The wind clawed at the thin fabric of the window drapes,
the smell of ocean, salt, and sand almost like an omen.
I stood still, gazing out the window with my arms half raised. My attendant fumbled with the ties of my garb.
"Hold still… damn you," muttered Cren, the failed knight whose hands seem to tremble more from annoyance than anxiety.
He hadn't worn steel in a decade, and it showed. It showed in his gait, in his breathing, and even the way he flinched at every footstep that echoed beyond the chamber door.
My mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Is it that bad?"
"You look like a mistake dressed in silk."
I gave a huff in amusement, Cren running a hand through his curly hair.
"Then nothing's changed."
My belt was tugged with a grunt and a firm yank, making me crinkle my nose.
Sometimes Cren could seem hypocritical, bipolar at the most, however his irritation– I found– came from the heart. He cared about how I spoke of myself, or how others did of me. He was one of the few people in this place who had an attitude like that.
The palace was chaotic. The servants ran like ants across the sun-bleached courtyard. Some of their robes clung with sweat, having to rush tasks during the heat of day. A small amount of guilt crept into my chest, figuring how much work it took to receive the King back. Especially so suddenly.
Ebony horns had yet to announce the King's arrival, and I could feel the tension in the air. It resembled storm clouds, similar to the coming of a desert flood. Something was happening, something big enough to summon the King's bastard son– who wasn't even allowed to sit in on petitions from the common people.
I turned away from the bright window, my eyes adjusting to the dark. My voice became low as I spoke. "They only summon me when something needs bleeding, so I can clean it up."
Cren looked up at me with a raised eyebrow. "Then maybe you should sharpen your tongue before your sword."
I gave him an unimpressed look, knowing what he suggested was quite bold.
Outside, the bells of the inner sanctum began to toll. Three notes: Hollow, Slow, Summoning. The meaning was clear to anyone who heard them.
The king has returned to Aurithal.
I drew in a breath, letting it out slowly to attempt to get rid of my anxiety.
Never once have I welcomed those bells. Not once because I knew what was likely to arrive after. Not the king, nor his fleet of knight guards– but a whirlwind of drama. Somehow, no matter what circumstance, it always followed his return. Happening in the first audience he held.
The latest instance I could remember would be the issue with Lady Drialae. It had happened the previous winter– right as the King had returned from his hunting trip. Lady Drialae ended up causing a scene in the great hall because she was unable to contact him about a concern. The concern ended up being the imports of embroidered dress fabric. The imports had apparently stalled due to the King not signing a document beforehand that cleared their entry into our ports.
That scene alone had cost us around fifty thousand gold. That was just to sedate her long enough for the next round shipment to come in, imagine. Admittedly, in the heat of the moment, I actually thought it was quite hilarious. However, once I learned about the amount spent on quieting her various insults, threats, reputation killers, gossip, and unbridled anger– I was more gagged than anything.
A light smack on my knee came from Cren.
"Ilvaren, your leg, I need to do the brace." He said, his voice more subdued than before.
Without any comments, I lifted my leg as much as I could.
From the moment I attempted to lift my leg– a heavy ache entered the bottom half of it. I was instantly reminded of the– quite literal– dead weight which held me down. My face remained the same, a hint of pain, a twitch in my eyebrow. The twitch was a small tell which went unnoticed by Cren as he fastened my leg into the metal contraption.
The Gilded Wane.
An incurable disease that a portion of Varethis had been dealing with for some time. It originally started as a smallpox or some strange sickness which others assumed was only temporary aches and pains. However, as the first victim perished, they quickly rectified that assumption into a still fear.
Many individuals have tried to find cures for the Gilded. However, no matter how many magicians, alchemists, apothecaries, and physicians sought it– not one had succeeded. That was the fate I was resigned to… albeit slowly. At least, slower than any recorded case of it. But, that also meant I was not only a bastard son– but a glorified timebomb.
The brace locked into place with a soft 'click'.
I hated that sound.
Cren rose to his feet with a quiet grunt, reminding me of his own impending doom– his age– as he dusted his hands off on his worn tunic. "You'll manage the stairs?"
I glanced down at my leg, now adorned with metal.
"I'll manage the stares." I muttered.
He gave a snort– one that masked his concern for humor, then a soft creak as he opened the chamber door for me without another word. I was grateful. We both knew how this would go, it didn't matter how many times we've gone through it before.
The hallway beyond was cooler. The shadows helped with the heat as they clung to the arched ceiling and long columns.
The moment we stepped into the corridor, a pair of young servants paused as they rounded the corner. They stared, slowing their walk as they glanced at each other. They whispered quietly, hands over their mouths as they picked up the pace and hurried off down a side passage.
I let out a breath, Cren closing the door behind us.
What a good start.
With that, I walked slowly.
Partially out of choice, and partially not. Each step was a subtle reminder of the illness creeping through my bones– gilding me from the inside like some terribly ironic work of art. Regardless, I kept my spine straight, and my gaze firmly set. Since a while ago, I had told myself I would decide to ignore the comments, the hushed concerns. So I would do just that.
Cren walked directly behind my right shoulder– but not beside me, he knew better. Firmly loyal and strict– but extremely brooding, that was Cren. That said, walking with me as an equal would've raised more eyebrows than ignorance. I may be a bastard of a lower stature than even a baron, but I was still the blood of the King… no matter how much disdain I held for it. Which meant Cren would be shoved into endless rumors– more than he has been, especially as a failed knight.
As we crossed the inner courtyard, the palace's full extravagance was on display. Marble floors gleamed, reflecting the light from the lattice work above. Servants had strung up freshly painted banners– rich crimson, azure, and sun-gold. The Caironos royal colors. They swayed in the breeze like a stiff, elegant intimidation.
Cren and I passed under one as we neared the doors of the great hall. Quickly– I began to dread what was to come. Even if it was better than the last time. The guards at the large ornate doors eyed us as we approached, before banging twice against the thick wood. Moments later the doors opened from the inside, exposing the even larger and even more lavish great hall.
Immediately my eyes landed on my brothers and sisters, who were already gathered at the far end of the hall. They stood casually near the base of the staggering throne. Their voices were a soft, a mostly masculine murmur– like the tide pulling out before a storm surge. Not to mention their features– My elder sister's, so much like my own, was twisted into forced civility like the others. They stood straight, noble– polished in their silk and armor like the king's favorite daggers. All of them true-born.
The silence that followed sent my heart racing as I got closer, their gazes locked on me like a school of piranhas. I kept my facial expression neutral as I prepared myself. This part was never easy, in fact I'd argue it was the worst.
"Well look what the tide brought in," began Cristen, the second oldest, and sharpest tongued. His mouth curled into a smile, but his eyes were far from it. "And it even limps now. Charming."
They were ice wine.
"Brother." I addressed curtly, knowing nothing good would come from me attempting to reply genuinely. Especially to him.
Rúvelis, the youngest, stepped forward and folded his arms.
"Father must be truly desperate, calling for all the children he can find. Next he'll be summoning the stable boys." He added, trying to copy his older brother, but being far more annoying about it.
My eyebrow twitched.
"You'll want to be careful with that tone," Cren muttered behind me. "Last time I heard it, it ended with someone losing a tooth."
I lifted a hand to my mouth, pretending to scratch my nose as I hid a small smile.
Thank gods for Cren.
Rúvelis arched his brow but said nothing. Likely because he knew he had lost, and didn't have a retort ready for firing. But he'd want you to think it was an act of maturity, deciding it wasn't 'worth it' to respond to a man who lost the formal right to bear arms.
"Enough," Came the even-toned voice of Virethisa, the oldest and the only one who pretended at diplomacy. "We were summoned to wait, we shall wait. That said, I don't believe waiting includes jibes. So refrain."
Without surprise, the rest of the siblings quieted. Virethisa was always the one who was able to do so, she had a subtle authority that even I could not exactly place. But, most of the time– including now, I was all the happier for it.
I took my place off to the side, a few feet from the others. Even among bastards, position mattered. I wasn't technically a part of the royal line, and any visual attempt to overgo that would mean public embarrassment by members of court. Of which I wasn't particularly trying to earn today.
As if hearing my inner thoughts, the noble families of Varethis began to bustle in. Most of them I could name by appearance alone, but there were a couple new ones I didn't expect to see. Ones I didn't usually see– which only further raised my concern for what the King's return truly meant. Especially since the court fought like cats and dogs– some of them refusing to show unless the other wasn't there.
They all took their places near the sides and corners of the room. They all had their preference of where to stand, mostly inherited by their parents since they were born into it. But I couldn't judge them too much, since most of the expressions I saw were as confused as my own. However, like how Cren knew not to walk beside me– I knew not to show anything other than a neutral face.
The Great Hall doors loomed, and I couldn't tear my eyes off them– even with the nobles entering. I wondered at what moment the King would walk through and announce something atrocious. The tension settled like ash on my shoulders, growing thicker with each growing second. The distinct sound of chattering had almost faded away.
Cren leaned towards me and whispered, "How long do you think we have before the real reputation killer begins?"
I glanced at him sideways, not fully turning my head, but turning it enough. "That depends. How long does it take to swing a sword at my unfortunate throat?"
He gave me an unimpressed look, and I turned my face away.
Cren knew I didn't want to be here. I made it obvious from the moment I heard the words 'summoned'. Hell, even the siblings knew I didn't want to be here. Much less standing in some temporary royal garb– as if they were trying to hide the indiscrepancies on their beloved showpony. I felt as though I was being manipulated, and I most certainly was.
Finally, the silence cracked.
Not with horns or trumpets like everyone expected, but with the heavy 'boom' of the Great Hall doors groaning open. It was slower than usual, unlike when I first entered. Like the palace itself was hesitating to let the King inside.
Sunlight lingered through the opening gap, making the golden-leaf mosaics shimmer across marbled floors. Then came the steps. Measured. Clean. A rhythm no one dared interrupt.
King Vaelen of Aurithal had returned.
He stepped inside with purpose, followed by a flank of embellished knights– twelve of them to be precise. Masked, faceless, robed in blue and gold. But… less than he had set out with. My frown deepened.
Each of the King's Guard carried their own chosen weapon, sharpened to the teeth, the silver gleaming in the light. And behind them–
A man dragged by chains.