CHAPTER 475: A BEAUTIFUL FACE WITHOUT A NAME

The following morning, before dawn had fully broken, the Phoenix Legion was already hard at work upon the training grounds behind the palace. The clang of steel, the bark of orders, and the rhythmic thud of boots striking packed earth filled the cool air. Mist still clung to the grass, curling around armored shins as men and women pushed their bodies to the limits.

Netser Rimim, a soldier of Alpha Team, strained through a set of push-ups, his muscles burning, sweat dripping from his brow to darken the soil beneath him. The Norse brothers had drilled this exercise into them—something their sister had sworn by—and now it was part of Alpha’s regimen. Gritting his teeth, Netser lifted his head for breath and froze.

Across the field, beyond the clamor of steel, a line of women drifted into view. Six in total, their skirts long and flowing, split at the middle to allow easy movement. They walked with deliberate grace, their silhouettes swaying like shadows caught in morning light, their direction fixed toward the western training grounds.

At first, Netser thought nothing of them. Courtiers or servants perhaps, their business far from his own. But then he saw her.

The last of the group, walking a pace behind the others. Her face half-veiled, her gait softer, slower—yet unmistakable.

His pulse quickened. The ground beneath him seemed to fall away. His arms buckled, and he nearly collapsed into the dirt. He blinked furiously, certain exhaustion had played him false, but when he looked again, she remained.

The face that haunted his memory.

Was it her?

He staggered to his feet, ready to chase after her, when a thunderous voice pinned him in place.

"Rimim!"

General Cobar’s glare was like a drawn blade. The commander of Alpha was a man carved of stone—unyielding, precise, merciless in discipline. "What are you doing out of formation? Did I ask you to leave?"

Netser swallowed hard. "Sir, I—"

"You are not done with your push-ups. One hundred more. Now."

There was no defiance against Cobar’s command. Netser dropped back to the ground, rage and confusion twisting inside him. His muscles screamed with each push-up, but his mind was far from the drills.

It could not have been her. She had vanished four years ago. On the eve of her betrothal, she had chosen exile over duty, slipping away from her father’s house and disappearing into the night. At first, whispers claimed it was only rebellion, a tantrum, and that she would soon return. But weeks turned to months, and every search ended in failure. It was as if she had been swallowed by the earth itself.

And now—here?

The words struck harder than a whip. Netser hesitated, torn between obedience and the pull of memory, but Cobar’s stare left no room for defiance. Gritting his teeth, he dropped back to the ground, his chest pounding with more than exertion. Each push-up felt heavier than the last, weighed down by a question he dared not speak aloud.

...

That afternoon, the air of the capital shifted. Word spread quickly through the palace: the envoy from Westalis had arrived. Their merchants sought again to secure Northem’s prized trade secrets—chief among them the bicycles and e-trykes that Westalis had failed to reproduce with any quality. Once more, they came to bargain.

Princess Amielle seized the moment. In her eyes, this was more than a trade negotiation—it was an opportunity for Reuben. Once, he had been groomed for the crown. Now, with his leg broken beyond true healing, his claim had faded, dismissed by most as crippled potential. But Amielle would not let him wither into obscurity.

It was Reuben who had purchased two of Lara’s patents for the e-trykes, securing them for Northem’s coffers. By Amielle’s reckoning, that gave him the strongest claim to speak on behalf of the crown. If the envoys of Westalis wished to deal in inventions, let them deal with the man who owned their rights.

In the Hall of Commerce, the afternoon sunlight spilled through tall windows, striking polished tables where porcelain cups gleamed. The air was thick with the fragrance of spiced tea and imported perfumes. A dozen Westalis envoys sat waiting, their silks embroidered with golden thread, their eyes shrewd behind false smiles.

The great doors opened. Espiyor wheeled Prince Reuben into the hall.

For a heartbeat, the envoys straightened, surprised. The prince’s robe of brocade shimmered, embroidered with silver wolves that seemed to catch the light. His hair was combed back, his bearing proud. From a distance, he appeared every inch the heir of Northem—regal, composed, untouchable.

Only those who looked closer would notice the stiffness in his jaw, the faint tremor of reluctance in his eyes.

Reuben’s leg was hidden, but the memory of it was not. He could feel the weight of every gaze pressing upon him, as though all could see through the fabric to the weakness beneath.

The envoys rose as Prince Reuben was wheeled forward, but their courtesy was hollow. Their eyes swept over him, some with veiled pity, others with barely concealed disdain. One or two exchanged glances and thin smirks, as though amused that Northem had sent forth a broken prince to bargain with them.

Reuben felt it. Every flicker of contempt, every unspoken whisper. It coiled around him like smoke, stifling, burning. His fingers tightened on the armrests of his chair until his knuckles whitened. A storm stirred in his chest—anger, sharp and raw. For a fleeting moment, he wanted to rise, to shout, to remind them he was still a son of a king, crippled or not.

But before the anger could break his mask, a hand touched his shoulder.

Amielle.

Her fingers pressed firmly, grounding him. Her voice, low and steady, brushed his ear so softly that only he could hear. "Do not let them see weakness, My Prince. Not fury, not hurt. Give them only what you choose to give."

Reuben drew in a breath, forcing it deep and calm. The rage ebbed, replaced by something colder, sharper. He lifted his chin, his eyes hardening into polished stone. The smirks no longer burned; instead, they became fuel. If they thought him lesser, then he would make them choke on their mistake.

Amielle withdrew her hand, satisfied, and took her place at his side. Together, they faced the envoys as equals.

Reuben let his voice roll across the chamber, measured and deliberate. "You come again for what your craftsmen cannot build, for what your kingdom cannot match. You come for Northem’s strength." His words carried no tremor, no hesitation. "Then let us speak as traders, not as kings and beggars. You will offer, and I will decide if it is worthy."

A ripple stirred among the envoys—surprise, irritation, a flicker of grudging respect. Their smiles faltered, just enough.

Reuben’s anger had not vanished. It burned beneath the surface, steady and controlled. But now, it was his weapon, not theirs.

Amielle’s plan was clear. Today, Reuben would either reclaim dignity—or lose it forever. The deal with Westalis was not just about trade. It was about proving that he was more than his broken body, more than a forgotten prince.