The Elders Council

The clink of plate and mail created a rhythm with Richard of Turvea's footfall. He stood easily over two meters tall with many jagged scars adorning his unkempt face. Grime and dirt stained his olive-green armour as did many deep scratches and claw marks, but the crest centred on Richard's breastplate was untouched and seemingly polished regularly. The crest consisted of a large white flower with a blue hue under a crescent moon. Everything about the man screamed of danger, but a pair of kind eyes peered around the stone hallway resulting in a stark contrast. Light blue and filled with innocence, as if he knew nothing of the dark truths of life. This contradiction was so obvious it was almost comedic.

Almost.

He looked to his left and right, seeing no familiar faces he continued towards the giant mahogany doors of the Chapter Hall. Step after step between arch and pillar Richard's thinning ginger hair was ignited by the autumn sun as was his unruly facial hair. The guards either side opened the hefty doors, beams of afternoon light igniting the intricate carvings on their surface. No salute. They had seemed to tighten up under his scrutinizing glance, as most do.

Not bothering with the guards disrespect he marched into the Hall, his helmet underarm and sword at his waist. As the doors creaked shut, the pungent smell of ancient texts and aged wood assaulted Richard's crooked nose. Before him sat a group of refined men of varying ages along a grand table. As he entered all heads turned to him. Some carried looks of surprise, some delight but most evident of all was repulsion. Richard motioned towards the final empty seat of the table, going to sit down before a jeering voice interrupted him.

"That seat has been taken."

Richard glared at the man who had spoken up. Once Richard's eyes focused on him, the innocence vanished, what replaced it was a frigid look, a gaze so tangible it could steal one's breath. The fellow was a short and pudgy man whose armour was shaped like an avocado. Mail was pushed out in the

gaps of the plates by his ocean of fat. A pair of arrogant eyes met Richards.

"Perhaps I'll take yours then."

"Audacious!"

The hefty man's fat jiggled as he shook with rage, his face turning a cherry red but if one looked closely, a glint of fear appeared in his eyes.

"That's enough Baron Ulmus. We are the protectors of this realm, not squabbling adolescents!"

An elderly man sat at the end of the table. His long grey hair and trimmed beard gave him an elegant appearance but did not dim his iron-like aura. Once he had spoken no one dared to make a noise, indicating clearly his dominant position in the Chapter.

"As I was saying," a middle-aged man seated closest to the elderly Grandmaster continued, "The Order are sending an emissary to stop the rise of the plagues and train both our Royal Academy of Magic and our Order of Knights to deal with such situations in the future."

Richard's face lit up, ignoring the plump man's unrelenting glare he listened intently.

The Grandmaster nodded, his voice boomed down the table, "I have been ordered directly by his Majesty to select our finest Knight to escort the emissary throughout the duration of his stay. In return for his service, this Knight will receive personal tutelage from the emissary and one of the nations great treasures, as well as the title of Guardian of the Eventide."

The men seated at the table pinched themselves. There had never been such a hefty task nor substantial reward in the history of the Kingdom. The Kingdom of Eventide was one of the innumerable states created after the fragmentation of the superpower, the Hesiod Empire. The Hesiod Empire was a utopia which enjoyed many years of prosperity under the rule of the Gods. But as with all things, time was too heavy a burden for it.

The unity provided by the Gods was destroyed by those who would appose them, known as the seven Demon Gods. Each planted a seed of imperfection in the hearts of humans and these seeds grew into plagues. Not physical afflictions, but those of the mind and soul, far more nefarious than the latter, human society as it was known came to an end. If not for an organisation much older and many times more profound than the Hesiod Empire humanity itself may have ceased to exist. The Order.

The Order revealed themselves from within the shadows only in the most crucial moment, millions of their members appeared cleansing the plagues and slaughtering those who insight them, the Demons, minions of the seven Demon Gods. As such, a Holy war ensued and so came the end of the Dark Ages. But the plagues did not vanish nor the Demons, not even the Gods could banish the taint entirely. Instead the Gods willed for the creation of thousands of separate societies, and in this fragmentation, humans could vent the hateful urges plaguing their minds upon one another. This precarious balance prevented total destruction, but also peace and prosperity.

"As there is no conclusive evidence as to who the strongest of our Chapter is," saying this the Grandmaster shot Richard a look of approval, "his Majesty has ordered a Grand Tournament be held, in which our Moonflower Chapter will participate."

Richard wished to leap from the table and start one of the expressionist dances from his hometown of Turvea. Born a commoner, he had clawed his way tooth and nail from the mountainous village tribes into mercenary bands finally gaining enough renown to join the Moonflower Chapter. As the best Knight Chapter of the Eventide Kingdom they were both the sword and shield of the King.

Richard was not the brightest fellow, but he was a genius in the art of combat. The most a commoner could achieve in the Chapter was the rank of Sergeant, the lowliest rank.

Richard however, through his skills as a combatant and accolades achieved, had been personally designated the title of Baronet by his Majesty, given his own land and finally the rank of Constable within the Moonflower Chapter of the Eventide Knights, giving him the power to throw his weight around even at the Elder's council.

There was only one 'man' Richard could not best.

Richards remembrance of Turvea was cut short by the creak of the doors. 'Of course, it's that brat.' Richard muttered internally, rolling his eyes. Each of the members of the Elder's council stood to attention, even the Grandmaster, but Richard remained seated.

"We welcome his royal highness, the crown prince. Marcus de Lunae."

A boy, no more than fourteen trotted his way up the steps to the table of Elders, a scowl entrenched on his youthful face. The prince nodded respectfully towards the Grandmaster who nodded back in response before scowling at Richard who sat staring into space mesmerised by the memories of his hometown.

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As Richard examined his peers faces, the schadenfreude-filled gazes he faced disturbed him greatly. Schadenfreude is considered the greatest evil invented by the Demon Gods and their vile minions.

"That's my chair."

Their gazes only grew more ferocious as the young prince barked at Richard. These noblemen could never accept a commoner being put on a pedestal, no matter how much they feared Richard. Baron Ulmus' fat filled face jiggled in delight, almost saying, still want my seat?

Richard glanced at the petty nobles disdainfully before finally giving the prince a long and serious stare. The prince scowled back.

"Ho, have you started to grow some hair I don't know about boy?"

"…"

One could hear a pin drop in the Chapter Hall. Quivering lips surrounded the table unable to accept reality.

"At least I'm not losing hair, you senile fuck." The prince's scowl turned into a wide smile as did Richards stare.

"Come then my pretty little prince, I'll let you sit on my lap- for now."

"Don't think I won't kick two shades of shit out of your decrepit arse. That 'you should respect your elders' rant you gave me last time made me want to die."

"Hahaha!" Richard cackled uproariously, "You've sharpened your tongue alright, I just hope you haven't dulled your sword."

"You'll find out soon enough", the Prince smiled mischievously at Richard.

*Bang*

The Grandmaster angrily slammed his gauntlet onto the table waking the other Elders from their dumbfounded stupors.

"Baronet Richard, no matter your relations with his Highness, you should address him as such", the wizened old fogey whipped his head to the prince who shrank back slightly. "Prince, what do you think your father would say about such conduct hmm?"

The rambunctious Prince settled down like a trained pup groaning slightly while pulling over a chair at the opposite end of the table.

Everyone took their seats once more with paled faces whilst the Grandmaster rubbed his temples silently.

Meanwhile Richard stroked his bushy beard whilst eyeing the Prince and nodding approvingly. 'The Prince was growing into a fine lad', he thought to himself.

Before the Prince's birth, Richard was long renowned as the greatest swordsman of this Kingdom, hence the King sought out Richard specifically to gain both a powerful aid and tutor for him and his heir, after all Richard was also known for his loyalty to friends and wrath for enemies.

"Ahem," the Grandmaster cleared his hoarse throat, "Now then, his Royal Highness will be participating in the Grand Tournament and I believe it to be of benefit to the Eventide Kingdom for his Highness to be selected by The Order. I trust no one disagrees with this."

The surrounding nobles nodded with blank looks in their eyes, still coming to terms with the recent happenings.

"I object."

"As do I."

Both Richard and the Prince replied to the Grandmaster.

"I thought you would", the old man replied smilingly, "which is why I have organised for each battle to be completely unbiased and fair, so that only if his Highness is truly the strongest in the Kingdom will he become our Guardian in the night, the Guardian of the Eventide."

Both Richard and the Prince nodded in approval. They expected nothing less of the Grandmaster.

"The tournament shall be held in four days in Arendale city, spread the word far and wide. This marks the end of the one-thousand-and-thirty-fifth biannual Elders council. Dismissed."

The Prince was the first to hop from his chair energetically, he stood waiting next to Richard patiently. Richard instead stayed a moment after the Grandmaster finished his speech staring at Baron Ulmeus with a slight smirk. The Prince similarly followed Richard's gaze to the chubby Baron, meeting his eyes with a hint of disgust. The Baron jolted back as if he had scene a ghost, his face as pale as a sheet, he rolled from his chair and marched down the steps to exit the Hall under their watchful gazes.

"I don't think I've seen such a heavy man move with such finesse before." The Prince jeered at the sight.

"Careful boy, while joking around is fine, the plagues are present in our minds and actions. No need to reduce ourselves to such a level."

Marcus nodded back seriously.

Standing from the table Richard placed his helm underarm once more and stretched his legs, he waved at the Grandmaster who shook his head in defeat seeing the Jesting Knight influencing the prince.

"Come, there is no time to be wasted, we have a tournament to win boy."

Stepping out from the Chapter Hall the afternoon sun was beginning to dim. Marcus walked alongside Richard mimicking his actions subconsciously.

Richard knew how much the boy looked up to him. He had enjoyed the years of training the lad, they had perhaps been his happiest. Richard knew though, that these happy days were coming to an end, like all things, his time with the boy would conclude one way or another.

By the time Richard pulled himself back from his own thoughts they had arrived at the Prince's private training grounds. In this secluded chamber where they had spent so many days and nights alike, each mark on the wall, chip in the swords, dent in the armour and shift in the sands carried its own memory.

Richard thought of these as he stripped himself of his plate mail mandatory for the Elder's council meetings and adorned a light training cuirass. The boy did the same.

While the boy looked soft, only Richard and a select few knew that Marcus was in fact the strongest person in this Kingdom. When adorned with all four of the nations national treasures Marcus could go toe to toe with even low ranked Demons. This had been proven only in mock fights.

One must know that Demons carried a level of strength just below that of the Gods, one on par with Angels, even The Order could not fully extinguish their existence despite their endless military might and the blessings of the Gods.

For a fourteen-year-old he was considered a once-a-millennia genius.

Richard was merely his combat and martial teacher.

"Come on then boy, show me what you've learned."

Brandishing a dulled claymore in his hands, Richard took a fighting stance roughly twenty meters away from the boy.

Despite being middle-aged, Richard had always been a battle freak who considered sparring relaxing and battle exhilarating. As such, each centimetre of his body was built to fight. His muscles rippled under his training gear. Holding back against Marcus would be an insult to his honour as a fighter.

Marcus held a short sword in each hand. The fourteen-year-old stood half a meter shorter than Richard barely coming up to his chest, but the explosive strength of the boy was on the border of superhuman. Launching off his left foot Marcus closed the twenty meters in a second, taking a long stride he used his opponents height against him going for a low jab at the core of the body, but it was not like Richard would stand idly by, jumping back a meter he used his monstrous reach of a meter and the hundred-and-seventy or so centimetre longsword to his advantage.

His stance was immaculate, his reactions perfect and state of mind tranquil, the claymore collided with the outstretched short-sword knocking it from Marcus' grasp. It flew to Richard's left, but he knew that attack was just a set-up. He looked up instinctively to see his disciples left elbow. Richard launched his body into leaping boy knocking the wind out of him, the sword previously bound for Richard's neck glanced off the cuirass unable to land effectively.

*Pah*

A crisp knee connected with Richards bearded chin dazing him slightly, in this daze he realised he had subconsciously been holding back all this time. The claymore in his grasp descended on the boy's neck, sending him hurtling to the ground even faster. If the blade were sharpened, Marcus' head would be rolling in the sand.

Both fighters understood this. This was why Richard was the Tutor and Marcus the student. No matter how talented, experience made up for it.

The boy wheezed for a moment but swiftly rolled to his feet, a spray of sand peppering Richards face.

"Good!" he exclaimed seeing his own dirty tactics quite literally thrown back in his face. Marcus took advantage of this, but Richard was expecting it, however, he was expecting a blow from the right, maybe even the left but ignoring the stinging of his eyes Richard saw a sword coming from each side aiming for his legs, "Hup", in that split second he saw an opening in the boy's lunge, curb stomping his head into the sand. The attacks lost their momentum and the dull swords flew from Marcus' grasp.

Marcus lifted himself from the ground in defeat. The boy wiped his eyes only to see an outstretched hand, one with leathery calluses peeling in places, growing tougher in others. He hesitated for a moment, his Tutor had never made a gesture like this. Finally, he grasped it wholeheartedly, a smile breaking out on his face coming to a realisation. He had landed a blow on his Master. While that knee was of no affect, he had jolted him.

"You did good kid."

"Nah, you're just getting old."

"Hahaha, again!"