Nash proceeded on all four, the wind pushing him in every direction, threatening to drop him into the void. The sky was under the bridge, a few feet away from an accidental death.
"Hahaha, it's always fun to see them crawl on the bridge!" One of the soldiers behind him laughed, the others following, their mocking chuckles drowned under the cold wind gusts. Nash gritted his teeth and stood slowly up, braving his body's instincts, taking an uncertain step one after the other. He glanced back, only to receive a hit on the forehead from the nearest soldier's spear shaft.
"Come on, it's freezing here! Get moving!" He yelled over the wind, Nash quickly obeyed, his skin burning with the cold, the plant of his feet sticking on the cold stone.
'I can't...I can't stop, or my feet will be stuck to the stone...Shit...' The young man breathed in deeply as he forcefully put a foot in front of the other, his arms wrapped around himself as he continued on the bridge. It wasn't very long while remaining quite wide, an impression that could only be deepened by the lack of a railing to protect against accidental or otherwise falls.
He finally reached the end of it, his skin red from the cold, a few strands of his hair completely frozen with white ice. He stepped in front of two new, massive double oak doors, with two soldiers standing guard in front of them, their skin hidden behind thick padded armor, thick brown furs reinforcing them with the heat required to stand for a long time in the freezing weather. They weren't armed with spears like the one escorting Nash, instead equipped with a round wooden shield with a steel bump in its center, and a sword with a particularly long and wide blade. It didn't look like anything Nash had ever seen, quite different from the classical longswords or claymores, often seen in video games or movies.
They grumbled when they saw the escort group and their prisoner approaching, before hitting their sword's pommel on their shield in three, methodic thuds. Nash remarked that said pommels were modeled like a beast's jaw, sculpted in either very pale wood or bone. After a second of waiting, the double doors opened from the inside, two 'basic' soldiers pulling the thick wooden gates.
'...There's a clear distinction between basic soldiers armed with steel armors and spears, and those with furs and those strange swords. Those look like barbarians, somehow... Why wouldn't they just use basic soldiers everywhere?' Nash couldn't help but wonder as he was pushed inside, the temperature instantly climbing back to an acceptable level. Nash trembled, rubbing his hands together as he hurriedly walked away from the door, his teeth chattering loudly.
He glanced around, confused. It was only a closed room, with a wooden ground and a large lever in its center. The only way he could guess it was one was thanks to one of the soldiers pulling it, triggering some hidden mechanism.
Nash worriedly looked to the sides and ceiling, but it was only when the ground shook suddenly that he understood that the wooden floor was an elevator's platform. It certainly was nothing like he was used to, much rougher and...noisier, but it was still very impressive, mostly by its size and speed. It braked with a loud screech, metal sparks flying off from the walls. Nash fell to his knees as the platform suddenly stopped, revealing yet another door protected by two 'basic soldiers'.
Behind that one was another elevator, which led to yet another door, this maddening circle repeating a total of five times. Nash had no idea how far the prison he was staying in was, but he was certainly much lower now.
The same old, giant double oak gate was standing in front of him, before being opened by two basic soldiers, revealing a spectacle entirely different from the one Nash was used to. The doors led to a gigantic hallway with a ceiling of tinted glass that let the red light in, colored with red. The hallways were immense, with wide marble columns and smooth, shiny floors. Each step he took on it left a dirty, bloody footprint, but he couldn't care less about how clean he would leave the place.
Guards were posted in front of every column, their equipment also vastly different from the one the soldiers escorting Nash wore, as instead, in this case, they were equipped with fully plated armors, with knight's helmets adorned with white feathers, their sharp halberds glinting under the red light projected by the tinted glass. They stood straight in a cold and threatening way, still as statues. The only thing that indicated they were alive were the eyes staring at Nash's escort from under the metal helms.
The soldiers continued to push Nash forward, the young man's mind racing as he tried to understand what was happening.
'Why would they bring a prisoner through such a convenient entrance, leading directly inside such a prestigious place? This feels like I'm missing a piece, here...'
After proceeding through the impressive hallways for a dozen minutes, their advance carefully watched by the guards standing in front of each column, they arrived in front of two, massive metal gates, decorated with gold filigree and silver linings. It screamed luxury and money, as well as vanity and pretension, in Nash's opinion. Of course, that didn't mean he wasn't impressed by the door. It would be weirder if he wasn't.
'...I can only guess this is going to be the throne room. Who am I to be brought directly into the throne's room despite my quality as a prisoner?' Nash struggled to understand as six 'knights' guards opened the door, ushering them in. The young man couldn't contain the awe and amazement in his eyes as he entered the room, unable to even understand how such a folly could be possible.
Gold, and silver, everywhere.
The walls were covered in plated silvers, the floor in gold, and the ceiling was a luxurious mix of red-tinted glass and silver sculptures of different kinds. A long black carpet led straight to the room's centerpiece, a massive throne that looked like it had been carved out straight from the stone, only a particularly white one, the same white the 'barbarians' guards' pommels were. Nash widened his eyes and took a step back despite himself. He just remarked that the wall behind the throne was slightly different, with nothing regular to it, more like a gigantic...skeleton or something.
Nash's breath was taken away from him as he understood what that shape was. The throne wasn't made out of stone, or white wood for that matter.
No, it was carved out of the massive tailbone of an even more massive creature that could only exist in the most fantastical fiction.
A dragon. Dead, but still a dragon.
Sadly for Nash, he couldn't marvel at the corpse a second longer as the soldiers pushed him forward silently, their throes having long gone silent ever since they had encountered the 'knight' guards. The soldiers pushed him to the very end of the carpet, right in front of the massive carved-out throne, forcing him on his knees.
And that's only then that Nash realized someone was sitting on the bone throne, looking at him with a disgusted but amused look. The man's presence had been so unimportant, compared to the massive dragon he was sitting on, that Nash had ignored him without even trying to. With a long, dirty, and unkempt beard, thin limbs that looked like sticks, and wrinkles that looked like someone could fit a few items in them, there sat the King.
'...Well, I can only guess he's the King or whatever other titles he gives himself thanks to the massive gold crown weighing on his head...' Nash silently thought, staring straight into the old man's glassy eyes.
A man wearing delicate red flannel suddenly stood beside the King, unwrapping a long parchment before clearing his throat. A loud thumping sound echoed through the room, Nash flinching at the noise and looking in the direction it came from. On one side of the throne room were the 'basic' guards, soldiers similar to the ones who brought Nash in, while on the other there were only the 'knights' guards who looked like they had come straight out of a historical documentary.
There were no 'barbarian' guards in the whole throne room, but with their rough appearance, it couldn't surprise Nash much.
"Listen to the King's Command!" The man wearing red flannel suddenly shouted, his voice loud and carrying far. As soon as these words left his mouth, every person in the room besides the King himself fell to their knees, looking at the ground respectfully. Nash frowned, noticing how there wasn't even a single person looking at him at the moment. He glanced behind him at one of the soldier's spears, which seemed so easily taken. If he had to, he could just throw that at the King or something, perhaps killing the old guy would give him the opportunity he needed to find a way out of this hell...
Unaware of Nash's thoughts, the Crier shared the King's Command.
"I, Aethon the Fourth, King of all Men, Ruler of the Empyreal Enclave, and Lord of the Citadel, declares the man in front of me..." The Crier took a breath, the corner of his lips curving up slightly, "...Nash Dularfull, Fallen Prince of the Citadel, guilty of treason against the Realm!"
Said Fallen Prince could only listen with his eyes wide open, the gears of his mind running at full capacity.
'...They called me by my name, and said I'm the...the Fallen Prince of the Citadel? Wait, so all of this wealth was mine at some point?' Nash couldn't believe his ears, his fists tightly clenched as he kept on listening.
"...As tradition requires, I, Aethon the Fourth, will give three Trials the traitor should choose from to defend his honor and fight the death penalty."
Nash moistened his lips, and his nose creased. If there were Trials that would allow him to keep his head on his shoulders, that meant all hope wasn't lost. The Crier rolled out a little more of the parchment, speaking as he read.
"The Trials, due to their Divine Nature, shall be given in honor to the Divine Trinity! The First Trial shall be the Trial of Faith, given in honor of the Ruler of the Sky, Mazaeth! The Second Trial shall be the Trial of the Spider, in honor of the Pale Lady, Noroas! And finally, the Third Trial shall be the Trial of Strength, given in honor of the traitor's god, the Lord of the Battlefields and Ruler of Blood, Rodraxos!"
The Crier hurriedly drank from a leather flask hanging under his red flannel, before continuing.
"Shall the traitor succeed in any of the Three Trials, he shall be freed from his crimes and exiled to the Other Side, forbidden to come back to Empyreal Enclave. So, Nash Dularfull, what Trial do you choose?" The Crier finished, rolling the parchment back, his eyes stuck on the young man kneeling on the ground. Everyone else stood up after the King's Command was given, similarly staring at Nash with either curiosity, hate, or mockery, but, surprisingly, no pity.
'For a Fallen Prince, I have no supporters. This isn't the best situation. I don't even know what each of those Trials means, how am I supposed to know which to choose?' Nash bit his lower lip, when the King chuckled, coughing lightly as he tapped lightly on the armchair of his bone throne.
"Well, well. Hesitating, are we, Dularfull?" The King spat the last word spitefully, before coughing a thick phlegm to the side. Nash didn't reply, looking at the King defiantly directly in the eyes. He didn't know if it was an offense or not, but why should he care? It seemed clear enough that the only thing the old bastard wanted was his death. Whatever these Trials, they certainly don't sound like they're supposed to be easily survived through.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
'...My best bet probably is the Trial of the Spider. With how high the prison was, the Sky Trial probably has something to do with that. As for the Trial of Strength, I don't know how to fight properly nor have a trained body, so whatever I would have to exert strength against would probably eat me raw. Shit, the Trial of the Spider sounds better only because I can't guess what the hell it is!'
The King sighed, his voice raspy and tired.
"Nash, due to my respect for your family, I shall give you five more seconds to decide, but if you don't..." The King grinned evilly, half of his teeth missing while the other was rotten, "...I'll just choose for you. It is my right as the King, after all."
Nash gritted his teeth and abruptly stood up, proudly raising his chin.
'Whoever Prince I'm supposed to be, I shall act in his fashion! I need to get any supporters I can on my side!' The young man thought as he straightened himself.
"I'll take the Trial of the Spider, in honor of the Pale Lady, Noroas." He declared his voice firm and filled with conviction. A few surprised whispers echoed in the wall, while the King exploded in laughter.
"Hah, hah, cough, so that's what you chose, hmm? So be it, you fool...!" The King coughed a bit more, before waving dismissively while two knights rushed to his side, helping off his throne. The soldiers who first brought Nash here pulled the young man to his feet before dragging him out of the Throne Room, leading him back through the pristine hallways only dirtied by the prisoner's presence. As soon as the doors to the Throne Room closed, the soldiers chuckled in disbelief.
"Well, I knew you were a fool, Fallen Prince, but I never expected it to be that grave!" One of the soldiers pushed his helmet up, revealing the green eyes under the steel. Nash didn't bother to answer, content enough to let the man speak.
'...The first thing I need is information. I don't know what the Trial of the Spider is, but I can only deduct it's dangerous as hell from everyone's reactions...Shit, did I make the wrong choice?'
"The only heir of the legend, the myth, Dante Lord Dularfull, chose the Trial of his enemy's god. Hah! Did you do that to try and annoy His Majesty? Heh, as if..." The soldier grabbed Nash from behind, his steel-clad glove gripping tightly the young man's neck. The soldier approached his mouth from Nash's ear, whispering with a wicked grin.
"I'm sure His Majesty would reward us if we were to break the traditions and cut you down like the traitor that you are filth!" He smacked his gauntlet against the back of Nash's head, making the latter's ring with a loud pain.
'I won't give you the pleasure of an answer, you bastard...'
"Yeah, grit your teeth, Fallen Prince. Hopefully, we'll be able to see you fall even further, hahaha!" The soldier chuckled, the three others laughing with him. Nash raised an eyebrow inconspicuously but was shoved forward violently, forced to continue his way down the hallway.
Soon enough, he arrived in front of a new room, with only a single oak door adapted to a normal human's size. One of the soldiers pushed him inside the room, closing and locking the heavy door behind him. Nash restrained a swear as he dusted off his shoulder, his feet hurting from all the barefooted walking. Well, not that the rest of his body was in its peak condition either...
Nash looked at his surroundings, feeling strangely familiar with the room. It was a large bedroom, with a bed wide enough to welcome at least five people and a stained glass window that cast a red hue inside the room. There was a tall mirror encased in a golden shelf, heavily luxurious and much too decorated for Nash's taste. There was also another door leading elsewhere, which he chose to explore a little later.
"This feels like it's supposed to be...my bedroom, somehow..." The young man muttered as he gazed around with curiosity, soon finding a large chest on one side of the room that attracted his situation. He winced as each step forward filled him with pain, not bothering to hide his suffering anymore now that there were no bastards left to see it. Nash kneeled in front of the chest, straining his weakened muscles as he opened it. The scent of clean clothes filled his nose, letting him sigh in appreciation. He almost pounced on the clothes so he could finally get rid of his filthy set of basic tunic and pants, which bore a repulsive smell of death and dirtiness but chose instead to try and find a way to clean himself before.
'It'd be a shame to dirty clean clothes, and I need a shower anyway...'
Nash glanced at the door on a side of the room, waiting for him to open it. He walked up to it, pushing the door open to find a luxurious bathroom with mosaic-covered walls, all in a crimson tint, and a bathtub in the same exaggerated size as his bed. Nash moistened his lips and looked around the bathroom, soon finding a lever in the wall. He triggered it without much hope, before hearing the sound of water flowing down. He sighed in satisfaction as he witnessed a cloud of hot steam grow above the bathtub, thanking the gods for giving him a chance to clean himself. He waited until the bath was filled before getting rid of his clothes and jumping in. It was more of a swimming pool than a bathtub due to how large it was, but Nash certainly wasn't bothered by that fact as he enjoyed the warmth of the bath. His sore pains disappeared one after the other as he looked at the red mosaic, quickly understanding it wasn't just decoration, but the depiction of a specific scene.
Standing above fire and ruins, with a similar weapon to the ones the 'barbarian' guards used, a long sword with a leaf-shaped blade that widened toward the tip, while the pommel was the same, an opened beast's jaw, was a muscular warrior with a build drawn by the gods themselves. But what caught Nash's attention was the deep red color that made the man's hair, similar to his.
"...Who would that be...?" He pondered under his breath, before thoroughly cleaning and scrubbing every spot of his body. After a dozen minutes, Nash finally got out of the bath, a towel wrapped around his waist. He walked up to the mirror in his room, grimacing when he saw himself in his entirety. He looked even thinner than he thought he was, with his skin stuck against his bones, his stomach carved inward and his ribs much too apparent. His red hair, previously of a bright color that he couldn't help but be proud of, was now faded, more brown than red. His overall face, with the addition of being emaciated, was the same he always had ever since he was born. Even his eyes were of the same deep, marine blue color, captivating, and much too efficient against the opposite gender.
'...There's no way the Trial is far enough in time to give me the leeway to put some muscles back on those...sticks, is there?' Nash smacked his lips, rubbing his forehead with a complicated expression. He shook his head and went to dig into the cloth's chest. His expression soon transformed to a confused one, all the clothes in the chest looking much too impractical to wear.
'...There are way too many buttons on those pants for it to be comfortable. Shit, how am I supposed to move in that?' Nash bit on his lower lip, frowning deeply. He searched a little longer, eventually finding the more comfortable-looking clothes, black trousers that could be fastened with rows of buttons on each sleeve, reaching to his ankles, and a white cotton shirt under a dark red vest that was completed with a black coat. He slipped on a pair of long socks-looking piece of fabric that reached up his calves, comfortable but quite warm. Finally, he put on two black boots, completing his attire.
Nash looked at himself in the mirror, wincing at the sight of the coat reaching below his knees, risking catching in any sharp corner or door handle. He moved around, frowning at how rigid he felt, the tight clothes cracking and threatening to snap when he tried to crouch or stretch. The young man sighed, before deciding to look around his room a bit more.
"...I'm almost sure this is a Prince's bedroom, there has to be something I can use, right...?" Nash mumbled, struggling to lift his massive bed's mattress, not finding much under it but a silver medallion bound to a leather cord. He reached out for it, observing the intricate design under the red light the tinted glass projected. After pressing a small mechanism to the side, the medallion snapped open, revealing a small painting of an unknown couple that looked eerily similar to his dead parents, with a child between the two of them. A child that looked exactly like he did when he was ten, with the same gentle smile and the short haircut that his mother liked to ruffle...
Nash got rid of these thoughts with a shake of his head, closing the medallion and putting it in his pocket. Whatever tricks the 'Tower' was playing on him didn't matter. What did was find his sister, and to do that, he needed to survive. Better-looking clothes probably wouldn't help him much in the matter, even though smelling clean did wonders for his mind. The young man kept on searching through his room, failing to find anything else besides the medallion. Either the whole room had been picked through, or the medallion had been left here for him to find.
Nash's face was covered in red light as he looked beyond the tinted glass, finding out that even though he had indeed come down quite a bit from his prison, the Citadel, as they called it, still stood high, resting on massive stone columns that were encased in the side of a massive mountain. He couldn't even begin to guess where the bottom of it was, due to how high he was, and because of the bad visibility. There were occasional sun rays that passed through the sea of clouds that covered the sky, but the whole atmosphere was pretty grim, mirroring his situation.
"...I wouldn't be surprised if it began raining..." Nas whispered, before turning around at the noise of someone knocking on his door. He opened it warily, struggling to contain his annoyance when he saw the same group of four soldiers waiting for him there, their spears raised toward the ceiling, much less threatening now. Perhaps having the appearance of a Prince was enough to stop them from treating him like a piece of crap?
"Are you fucking kidding me?" The furthest soldier blurted out as he rubbed his chin in disbelief. The other three traded glances, their eyes filled with shock and awe. Nash raised an eyebrow but kept a cold expression, not willing to let his confusion appear.
'Why the hell are they so surprised? What, did they expect to stay in my prison clothes?'
Nash pinched his lips, crossing his arms as he waited in the doorway, worried about what was going to happen to him, but also curious. The soldiers all shook their heads in a similar position, before pointing to a direction in the hallway.
"...Let's just get going already. I can't believe you would show your honor only now..." The soldier trailed off with a hint of regret, followed by three agreeing nods. Nash ignored them and proceeded in the direction they pointed at, counting at the same time how many 'knights' guards there were. By the time he arrived at his destination, he had numbered nearly a hundred armored knights standing like statues in front of each column holding the whole castle together.
Instead of the double gigantic oak doors, Nash was now standing in front of a magnificent stone archway, leading into a grand banquet hall bathing in the crimson light of the tinted-glass ceiling. Rows of flags bearing the sigil of the twisted tree were hanging on every wall and columns, flattering slightly at his arrival, as if to welcome him. However, said the welcome was far from being warm. Instead, every single person in the hall was staring at him with wide-opened eyes, a deathly silence ringing through the grand hall. Nash gritted his teeth and stepped in, followed closely by the four soldiers, the sound of his boots hitting the ground echoing in the silent hall. The banquet hall was filled with rows and rows of tables, arranged to welcome hundreds of guests while three times their numbers of 'knights' were watching over from the sides of the room.
A little higher than them, on a wide, luxurious armchair, staring with wide-opened eyes and a gaping mouth, sat the King, Aethon the Fourth. At his side, a dozen women, each more beautiful than the last, with dull, emotionless faces. They glanced at Nash, the surprise passing swiftly in their eyes, igniting a ridiculously small ember of life in them, an ember that was swiftly snuffed out by the King slamming his golden cup on the table, getting the whole public of their frozen state. The King coughed to the side, before drinking from his cup, red wine dripping on his dirty beard, making it somehow even more disgusting than it already was.
"Cough," Aethon the Fourth spat to the side, before casting his gaze back on Nash who was waiting silently, straighter than an arrow and a gaze as indomitable as steel. The King snorted before ripping a chunk of meat out of a greasy chicken leg, the juices joining the wine in his beard, and whatever was also safely stashed in there.
"So you've finally decided to show your honor, hmm? Well, not that it would do you any good..." The King grinned, licking his fingers as he kept on staring at Nash. The latter frowned but remained silent, glancing at his surroundings with a cold gaze. Everyone who met his eyes turned away, seemingly unable to endure the pressure of his eyes or rather the guilt they felt when they looked at the youth. However, Nash couldn't care less about that, instead much more focused on the King's words.
'...Show my honor? The soldier also said the same thing... What does that mean..?'
Nash didn't get the time to think for another second on the matter as the King cleared his throat, the banquet hall becoming as silent as when it welcomed the young man. The King pushed himself up, the otherworldly beauties to his side helping him with blank faces, seemingly uncaring about the inappropriate groping they were going through.
"Hrm, in my right as the King, I octroy you your last meal. For, I, Aethon Banyan, am a gracious person," He grinned as he raised his cup toward Nash as servants brought a single-person table and a chair, inviting him to make himself comfortable. The young man sat expressionlessly and stared silently at the servant who brought him a plate of food hidden under a silver cloche delicately engraved. The servant gulped as he lifted the cloche, revealing Nash's last meal.
Despite his best efforts, Nash couldn't stop himself from standing up and taking a step back in shock, his eyes glued to the plate.
In a small pool of blood, uncooked and untouched, pale and unmoving, was a head.
A head crowned with faded red hair, with fair skin and gracious features, the same as Nash's.
His dead father's head.