---

---

The previous chapter may be worth reading first if you have not already done so. To access the previous chapter, click the button below.

---

Chapter 3: The Slavery Of Kings

~ 868 RE ~

“2nd Season, 5th Moon, 2nd Week, 1st Day”
~Taer, The Azurian Capitol Of Marion, At Dusk

“Is the fear of your beau being swept away by some forest nymph plaguing you, Amelie?” Salome jested, her fingers dancing along the satin bows adorning her sundress. Her dainty limb bore an uncanny resemblance to a porcelain doll’s, amplified by the elegant white floral stockings she wore. Amelie, the subject of Salome’s tease, found herself by Talumn’s side. Her attention was spellbound by a reflective glass pane, its surface mirroring the picturesque sight of nine stallions prancing towards the shadowy woods.

Immersed in her thoughts, Talumn perceived the forest’s impenetrability. Observing Amelie’s outspread hand against the window, the image was an exquisite, melodramatic portrait of longing and apprehension. “Those woods… I despise them swallowing our horses whole,” she murmured under her breath.

A faint, bored sigh slipped from Salome. “Your dullness is elevated when he’s around. Endlessly lovelorn,” she teased, letting go of her skirt’s hem. With a pretend gag and a sticking-out of her tongue, she invoked a ripple of laughter from Talumn. Salome swiveled and sprung from the stone window sill, the picture of gleeful mischief.

Amelie planted her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “I’m not,” she denied, her words targeting an absent Median. Her feelings for him were no secret, despite her attempts at concealment, sparking giggles from Talumn. The merry laughter was contagious, drawing a hearty chuckle from Salome, who was also amused. “And he is not my lover!” Amelie retorted, the heat in her cheeks outpacing her words.

Salome’s tongue wagged with mirth, her amusement triggering a playful outcry from Amelie, “You little imps!” Her glare was fierce enough to turn any brave soul to stone. Taken aback, Talumn cast a downward glance at Salome, who was basking in self-satisfaction, hands perched on her hips. “Have you traveled all this distance solely to ridicule me?”

Salome shook her head, her voice climbing an octave. “My journey here was certainly not to witness my brother’s equestrian pursuits!” Talumn found a certain satisfaction in watching Amelie, typically the unchallenged elder, finally meet her match in the form of someone younger. As the girls engaged in a stare-down, an awkward silence seemed to crawl into their midst. The situation’s comical absurdity made Talumn stifle a chuckle, her shyness transforming the laughter into an embarrassed giggle.

Growing weary of the standoff, Salome broke away. “I grow tired of this,” she declared, reaching for Talumn’s hand. “Let’s find some amusement. I’ve had my fill of dreamer girl’s company – it turns my stomach. Oh, honey, let’s go exploring.” Salome’s suggestion elicited a flash of excitement in Talumn’s eyes; the prospect thrilled Salome.

Glee sparkled in Talumn as she elaborated on their plan. “Let’s eavesdrop on the Lords’ meeting.” The thrill of gaining insider knowledge on the kingdom’s affairs was a pastime she savored. It offered a taste of importance, a flavor usually reserved for the elites – a notion that made her feel like a genuine lady of the kingdom, not just some orphan.

This audacious proposition elicited an outraged cry from Amelie. The girls turned to see her standing by the window, arms crossed. “You shall not dare!” she roared, “Father would be livid!”

“That’s what makes it fun,” Salome retorted with a mischievous smile, “Thrills devoid of danger are bland.”

Amelie shot a warning glare at Talumn, “Don’t let her influence you.”

Ignoring Amelie’s concern, Salome tugged at Talumn’s arm, “Don’t be so lifeless! Where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, you weren’t invited, Amelie. Talumn and I will proceed without you.”

Amelie was aghast at Salome’s audacity, “You may venture if you wish, but you’re not taking Talumn. And don’t expect me to shed tears if you’re caught!”

Talumn, summoning her courage, crossed her arms and stood firm. “I wouldn’t mind going… it sounds… exciting.” Amelie sighed in resignation.

Salome taunted her further, “We are royal ladies. At worst, we’ll face a stern reprimand. Father would never let King Grandor lay a hand on me.”

Amelie’s response was razor-sharp, “Your father is serving the crown in Ruby Falls, Salome. Don’t forget, you’re a guest here. You should exhibit proper decorum.”

“I am a lady, Amelie! My brother will handle your crotchety father. How about that?” Salome mocked her, nose crinkled and fingers wiggling in the older princess’s direction. As she turned towards Talumn, she pulled at her arm, “Come on, let’s go.”

“We’ll only eavesdrop a bit, Amelie,” Talumn reassured her as they moved down the corridor. Their skirts rustled in the air as they dashed down the baroque hall. Behind them, Amelie’s voice echoed, “You impudent children, don’t you dare!”

The grandeur of the polished mahogany table was imposing, yet familiar, to the trio of influential figures seated around it. Marshal Bregar, Hierarch Nigel, and Treasurer Lord Abelon, all bowed in deference before assuming their seats. High King Grandor cast a glacial gaze around his council chamber. A void at his table left a stain of bitterness within him, causing the creased furrows of his brow to deepen further. “Griel’s absence?” His voice, though a mere query, reverberated like a tempest through the hallowed hall.

“Likely toasting to the lasses at some tavern, my Lord,” a hushed voice insinuated. It belonged to Benidis, a mercurial man known as the kingdom’s spokesperson, who was often seen with raven hair swaying by Grandor’s ear.

King Grandor responded with a weary sigh. “Of course.” Griel’s predictability was as consistent as the tide. Reflecting on it, he realized he shouldn’t be surprised. Deeming it futile to postpone matters further, he declared the commencement of the meeting. After all, Griel’s contributions were rarely more than inconsequential murmurs. “What’s the damage?” Grandor asked, his question as blunt as a mace.

Lord Arwin, seated to his right, drew a deep breath. The man was a reliable fixture at Grandor’s side ever since he was crowned High King. “The situation is concerning, sire. We’re still quantifying the aftermath of last moon’s attack. Reports suggest Lord Bilk has fallen, and Ulfates has been lost.” A sly smirk grazed Grandor’s lips at the mention of Bilk’s demise. A fortnight ago, he had utilized Bilk’s nonsensical ramblings as kindling, deeming them unfit for anything else. Preserving such vapid prose was a waste of parchment. “More worrisome news, however, is that the rebels seem to be relocating village guards from Ulfates. Their destination remains a mystery. On another note, Benedis, I understand you’ve been inundated with messages on the kingdom’s behalf.” Grandor’s steel-hued gaze travelled across the table, resting upon the form of “King” Bridehan, a monarch whose reign was questioned by many.

“Regrettably, I have,” Benedis conceded. “Reports from Parish indicate Dalmaskan aggression. They’ve begun their raids and are poised for full-scale invasion. The throne, once again, is asked to send forces, my Lord.”

Marshal Bregar interjected, perhaps to dissipate the growing tension, “I might be able to alleviate your concerns, sire.” His aged fingers traced a path on the faded, parchment map before them, pausing over the eastern province of Ulfates. “Following Ulfates’ fall, we’ve skirmished with rebel forces in several villages leading to Verst. It seems they aim to seize Verst from the east. Knowledge of this provides us an advantage.” His lips curved into a smile, a warrior’s satisfaction evident in his tone. “Lord Knight Hyde is orchestrating an assault on Ziekden, a humble farming settlement near Belcross.”

“What strategic value does Ziekden hold?” Grandor grunted, his curiosity piqued.

Bregar gestured to an area west of Belcross on the map. “We have an informant there, still loyal to the throne. They’ve offered critical intelligence on Guildred in exchange for immunity. Ziekden is a nerve center for the rebels’ operation. A strike there would significantly cripple their resources. I’ve relayed this information to Lord Volkmar already.”

Grandor cast a piercing look at Bridehan. “Are you privy to any information about Ziekden, Bridehan?” The query seemed to shrink Bridehan further into his chair. “Just as I suspected,” Grandor grumbled dismissively.

Interrupting the awkward silence, Arwin cleared his throat, “If I may… ” All eyes shifted towards the ancient advisor as he took a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Lord Volkmar mentioned that the rebels had discovered our fortress in Belcross. Capturing Ziekden could serve as a stepping stone towards reclaiming Belcross. Moreover, if we manage to retake Ulfates simultaneously, I firmly believe we could eradicate Guildred and his rebels before the moon cycle ends.” The prospect elicited a hearty chuckle from Grandor, lifting the weight of worry from his shoulders momentarily.

“May the true gods guide us to victory,” intoned Hierarch Nigel, his voice a melodic prayer.

Grandor barely concealed a scoff. If the gods had once been present, they had long since abandoned them. His gaze returned to the shrinking figure of Bridehan. “You heard the good news, Bridehan?” Grandor’s words dripped with venomous sarcasm. “In less than a year, this rebellion will be a forgotten nightmare.” A collective sneer enveloped Bridehan who could only offer a weak bow in response. “So, what is your grand plan to regain control of your kingdom, Bridehan?”

King Bridehan, once a fearsome warrior during the war, had succumbed to the sedentary life of the throne. His once-chiseled physique was now bloated and reminiscent of a pig. He lacked the intellect of a tactician and the charisma of a leader, serving more as a puppet than a king. His stature was golem-like, his fading brown hair tinged with streaks of grey. “The planning is ongoing,” Bridehan mumbled.

Grandor’s scowl deepened. “My thoughts often drift to the mess in Golgotha. The resurgence of the uprisings, the lack of tribute, the dwindling of our forces – these realities gnaw at me relentlessly. Our allies in Parish endure Dalmaskan raids day by day. We can’t spare air forces for General Beney. If we fail to keep our knights in check, what chance do we have in the Eastern Kingdom? Unless our lands yield soldiers, I fear we’ll be locked in perpetual warfare with those savages. If we retreat to our homeland, the Imperator’s wrath is inevitable. How do you propose we salvage this, Bridehan?”

Cowering under Grandor’s glare, Bridehan mumbled, “It’s not my fault. I’ve never seen such a defiant people. They wouldn’t recognize defeat if it struck them in the face. Their stubborn pride could spark a war unlike any we’ve seen before. King Leon was the reason we managed to negotiate a surrender and take Golgotha.”

Marshal Bregar’s face reddened with fury. “The same man you poisoned!”

“I did not poison him!” Bridehan exclaimed defensively, rising to his feet. “I was just as shocked by King Leon’s untimely death as you were. It was a horrific sight. I was seated at the table with him when he passed.”

“Enough!” Grandor roared. “Continue, Bridehan.”

“The people of this realm regard me not as their king, they disdain my edicts. More force would breed revolts. Neither my knights nor I command their fear. It’s the aspirations they cherish that unsettle me. Those dreams, so deeply rooted in their hearts, are indestructible. The thought alone births insomnia, I’m haunted night after night. I’ve offered them all they sought, yet they yearn for more! Were I to cast down my crown before them, they’d remain unsated,” confessed Bridehan, his voice trembling with desperation.

“Do you claim impotence then, Bridehan? A king without power, presiding over a land teeming with savages?” queried the High King, his voice edged with disdain. “Marshal Bregar, how would you quell such a restive populace?”

“My Lord,” Bregar began, exuding the wild menace of a black lion. His mane-like hair, bristly beard, and glowing yellow eyes commanded respect. “Assert dominance, show them consequences. Should their crops fail, incinerate them. Enlist their youth as soldiers when men do not come forth. Crush them if they resist your authority. The problem Bridehan faces, is that his subjects do not tremble in his presence.”

Infuriated, Bridehan shot up from his seat, hands slamming down on the table. “Madness!” he roared. “Such action would spark an uprising unlike any seen in Golgotha! You grossly underestimate the strength of their spirit. These people possess unique traditions, they worship alien gods. I refuse to be led astray by madmen.”

Grandor commanded with tranquil authority, “Sit.” Bridehan obediently sunk back into his chair. A tiny creak echoed in the silence that ensued. “Well said. What about you, Rhal?” Grandor asked, his voice raspy yet imposing.

Rhal, the youthful knight who stood guard at the enormous twin doors, slowly lifted his gaze. His bright silver eyes swept over the assembly of men, older and presumably wiser. “I’d infiltrate their ranks. When you possess the hearts of the people, there is nothing beyond your grasp,” Rhal declared, then resumed his sentry stance, hand resting on the hilt of his saber.

Bridehan, arms crossed, turned towards Rhal. “And how do you suggest I win their hearts?” Rhal’s unease was palpable to all. Accustomed to the deference of his station, addressing a king as an equal was a foreign concept. Rhal dipped into a bow, silent.

High King Grandor intervened before Rhal could stutter a response. “Would you like to know my approach, King Bridehan?” Bridehan pivoted his gaze from Rhal’s sheepish grin to Grandor, observing him with bated breath. “I’d simply appoint a new king,” he announced.

Shock shattered Bridehan’s composure as Grandor’s words reverberated in his ears. Panic engulfed him, tonight could be his last. “Have mercy, Lord King!” he implored, voice strangled with terror.

“This decline was not sudden, Bridehan,” began Grandor, his voice chillingly calm. “You’ve reigned for two decades, but your kingdom crumbled gradually. Your imprudent use of power has robbed you of control. Cowering in your castle, you indulged in luxuries while thieves pillaged your lands. You’ve grown weak, and now scramble to regain strength. Your complacency allowed a minor insurrection among the Knights, igniting a civil war within our ranks. If the news of our internal discord reaches the west, my head will grace a pike. You serve no purpose anymore, you’ve lost your strength. I am the true king. You can remain as a figurehead, the King of Tidas. Let the East despise you, you will be the fool in their eyes. Keep your fool’s crown,” Grandor declared, his voice echoing ominously.

“High King, I am in your debt, but what of Golgotha?” Bridehan stammered, his breathing heavy with dread, for he knew Grandor’s judgement wasn’t complete.

“Golgotha requires a king they can unite under. Rhal is correct, a king must earn the love of his people. That love is won by understanding them. Arwin, how progresses Prince Illian’s education?”

“Prince Illian is a paragon of nobility, an exceptional strategist. I hold him in high esteem,” Lord Arwin declared, his voice filled with respect.

“I am aware of my son’s struggles with his studies. He’s not ready to assume his place in the East, in my judgement. Therefore, Illian will be anointed King of Elitus. I trust you won’t object, Bridehan?” Bridehan looked down at the table, hands wringing nervously. “Benidis, ensure Illian’s crowning in Elitus before the full moon,” he ordered.

Counselor Benidis responded, “Yes, sir.”

Grandor reclined in his chair, heaving a sigh of relief. His gaze roamed the room, settling on Lord Arwin. “Now that this matter is settled. What news from the North? How fair the skies there?”

“The act of severing his head… it was grotesque. Blood saturated the cobblestones. The mere recollection induces nausea,” Tybolt confessed, his grip on his horse’s bridle tightened as he recounted his execution of a local thief.

Illian, glancing at Tybolt, stroked his chin, “Would you rather our city teem with felons?”

Tybolt shuddered, vehemently shaking his head. “No, but one would imagine a less ghastly execution method… perhaps starvation in confinement or poison. Not public beheading,” he grimaced, the notion evidently repelling him.

Turning to Median, who rode slightly ahead, Tybolt queried, “What fate befalls criminals in Ruby Falls?” Illian too was intrigued, the tales and philosophies of Median diverged vastly from those he was accustomed to. Having never ventured beyond Taer since his childhood arrival, his world was confined to the city. Median, however, the foreign visitor, had a broader perspective.

“We always have vacancies in the Colosseum,” Median responded, a sly grin unveiling his toothy smile. He ran a hand through his fiery red hair, continuing, “We simply toss them into the pit, arm them, and watch them fight till death claims them.” His blue eyes sparkled with a charm that left Illian as entranced as he was by the sculpted gods at the shrine.

Tybolt recoiled, a look of sheer horror on his face. “That’s… that’s utterly barbaric,” he mumbled, his voice a strained whisper.

Median, the prince clad in black armor, slowly shook his head, his gaze distant. “It’s more a spectacle of grace, a masterpiece. There’s an underlying dance of life and death. The glorious struggle of a man striving for survival. His innate nature, unveiled for all. Crimes are recompensed, revenue is generated, and the populace is entertained. It’s more efficient, save for the unfortunate souls lacking combat skills. They usually meet swift ends.”

Illian’s mind rang with the casual morbidity of Median’s words. Yet, he couldn’t deny the rationale, however unpalatable it may seem. The benefits were undeniable, albeit at the cost of moral compromises. “That’s an… unconventional perspective,” Tybolt snarked. “I was under the impression your gladiators were free men, seeking glory.” Illian too, found himself taken aback. His extensive research on the Colosseum of Ruby Falls never mentioned convict combatants.

“Usually, they are,” Median replied, a vivacious spark in his voice. “But when we reenact battles, there’s often a shortage of bodies for authenticity. We utilize the seized for such occasions.” Illian had noticed that Median, unlike his father, King Ailer, favored brute force as a ruling strategy. A formidable adversary indeed, but his poetic philosophies and philosophical insights were captivating to his subjects.

Under the veiled cloak of night, the bioluminescent forest unfolded a spectacular display. Neon hues of blue, green, and pink adorned the night canvas. Their convoy of horsemen ambled leisurely along a secluded path. Unlike the regal attire donned by Illian and Tybolt, Median sported a commoner’s clothing underneath his black breastplate.

Tybolt looked back at Illian. “You lag behind! Hurry up,” he grumbled, wrapping his azure blue cape tightly around himself. “What’s so fascinating?” He gestured towards the thick forest. “Just a bunch of trees.”

“That’s precisely what I’m admiring. We rarely traverse the woods at night. Have you never paused to appreciate the inherent beauty of our surroundings?” Illian’s genuine curiosity was evident in his voice.

With a dismissive flip of his head, Tybolt retorted, “You can enjoy the view from the castle walls. I’m exhausted from this ride, and I crave the comfort of home. And you two can discuss your macabre interests over a tavern ale. I shudder to imagine the jovial conversations that would ensue.”

Tybolt’s remark elicited a sigh from Median. “Sometimes, Tybolt, you resemble a trapped beast. One that’s more irritating and cowardly than formidable.” He leaned back on his horse with a nonchalant air. Tybolt found it hard to ignore the muscular torso showcased by Median’s armor.

Suppressing his stirring emotions, Tybolt shut his eyes. “Perhaps if I lived in a squalid cave like some primitive, you’d feel differently? We’re royalty, not commoners. We belong among grandeur, not peasants.”

Prince Median chuckled. “And what distinguishes us, Tybolt?”

“Being amidst dirt and grime is a careless disregard for our status. Residing in a city is a sign of stature, it signifies our prominent place in society,” Tybolt retorted.

Illian, with a quiet smile, rode up beside Tybolt’s white stallion. “And where might that prominent place be?”

“What does it matter to you? You appear content among these trees. Given your proclivity for books, I shouldn’t be surprised. They’re all crafted from the same substance. I, for one, am not keen on spending the entire night in these woods,” Tybolt grumbled, peering into the dimly lit forest. A slight chuckle escaped Illian as he realized Tybolt’s childhood fear of darkness and the outdoors hadn’t waned. Tybolt, for as long as Illian could remember, had always been a bit of a coward. With a knowing smirk, he taunted Tybolt. “Your current disposition doesn’t quite flatter you.” Tybolt grunted in response, averting his gaze.

“I quite enjoy these nightly rides. No offense, Tybolt, but that castle can get rather dull,” Median chimed in from the back, a soft breeze rustling the leaves around them.

Tybolt whipped his head around, feeling betrayed. “You too, Median? Siding with him? Are you playing the traitor’s part?” His words dripped with sarcasm. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m not playing any sides here,” Median responded.

“Then go ahead,” Illian invited, “Take the front three royal guards with you. I’ll stay back with the remaining three.” A distant howl resonated through the forest, the knights instinctively reaching for their swords. Tybolt froze, his complexion paling, anger flaring in his eyes as he glared at Illian.

“Look at all the wolves,” Median observed. The forest was aglow with hundreds of shining white eyes. “They must view us as intruders.”

“The wise guardians of the forest. We’re intruding their domain. It’s only natural they’d be curious. At least they aren’t wildlings,” Illian mused, a soft smile playing on his lips. “They know better than to engage in a confrontation.”

“Wolves, and wise? They’re the last creatures I’d associate with wisdom,” Tybolt grumbled, his gaze fixated on the glowing eyes. “Cowards, more like. They find courage in numbers but are spineless alone.” He shook his head, then hissed at Illian, “I said let’s go, Illian!”

Perched atop his mount, Medion rotated in his saddle to regard the young prince, Illian, a playful grin unfurling across his countenance. “Are you still frightened of the shadows, Tybolt?”

His reply was a roar that sent birds scattering from the trees in panic. “I am no slave to the fear of darkness,” Tybolt retorted, indignation hot in his voice. “I’m merely weary from hours in the saddle and yearn for the comfort of a hot bath before succumbing to sleep.”

Medion chuckled, his amusement evident. “Sounds like a finely crafted excuse to me.”

Tybolt flushed crimson, gasping in surprise and momentarily dismissing his dread of the lurking wolves. His fingers skittered against the pommel of his rapier, before drawing it forth, its tip aimed threateningly at Medion’s throat. “I dare you to repeat that, Medion. I bloody dare you.” Yet in half a heartbeat, Medion had his dagger pressed to Tybolt’s throat. He released the pressure, snapping his fingers, his knife retreating back into its sheath. Tybolt’s face crumpled in defeat, his sword following suit. Illian’s grin widened. “If our father were here, you’d never dare to treat me thusly.”

“Your father would be far from pleased if he could witness your present conduct,” Medion countered, jabbing a stern finger between Tybolt’s wide eyes.

His horse stilled, Tybolt proclaimed, “I am no child.” A lingering glance at Tybolt, a shared nod with Illian, and Medion was back on the trail, their journey continued past the watchful gaze of the three front guards.

Tybolt’s outcry rang out. “You can’t leave Medion without guards!”

A guard chuckled at his remark. “I sometimes wonder, my lord, if Medion protects the guards more than the guards protect him.” Tybolt rewarded the man with a grin, a feral flash of teeth that Illian recognized with a sense of foreboding. “That may be true. But he shouldn’t be out there all alone.”

One of the forward guards chimed in, his voice teasing, “My lady, come on, Grandor will have us skinned if we don’t get you home in time.” All laughed, except Tybolt, whose blank expression sent a frisson of unease through Illian.

Tybolt’s nostrils flared, his breathing heavy as he turned to the offending guard. “What did you say?” He snapped his fingers, pointing accusingly. “Dismount and bow your head,” he commanded, his voice deathly soft.

The guard exchanged a look with his comrades before dismounting. Meanwhile, Tybolt descended from his own steed, standing a few inches shorter than the soldier. He advanced, a mad grin pulling at his lips, his voice barely audible, “On your knees.”

Illian sprung from his horse, rushing towards the brewing storm. As Tybolt unsheathed his sword, its ivory hilt gleaming in the dim light, he glanced over his shoulder at Illian. “I am returning to the savagery of our father, Illian. Care to watch?”

In the split-second as Tybolt held the blade hovering over the guard’s neck, Illian lunged forward, gripping the blade with his bare hand. “Tybolt! This is a matter for your father, not you.”

A struggle ensued, Tybolt desperately trying to wrench his sword from Illian’s grasp, shrieking, “Know your place, Illian!” The guard, seizing his chance, scrambled to his feet, putting distance between him and the princes. A vicious kick from Tybolt sent Illian sprawling, his breath rushing out in a gasp. As the young nobles struggled, the guards looked on, a tense silence enveloping them. Finally, with a great heave, Illian ripped the sword from Tybolt’s grip.

“Tybolt, I know my place. It’s you who should remember yours,” Illian snapped, discarding the weapon at Tybolt’s feet. A punch from Tybolt sent Illian reeling backwards. Silently, Tybolt retrieved his saber, retiring to his horse with an aura of dark satisfaction. Illian’s gaze remained locked on him, recognizing the simmering promise of a vendetta in Tybolt’s eyes. Swift as a striking snake, Tybolt seized his horse’s flank, vaulting into the saddle with an unanticipated grace. Amid the shock of the spectacle, Illian realized that this altercation was far from over. The astonished expressions of the onlookers only confirmed his fears.

The congregation of lords had drawn to its close, and Rhal pressed himself against the monstrous wooden hall doors. Royals shuffled, gathering their belongings in the still heavy air. Rhal’s mind hummed with relief, “Gods and Grandor be praised for shielding me from Bridhan’s scorching contempt.” His contemplation was disturbed by a string of muffled giggles that echoed from beyond the door. The distinct click of cork heels punctuated the reverie of his thoughts, prompting him to glance at the sliver of reality visible between the enormous doors. As his gaze travelled from the entrance, his silver eyes found Lord Grandor, busy sorting a cluster of parchments. Rhal muttered under his breath, “Those mischievous little vixens are at it again.” He realized he had to steer them away before Grandor spotted his own daughter in such unseemly conduct. Dropping to one knee, he made his humble request, “My High King, may I take my leave at this juncture?”

Lord Grandor, engrossed in his paperwork, raised his eyes to meet Rhal’s. “Do what you must,” he responded with a dismissive wave of his hand, “I was impressed by your conduct today.” Rhal lowered his head in deeper reverence, “I shall inspect you more thoroughly in the days to come.”

Rhal, feeling warmth bloom in his chest, said, “Thank you, my lord. Your words mean the world to me.” Standing tall again as Grandor acknowledged him with a nod, he pushed the gargantuan doors, their creaking echo filling the vast room. Behind a mighty pillar, the edge of a light-blue dress adorned with a yellow ribbon, caught his eye.

With a mischievous smile playing on his lips, he ventured further, the immaculate white marble floor reflecting his figure. As he neared the pillar, he paused. Two adolescent girls, their heads bobbing with stifled laughter, emerged from behind the pillar. Each slow, deliberate clink of his boots filled the quiet hallway, his grin growing wider at the sight of the princesses hiding behind their flowing locks. Adopting a calm demeanour, he greeted them, “Well…”.

The two princesses exchanged a glance, their cheeks blooming a rosy hue. Princess Talumn, adopting an air of feigned seriousness, retorted, “Is this how you greet the royal ladies, Sir Rhal?” Her light pink lips stood out against her russet skin.

Feigning surprise, he responded, “I was unaware I was in the company of a lady.” He stroked his chin, a playful glint in his eyes, “Pray, where might she be?”

Salome, indignant, snapped back, “What is the meaning of your words?” She placed her hands on her hips, her vanilla dress rustling, as her eyes narrowed at Rhal.

Raising his eyebrows, Rhal leaned back, placing a hand on his waist, “Forgive me, but it appears I am addressing a pair of remarkably skilled little spies.” The girls giggled heartily, their sudden outburst making Rhal cast anxious glances around, “If you persist in your antics, I might land in hot water. You well know eavesdropping on the King’s councils is forbidden. Here you are, yet again, sneaking around. It’s unbecoming of you. You might unwittingly make yourselves desirable captives.” He wagged a finger at them, encased in a white glove.

Halting his wagging finger, Talumn clutched Rhal’s arm, “We trust our valiant protector to keep us safe,” she declared.

Salome mirrored her friend’s action, pressing her face into Rhal’s chest, “After all, we are secure with you around.”

Rhal rolled his eyes, his posture slackening as he gently disentangled himself from their grip, “And if I am not around?”

Salome offered Rhal a beaming smile, “Then we will scream, and you will come running to our aid,” she proclaimed, with such conviction it was as if she believed her own words. As he looked into her deep sapphire eyes, his hand found her icy blue hair, ruffling it much to her chagrin. She pouted in response, her innocence painting an endearing image.

“So, you put that much faith in me, do you?” Rhal scrutinized the pair, a heavy sigh escaping him, “What am I to do with you both? If you insist on this game, at least learn to be more discreet.”

Talumn’s voice shrunk to a childlike whisper, “Are you going to tell father?” Rhal was not easily swayed by such attempts. He knew revealing their actions could land the girls, and possibly him, in trouble. However, withholding it might encourage their audacious behavior.

He shook his head, “No, he has graver matters to attend to.” Just then, Rhal noticed the absence of their older sister, Amelie. She was his one ticket out of the girls’ mischievous plots. “Where is your elder sister, Talumn?” He inquired, “Isn’t she usually part of your escapades?”

Salome straightened her posture, her arms crossed, “She didn’t wish to accompany us today. She waits for the boys to return from their ride.” Her tongue prodded her cheek, “She always rambles about my brother. It’s repulsive.”

Rahl chuckled, “Ah, that clears it up.” He’d been observing their increased interactions lately. He had his suspicions, and now they were confirmed. The possible reaction of Grandor upon learning of this flirtation was a troubling thought, though not his to worry about. “Now, scoot along before you land yourselves in real trouble. This part of the castle isn’t for you.” The princesses shared a grin and scampered off, their dresses flaring up in their haste, revealing their slender legs. A half-smile crept on Rhal’s face as he shook his head, “Those two.”

Princess Amelie stood sentinel at the edge of a grand fountain in the castle courtyard. Her gaze was magnetically drawn to the imposing statue of Luniel the peace bringer, presiding over the fountain’s heart. From the goddess’s upraised palms flowed a shimmering cascade of water, an image of serene tranquillity. As her eyes scoured the encroaching darkness for any glimmer of light, she found herself absently smoothing her exquisite silk, scarlet, pleated skirt. It wasn’t long before a lone horse, its side adorned with a solitary lantern, punctured the obsidian curtain of night. A sudden fluttering in her heart was quickly ensnared by a creeping dread that snaked its icy tendrils up her spine. Desperate to discern the identity of the rider, she craned her neck, but the secretive shroud of darkness refused to relent.

As the horse reached the castle gates, it bore the cherished Prince Medion, to her absolute delight. The relief that flooded Amelie was like a soothing balm, urging her to rise and greet him. With an air of practiced grace, Medion dismounted in the courtyard. Amelie, unable to restrain her joy, rushed into his waiting arms. “What a delightful surprise!” Medion chortled, enwrapping her in a tight embrace. His fingers gently trailed through her flaxen locks. As a reward, she gifted him with her most radiant smile, paired with the tenderest of kisses on his cheek.

In that heartfelt moment, she realized her concerns had evaporated. Looking up at him with eyes the shade of blooming lotus, she inquired, “Where are the others?” His response was a nonchalant shrug, a devilish half-smile tugging at his lips as he rolled his eyes. Amelie suppressed a giggle, her heart brimming with affection. “The worry I endure when you embark on your nocturnal escapades,” she murmured, leaning against the cold, obsidian surface of Medion’s breastplate.

Medion simply offered her a warm smile, his hand tenderly caressing her head. His towering figure overshadowed her by nearly a foot. “Milady, would you care to accompany Flowen and me to the stables?”

With a nod and a soft smile, she replied, “I’d love to.” Over her shoulder, she spotted Tybolt’s white steed charging from the woods’ embrace. As he galloped past Medion and herself, he paid little heed to the guards stationed at the gate. Hot on his heels were the remaining guards, led by Illian. As he passed the gate, Medion sent a friendly wave in his direction.

As Illian expertly maneuvered his horse alongside them, he ran a hand through his hair, a perplexed expression painted on his face. The echoing clop of Tybolt’s horse resonated through the courtyard. He chuckled, “He seems disgruntled.”

Amelie rolled her eyes, a resigned smile on her face, “When is my foolish brother not in a tiff?” She glanced back at Illian, “What mischief has he caused this time?”

“Father!” the words burst from the prince’s lips, reverberating with an echo of despair. “Father!” Tybolt’s plea resounded once more, seeping into the chambers’ nooks and crannies as he barged into his father’s quarters. The solitary candle on Grandor’s desk flickered, casting shifting shadows upon the parchment littered surface, the door’s impact causing a miniature tempest. Grandor tore his attention away from the sprawling mountain of documents that lay before him.

Sighing in exasperation, Grandor’s head shook with weary resignation. “Yes, my son, what has unsettled you?”

The corners of Tybolt’s mouth drew back in a snarl, his teeth gritted, reminiscent of a wolf cornered. “The knights you so prize, they mock me mercilessly.” The anger swelled within Tybolt, erupting in a booming cry, “Your damn guards are worthless!”

Grandor’s hand placed his pen back into the inkwell with a meticulous precision that belied his troubled son’s outburst. “Perhaps you could share the nature of their disrespect?”

The veins on Tybolt’s clenched fists stood out in stark relief, throbbing with the rhythm of his furious heartbeat. “One of your guards dared to label me a woman!” he bellowed.

“And what course of action would you propose, dear son?” Grandor’s eyes grew heavy, a weight of ages reflecting in his gaze as he rose from his chair.

“Do you require guidance on such a matter?” His hand gestured expansively as he circumnavigated the table.

“Is it a regular occurrence for you to confront me with complaints regarding my guards? Would you prefer to hand-pick them yourself?” As Tybolt opened his mouth to retort, Grandor swiftly interjected, “No, please do not answer that. The matter at hand, are you deceased?” Grandor grunted.

A flash of confusion flickered across Tybolt’s face. “Your question is absurd.”

“Indeed, why would you be dead? You are safely ensconced under the protection of my guards. Given your propensity for insolence, it is a miracle you still retain your tongue.” Tybolt merely stared, a mixture of confusion and defiance in his eyes, as Grandor continued to shake his head in disappointment.

“Well, I… It is of no consequence!” he sputtered out. “I was degraded! I am the heir apparent. I demand respect befitting my royal status. That cur may as well have drawn blood.” His words trailed off into a deep, shaky exhale.

Grandor merely shook his head in resigned disbelief. “You need to reflect upon your words.”

“I am perfectly aware of my words!” Tybolt’s rebuttal echoed off the stone walls.

Grandor moved toward his son, his heavy steps whispering against the cold stone floor, before placing a hand on Tybolt’s shoulder. “Yes, and that is what troubles me,” he stated. “At times, I find myself dreading the thought of bequeathing the throne to you. I fear your sister might possess a greater aptitude for rulership.”

Tybolt shrugged off his father’s comforting hand. “He compared me to a woman! Even you must see the insult warrants a death sentence.”

Grandor responded with a roar that shook the very air. “It is due to childish tantrums like these that I find myself delegating matters such as dealing with Galgotha to others, instead of personally overseeing it. It would be wise if I left Taer under your rule, Tybolt, rather than constantly chaperoning you.”

“And who will you send in your stead?” Tybolt spat back, his eyes flashing with pent-up rage.

Grandor turned away from his son and spoke quietly, “Illian.”

Tybolt’s stride faltered as he echoed the name in disbelief, “Illian?”

Grandor moved towards the balcony, his voice barely a whisper, “He leaves three days from now.” Tybolt trailed after him, halting at the threshold.

Grandor’s fingers traced the cool stone railing of the balcony, his mind seemingly far away. “How can that be?” Tybolt asked, his voice a blend of surprise and incredulity.

“He is to be crowned King of Elitus,” Grandor stated, his gaze shifting to Tybolt, gauging his reaction. As Tybolt’s eyes flashed with the madness of betrayal, Grandor braced for the storm he knew was imminent. He recognized that look, the same one Tybolt used to wear when compelled to share his toys as a child.

“But my kingdom is Golgatha. Bridehan is ruling in my stead.” Tybolt gestured accusingly at his father, his head cocking to the side.

“And Elitus is Illian’s; you have always known this day would come. It is his birthright.” Grandor corrected Tybolt, “He can serve a purpose now.”

“For what purpose?” Tybolt ventured further onto the balcony, the cool night air ruffling his hair. “It makes more sense to keep him here than to send him to those savages at Golgotha.”

Grandor’s gaze drifted beyond the balcony, encompassing the sprawling city and the vast expanse beyond his grand kingdom of Taer. “He is a native son; they won’t treat him as they would one of us. Golgotha can have their country. Elitus will be subdued. Without Elitus, Golgotha cannot stand against us. It is that simple, Tybolt.”

Tybolt shook his head in disbelief, his voice barely a whisper, “Illian is still too young to rule.”

“Arwin believes in Illian’s wisdom. So do I. Illian is a reflection of his father. His father would be proud, as am I.” Grandor turned away from Tybolt.

“This isn’t one of Arwin’s lessons. This is Illian ruling a kingdom.” Tybolt tapped his foot in impatience. “But what does Illian know of Golgotha? He is as native a son as I am. They will see him as an enemy.”

“I have appointed numerous kings, Tybolt. I will appoint many more after Illian. It is unwise of you to think you know better than me.” Grandor threw a glance at his son.

In disbelief, Tybolt shook his head. “Father, you can’t do this. He is my brother. Are you so willing to take him away?”

“Illian is the future of my kingdom, and yours. You will not be left to clean your father’s mess, Marion. I will leave the Empire in pristine condition. All you need to do is learn to rule it. Once you prove your commitment to the Imperator, and demonstrate that you take your role in the kingdom seriously, I will consider giving you a kingdom. Until then, I don’t want to hear another word from you.” Grandor released a heavy sigh. “Sometimes, I am ashamed to call you my son. Unlike Illian, who has climbed the ranks and proved himself to Arwin, you have chosen to ignore your studies. Can you comprehend how painful this is for a father? You are thorns in my side!” With that, Grandor turned away from his son and withdrew from the balcony’s edge.

Without a backward glance at his father, Tybolt strides resolutely forward, his fingers tracing the rough contours of the balcony railing as he gazes out over the sprawling city beneath them. His hand closes into a fist as he begins to speak, his voice laced with an intensity that seems to hang heavy in the air. “Illian was never meant to be yours,” he declares, each word wrapped in a veneer of irrefutable conviction. “Both of you are blind, blissfully ignorant of the harsh truth.”

He draws in a slow breath, his gaze never wavering from the distant cityscape, awash with the waning light of the setting sun. “To rule is not about pledging fealty to a kingdom; it is about instilling fear and awe, about forging power that commands both respect and unquestioned loyalty from your subjects. Only then will they bend to your will,” he proclaims. His voice reverberates with the echo of a long-held belief, resolute and unfaltering. “Bridehan chose the path of weakness, of compliance. If they refuse to follow orders, let their bodies hang as grim adornments from the city rafters. That, father, is how one rules.”

His eyes, smoldering with a fervor that belies his age, bore into the horizon. “The Talmians, despite their numerical disadvantage, stood their ground. They endured. Why, then, shouldn’t we aspire to mold our kingdom in their image? I am forced to wade through monotonous tomes penned by Arwin, chronicling the petty victories and dull exploits of long-dead kings and lords. And yet, it is Valarious, the man who birthed the Azure Kingdom, who captures my imagination. This Talmian scholar outshone Hemlock and his sprawling empire that once consumed the known world. My ambition is not just to equal Valarious, but to surpass him.”

“Ah, the unbridled dreams of youth,” Grandor retorts, his tone laced with a melancholy affection. “The people of Talmia were a plague upon this world, their touch a curse that left ruin in its wake. Follow their path and you will reign over a barren wasteland, a kingdom of sand. Despite his Talmian lineage, Valarious won admiration. Yet,” he sighs, heavy with a weariness that seems to age him in the dimming light, “I love you, Tybolt. But you are not ready to wear the crown. There is still much wisdom you must acquire.”

Tybolt’s gaze sweeps across the city below, a predatory glint in his eyes. His lips part in a smirk that is both ominous and exhilarating. “My kingdom will eclipse any that have come before. I have seen it in my dreams,” he declares with the tenacity of a prophecy foretold, “a kingdom resplendent in its glory, awaiting its destined king. It is my fate.”

Through the doorway of the balcony, Grandor withdraws, his shoulders bowed with an almost imperceptible defeat. “It is this very reason,” he murmurs, his words trailing off into the cooling air, “that I cannot place my trust in you.”

---

The next chapter is waiting for you, why not read it? Just click the button below to go to the next chapter.

---

If you enjoyed the story, please like it and subscribe to my page to get notified as soon as I post anything new.

Do you have a comment about my work? Share it with me below.