Alaric climbed into the bed, feeling the weariness of the day’s events settle heavily upon him as he lay his head down upon the pillow. Rikka was already there, waiting. The late hour was evident in the stillness of the castle, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl and the soft rustling of the wind outside the windows.
After dinner, Alaric had spent the evening with Ulden, drinking and talking the night away. But now, he felt the toll of fatigue from the day’s march, and the drink weighing upon him. While he’d spent time with Ulden, Rikka had gone somewhere private and whiled away the hours with Sissa talking magic.
A lamp on the table beside the bed cast a soft, flickering glow across the room, along with the small fire crackling in the hearth, the light barely reaching the corners. Shadows danced on the stone walls and ceiling, creating an intimate and almost enchanted atmosphere.
Alaric found immense satisfaction in the comfort of the bed. Resting her head upon her pillow and tucked under the sheets against the chill of night, Rikka looked over at him, her eyes deep wells of emotion, reflecting the soft light of the lantern and fire. She did not speak, but her gaze conveyed a world of unspoken thoughts and feelings. The silence between them was filled with a deep understanding and connection, one they had forged over the last two years.
Alaric took her hand, finding solace in her touch. The warmth of her skin against his own was a reminder of the life they were building together, even amidst the uncertainties and challenges that lay ahead. At the same time, he read something in her gaze.
Was it worry?
“What?” Alaric asked, his voice breaking the gentle stillness of the room.
“Nothing,” Rikka replied, her voice soft.
“We have been together for two years now. Even though you are of another race, I am coming to understand you, at least I think I am. You are worried—about something.”
“I am,” she admitted, her gaze not wavering. She bit the bottom of her lip but said no more.
Alaric’s tone was gentle but insistent. “Then tell me. Get it off your chest.”
“I am not sure I should.”
“I want to hear it.”
“It is concerning prophecy.” Her words carried a weight that made the air between them seem heavier.
Like a cold wind creeping into a warm room, an unease stirred within Alaric. The good cheer of the evening began to rapidly evaporate. He did not much like the thought of prophecy, the possibility his actions and decisions were not his own, that things were predetermined. Back in his library, there was even a copy of the prophecy she spoke on. Though she had encouraged him to do so on more than one occasion, Alaric refused to read it, to even touch the scroll.
“I chart my own way forward.”
“I know. You have told me that before.”
“What about it, then?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “What about the prophecy has you worried and concerned?”
“The Ordinate will return,” Rikka said, her voice barely above a whisper, yet each word seemed to echo in the quiet room. “On that, I am certain.”
The unease within Alaric grew, coiling like a serpent in his chest. “I am not the one for that,” he said, his tone firm yet tinged with doubt.
“That may be true,” Rikka admitted, her eyes flickering with a complex mix of emotions. “I refused to see before, but now… I am worried about how the Ordinate will return.”
“What do you mean?” Alaric asked, a wave of confusion washing over him.
“I have been thinking on it some, since we talked. I have reread the prophecy, studied it closer, trying to divine meaning between the lines. Just as there are more luminas, there may be, as you suggested, more than one heir capable of restoring the empire. To say the prophecy is a confusing mess is an understatement. I have studied it more than most, drawn what I could. It is as if a madman wrote it. I concede there are passages that could be interpreted to mean there are other heirs, true successors like yourself.”
“That might not be such a bad thing.”
“I disagree,” Rikka said.
“Why?”
“There can only be one.”
“Only one?”
“At least,” Rikka breathed, “in the end, there can be only one left standing.”
Alaric sucked in a breath at that, held it, and then let it out through his nose. “So, if there is another, I must kill him, or he me? Is that it? Is that what you are telling me?”
“Guided by Eldanar, I work on one side of the prophecy,” Rikka continued, her voice steady but reflective. “The more I consider, there may be others who are working toward it as well, their vision of what the Second Ordinate should look like.”
Alaric did not much like the sound of that.
“The assassination attempt,” Rikka said. “The motivation may not be simple revenge, Sunara attempting to pay you back. There may be factions we are unaware of, each with their own ‘chosen one,’ their anointed champion, each believing they hold the true key and understanding to the prophecy, to unlocking the Second Restoration and their version of it.”
“The Black Hand,” Alaric breathed. The realization settled heavy and unmovable. The quiet room, with its dim lantern light, the crackling fire, and the soft sounds of the night outside the window, seemed to press in on him, that heavy weight resting on his chest.
“Should another claim and take the throne,” Rikka said, “you would still be a threat to all they represent, all they hope to ultimately achieve. Worse, you may overturn all that they have done to reach the top of the hill. That is how they will see it and there is no arguing with potential. That is why they must hunt you down, kill you, or you them first.”
The room seemed to grow colder despite the warmth of the lantern’s light and the low-burning fire. Alaric’s mind raced, considering the dangers they might now face.
“So, even if I have no desire for the throne, I am still a target, a threat, someone to be eliminated,” he said, more to himself than to her.
“I think so, yes.” Rikka placed a hand on his arm, her touch a grounding force. “We must be cautious, Alaric, for if I am correct, there will be more attempts on your life.”
Feeling terrible dissatisfaction, Alaric let go a hot breath. “This has become a damned if I do or damned if I don’t sort of thing.”
She gave a nod.
“I did not ask for this.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want it.”
“That is why you are the one,” Rikka said. “That is why you are the one to fulfill the prophecy, to restore the empire.”
“Because I don’t want it?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
Alaric shook his head slightly and considered her. “You are not certain about this, there being another heir, are you?”
“No, I can’t be certain.” She closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them, he read uncertainty. “I just don’t know. But it is possible.”
Alaric felt himself scowl as he thought on her words. “Then we deal with what we are faced with, not what we don’t know. This is all speculation. Right now, what we do know is there is only one heir, me. That is all we are certain about. Whatever comes, we will face it head-on. We cross one bridge at a time, understand?”
With her head still on the pillow and her incredibly deep eyes locked upon him, she gave a nod.
“Before us, we have a war. That is what is important at the moment. We get past that and worry about everything else after.”
Rikka’s eyes softened, a small smile touching her lips. “All right.”
“You mean everything to me,” Alaric said and reached out under the blankets and sheets to touch her belly, which had barely begun to swell. “The child as well.”
“I know,” Rikka said, her almond-shaped eyes quite deep as she stared back at him.
“To protect you both, I may be forced to raise the Set’Tangenica standard,” Alaric said, his tone hardening. “Though I very much don’t want to, I will do it, if need be.”
“I know that as well,” Rikka breathed again, “and in my heart, I believe you will raise it.”
“There are those who will fight against a restoration,” Alaric said.
“There will always be those who resist change, especially one as significant as the return of the Ordinate—kings and queens, those who have everything to lose. Even leaders of certain holy orders who worship our god, or profess to, will rail against what is destined to be.”
Alaric understood the truth in her words. Despite not believing in destiny, he felt like he was being driven toward raising that cursed banner. It seemed there was no way to stop it.
“I am screwed.” Alaric shook his head, thinking about the firestorm he would unleash were he to raise that banner. “Either way, I am screwed.”
“There is a positive side of things,” Rikka said, her voice taking on a lighter, teasing tone.
“And what is that?” Alaric asked, for he could not think of one.
“You have me.” Rikka lowered her chin slightly, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “And if you wish, you can screw me right now. There is no need to worry about other bridges to cross first.”
Alaric gave a grunt, a half-laugh escaping his lips. He was still feeling the effects of the drink he’d shared with Ulden. Thoughts of the Ordinate began to fade into the background. Under the blanket, he scooted up next to her, drawn by the warmth of her presence and the promise in her eyes. He cupped her face gently with a hand, bringing his forward. Their lips met, and Alaric suddenly found himself lost in her soft touch, the taste of her kiss washing away the worries of the prophecy.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
She kissed him back with a fierce and hungry passion, her hand moving downward with deliberate intent and into his pants. She found his manhood and gave him a stroke, and Alaric felt a powerful surge of desire flood through him, erasing all other thoughts. The world outside their small room—the headaches of the restoration, the worries of war—all ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them in their shared intimacy. Feeling a powerful stab of passion, Alaric kissed her harder, his tongue probing and his breath quickening as his hands roamed over her naked body, feeling the heat of her skin beneath his fingertips.
A shout came from outside.
He pulled back from Rikka and looked up, his senses sharpening despite the drink. There was a replying shout, then another from outside the window. The urgency in the voices was unmistakable. The windows were partially open, allowing the sound to drift in from outside. Alaric found himself scowling. He sat up in bed.
“What?” Rikka asked, her voice tinged with concern. “What is wrong?”
“Something is happening. I thought I heard someone calling for the gate to be opened,” Alaric said.
“It is well past midnight.”
“I know.” Alaric blew out an unhappy breath and rolled off the bed, landing lightly on his feet. He padded over to the window and threw the shutters open. The cool night air rushed in, bringing with it the sounds of commotion from the courtyard below.
Alaric looked out and down into the courtyard. Several figures were rushing toward the gate, their movements hurried and purposeful. One held a lantern, its light bobbing as the man jogged, casting shifting shadows across the stone paving. It was clear that the guard had been called out and the gate was being prepared to be opened.
“Something’s definitely happening,” Alaric muttered, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make out more details. The moon was hidden by thick cloud cover, limiting the available light.
Alaric turned away and made his way to the door. He opened it and found Ezran, back against the wall, sitting directly across the way on a stool. Positioned strategically around the corridor were four of Alaric’s guards. They looked bored but straightened, clearly surprised as the door opened and Alaric stepped out into the corridor. Immediately alert, Ezran came to his feet.
“The gate is being opened,” Alaric informed Ezran. “Find out what is going on.”
“As you command, my lord,” Ezran said, moving for the stairs.
Alaric closed the door, allowing the latch to fall into place with a heavy click. He turned back to look at Rikka. She was sitting up in bed, the blanket clutched tightly around her. He rubbed his jaw, feeling a sense of foreboding. Something was afoot, and in his gut, he knew it wasn’t good. Alaric crossed the room and grabbed his tunic, pulling it over his head. His boots were next. He moved over to the bed, where he sat to put them on.
On her knees in the bed, Rikka moved over and placed her arm on his shoulder. “Are you certain something is wrong?”
Alaric looked over his shoulder at her as he slipped his feet into his boots. Outside, he could hear more shouts and the gate beginning to grind open, the old hinges screeching in protest. “There is seldom any good news so late.”
As he started lacing up his boots, Rikka stepped out of bed and pulled on a dress that had been neatly laid across a side table, covering her nakedness. There was a shimmering around her, and in moments, she looked thoroughly human. Once his boots were tied, Alaric stood again. There was a hard rapping knock on the door.
“Enter,” Alaric called out.
The door opened, revealing Ezran standing in the doorway. “A messenger has arrived. He’s come directly from Duncan, along with an escort of ten mounted men. They are opening the gate and will lower the drawbridge in moments to allow the messenger in.”
“Definitely not good news, then,” Alaric said, his brow furrowing. “I will meet him down in the great hall.”
Ezran left, his boots thudding on the stone as he departed. In the corner lay Oathbreaker. Alaric considered arming himself, then disregarded the idea. He looked over at Rikka. She was dressed and ready.
“Let’s go.”
She nodded and moved toward the door with him. Even though she wore her magical disguise, Alaric found himself marveling at her beauty. In an odd way, he was in love with two women, one human and one elven. His thoughts slid back to Sissa, and he impulsively grabbed Rikka’s arm, arresting her movement.
Raising an eyebrow, Rikka shifted her gaze to him in question.
“I would gladly make you my wife,” Alaric said, his voice filled with sincerity and longing. “In fact, I very much want to.”
“I know it,” Rikka replied softly, her expression tender yet resolute. He saw the hurt again, the pain. It ran deep, and he understood, with time, it would only grow deeper. “But that is not meant to be. It is not the path I—we walk, nor Eldanar’s desire.”
Alaric felt a pang in his chest that was almost physical, but he nodded, understanding the complexities of their situation. He released her arm. She started for the door, and he followed.
Out in the hallway, Alaric could hear voices echoing throughout the keep. They made their way to the stairs and descended quickly, Alaric’s guard following. They soon found themselves in the great hall, where the atmosphere was tense with anticipation.
Dressed only in a tunic and barefoot, Ulden was there, his expression serious. Beside him stood his mother, wearing a nightgown with her hair slightly disheveled. The worry in Sissa’s eyes was palpable. A couple of servants stood off to the side, along with a guard.
Before anyone could speak, the door opened, and in strode Ezran, leading another man who was dusty and looked weary from the road. Alaric recognized him as one of Duncan’s men-at-arms. The man moved up to Alaric and saluted smartly.
“Gentius, right?” Alaric asked, recalling his name. “I sent you on ahead to the king to report we were marching.”
“Yes, my lord, you did,” Gentius responded, sounding terribly exhausted. “I reached the king and hurried back, wasting no time.”
“What news have you brought?” Alaric braced himself for the worst.
“There’s been a battle, my lord,” Gentius responded, his voice heavy with fatigue. “The king’s army has lost and fled the field. They are falling back on Cret’s Crossing on the River Sken with the intention to rally at that point.”
There was a gasp from Sissa, her hand flying to her mouth. Alaric’s mind raced, trying to place Cret’s Crossing.
“The king orders you to march to the crossing forthwith,” Gentius continued, “for there is sure to be another fight soon enough. The king was reinforced after the battle by the Duke of Sansett, who brought more than five thousand men.”
“At least we are not the only ones late to the party,” Ezran muttered under his breath.
Alaric could not help but agree. Turning his attention back to the immediate problem, he asked, “How far is it to Cret’s Crossing?”
“By foot—at least a week’s travel, my lord.” From his belt, Gentius pulled a scroll, tightly bound with a blue ribbon. He handed it over to Alaric, who quickly untied it and spread it out on the nearest table. It was a map. Alaric leaned over the map as Ulden stepped closer to get a better look.
It was a crudely drawn camp copy, but Alaric easily recognized the earldoms that bordered Averndale. Next to Kanar was the Earl of Urburn’s lands. On the map, Cret’s Crossing was circled and labeled the Sken. The east-west road to the capital crossed the river at this point. He had traveled this road a couple of times before and vaguely recalled the crossing. There was no bridge and there had not been one for several years. The old one washed away when the river had flooded.
Alaric traced the road that had been scrawled upon the map, wondering on the terrain and potential challenges of a hard march. The map was seriously lacking in details, and he found that frustrating.
“Where was the battle?” Alaric looked up at Gentius, seeking more precise information.
“More than fifty miles from Cret’s Crossing,” Gentius replied, stepping up to the table. He touched a spot on the map, indicating a point just over the border inside Kevahn. “About right here, my lord.”
That information gave Alaric a better sense of scale. He traced a direct line from the battle site to the new rally point at the crossing. That line came dangerously close to the road his army would be marching on. When the enemy advanced—and they would—if they discovered his army, they could potentially turn upon him with a superior force.
Ulden leaned forward and broke the contemplative silence. “If you are concerned about coming too close to the enemy’s line of march”—his finger touched a point farther south—“there are back roads through Urburn, remote and poorly made. These are mostly forest paths. You could take to them, march around, and with some good fortune, keep away from the enemy.”
“We may have to do that,” Alaric admitted as he rubbed his jaw. His frustration grew, for that would increase the time it took to reach his king. He looked over at Ulden. “Do you have detailed maps of these routes?”
“We do,” Ulden confirmed. “Before the border was adjusted by the king, those were our lands, our roads.”
“I will need to study them thoroughly,” Alaric decided, his gaze lingering on the map before turning to Gentius. “How bad was the battle? Do you know the specifics?”
Gentius shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the news evident in his demeanor. “I did not get the full story, my lord, for the army was on the move, marching, but from what I gathered, it wasn’t good. The king’s army was surprised by the enemy and lost about two thousand men before being forced to withdraw from the field. He may have lost more. I just don’t know.” He paused, clearly collecting his thoughts. “What I heard was that Duke Laval led in the king’s stead.”
“Roderick was not on the field?” Ulden asked with no little amount of surprise.
“He was not, my lord. Apparently, some of the men panicked, the levies—chaos ensued, and the battle line began to collapse under the pressure from the enemy. Soon after, the army broke.”
Alaric absorbed the grim details with a furrowed brow. He rubbed at his jaw again. That the king wasn’t on the field of battle was concerning. Where had he been? That Roderick was pulling his army back fifty miles was also concerning. That meant he did not feel he could contest Thorold’s army in the short-term. He was moving to a defensible position, one the enemy would need to assault and overcome.
“There are nearly seven thousand men heading for Cret’s Crossing,” Gentius continued. “I was told it is a strategic ford, shallow enough to wade across. The king feels he can fortify and hold the position against the enemy, force them ultimately back.”
“Did you see this crossing?” Alaric asked curiously. He could not remember the region around it, the lay of the land. That could become important.
Gentius shook his head. “No, my lord. I caught up to the king’s army as they were falling back toward the ford.”
Alaric’s nod was measured, his mind racing with the implications of the information shared. He harbored no enthusiasm for serving under Duke Laval’s command, yet he clung to a sliver of hope that the recent defeat might prompt the king to appoint a new military commander, someone more capable of leading. Alaric’s primary concern, however, remained, making his way to the rally point and joining up with the army.
As Alaric mulled over these strategic concerns, Sissa stepped forward. Her voice carried a tremor of fear and naked worry. “Do you know of Lord Braekor?” she asked Gentius. “Have you heard word of my husband? Did he survive the battle?”
“Aye, my lady,” Gentius responded with a reassuring firmness, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. “He lives and is uninjured. He was riding with the king at the time when I saw him.”
Sissa exhaled deeply, her relief almost a physical thing. She seemed to deflate, her shoulders dropping as the burden of uncertainty lifted. Her eyes softened, even as they filled with tears, gratitude mingling with her lingering concern as she looked at Gentius, silently thanking him for this sliver of peace of mind.
“When did this battle take place?” Alaric asked, his voice steady, eyes fixed on Gentius as he sought to piece together the timeline of events.
“Three days ago, my lord.”
“Has the enemy begun moving yet?” Alaric asked. “Has Thorold begun his pursuit?”
“To my knowledge, no, my lord,” Gentius answered, his expression somber yet resolute. “But, by now, they could have…”
Alaric nodded, his reaction tinged with neither surprise nor relief. From his experience, he knew that after a battle, even the victor frequently needed time to regroup. The demands of consolidating gains, tending to the wounded, taking stock of loot, dealing with prisoners, and allowing the troops time to recuperate were critical before any pursuit could be mounted. Not all enemy commanders were aggressive enough to immediately capitalize on their victories, to chase and hound the enemy relentlessly. This was a lesson Alaric learned well during his days in the Crusade—patience and inaction often shaped the outcomes of war as much as boldness, not to mention incompetence.
“Also, my lord,” Gentius added with a grave tone, “the enemy has razed and looted much of Urburn’s lands. They have mounted raiders out and about. A group of them almost got me on my way back to you. I just barely managed to elude them.”
Alaric’s expression darkened at the news. The proximity of the border made the situation all the more perilous. Kanar bordered Urburn. That meant raiders could be inside Kanar as well. The march north was about to get much riskier. Alaric thought a moment more. Turning to Ezran, he commanded, “Ready the horses and men. We will be leaving as soon as we are ready.”
Sissa interjected, her concern evident in her voice, “Surely it would be better to get some rest and leave in the morning, when it is light.”
“With the enemy so near, I need to get back to my men, to be there in the event I am needed,” Alaric responded firmly. He glanced at Ezran, who had hesitated. “The horses and men—get them ready, now.”
Ezran nodded, turning on his heel and swiftly exiting the great hall to carry out his orders.
Alaric then turned back to Gentius, his gaze intense. “Is there anything else?” he asked, ready to absorb any further intelligence that might influence his immediate actions.
“No, my lord,” Gentius confirmed. “I was instructed by the king—personally—to tell you to come with all possible haste.”
“Mekena,” Sissa said, turning to one of the servants. She gestured at Gentius. “Take this man to the kitchen. See that he is fed then given a place to rest.”
“Yes, my lady,” Mekena said and led the man away.
“I will begin packing our things,” Rikka said and turned for the stairs, rapidly moving up them.
Alaric looked over at Ulden. It was time to get down to business. “I have a strong feeling my army will need to use those back roads. In fact, I mean to use them. If possible, I will do all I can to slip around the enemy without them knowing.”
“That won’t be easy,” Ulden said, “especially if there are raiders out and about in Urburn. They will be Thorold’s eyes and ears.”
“I know it,” Alaric said and glanced down at the map again. He looked back up at Ulden. “I would see those maps now and take any you don’t mind parting with.”