lessen slightly in response.

"I am eager to explain myself. Would you be gracious enough to pardon my ignorance and share your name so that I may properly address you?"

With a fractional lift of his chin, the boy's response and the words that followed left Arkin in stunned recognition.

"I am Noctavian de Lanark. Son of your liege and the holder of your abandoned oath of fealty, Her Excellency Archduchess Adelaide de Lanark. Grandson of your King, whom you turned your back on—Kaiser de Lanark. I am your Crown Prince and your Lord."

The knight's emotional expression might have stirred compassion in Noctavian's heart under different circumstances, but this deserter had incurred the unrelenting wrath of House de Lanark, regardless of any familial connection.

Noctavian harbored an implacable resolve to never forgive those who had caused his mother suffering and transformed her into someone who never shed tears, even though she had often told her son that it was perfectly fine for him to do so when necessary. As a result, the remorseful knight kneeling before him had earned a permanent place on the Prince's list of condemned individuals.

"...Now that you know how to address this formal court, I suggest you begin your overdue explanation," Noctavian said with an unforgiving tone.

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