Conquests of hearts

Alexander Cirillo commanded the royal army with unmatched prowess, having dedicated his life to serving his kingdom. To the citizens and soldiers alike, he stood as a paragon of heroism, an ideal to be admired. Women yearned for his attention, while men aspired to emulate him. Years of rigorous training shaped him into a formidable warrior, one who thrived amidst the chaos of war and the harsh realities of battle. His body, adorned with scars that chronicled each victory, bore testament to his relentless fight; burns etched across his arms indicated the fire of conflict he had endured. However, beneath the mask of a celebrated captain lay a stark realization: he harbored a deep-seated disdain for mankind. Humans, in all their complexities, ignited a fury within him, yet he maintained a facade of congeniality, knowing it was crucial to play the role expected of him. The source of his success on the battlefield was unfathomable to many—his demonic essence rendered him practically invincible.

On the training grounds, Alexander remained intent on honing his skills alongside his men. Some of them faltered at the mere clash of swords, while others succumbed to tears and complaints with each defeat. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead as he chastised his troops, challenging their resolve. "How do you expect to win a war if you can’t overpower your captain?" he exclaimed, driving his sword into the earth in frustration. Disappointment washed over him as he scrutinized his soldiers. Suddenly, a man lunged at him with a shield, attempting a cowardly attack from the side. In a swift motion, he sent the soldier sprawling to the ground with a kick, his sharp voice ringing out, “Pathetic! To strike a man when he's down is a disgrace!” Alexander pointed at the unfortunate attacker, using him as an example of what not to be. Approaching the fallen soldier, he noticed the pain etched across the man's face despite his inability to move. After assuring himself the soldier would recover, he stood tall and commanded the others to escort him to the medics.

From the shadows, a voice interjected, remarking cuttingly, "Injuring our soldiers will leave us without an army, Mr. Cirillo." Annoyed, Alexander turned to the source of the interruption, realizing it was someone he didn’t want to deal with. “If only I had real men instead of children—” but he was quickly cut off. “These are our finest men, Mr. Cirillo,” the stranger declared, pride dripping from his words as he gazed skyward. “I’m not here to challenge you; I come as a messenger from the king.” The captain's irritation flared at the mention of the king, who was revered as a deity among the populace simply for having united the kingdom and saved the people. Alexander simmered at the thought—had it not been for the king, he would have never been conscripted into the army. “What does he want from me?” he demanded. The man smiled, his expression cryptic. “He wishes to see you tonight at the castle.” His gaze shifted to inspect Alexander’s worn appearance. “And please, Mr. Cirillo, consider wearing something presentable.” A scornful laugh escaped Alex, weighed down by irritation.

As the stranger retreated into the shadows, Alexander stood alone in contemplation. “Why today of all days?” he groaned, casting his gaze up to the blazing sun. Reluctantly, he reclaimed his sword from the ground, making his way home, which was conveniently close to the training grounds. Ignoring the curious stares of his men, he brushed by them. “Sir?” one called softly, but he shot the soldier a sharp look, sending the message not to pursue the matter further.

Entering the hall that served as his home, lined with the beds of weary soldiers, he dropped his sword at the entrance, confident one of his men would stow it properly. Seeking a moment of solace, he retired to his bathing area, peeling off his clothing and exposing the multitude of scars that told stories of survival and valor to those around him. Some soldiers remained silent in awe, while others averted their gaze out of respect. Steam curled around him as he approached the inviting water, sinking into its depths with a sigh of relief. As he scrubbed the grime of battle from his skin, thoughts of the king’s summons plagued him. After a refreshing wash, he dried off and dressed, recalling the messenger’s request to wear something nice.

Opting for his finest war uniform—what he considered knightly attire—he positioned himself outside to await the king's men. As tiredness seeped into his bones, he chuckled darkly at how, with each passing day, he felt more like a human than a warrior. When the royal entourage finally arrived, he stepped forward to join them. The closer he traveled to the castle, the more his surroundings expanded, filling him with a mixture of awe and trepidation. It struck him then that he had never actually visited the king, relying solely on messages delivered by others. A nagging thought nagged at him: no one had laid eyes on the king since the War of 1872. Upon reaching the castle, he was ushered inside and directed to the king’s private chambers, each step echoing with anticipation of what awaited him within.

The king lay in his bed, his appearance frail and pallid. "I am grateful you made it," he croaked, his voice sounding gravelly, as if worn down by persistent coughs.
"I came as you ordered," Alex replied, though the truth was that he felt he had little choice in the matter. "I appreciate your willingness," the king continued. "You are a remarkable leader, one who has served this land faithfully, saving countless lives while defeating our enemies. Your loyalty to this country is unmatched, which brings me to my request: I need you to look after my son, Nicoli."

Confusion washed over Alex. The king had no son, no heir—at least, none that anyone knew of. Drawing closer to the king's bedside, he sought clarification, "Your son? I don’t understand. How could you possibly have a child?" Everyone was familiar with the struggles the king and queen had faced in trying to conceive. "Yes, I have a son, though he cannot be seen by the public," the king explained, hoping his captain would grasp the gravity of his task. "Excuse me?" Alex questioned, perplexed by this revelation. "We humans often have fleeting lives compared to other creatures. On my deathbed, I ask you to protect my son from the world’s gaze."

With a sense of duty rising within him, Alex acquiesced, "I will watch over your son if that is your wish." The king's dim smile faded quickly, and he summoned a maid. Entering was a young man, appearing to be in his twenties, which took Alex by surprise; he had envisioned a mere child. "This is Nicoli," the king introduced.
Nickoli, clearly feeling the weight of expectation, bit his lip to suppress a reaction. He averted his gaze from the man who had just labeled him a child, understanding the unspoken rules of respect—never meet someone's eyes, never speak unless addressed. The maid beside him was dressed to serve, though Alex noted the elfin features hinting at her non-human heritage. As Alex continued to watch, the king resumed speaking, "I need you to take my son to the underworld. I trust you with this mission."

Shock coursed through Alex. "The underworld?" Even a demon like him would hesitate to tread that dark path. The king began to cough violently, prompting Nickoli to glance anxiously at his father. Sensing the gravity of the situation, Alex caught the look of concern etched on the young man’s face. Ignoring the question he'd just posed, the king pressed on, "He must reach there swiftly—" but was interrupted by a thunderous roar that echoed from somewhere outside.

The reaction of the young prince startled Alexander into silence. "I will escort him tonight, as you require, Your Highness," he said, giving a respectful bow. The king nodded, his approval evident. "You may leave now,” he instructed, and with that, the maid guided Alex and Nicoli out of the room. In the corridor, Nickoli continued to gaze at the ground, no doubt consumed by his thoughts.

Compassion stirred within Alex as he considered the heavy burden the young prince now bore. Having lost his mother at a young age and now facing the potential loss of his father, he would soon be left with his grief. Yet Alex recognized the significance of his task—leading the boy toward what might be his untimely end in hope of safeguarding everyone else. He understood that angels didn't perish in the underworld, but they suffered tremendously—losing their wings, their very essence—when cast into that dark realm. Alex knew this truth all too well; he had delivered such angels to their fates before finding himself in this new life.

Burying his feelings, he called for a horse, thinking it would be the quickest mode of travel. The creature loomed above Nicoli, its size exaggerated against the young man's stature. In an effort to lighten the heavy atmosphere, Alex quipped, "You may not be a child, but a full-grown horse certainly makes you look like one." Recognizing that his humor needed work, he noticed how dense the silence felt between them, almost suffocating.

Glancing at Nicoli, he extended a hand, but as he approached, the subtle light cast across Nicoli's face revealed his ethereal beauty—flawless and angelic, crafted with a tenderness that could stir a heart too easily. Alex felt his pulse quicken, fearing the young man might hear it. But before Nicoli could respond, Alex, in an effort to maintain levity, withdrew his hand. "But you are no mere child, after all; you’re a man capable of riding your own horse." While finishing his banter, he mounted his own steed, as a servant led Nicoli to a smaller horse—a tad less towering than the one Alex had chosen, but still significantly larger than the prince himself.