Prince Alexander was the fourth son, a position that earned him little more than dismissive glances at court. While his elder brothers learned statecraft and swordplay with the finest tutors, Alexander was left to his own devices. Too far down the line of succession to matter, yet too highborn to be ignored completely.

The whispers followed him through the palace corridors: "The wastrel prince," they called him. "Good for nothing but drinking and dice." Even his father, King Edmund, barely acknowledged him at formal functions, his eyes sliding past Alexander to rest proudly on his older brothers.

On his eighteenth birthday, instead of requesting the customary grant of lands, Alexander asked for something unprecedented – permission to join the army as a common soldier. The court erupted in scandalized murmurs, but King Edmund, perhaps eager to be rid of his embarrassment, granted the request with a dismissive wave.

Alexander traded his silks for soldier's wool, his feather bed for a straw pallet. He learned to march until his feet bled, to clean armor until his hands cracked, to follow orders from men who would have once knelt before him. In the mess hall, he discovered that soldiers spoke truth where courtiers dealt in lies.

Years passed. Alexander rose through the ranks on merit alone, many of his fellow soldiers never knowing his true identity. He learned the art of war from the ground up – how to read terrain, how to gauge men's moods before battle, how to inspire courage in those who served under him.

When the Northmen invaded, breaching the kingdom's defenses with unprecedented ferocity, Alexander's eldest brother died in the first battle. The second fell leading a foolhardy charge. The third succumbed to wounds from an assassin's blade.

The kingdom teetered on the brink of collapse. King Edmund, now old and weary, led the last defense of the capital with his remaining forces. But it was Alexander, commanding a division of battle-hardened veterans who trusted him with their lives, who saw the weakness in the enemy's formation.

In the decisive battle, Alexander's knowledge – earned through years of serving alongside common soldiers – proved invaluable. He knew exactly how to position his archers on the ridge, understanding their range from personal experience. He anticipated the enemy's cavalry charge because he'd once served in the mounted scouts. When the enemy's supply lines stretched thin, he knew precisely where to strike because he'd once been a quartermaster's assistant.

The victory was total. Only then did Alexander reveal his identity to his men, who raised an even greater cheer upon learning they had fought alongside a prince who had chosen to become one of them.

In the aftermath, King Edmund looked upon his fourth son with new eyes. Here was a prince who understood not just the noble arts of leadership, but the practical wisdom of those who carried out orders. Here was a heir who knew his kingdom not from the lofty heights of a throne, but from its very foundations.

When King Edmund named Alexander his successor, the choice was met not with the usual court intrigues but with widespread approval. The army's loyalty was absolute, and even the nobles who had once mocked him saw the wisdom of crowning a king who understood all his subjects, from highest to lowest.

Alexander's first act as king was to establish that all future heirs to the throne must serve in the ranks before they could claim their crown. "A king," he declared, "must know the weight of the sword he asks others to bear."