“We spent years in that old forest. I don’t remember much, exactly. All that preoccupied my mind at the time was how to survive. Every day passed by in a hazy blur of hunger and cold, but I would always awaken the next morning—alive, and ready to repeat my struggle for life. Surasha struggled quite hard as well, for though she became sickly often and her body was reduced to but skin and bone, my sister would always rise back up with a trembling smile on her dirt-stained face. Thus was our routine: harsh, yet I experienced the greatest of happiness in those times compared to that crowded house of self-pity and resentment. Surasha and I were together, and that was all I truly needed. Or at least, that was what I thought.

“One day, whilst scavenging at the village’s edge, I happened upon a worn-out book. The cover was torn and the ink had long since faded, but I could just barely make out the title: “The Sagas of Wing and Feather”. Despite being of fallen status, I was still given a greater education than most—albeit I could only recognize a few odd words here and there. Something about the book called to me, however. And as I opened the dusty pages, an entirely different world unfolded before my eyes: one of valor, of bravery, and of freedom. In that world, grand heroes from all over fought to claim a new life for their own. They were strong. Fearless. Everything that I wasn’t.

“From then on, a treacherous seed began to grow within—one wishing for more. For a chance to be a true hero. But I knew such a future was never meant for someone like me. To allow hope into your heart will only lead to greater suffering once reality seizes you within its grasp, yet I still dared to dream. I dared to wish for that decisive moment where I could finally prove myself, and indeed… it came, eventually, in the form of a Caelum scout trudging towards the place I once called home.”

- King Ascalon, Ruler of the Polus Monarchy

———

The Knight

Their flight is rather stable despite an ever-dogged pursuer leaving them not a second for hesitance, and whilst its hearing is plagued by confused shouts from the two by its side, the Knight finds itself lost in fascination towards the formation of the bustling city. Each corner is laden with structures of differing flair - an intriguing design seemingly intent on establishing clear, distinct regions - yet never does it convey a sense of clutter or disorganization; rather, they blend seamlessly together—forming a unified whole. One such space is filled with elegant buildings held up by spiral pillars, while another is more rustic in nature—cobblestone and wood being the main material of assembly. A constant all throughout, however, is a purveying harmony with nature. Foliage and flora line the paved streets: pink, yellow, orange and red fostering together in a warm air, and with a turn of its gaze, the Knight is met with an array of blue and violet in the more refined districts.

But nothing can compare to the colossal marvel resting at the city’s center: the grand castle of Polus, home to the winged King. It rises up to yonder heights as its marble exterior bathes in a cloak of crystals and shimmering light, yet adornments of delicately-carved feathers can be seen plainly from afar—enveloping the castle in a hallowed aura. Everything - from the smallest residence to the largest quarter - cowers before its imposing size, and as the trio approach the very heart of the nation, a regal garden replaces the once-stone field—its domain barren of human construction save for a lone arch welcoming all at the entrance.

Thus is where they land. Or rather, crash, for a wide swing from Annalay’s glaive disrupts their passage and sends them hurtling into the flowerbeds. The garden’s serenity is ruined as dirt upturns from the impact, and a gathering of knights standing guard quickly rush to the scene—confused whether they should be helping the sudden arrivals or imprisoning them.

“Oh, this day’s just been great…” Deborah groans while she gets back up, Dariel following along though his mind still remains in a dazed state.

“Templar Deborah? What is the meaning of this?” one of the guards asks with a cautiously pointed weapon.

“Stars, I’m the last person you should be asking that. Why don’t you get an answer from her?”

Annalay collides with a snort a few paces away. A single look is all they require for the true perpetrator to be identified, and the guards swiftly encircle the Throne in an interconnected formation. Poised. Weary, as if this routine has become all but common.

“You’ve gotten quick, Deborah. I must be getting slower with age, hahaha!” she guffaws to an apathetic audience. “But did ya really have to run all the way here of all places?”

Soon, an endless wave of knights begin flooding out from within the castle. Not a speck of the garden can be seen now, just the glistening of metal and sheen. Even the Nature’s Throne would struggle before such an army, and while it would be amusing for the Knight to see her delve into a futile rampage, Annalay’s bloodlust begins to dwindle. It appears she shares the same sentiment.

“Another day, then,” she sighs, re-sheathing the glaive and raising her arms up in surrender. “Shame. If I had my way, Celia’s memory would’ve been fixed by now. She always did love a good scuffle.”

Before the Polus knights can apprehend her, an aged, booming voice crushes down upon them - tone filled with the weighty tremor of a hundred campaigns - from the distance. Emerging from the entrance is an elderly man with features akin to Dariel, but his presence bespeaks of one who has known endless war. And endless loss.

“Thine appetite for wanton recklessness is truly baffling,” the man says, slowly trudging over to the Throne. His path is quickly cleared, and all in attendance - save for one particularly apathetic woman - descend down onto their knees in respect. “The city gates are in chaos. The people are beset with worry, and for what? To satisfy your craving for destruction? I should strip you of your title here and now.”

“Alright, I made a mistake,” Annalay says with a sheepish gesture. “Sure, I may have been a bit too rough with my methods, but make no mistake you old codger: I didn’t hurt anyone, and the people definitely aren’t beset with worry. Hells, I even saw a couple of smiles while flying over here! A spectacle here and there is what’s really needed in this depressing place.”

“Must you act this way when our nation is currently under such distress?”

“That’s exactly why I have to act like this.”

“Hah… the fault is mine for expecting even the most minute of reflection. Perhaps some time in the gaol will do you some good.”

“Heh, again? Soon enough I’ll have to start treating it like my second home. You know it won’t change who I am.”

“Oh, one can dream, Annalay. One can dream.”

With a hefty lock, a pair of giant stone cuffs are placed upon her wrists, and she is slowly escorted into the depths of the castle. The last the trio hear from her is a fading cackle.

The man turns towards them now, his face cast aglow in an anxious look, and locks eyes with Dariel who is standing uncomfortably still.

“You’ve returned, my boy,” he says with a gentle whisper. “I apologize if my actions resulted in your departure. It brings this old man great shame to have been blind when you struggled so.”

Dariel’s eyes soften and he beckons the man forward into a big hug. “It is not your fault, grandfather. Rather, I grew frustrated at the court as a whole. This journey of mine was to serve as… I suppose a form of self-discovery. To realize who it is I truly wanted to be and achieve. And I believe I have, now, which is why I chose on my own accord to come back.”

“Hohoh, you’ve got a fire inside you. That is good. If thy path has truly been lit, then far be it for me to rebuke you. Welcome home, Dariel.”

“Hey, don’t forget about me!” Deborah shouts as she jumps into the embrace as well. The family has finally been reunited.

“I’m still upset at you, Deborah.”

“Ah.”

The three engage in a bout of bellyful laughter all the whilst the Knight remains silent in its solitary corner. Hm, I wonder if Aegis’s invisibility sorcery is cast upon me as well. To play the spectator before such a common scene is a rather dull task. Perhaps I should interject.

Fortunately, it has no need to, for the elderly man eventually breaks away and greets it with a brighter countenance. “Ah, and thou must be the survivor from the Alexandria. Please, do forgive Annalay for any disrespect she may have shown you.”

“Think nothing of it, Chancellor,” it says while donning a polite tone. “It is my honor to be of service.”

“Hohoh, manners truly do befit that of one in Polus’s garb. I imagine you are quite fatigued after your voyage. Come! Let us speak in a more suitable environment.”

With a wave of his hand, the entrance doors open, and the group are escorted into the grandiose halls of the castle. A royal blue carpet lies beneath their feet, laying upon a crystalline flooring reflecting those passing by, and an all-encompassing dome above perpetually bathes the interior with the sun’s majesty. From colorful artworks to ornate sculpture, the busy palace resembles that of a gallery rather than a center for administration.

Yet, there is no mistaking the regal air in this place; the Knight can feel the spirit of history flowing from every corner, and with it, a great importance in etiquette. Officials rush by with softly-treaded steps; Polus guards march in rigid pairs; and above all else, the people maintain a constant, graceful posture—backs straight and heads raised high. Dariel and Deborah quickly adapt to the surroundings - as if it has been instilled into them since birth - and so the Knight copies their stature, blending alongside whilst maintaining its gaze upon the curios about.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Eventually, the group arrives at what appears to be a waiting room for foreign guests. The refined decorum is replaced with simpler wooden furnishings of red-gold, fostering a warm, yet daunting, ambience. The two siblings are indifferent, however, and collapse themselves atop the nearby seating—breaths exhaling in exhaustion.

“Here we are!” the Chancellor exclaims. “Now, do make yourself comfortable. I have already sent a herald to alert his majesty of your arrival, but I’m afraid there shall be a small delay before your audience shall be granted. The King is currently… preoccupied at the moment. Until then, let us engage in merry conversation.”

“I thank you for your hospitality, Chancellor,” the knight says with a bow.

“Hohoh, the pleasure is mine.”

“Grandpa, do I really need to be here?” Deborah groans while rubbing her armor. “The Cherubim knights are probably worried sick since I had to leave so suddenly. Hells, I’m not even supposed to be on-duty right—”

“Language, Deborah.”

“… Sorry.”

“There is no need to worry. A messenger shall hath arrived by now explaining your circumstances, as well as the Virtues to help sort the mess Annalay created. You, however, are needed here to write a report on the incident. Dariel is not exempt, either, so the both of you will have the joy of accompanying this frail old man for the rest of the day. Aren’t you excited?”

“Yes,” the two of them say with hollow eyes.

“Very good. Now, onto our guest.” The Chancellor’s tone changes to one of skepticism. It is not to the degree of Annalay’s intensity, but it holds a shred of doubt nonetheless. “Dariel has already informed me of your ailment in his letter, so know that there is no need to strain yourself here. I will simply ask a few questions. Is that suitable?”

“Of course. My knowledge is yours.”

“My thanks. Now, I recall Annalay calling thou by the moniker of Celia. Is that truly who you are”

The Knight puts forth a perplexed front. “I am unsure. My memories of who I was before still elude me. All I can remember is the forest.”

“That is regrettable…” he sighs. “Celia and I were well acquainted, you see, and though your spirit has been muted, I doth spy similarities in thy demeanor: a powerful resolve, a trained hand, and an affable air. Though it does bring me quite the amusement to see you speaking without that fiery spunk!”

Spunk? So she is the energetic type. Acknowledged.

The chancellor continues. “I have also heard that Annalay tested your martial skill, so there is no doubt about your ability. It is impressive you were able to exert such strength despite the miasma clinging to thy soul.”

“Its influence has waned ever since I stepped into the outside, and so does its lock upon my memory. Once it fully disappears is when I believe my true self will be set free.”

“Yes, such is the logical course. It would be great, indeed, to have thy full recollection before your audience with his majesty, but I suppose one should be thankful for the blessings they already hold. Hm, if only there was a way to siphon the remaining curse away… ohoh! I may just have the answer to our plight!”

“Really? How so?”

Dariel leaps up in horror, mouth agape as if the Chancellor has just proclaimed himself to death’s kiss. “Grandfather, you mustn’t! Your body cannot withstand invoking Creation’s might anymore. The divinity will drain what little of your lifeblood remains.”

“Don’t go killing off this old man just yet. I may be weakened now, but thy grandfather was once the Sealing Throne of Tempest. A spell here and there will only serve to sweep the dust off these aching bones.”

Dariel looks hesitant, but the elder’s stubbornness forces him to relent. “Alright, but please do not exert yourself.”

“I shan’t. Now, what say you, Celia? Are thou willing to put this old man to the test?”

How shrewd, to hide your true intent with goodwill. The title of Chancellor is not a simple one, it seems. A shame your efforts will yield naught, for this curse can never be ceased.

“… Of course,” it says, reaching up and giving the dozing Aegis above a quick warning. “But do be prepared. When this helm comes off, the miasma will rush out in an instant. Are you sure about this?”

The elder spews out a loud guffaw before delivering upon it an honed, determined gaze. “Fear not, I will not falter so feebly.”

“Then I shall begin.”

He nods, and the Knight’s visage is unveiled before the world. Only, its features cannot be seen, for an endless cloak of darkness consumes its entirety - tendrils writhing with a visceral hate towards the living - and soon pours out into the room—wretched filth staining all that is caught within its hazy murk. Color drains from the Cherubims faces as the force slowly encroaches upon them. They are gaunt, shivering with a primordial fear, but the Chancellor recollects himself and gathers the gale as he chants out to Creation.

“O’ tempest of the raging winds, heed thyself to mine word: Seal this foul essence to the depths of oblivion. Torment onto it the fury of squall and cyclone.”

The entire surrounding is upturned, for a blast of gust swirls and swirls until a rending vortex forms at the roof’s surface. It billows with a dreadful howl - forcefully drawing in the miasma and dispersing it into a renewed breeze - but even after an eternity of time’s passing, the miasma refuses to fully disappear. It will not. It can not. The Chancellor has been doomed since the very beginning, and if he maintains the invocation any longer, then nothing will be left but a hollow husk.

A pity. But if it were so simple to rid this loathing, then I would have done so long ago.

The Knight reattaches its helm, and the remaining miasma vanishes into the great beyond. Wheezing and with trembling stagger, the Chancellor collapses onto the ground as soon as the gale disappears—both siblings rushing to help him lay upon what furnishing has survived.

“Curses!” he gasps. “This old man truly has grown soft, hohoh—ugh… to think I’d suffer such utter defeat after so long. Please do accept my apologies for being a helpless fool.”

“You were great, grandpa! Even I was a bit nervous before it,” Deborah says, attempting to cheer him up.

“Sister’s right, you’re still as spry as ever,” Dariel agrees.

“It brings me great joy to have such wonderful grandchildren. But do not deceive mine pride with false words: I failed. Forgive me, Celia.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Chancellor. Rather, I should thank you. The burden on my body has lessened - my mind more clear than ever before - and for that, you have my sincerest gratitude.”

“Truly?” he says, lips curling into a smile. “How wonderful. Though it may not be much, I am comforted knowing mine help was of use.”

The doors of the room burst open, and a new knight slathered in a marriage of red and white enters the scattered room. Authority and martial might follows her gait, but it is quickly replaced by a baffled aura as she takes in the sight of the disheveled group.

“… Gadreel? What happened here?” she asks.

“Ah, Surasha my dear! Just some minor inconveniences, I assure you. But how goes your conversation with the King? Has he recovered his triumphant self?”

The female knight is still bewildered; however, she deigns to answer the elderly man anyways—her body shrugging off the bizarre scene. “In a way, I guess. At the very least, I knocked some sense into him. Whether he gets better or falls back into his depression is up to fate, but I can’t be bothered to tolerate his whimpering any longer. You’ll have to do the rest.”

“I thank you for accepting mine request.”

“A debt is a debt, which means I no longer owe you anything.”

“Of course. But I do hope thine encounter this day leads to a closer bond.”

“Hah, don’t count on it.”

Hm? This is curious. To speak in such a disrespectful manner to her lord and receive not a word of rebuke from the Chancellor…

Surasha turns to face the Knight, her gaze inspecting every corner of its body. “So you’re the survivor, huh? Your frame does look a bit familiar.”

“I’ve been told my name is Celia,” it replies, to which the female knight steps back in shock.

“Celia?” she mutters before locking the Knight in, once again, another crushing hug.

Those of Polus tend to have great physical strength, it would seem.

“Stars, that’s… that’s the first bit of good news we’ve had in a long while. I wasn’t able to see you much after I became a Templar, but I never forgot those days when I first came to the capital. You, Annalay, and Lorelai were the only ones who ever looked out for me. I really missed you.”

“Surasha, I—” it begins, attempting to comfort the woman whose voice borders on a sob, but she lets go before it has the chance and awkwardly retreats back.

“I know. You don’t remember me, probably,” she whispers. “But, after you finish talking to that idiot, I hope we can maybe have an outing together one day. Catch up, even if I have to do all the speaking. I just… I just want to talk to someone I can trust. Would that be ok?”

“That would be lovely, Surasha. Whenever you wish, I’ll be there.”

The Knight cannot see her face, but it knows there lies a radiant smile under that guarded exterior. “Great! Great, um, I’ll let you go then. Don’t let Ascalon’s blubbering get to you too much.”

Without a word, she disappears behind a column. The quiet tap of footsteps are all that can be heard before her presence fades completely. Her speech pattern is irregular compared to those of standing similar to Dariel. A commoner? But none have dared spout even the slightest of displeasure towards their liege. Perhaps…

“… A family member, I presume?” it says aloud whilst they continue their way to the King’s dwelling.

“His sister,” Dariel says with a solemn sigh. “Ascalon’s only family left from the indirect line, though as you can see they don’t have the best of relationships.”

“Ah, but I doth spot a soft twinkle of affection in her voice after leaving his chamber,” the Chancellor chuckles. “Mark mine words, young Dariel: The two shall have a familial bond, soon.”

“That would be nice,” Deborah joins, her eyes affixed to the dome above. “Surasha’s always been a bit distant towards the other Templars, even since our academy days. Maybe she’ll finally open up once the two reconcile.”

Their group comes to halt, for a large oaken door blocks the path forward—the path to the King’s domain. Everything shall start from here.

“Is there anything I should know before we enter?” it asks.

“All thou must do is follow our movements. There shall no problem with your speech, but do please remember to be mindful: His majesty cares much for the Madam you served.”

The way the Chancellor words ‘cares’ implies a deeper affection, but it is good to know the ruler of Polus is one of soft heart. With a solid push, the four enter and are greeted by a large, ivory throne with a stained-glass window at the very back bathing everything in a rainbow of color. There, placed to the side, are… broken pieces of pottery? A section of the marble wall has been shattered into pieces as well. What happened here between the royal siblings? As strange as the sight is, the Knight’s company make no comments - as if they have expected to see such a view - and instead hurry to the room’s center where they bow before an obscured figure sitting upon the regal seat. Shadow veils their torso, yet the Knight can see a deep, vivid gold emanating forth from their great plate.

“Glory to the ruler of the skies above,” the Cherubims recite. “May the wisdom of Freedom’s Will guide you to prosperity, O’ Ascalon—stalwart blade of Polus.”

The King leans forward, and his crowned helm is finally revealed. Smoldering within the sockets are a pair of glowing amber eyes, and they stare directly into the Knight’s own, burrowing deep and attempting to force its everything before him.

“You may rise.”