The return of the fallen king

Chapter 1: The last of an ancient house

<<''Had I been present at the creation, I would have given some useful hints for the better ordering of the universe''>> Alfonso X of Castile

Hey guys! if you would like to further support me, read my other work ''Transmigrated in another world as a magicless person''l

By the way , the start of the novel is slow because mc needed to start from scratch for his first campaign, warfare basically starts at 56, so if you really can't bear some slow development, such as acquiring loans, ally and weapons skip to chap. 56 .

It was January 1267, and Conradin, the final scion of his royal lineage, knelt upon the cold chapel floor, his eyes closed in fervent prayer. The atmosphere hung cool and still, enveloping him in the ancient scent of stone and incense. Amid this tranquil setting, the only audible sound was the gentle rhythm of his own breath, his lips moving silently as he recited a verse he had come to know all too well.

"Dominus Pater," he prayed, his hands folded in deep contemplation, "Protegat nos aut patrem a peccato, ducit animam meam ad dextrum via et illuminans viam sequi me." These age-old words were not merely a prayer, but a profound plea for guidance and clarity on the uncertain path that lay before him. This time, however, no solace washed over him.

Troubled thoughts swirled in his mind, and doubt weighed heavy on his heart. Conradin had reconciled with the mistakes and misfortunes of his past that had led him to this sacred place. Yet, the future remained a shrouded enigma.

In the midst of his spiritual contemplation, a servant entered the chapel, tasked with escorting visitors to him. "Your Highness," the servant spoke, his voice hushed and respectful. "Forgive my intrusion, but there are guests who have journeyed to see you."

Conradin's eyes met those of his trusted butler, Gerwin, and a sense of reassurance washed over him. Gerwin had been his steadfast companion through life's peaks and valleys, a constant presence in a world of upheaval. Even in the depths of his turmoil, Conradin could not find it within himself to be angered by this interruption.

Three men then made their way into the chapel, their measured steps reflecting a sense of poise and purpose. They exuded an air of profound respect, paying homage to the man who sat upon the throne before them.

Leading the retinue was Galvano Lancia, a man distinguished by his piercing brown eyes and a neatly trimmed beard, adorned with strands of white intertwined with brown. With a voice that blended humility and unwavering resolve, he stepped forward and addressed Conradin, "Your Majesty, we have embarked on a long journey to stand before you today, to pledge our allegiance to the last scion of the House of Hohenstaufen, or rather, to the rightful King of Sicily and Jerusalem."

Conradin experienced a tumultuous whirlwind of emotions—a mixture of relief for finally being aknowledged and the simmering anger fueled by the memories of betrayal and deceit that had led him to this point.

"You have traveled a great distance, I assume," Conradin began, his voice revealing his complex feelings. "The knowledge that renowned and loyal retainers of my house have come to my aid fills me with both joy and courage. I beseech you to allow me to extend the courtesy that good morals dictate. I implore you to rest, for I can only imagine the weariness that accompanies such a long journey."

Though his words appeared generous on the surface, they concealed a deep undercurrent of anxiety and resentment.

"We appreciate your Majesty's kindness," Galvano Lancia replied, his tone respectful. "Indeed, we are weary from our travels, and rest would be most welcome."

With these words, the three men rose, bowed to Conradin, and respectfully exited the room. Left alone, Conradin turned to his loyal butler Gerwin, his anger and frustration palpable.

'' They speak good of my house , they request to serve me the last of my grandfather's blood , all of this and that, after their liege that low born bastard of Manfred usurped me of my birth rights, angered the pope and lost, his , MY KINGDOM to those vile french '' shouted the young men as some saliva left his mouth.

''Your Highness, please do not be angered, a king must never be controlled by his emotion, it is true that those men may have served the wrong master, but think about this, they have no other choice but serve you since their holding in Italy have been usurped by Charles , who is currently drunk on his victory over Manfred''

Conradin took some deep breaths and aknowledged his butler's words

''You are right , I will need all the help I can get and those three especially Galvano and Corrado are skilled commanders, who will be useful for my upcoming campaign .''

As Conradin lowered his gaze toward a window, his eyes fell upon a group of birds nestled in their nests. His mind wandered, drawing a poignant parallel between these creatures and the daunting journey he was about to embark upon. To surmount the countless obstacles ahead, he mused, he would need as many feathers as God could grant him.

"I possess but a pitiful number of troops," he thought aloud, his tone tinged with a sense of self-doubt. "I am lacking in funds, and the only riches I possess are legitimacy and, now, the companionship of these skilled retainers."

A brief, bitter chuckle escaped Conradin's lips, a momentary lapse into self-pity. The furrowed brow on his butler's face betrayed concern, yet he knew better than to intrude upon his master's thoughts.

"Am I to reclaim my kingdom through mere prayers and wishful thinking?" Conradin continued, his tone now resolute and unwavering. "No angel will descend to illuminate my path. I must embark on this journey myself, and if I cannot find the way, I shall pave it, stone by stone."

Gone were the traces of resentment and sadness that had clouded the young king's countenance earlier. In their place, a steadfast determination radiated from his every feature. He had made up his mind, a decision etched in the unwavering resolve of a 15-year-old king, to reclaim what was rightfully his.

And so, the tale of the Eagle of Sicily began—a story of a king without a kingdom, a bird without a nest. Would he rise to the formidable challenge, anchored by his royal blood, and reclaim his lost throne? Or would he falter and become a mere footnote in the annals of history? Only time would unveil the destiny of Conradin, a destiny forged in the fires of ambition and resolve.

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