Chapter 35

Yet, the reality he faced as he grew up was far from easy. The elders’ endless interference, the unexplainable nightmares, and perhaps… his prophecy, which had somehow been tampered with for ulterior motives. The dream that had once seemed within his grasp now drifted away like a distant mirage. When he could not even be certain of inheriting the throne, ambitions of becoming a great leader like his great-grandfather felt like an extravagance.

Even so, deep down in a corner of his heart, Arkin could not let go of that future. No, he couldn’t let it go. It was the only hope sustaining him.

“The forest near this sanctuary is normally off-limits to outsiders. It is opened only once a year, on the anniversary of the peace treaty. You have been granted special permission to enter, so keep that in mind.”

Seneca’s explanation continued over his shoulder, but Arkin was lost in a different thought. Suddenly, a fragment of memory he had forgotten for a while drifted back to him like debris carried in on the waves.

Was he around seven years old? Arkin had gone with his father to meet his great-grandfather, who reportedly lived alone in a remote lake deep within the winter forest.

They had set out from the royal palace before the morning twilight had fully faded. They were told to leave without guards, departing just the two of them—Arkin and his father—like pilgrims embarking on a sacred journey. The frost-covered forest path was slippery, and young Arkin struggled to match his stride to his father’s.

He walked and walked without rest until the sun was high in the sky. Only around lunchtime did they share a simple piece of bread before hurrying on their way again. By the time the sun began to dip toward the west, they finally reached the deepest part of the forest.

“That’s the place.”

The small cabin nestled among centuries-old birch trees looked crude and dilapidated through Arkin’s eyes. Yet his father seemed even more tense than when performing ancestral rites at the temple. As they grew closer to their destination, his father’s pace slowed so gradually that Arkin had to look back at him several times.

“My legs are just aching a bit.”

Without being asked, his father offered a flimsy excuse. When the two of them reached the front of the cabin, his father suddenly reached out, grabbed Arkin’s hand, and squeezed it tight.

“Arkin, you are about to meet your great-grandfather. The great King Chefkin—you’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”

His father’s palm was damp with sweat. As his father’s agitation was transmitted straight to him, young Arkin’s heart began to pound rapidly in tandem.

“The great sage… is someone who can see right through everything.”

His father’s voice trembled faintly. As if he himself feared the great-grandfather’s gaze, he continued speaking while keeping his eyes fixed on the cabin door.

“Falsehoods and pretense won’t work. Show him who you truly are.”

Knock, knock, knock. The sound of the knock echoed through the desolate forest.

Whoosh. A chilly winter wind swept past, shaking the branches. Only the sound of dry leaves rustling could be heard, and there was no movement whatsoever from inside the cabin. Arkin opened his eyes wide and stared at the door. Only after a long while did the old hinges creak, and the door slowly swung open.

An old man with a full head of white hair revealed himself through the crack in the door. His long hair, cascading down to his waist, was as white as snow, and his beard, covering his entire chest, was completely snow-white as well—making him look like a man who had just walked out after being buried in a drift of snow.

The old man’s deep, grayish eyes gazed steadily at the king first. Wearing an old brown pelt draped over his shoulders and a vest made of rough leather, he looked closer to a hermit than a great king.

“Ah, you’ve come to show me the child?”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

Arkin felt his father’s voice tremble slightly. The old man’s eyes slowly shifted to Arkin. Staring hard at his young great-grandson, the old man stepped aside without a word. As he vanished as if gliding into the darkness of the cabin, his father hurriedly shoved Arkin in the back.

“Let’s go inside.”

Inside the cabin, which smelled faintly of medicinal herbs, large and small wooden sculptures carved by the old man’s own hands were scattered everywhere. Bundles of dried herbs hung in clusters from the shelf above the fireplace, and in a corner, old leather-bound books were piled up as if about to collapse. Faint winter sunlight streaming through the window made dust particles sparkle. The log planks on the floor were polished and worn smooth by the passage of time.

The old man tossed a couple more logs into the brazier and sank into an armchair woven from tree bark. Staring into the crackling flames, he pulled a small basket over from beside his chair and drew out a small dagger and a half-carved piece of wood. Scrape, scrape—only the sound of the blade carving the wood filled the awkward silence.

“Arkin.”

His father’s hand shoved his small back hard.

“Bow your head and greet him respectfully.”

Arkin knew it was his father’s effort to somehow catch the old man’s attention. And that the rest was up to him.

The young prince hesitated and stepped forward. The closer he got, the more the overwhelming presence exuded by the old man suffocated him.

“Hello… sir.”

“He is a child with impeccable qualifications as an heir. He will become the next king and rule Solinar.”

His father quickly chimed in. However, the old man acted as though he hadn’t heard his father’s words at all. Still concentrating solely on the piece of wood in his hand, he skillfully worked the blade.

It was right then that the blade suddenly slipped. A tiny, unintended scratch marred the surface of the wood, and the old man’s white eyebrows furrowed slightly. Examining the carving in his hand closely, he remained silent for a long time before letting out a long sigh.

“Come closer.”

The old man put down the knife and slowly raised his head. His deep gaze was piercing straight into Arkin.

As if waiting for that moment, his father began rattling off one thing after another.

“Arkin already shows exceptional aptitude. Not to mention reading and writing, he has already mastered runes. He is even capable of communicating with the spirits of the forest… and his archery is unquestionably the best among his peers. His character is warm and gentle, so people are always gathered around him, and he is a child with immense patience. Compared to the sons of the other clan elders, he is vastly superior…”

Arkin’s face flushed a little. Sweat formed in droplets inside his tightly clenched palms. A few of the points his father was excitedly blabbering about were somewhat exaggerated compared to reality. The Arrowwood clan elder’s son had actually scored better on the rune test. Perhaps Arkin could have done better if his father hadn’t badgered him so, but anyway, that was the conclusion.

“We will raise him well so that he lives up to the glory of Solinar and the reputation of King Chefkin… to ensure there are no causes for concern.”

“So fragile. His hands are soft.”

The old man reached out a wrinkled hand and took Arkin’s hand. His father’s long-winded speech was cut short, leaving only Arkin and the old man locking gazes. Staring intently at Arkin, the old man asked.

“Do you believe you possess the qualifications to become the King of Solinar?”

It was a very low, deep voice, as though echoing from deep beneath the earth. Before he could even think, Arkin shook his head. He had always felt inadequate. All the boys of the nine clans worked hard. Arkin alone was not uniquely superior.

“You are honest. I prefer that.”

A faint smile finally spread across the old man’s wrinkled face. What did that smile mean? Arkin instinctively felt a sense of dread.

“He is a child who will become the future of Solinar. He cannot be compared to the wretched children of the Arrowwood Clan or the Ashberry House.”

“It seems you place great expectations on this child.”

It was then. Arkin felt an unfamiliar energy gently seep from the old man’s hand and flow into his own body. Chilly and eerie, it swiftly circulated through Arkin’s body like a small stream before instantly flowing back out to the old man. Yet the old man merely stared fixedly at Arkin, acting as though he had felt nothing at all.

“He will surely become the king who raises Solinar. I am certain of it. Our Birch Clan—”

“You, what is your own opinion? Do you wish to become the King of Solinar?”

It was a sudden question. Arkin vigorously nodded his head.

“Yes. I want to become king.”

Yet the old man’s expression did not look bright for some reason. With a calm gaze, the old man swept over Arkin’s golden hair, peered into his blue eyes, and once more squeezed and released his small, delicate hand. He spoke, mixing in a sigh like a low murmur.

“…Greed.”