Tarkan stared at Dimer, awaiting an answer to his observation. Dimer stood, legs trembling, droplets of blood flicking off with each quiver. Tarkan knelt, his fingers brushing against Dimer's legs."You're not bleeding, are you?" Tarkan asked, his touch tentative. Dimer shook his head, exhaling shakily.
"I'm not. I was just... I-I don't know." He stammered, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. Tarkan rose, then froze. Dimer’s hand, once blackened, now bore a new mark. He took Dimer's hand, examining it while Dimer watched him warily, as if Tarkan might tear it away.
"It's a black hole," Tarkan observed. "What does a black hole mean, exactly?" He looked into Dimer's eyes, knowing there were too many questions but needing to start somewhere.
"It was so strange," Dimer began, knitting his brows. "One moment, there was a man here, one with white, wavy hair. The next, I was in an almost infinite expanse of... night sky? I don't know." Dimer clutched his head. Tarkan placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, leaning in to catch his gaze.
"Did this white-haired man tell you who he was?" Tarkan asked. Dimer shook his head, regret etched on his face.
"He only spoke in riddles, none of which made sense to me. It might as well have been a dream, but..." Dimer lifted his hand, gazing at the mark with amazement. "I got my mark, so there must be some truth in it, shouldn't there?" He looked to Tarkan for answers, though Tarkan had none to give, only the pretense of certainty.
"Did this black hole... speak to you? In the old common tongue?" Tarkan inquired. Dimer's eyes widened in shock.
"It did... but how did you know?" Dimer asked, astonished. Tarkan looked up at the night sky, his eyes finding the moon. In this vast world, certain things were universally known, like the moon—under his control. He was beyond. Derya had her sun mark, and now Dimer bore a black hole. Was it a metaphor, or another celestial object waiting to be discovered?
"I experienced the same thing right before the mark appeared on my eye," Tarkan explained.
"Not when you first received it?" Dimer asked, the tremor and anxiety in his voice now gone.
"No. Only when it appeared on my eye." They both fell silent, the moment heavy with unspoken thoughts, until Tarkan spoke again. "It's strange. The voice told me the mark would help me, placed it on my eye for that purpose, yet nothing has happened. I'm only... blind." Tarkan admitted, his voice tinged with frustration. Dimer's brows shot up, and he leaned in to examine Tarkan’s eye.
"You're blind? Why didn't you tell Aelar or Ayrn? Surely, they would know something," Dimer said, but Tarkan doubted it. He believed patience was required, or perhaps he would turn to Derya once more.
"I'd like to take after you a bit," Tarkan said, wrapping his tunic around himself and smiling. "You waited patiently for your mark, so who's to say I cannot do the same?" At that moment, the sun began to peek over the ocean, painting the sky with the first hints of dawn. They both gazed at the horizon before Dimer looked down.
“There’s so much we don’t know about these marks and their true meanings,” Dimer murmured, his voice a gentle whisper in the stillness. Tarkan nodded, the weight of unspoken understanding passing between them.“What sort of power resides within these marks? Are they a blessing or a curse?” Dimer continued, his sigh barely audible. “You saw how Derya turned invisble before our eyes, didn’t you? That’s no mere trick, and I’m sure it’s only the beginning.” Tarkan placed a reassuring arm around Dimer as they began their trek back to the camp.
“I have some theories,” Tarkan said thoughtfully, “but I need to verify them. Once I do, perhaps we can transcend our ignorance and unlock our full potential.” Dimer’s eyes gleamed with hope as he looked at his brother.
“You’re right,” he whispered, turning back to Tarkan. “If anyone can unravel this mystery, it’s you.” A warm smile spread across Tarkan’s face, a rare moment of solace amidst the chaos.Suddenly, Dimer halted, and Tarkan followed his gaze. Boats dotted the shore—at least twenty, large and imposing. Figures moved on the decks, but they were no ordinary people. Nirans had arrived
.“They’ve finally come,” Tarkan breathed, astonishment coloring his words. Aelar approached the shore, speaking in hushed tones. The Nirans began to disembark, their presence formidable. Tarkan scanned the area for familiar faces, but none of his own were to be found.Leading the Nirans was an elder woman, her face etched with lines and creases. As Dimer and Tarkan drew closer, they saw the depth of her experience mirrored in her eyes. To their astonishment, Aelar knelt before her, his men following suit. He took her hand with reverence, kissed it, and placed it upon his forehead, a gesture of profound respect.
"Do you know who that is?" Dimer whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. Aelar had never mentioned an old woman or hinted that his people would come. Tarkan felt he should have known, but the truth had eluded him. Why? He couldn’t say.Tarkan shook his head as they finally reached their camp. Aelar felt the prickling stares of these unfamiliar beings, their eyes assessing him. Some noticed his marked eye, recoiling as if he were a flaw in the fabric of their world. They pointed, and out of the corner of his eye, Tarkan saw Dimer's hand move behind him.From their resting place, Derya rose, looking groggy and red-eyed, as if she'd been crying. Her hair was tangled, her face creased with sleep, yet she retained a haunting beauty.
"These are humans who have sought our help," Aelar declared, extending his arm toward them. Ayrn watched with narrowed eyes, ready to act if they made a wrong move. Tarkan hesitated, unsure whether to step forward or remain where he was. But standing still would yield nothing. He moved beside Aelar with steady steps, Dimer quickly following.The old woman fixed Tarkan with cold blue eyes, her gaze sharp and unyielding.
"What did we say about foreigners?" she asked Aelar, her voice like brittle leaves. More like a mother than anything else. Like a mother wanting to scorn her son but feeling too bad. Aelar smiled, gathering his flaming golden hair and tying it with a strand from his wrist.
"There is nothing to fear from these men, mother, I assure you." He glanced at Tarkan with a knowing smile. So this woman was his mother, and therefore Rhea and Amelia's sister. She looked different than he had imagined. "They saw us in need of aid, and we know their help will not go unpaid."
"In the name of my family, the Altan name, I swear it to you and your people." Tarkan's smile hinted at the storm he had just unleashed. The uproar was immediate, voices rising in anger and disdain. He still didn’t know why they despised the name so much or what his ancestor had done, but it must have been grievous.
"You're supposed to be king, Aelar! You bear the name of your conqueror ancestor, yet you ally with the very name he sought to destroy!" an angry voice shouted from the crowd.
"You rot our lands with your presence," another spat. More taunts and curses followed, the crowd’s hostility palpable. Aelar sighed, casting an irritated glance at Tarkan. They would have to learn, sooner or later.
"Whatever our ancestors have done, we have not," Dimer declared, his voice clear and resolute. Tarkan smiled, recognizing the strength in his brother. Dimer would make an excellent hand when the time came, already showing such initiative. "We are people, not beneath you. Respect us as we respect you. We may not know each other well, but we know you have hearts the same as ours." Dimer’s words were delivered without a hint of hesitation, and even Tarkan felt a flicker of surprise. His words felt too force, too memorized and ready for his liking, he realized. He glanced around to find Derya, spotting her in the back, whispering with Rhea. When he turned back, he met the old woman’s scornful gaze, but he chose to ignore it.Aelar stepped forward, raising his hands to quiet the crowd.
"Our ancestors’ sins are not ours to bear," he began, his voice carrying over the murmur of dissent. "We forge a new path here, one of unity and understanding. The Altans stand with us now, not against us. Judge them by their deeds, not by their name."The crowd’s unrest simmered, but the old woman’s eyes remained fixed on Tarkan, her judgment unspoken yet heavy.
"My son will know what is right. But now let us dally no longer. I would like for the preparations for my son’s ascension to begin," Lady Lyola declared with a commanding tone that brooked no argument. For a moment, uncertainty flickered among the Nirani crowd, torn between reverence for their regent and distrust towards the Altan presence. A woman emerged from the crowd, tall with a stern yet not unkind face, her gaze sharp as she addressed the Altans.
"Lady Lyola, we acknowledge your faith in your son's judgment, but can we so easily trust these people? Before our prince's departure, we agreed on the fate of foreigners who dared trespass on our land: death. And yet here stand our greatest adversaries, the Altans, walking freely among us," she stated, her words cutting through the tension like a dagger. Her cold glance settled on Tarkan. "And he bears the Moon Eye. Must I say more?"
"Must not any of you move unless you want missing limbs!" A cold voice sliced through the escalating tension. It was Bataar, flanked by their two knights (noticing Zeno's absence), their swords drawn as they stared warily at the Altans. A Nirani woman clutching a child retreated in fear, while others edged forward, ready for confrontation.
"Sheathe your swords in front of our friends, Bataar," Tarkan commanded firmly when Bataar hesitated. "Note that I said friends, not enemies. Sheathe your swords." With a low growl, Bataar reluctantly slid his sword back into its scabbard, and the two knights followed suit.
"I assure you all, our friend Tarkan Altan, Prince of the Kingdom of Altan—the largest kingdom in all realms—poses no threat to us. I have personally ensured his goodwill and placed my trust in him, just as he has in me," Aelar proclaimed, stepping forward with authority. With the crowd around them, Tarkan felt a shift in his posture, his voice steadier, more confident. Three of them here have been marked by the First Ones," Aelar continued, gesturing towards Tarkan and Dimer. "Tarkan bears the mark of the moon, and his brother Dimer will soon receive one as well." Tarkan glanced at Dimer, wondering if he would reveal his mark, but his brother remained still. Aelar then turned to Derya, presenting her to the crowd. Tarkan felt an uncomfortable prickling in his stomach as all eyes turned to her, the Niranis' attention fixed upon her. "And she bears the mark of the sun. I have taught these three how to harness their powers. That is how you know I trust them," Aelar declared, his voice carrying authority and conviction.
"You make it sound as if we place too much trust in them," Ayrn muttered, his gaze averted from Aelar. Lady Lyola, observed them with a softer but no less stern expression, her thoughts unreadable in the moment.
"Well then, as I said," Lady Lyora spoke with authority, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "Prepare for my son’s ascension. Bring out the Chest of Right." Two young Nirani men immediately dashed back to the ship at her command, while the others cleared a path with solemn respect. Tarkan marveled at their numbers—over two hundred, yet he couldn't gauge their true strength.Aelar's smile reassured Tarkan, and his gaze shifted to Zayn, who stepped forward beside him.
"Didn't expect it to be so soon, did you?" Aelar shook his head, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"You and your siblings will be the first humans to witness a king's ascension on our ancestral lands in three millennia," Zayn added.
"Whose fault is that?" Ayrn's bitterness cut through, his gaze locked with Zayn's in silent challenge. The two Nirani men returned, carrying one of the largest chests Tarkan had ever seen. The soft murmur of the crowd hushed as they placed it before Lady Lyora.Tarkan sensed his own people and Derya approaching from behind. Rhea joined Aelar, her eyes shimmering with pride and love as she gripped his hand tightly. Tarkan felt a touch on his hand—it was Derya's smooth, beautiful hand, holding his with a gentle strength that made him hesitant to let go. He drew her closer until her shoulder touched his own.
Lady Lyora approached the chest, briefly pausing to glance at Tarkan. Was there hesitation in her eyes? No, it seemed more like a passing thought that momentarily distracted her. With deliberate care, she opened the chest, revealing objects that were entirely unfamiliar to Tarkan.
"All must step away from the King, except Rhea, his betrothed," Lady Lyora declared, her voice carrying authority. The crowd shifted back obediently, creating a respectful distance. Tarkan felt an urge to remain where he stood, rooted to the spot by something he couldn't quite name. Unexpectedly, Ayrn stepped forward and pushed Tarkan aside, surprising both him and Derya. Before either could react, Aelar intervened, placing a hand on Ayrn's arm to stop him.
"I want them to witness this," Aelar stated firmly. Ayrn glared at him, clearly furious, but reluctantly obeyed, stepping back into the crowd.
Lady Lyora regarded him with that familiar look, but this time, Tarkan chose to ignore it. She approached the chest, each step commanding silence from the gathered Nirani. From within, she withdrew a sword—a brutish, amalgamated weapon that appeared forged from smaller swords, its hilt adorned with an amber-colored piece of cloth waving in the wind as she planted it firmly into the ground.Delving back into the chest, Lady Lyora retrieved an ornate straight sword, its bronze and amber hues accentuated by gemstones running along its length. The hilt ended in a half crescent, its significance shrouded in mystery. Placed beside the first sword, it shimmered with a contrasting beauty.Next, she withdrew two scrolls and a long black cloth that seemed to radiate its own faint glow. The scrolls bore seals of fine wax, reminiscent of those used in Esen's religious texts, complete with wooden sticks for handling. Placing them beside the swords, Lady Lyora reached once more into the chest with both hands.This time, she extracted two crowns. One was crafted from an unfamiliar steel that glowed and sparkled with enigmatic gems, emitting a reddish hue that seemed otherworldly. Adorned with small dragon wings, it fueled Tarkan's theories. The other crown, simpler yet exuding an aura that felt beyond mortal reach, emanated a primordial red fire, compelling Tarkan to look away despite his fascination. Its only decoration was a straight line ascending and descending.As Lady Lyora arranged these artifacts before them, Tarkan sensed the weight of history and destiny converging in this moment—a king's ascension, a union of worlds, and the unfolding of mysteries that bound them all.
Stolen novel; please report.
"I cannot allow this to go any further," another voice interjected. A man with impeccably groomed hair and a cleanly shaven face strode forward, clad in extravagant robes that hinted at his significance.
"What objections do you have, Tarin?" Lady Lyorel inquired, her tone betraying a hint of challenge. Tarin's gaze shifted to Aelar, his expression contorted with scorn.
"He disregards our traditions for an Altan man, as we have already voiced our discontent. And now, at this sacred moment, he allows him to stand beside him? How many millennia have passed since we were driven from our ancestral lands, only to cling to our traditions?" Tarin's words dripped with bitterness and resentment.Aelar stepped forward, nearly causing Rhea to stumble in his wake. His demeanor was more one of annoyance and confusion than anger.
"So what if I've broken some traditions? Our scriptures speak of a Nirani prince destined to reclaim our homeland and be rightfully crowned king of his people. Do you doubt the teachings of our scriptures?" Aelar posed the question with a raised fist, not threateningly, but with conviction in his beliefs.
"I cannot support a king who would forsake our identity, traditions, and sacred rituals for the sake of an Altan boy," Tarin declared, stepping back, as if realizing he didn't want to provoke further confrontation. "When you extend your hand to a murderer, their blood stains your hands as well." With that final rebuke, he turned and retreated back onto the boat. Uncertainty rippled through the onlookers, while Aelar watched Tarin depart, his expression inscrutable.
"And where would you go?" Zayn called out to Tarin, but Tarin merely snorted, refusing to acknowledge Zayn's question as he walked away.
"I will roam the seas for as long as it takes, leaving this duty for my grandsons perhaps," Tarin retorted defiantly. His words sparked a murmur among the crowd, some beginning to follow him. Aelar, however, swiftly intervened, recognizing the gravity of the moment and the need to keep his people united, especially given their dwindling numbers.
"The prophecy speaks of a prince," Aelar countered, a smirk playing on his lips. "Where would you find another?" Tarin appeared unfazed, maintaining his composure.
"That is precisely why I ask for Zayn to join me," Tarin continued, his gaze shifting to Zayn. "He is intelligent and must see the folly in this. Though he may be a bastard, the blood of Aelar the Conqueror runs stronger in him than in me." Aelar's expression froze, his gaze slowly turning towards Zayn. All eyes, including Tarkan's, fixated on him, waiting for his response. Tarkan couldn't believe Zayn would entertain such a notion, but Zayn simply shook his head dismissively.
"I refuse. My place is by my brother's side when he ascends to the throne," Zayn declared firmly. Aelar turned back to Tarin, a self-assured gleam in his eyes. Tarin and the few Niranis who had followed him seemed to falter, doubt creeping into their resolve. Could they truly defy the prophecy without a prince?
"Then I shall forge my own bloodline, a new hierarchy," Tarin declared defiantly. His words incited roars of offense and fury from the crowd, and in that moment, Tarkan realized Aelar needed to do nothing more. Tarin had sealed his own fate; no one would rally to his cause now.
"Accuse him of treason," Aelar commanded coldly. Without hesitation, Nirani men swiftly moved to apprehend Tarin. Tarkan glanced at Dimer and saw mirrored in his brother's eyes the same satisfaction reflected in Aelar's.
"Why am I being seized for speaking the truth?" Tarin protested loudly. His sharp gaze swept across the crowd until it settled on Tarkan. "You allow this wretched child to walk among us, and he will bring doom upon us all!" Tarin's words were cut short as a Nirani man delivered a swift punch to his jaw. Beside him, Tarkan felt Derya flinch, and Dimer offered her a reassuring touch. Tarkan couldn't help but admire the depth of the Nirani's faith. Their unwavering belief in their scriptures and the prophesied prince was remarkable, a loyalty rarely seen among humans. Tarkan wished he could share in their certainty.
"Now take him away and let the ceremony commence!" Lady Lyorel announced briskly, her urgency palpable. She gestured towards where Aelar had originally stood with Rhea, and he returned there, making sure to take her arm in his. Tarkan watched with growing excitement as Lady Lyorel lifted up the two crowns and held them before Aelar. He couldn't help but imagine himself in Aelar's place one day, receiving a crown from someone—anyone, really, but not his own mother; that was now impossible."Aelar, son to none, I ask you the question passed down since the time of Aelar the First. Are you prepared?" Lady Lyorel's voice carried weight, tinged with both tradition and expectation. Aelar nodded resolutely, as if his decision had been made long ago. A faint smile flickered at the corners of Lady Lyorel's mouth.
"I am prepared, and have been since birth, just as the prophecy foretold," Aelar affirmed. Yet as he spoke, it seemed the smile on his mother's face faltered briefly, almost imperceptibly. Tarkan glanced at Dimer, wondering if he had noticed the same subtle shift, but Dimer was wholly focused on the unfolding ceremony.
"I saw it too," Derya whispered softly into Tarkan's ear. He fought the urge to startle away from her. Could she read his thoughts? He hoped not, and rubbed his head, unsettled by the notion.
"Then I tell you, Aelar, son to none," Lady Lyorel began, her voice carrying the weight of ancestral lore. "Once, our ancestor Aelar the Conqueror—before he earned his namesake—was but a king who bore the Crown of Retribution, named for his conquests. Then, in a dream bestowed by our God Kaelar the Shatterer, he was commanded to conquer, and conquer he did. During that time, he wore the Crown of Realms, donning the Crown of Retribution only after his conquests were complete." She paused, allowing the significance of the story to settle among those gathered. With a deliberate gesture, she weighed the crowns in her hands before continuing. "For this reason, I ask you, Aelar: What kind of king will you be? A conqueror, or a ruler in the tradition of those who came before you?" The question lingered, charged with meaning, though Tarkan found himself grappling with unfamiliar titles. The Crown of Realms and the Crown of Retribution were mysteries to him, absent from any history books he had encountered. If this Aelar was such a formidable conqueror, why were his exploits not recorded in conventional histories, but only in the oral traditions of his people?
Shifting his attention back to Aelar, Tarkan's thoughts cleared. It was evident what choice Aelar would make—his fiery-eyed determination, the clenched fist, and his mane of golden-red hair billowing in the brisk wind painted a portrait of kingship, though not yet fully realized. When Aelar glanced at him, their eyes met briefly, but Tarkan held his emotions close, wary of betraying any hint to Aelar. Aelar then turned to his mother, his gaze flickering between the crowns before him. This decision, if guided by prophecy, would shape the course of history. Why then, Tarkan wondered, did Aelar appear so composed?With a touch of uncertainty, Aelar tentatively reached for the Crown of Retribution. Murmurs of shock rippled through the crowd, intensifying as Aelar looked up, his eyes resolute and fixed.
Tarkan could scarcely believe his ears as Aelar pronounced, "I choose the Crown of Retribution, to lead our people through times as prosperous as those of Aelar the Conqueror." The weight of Aelar's decision hung heavy in the air, stirring murmurs of dissent from the crowd.
"What of our dreams and hopes?" cried an unidentified voice from the crowd. The sentiment seemed to echo through many, though Aelar remained steadfast in his choice. Tarkan prayed silently that he had not influenced this ill-conceived decision, yet it seemed inevitable that the Nirani people would attribute it to him, regardless of his true role.
"He has spent too long in the company of these humans," shouted one man.
"He has lost his senses. Such audacity cannot be tolerated," yelled a woman.
"Aelar already has few supporters, and now he chooses to alienate so many," Dimer whispered to Tarkan, his voice laden with concern, ensuring Aelar could not overhear.
"He wishes to guide the Niranis through prosperous years, but how can he achieve that without conquest, especially in such vulnerable times?" Tarkan mused, finding agreement with Dimer's observation. "Does he expect us to assist them in this endeavor?"
"Well, aren't we?" Dimer countered. Tarkan regarded Dimer thoughtfully, letting the question linger in his mind
."The decision is made, and the crown is his to choose," announced Lady Lyora. The Nirani people held her in high regard, evident in Aelar's act of kneeling and kissing her hand—an uncommon sight in Turukhan or any land Tarkan knew. Lady Lyora clutched the remaining crown tightly, and in an instant, it vanished from her grasp. Tarkan caught his breath as Aelar knelt, his eyes closed in solemnity. With a reverent gesture, Lady Lyora placed the crown upon Aelar's head, and for a moment, silence enveloped the gathering. Suddenly, a powerful gust of wind threatened to unsteady Tarkan and others, yet they stood firm. Behind Aelar, a throne materialized, seemingly crafted from the same mysterious substance. Etched upon it were inscriptions Tarkan could not decipher, and at its pinnacle gleamed a gemstone, possibly amber—a peculiar choice, given its relative commonality.
"So much in this world, and we knew so little of it," Derya muttered, her tone tinged with bitterness, surprising Tarkan.
"We learn of it now, and for good reason," Tarkan reassured her. "When we know everything, no one can ever keep a secret from us again."
"You speak of 'everything' as if it were a small and insignificant thing," Dimer remarked, observing Aelar as he stood up, placing a hand on his forehead. The fiery intensity of Aelar's red eyes had faded into a paler version of their former brilliance.
"Well, I don’t know if there's more to learn than what I know now," Tarkan replied, smiling at Dimer. "So, this is my everything."
"Aelar, King of the Nirans and all descendants of the ancestor Vaellyrn!" Lady Lyora announced, raising her hand to silence any premature cheers from the crowd. "At the next full moon, all must gather here and swear their loyalties and oaths to King Aelar. Those who refuse will be exiled and banished from this island," she declared, her gaze sweeping over the assembled crowd before she picked up two scrolls lying near the sword.Unfurling the scrolls despite the sealing wax that bound them, Lady Lyora revealed mysterious languages and enigmatic markings. One scroll bore a symbol resembling a lightning bolt, while the other displayed an eye, though drawn in an unfamiliar manner, especially the pupil.
"King Aelar, I now bestow upon you the markings of your ancestors. The Great Lightning shall be yours to command, once again under a Nirani ruler. Lay your right hand upon this mark," Lady Lyora declared, holding out the scroll adorned with the lightning symbol.
"Is this marking similar to ours?" Dimer inquired, craning his neck for a clearer view. Aelar placed his hand on the scroll, and suddenly, the sky cracked with thunder and lightning, though moments earlier, it had been clear. Tarkan noted the lightning was red, a startling sight that even Lady Lyora seemed taken aback by, raising her hand instinctively.
"That is the—" The woman began, but Lady Lyora's stern stare silenced her immediately.
"Do you now think you know everything?" Dimer asked, but Tarkan was distracted, wondering what the woman had been about to say. He had never witnessed such red lightning, and the thunder made it harder to focus. Lady Lyora reached for the grotesque, malformed sword and handed it to Aelar. As Aelar grasped it, lightning danced around the blade, transforming the once hideous metal into a stunning blend of red and gold, reminiscent of his own fiery hair. The sword seemed almost translucent, adorned with unfamiliar inscriptions. Its ornate hilt gleamed with golden accents, featuring a large, symmetrical crossguard and a secondary one halfway down the blade's length. The sword, once reviled, now appeared among the most beautiful Tarkan had ever laid eyes upon.
"What a blade," Dimer exclaimed, his voice tinged with awe. Derya's gaze darted between the sword and the red lightning in the sky, clearly unsure which was more fascinating.
"I think I remember something about red lightning, but it was just in legends," Derya mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully
."Then it probably wasn’t true," Tarkan replied with a shrug, causing Derya to frown at him.
"Don’t dismiss it so easily; all myths are based on some truths," Derya insisted, but Tarkan just snorted dismissively.
"That’s something old people like our nannies used to say to scare us with their stories when we were young," Tarkan retorted. Derya looked away, clearly irritated.
"Be quiet, something else is happening," Dimer interjected, placing a hand on Tarkan’s shoulder. Tarkan shivered involuntarily at the contact and pulled away slightly.
"Ayrn, step forward next to your king," Lady Lyora commanded, motioning toward the space beside Aelar where Rhea did not stand. Ayrn obeyed, and Tarkan noticed the absence of the last scroll, leaving only one."Every king has a shadow, Ayrn," Lady Lyora continued solemnly. "Someone chosen from birth to serve the king with unwavering loyalty, like a hound to his master." A flicker of emotion crossed Ayrn's face, but he remained rigidly by Aelar's side.
"What a dreadful pick," Tarkan muttered quietly to himself, but he feared his words were too loud when a Nirani man glared at him with hostility.
“Do you vow to protect your king and obey him to the most of your capabilities Ayrn son to None?” Ayrn blinked at her as if swallowing the words. He stared at the mark his icy blue eyes glistening and he looked away before nodding.
“I do.” He said yet Tarkan could’ve sworn he hadn’t. Not the way he had. Lady Lyora seemed to notice but Aelar hadn’t still staring at his mark amazed. By now the clouds above had gone and disappeared leaving no trace that they had ever been there. Rhea was holding his arm and whispering something into his ears which could’ve been anything.
“Then bring forth your right hand and lay it upon this scroll.” She said. So Ayrn did. In that brief moment when he then took it off and the scroll disappeared as did the markings on it Ayrn collapsed onto the floor with a shout clutching his eyes. He covered them as he looked back up shaking his head around quickly. Lady Lyora reached into her robe to pull out the same uninteresting blindfold to hold it out to Ayrn but even before she had Ayrn’s hadn was there taking it from her. Still keeping his eyes shut he wrapped it around his head and stood up again seeming to shake a little.
"May you serve your king well," Lady Lyora acknowledged solemnly as she retrieved the sword she had planted next to the deformed one earlier. It was a surprisingly beautiful weapon, crafted from bronze-colored amber (?) and fashioned into a straight sword with elaborate ornamentation. The blade gleamed with such polish that Tarkan could see his own reflection in it from where he stood. Ayrn reached for the sword before Lady Lyora could offer it, and she smiled warmly. "Under this High Moon, we will gather to pledge our loyalty to our King," Lady Lyora declared, her voice carrying across the silent crowd of Niranis who now gazed at their new ruler. Tarkan couldn't discern their thoughts; unfamiliar with their prophecies and customs, he could only imagine there was skepticism among them. The seed of doubt had been sown, and now its consequences would unfold.