As the first light of dawn broke through the horizon, it bathed the grand courtyard of the palace in a radiant golden glow. The air was filled with a sense of anticipation and purpose as servants and guards moved with determined efficiency, each acutely aware of their role in the day's momentous event.
"The Princess's coronation must proceed without any disruptions. Ensure that all surrounding areas are closely monitored at all times," commanded a stoic figure clad in imposing armour. The warriors before him responded with salutes, placing their right hands over their hearts before executing a precise bow and then marching off to assume their vigil.
"Sir Berholt," a young lady's melodious voice called out to the authoritative figure. He turned on his heel, catching sight of a young lady with flowing golden locks that cascaded around her shoulders, her hazel eyes brimming with liveliness. With a graceful flourish, he bowed respectfully. "Your Highness," he responded courteously before straightening up to meet her gaze.
"May I inquire as to why you are wakeful at such hour, Your Highness?" His voice was laced with genuine curiosity and concern. But despite his respectful demeanour, a soft chuckle escaped the Princess. “Sir Berholt, please dispense with the formalities. You are the General, yes, yet you still serve as my personal guard,” she exclaimed, her eyes dancing with a touch of amusement.
A smile tugged gently at the corners of Sir Berholt's lips as he shook his head in mock disapproval. "Yet you are still the heiress to the throne of Cirith. How dare I cast away my formalities, Your Highness?" His voice was playful as he bowed with a flourish, eliciting the Princess's small, musical laugh. Looking up at her with fondness, Sir Berholt continued, "To think that the little girl who once yearned to play knights and slay dragons would be all grown up," he spoke with a hint of nostalgia, causing the Princess to groan teasingly at the reminder of their childhood adventures. "Please, let us not dwell upon the past," she interjected, her tone tinged with a hint of humility.
"Very well," he responded with an amused glint in his eyes as he observed the Princess's unease. She gently shook her head, her face adorned with a serene expression as she gazed towards the far-off horizon. The crisp morning air enveloped her, infusing her with a sense of renewal as she immersed herself in the beauty of the natural surroundings. But sensing his inquiry, she met his questioning gaze with a smile. "I simply yearn to witness this day's first light unfolding," she explained. "Once I ascend to the throne, I will be deprived of the opportunity to savour such moments of peace."
Her tone grew sombre. "I acknowledge that I may not be fully prepared to assume the role of Queen. However, the era of peace has drawn to a close, and I now must bear the weight of my father's responsibilities." Her gaze lingered longingly on the object of her focus, the far-off horizon, as she finished her statement, conveying a mix of emotions and unspoken thoughts.
He gazed at the Princess with a solemn nod, recognizing her resolution. "Your father, his Highness, would have been pleased with the resilient woman you've grown into, Princess," he remarked. A wistful smile briefly graced her features before giving way to a determined countenance. "Enough of the sentiment," she responded unsteadily, drawing a deep breath to steady herself. "If I may ask, how are you and Lady Johalynn faring? Her time for childbirth approaches, correct? You two must be brimming with joy." Her voice carried a court of eagerness as she inquired about their welfare, changing the matter of subject.
His weathered face softened with a tinge of sorrow as he spoke of Lady Johalynn, his deep affection for her evident in every line of his rugged features. "Your Highness, we are doing well. We are eagerly anticipating the new addition to our family," he said with a warmth and tenderness that seemed incongruous with his imposing presence yet wholly fitting. However, a steely resolve crept into his expression as he continued, "I had hoped to be by her side during these challenging times. But alas," he sighed heavily, "the relentless war demands my presence elsewhere." The Princess locked gaze with him after he spoke, brown eyes meeting soft hazel.
The Princess gazed deeply into his eyes, her own reflecting a profound understanding of his emotions. As she looked at him, she could sense the weight of his expectations for her future role as Queen, which seemed daunting. Despite feeling intimidated, she had solemnly vowed to herself before and now sought to steel her resolve. Her smile, though fragile, was a shield against the fears and uncertainties that seemed to loom larger in the presence of Sir Berholt. "General," she spoke with formality, addressing him, "I must take my leave. There are pressing matters that require my attention before the ceremony. Farewell," she said, moving past him with a sense of urgency, her slender figure trembling under the weight of overwhelming emotions threatening to engulf her.
Sir Berholt watched with worried eyes as she hurried along; every step she took seemed to resonate with the grandeur of the opulent palace corridor. The weight of the stares following her every move added an almost palpable tension to the atmosphere. Among the curious gazes of the servants and guards, there were pairs of unsettling crimson eyes fixated on her. These eyes exuded a disturbing mix of emotions - a potent blend of lust, desire, and hostility that seemed to set them apart from the ordinary onlookers. Despite their intense presence, the eyes remained concealed within the crowd, biding their time with a sense of caution and patience.
Unaware of the malevolent glances fixed upon her, the Princess aimlessly wandered through the palace's splendour, her thoughts carried far away from the intricate beauty surrounding her. The expansive corridor was adorned with towering doors and magnificent works of art, but her mind was elsewhere. Her focus only returned as she stood upon a pair of imposing doors, their regal presence captivating her. The woodwork of the doors seemed to exude an almost mystical allure, drawing her in and momentarily causing her trembling figure and suppressed emotions to dissipate as if evaporating into the air.
Holding her breath, she finally exhaled comfortably, her hand reaching for the smooth surface of the wooden door. Pausing to slow her breathing, she pushed the door open, eager for what lay beyond.
The room was grand, adorned with opulent decor that exuded an air of elegance. A stately bed dominated one corner, flanked by towering bookshelves displaying an array of precious trinkets. As she closed the door behind her, her eyes swept over the room, a sense of familiarity settling over her. It was evident that she had been here before. A serene calm washed over her, replacing the pained expression with a radiant smile that emanated warmth.
Her fingers lightly traced the intricate carvings on the wooden shelves, eliciting a soft, melodic chuckle. Coming to a large portrait in the room, she paused. The painting depicted a handsome man with deep, raven-dark hair and gentle hazel eyes standing alongside a beautiful woman with flowing golden locks and bright azure eyes. Nestled between them, a girl resembling her younger self embraced a boy with features reminiscent of the man and the woman in the portrait—raven-dark hair and soft blue eyes.
As she traced the boy's features with a tinge of sadness, her smile faded, giving way to a wistful expression. "Oh, dearest brother . . ." she murmured softly, her voice filled with longing.
ᓚᘏᗢ
He stood quietly, keenly observing as Jörhvítr ground a set of white stones that were unfamiliar to him into fine powder. The young man divided the powder into equal portions, wrapping it with leathery cloth before securing it with a thin yet sturdy rope. But after moments of watching, Cith's attention was diverted elsewhere to Jörhvítr's unusual features. There was a hint of familiarity in his eyes, but he wanted confirmation.
"The hue of your hair and the form of your pupil. They are not akin to men," he commented, breaking the silence. Jörhvítr paused, meeting Cith's inquiring gaze with a thoughtful look. "That is very observant of you, Cith," he responded with a nonchalant and unimpressed tone. "But as much as I would like to satisfy your curiosity, I am busy at the moment. Will you stay there, or will you help me grind these stones?" asked Jörhvítr.
But when Cith responded with a simple shake of his head, he turned his attention back to his work. "It's fine. It was merely an offer to cease the intensity of your gaze. It's quite unsettling," he remarked snidely, earning an awkward cough as a response from Cith, who settled to sit instead of standing.
There was a moment of hush silence over the two; the sound of grinding the stone served as an ambience sound, soothing and calm. But this came to an abrupt end when the tapping sound of Cith's finger drew Jörhvítr's attention. "What is it?" he inquired in irritation, breaking the silence that fell over them.
He met Cith's knowing gaze, to which he responded, "Have you gone mute in the head as well? I am not a mind reader." This prompted an exasperated sigh from the child, who was rolling his eyes. "Certainly, it won't waste your precious time indulging in where you hail and what you are. Must I be more obvious?" Cith responded sarcastically.
Jörhvítr's expression morphed incredulously as he lifted a brow at the snarky remark. "Certainly, yes. But here I was assuming you'd hold extensive knowledge, considering you were raised by archaic beings, O Cith, son of dryads," he mocked in a dry, humourless tone as he stood.
Cith's annoyed and heated glare turned curious as Jörhvítr stood up after tightly securing the last of the bundle. "If you really must know, it is easier to show you," he sighed, walking towards the spacious part of the room. "Dryads have existed long before my people. Surely, they would've imparted you knowledge of history. Observe closely," Jörhvítr instructed as he straightened up and took a deep breath before closing his eyes.
The room was enveloped in a profound stillness, and Cith, filled with anticipation, keenly observed Jörhvítr, who was entirely absorbed in his task. But as seconds stretched into minutes, a look of impatience crept across his face as he frowned impatiently. "I don't suppose you're jesting at this moment. If so, it is not very humourous," Cith prodded, causing Jörhvítr to click his tongue in annoyance.
"Could you possibly not wait for just a moment?" Jörhvítr asked with a heated tone, furrowing his brow in concentration as he struggled to regain his focus. "This is rather strange," he voiced tensely, the words escaping with a trace of frustration.
"Undoubtedly. It's quite peculiar," Cith reiterated, nodding solemnly. However, his perspective sharply contrasted with Jörhvítr's, who remained silent. Instead, Jörhvítr pursed his lips tightly, tensing his muscles as though straining for something. His fists were clenched, and his countenance was marred by a deep frown.
The young man seemed to be in inner turmoil, but the sight before him caused Cith's thoughts to drift, resulting in a grimace of disgust. "I hope you're not trying to demonstrate the intricate art of responding to the call of nature in the culture of your people," he queried with evident revulsion.
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Jörhvítr tilted his head sharply, his closed eyes fixed on the Cith. "Would you mind repeating that? I'm not quite following. What exactly do you mean by 'nature's call'?" he inquired breathily, his voice tinged with unmistakable confusion.
"Nature's call . . . the act of relieving waste from the rear?" Cith inquired tentatively, scrunching his face. Jörhvítr groaned in disgust. "What—No! How did you ever come to that conclusion?" he asked in disbelief, struggling to maintain his composure in the face of such a perplexing question. "Well—I . . . I will keep silent," he muttered embarrassingly.
He shook his head at the child, a mixture of concern and weariness creeping into his tone. "That would be very appreciated," Jörhvítr commented, giving his best efforts to stay calm, masking the tension within him that seemed unyielding.
He savoured a long, deep breath, feeling the crisp air fill his lungs and then slowly escape as he exhaled, trying to dispel the tension knotting his muscles. But as time passed with no visible headway, his mind grew increasingly agitated. Frustration bubbled up, and a low, exasperated groan slipped from his lips as his waning patience threatened to give out entirely.
Meanwhile, Cith observed in silence, choosing to hold back his words. However, as tense minutes ticked by and Jörhvítr voiced his frustration, Cith found it increasingly difficult to stay quiet. "You know—" he began, but just then, he was cut off by a sudden burst of biting wind that whipped around them both. "Jörh!" he called out, shielding himself as a wild and potent energy encircled the young man who screamed in agony.
It appeared that Jörhvítr's efforts had come to nought as the swirling energy around him began to convulse uncontrollably, forcing Cith to quickly take cover behind the counter as the amassed energy seemed ready to explode. And moments later, he braced himself as a mighty gust of wind tore through the room, sending furniture and utensils flying in its powerful wake.
After waiting a few nerve-wracking seconds, Cith cautiously peeked over the counter. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the sight of the once tidy space now in complete disarray. Despite the chaos, his focus was singular, and he searched for Jörhvítr, but the young man was nowhere to be found.
Confusion gripped Cith, quickly giving way to growing concern as he rose to his feet. Suddenly, his eyes fell on Jörhvítr, who was sprawled on the floor, his body contorting in agony as he struggled for each breath. "Jörh!" Cith cried out, rushing to the young man's side, but Jörhvítr seemed entirely unaware of his presence.
He reached for Jörhvítr's shoulder to grab his attention, but that motion jolted the young man with an involuntary jerk. His right arm, adorned with unusual white scales, instinctively moved towards Cith's throat as if it had a mind of its own. It seemed poised to close around Cith's delicate neck, but at the moment, at an incredible effort, Jörhvítr managed to regain control before his hand could make contact. He locked eyes with Cith, who was overcome with a mixture of shock and terror at the close call.
Jörhvítr slowly withdrew his arm, his eyes filled with confusion and bewilderment. As he cautiously stood up, he took a few hesitant steps back from Cith, his mind swirling with puzzlement. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me," he murmured, his voice tinged with unease as he looked down at his arm; a myriad of emotions flickered across his face. He clenched his hand into a tight fist and felt an overwhelming surge of raw, untamed power emanating from the scales that now adorned his arm. These scales were denser and more formidable than the ones he had possessed during his battle with the beast, and he could sense the crackling energy coursing through his veins.
"I had assumed it was but mere armour that had shattered in the battle against the beast," Cith said in awe as he stood up. His earlier stupor, mixed with shock and terror, had now dissipated, giving way to a profound sense of amazement. This drew Jörhvítr's attention away from the intricate scales, compelling him to lock eyes with Cith. "But I am sure of it. You are from beyond the border, coming from a distant place, from the Northern reaches devastated by frost. The Lost Land. You are of Drakin, the drakefolk of the North."
Jörhvítr nodded slowly, his distracted expression revealing slightly that he had expected the response. "Yes," he murmured, a sense of bewilderment evident in his musing as he shifted his gaze to his clenched fist. Gradually, he unfurled his hand, causing the once-present white scales adorning his arm to disperse into nothingness.
However, as the scales vanished, the energy that had filled him seemed to dissipate as well, and he faltered slightly, prompting Cith to make a gesture to offer assistance. Despite feeling lightheaded, Jörhvítr raised a hand to signal Cith to stop and steadied himself by making his way to the nearby table. As he sat down, his head began to spin, and he braced himself for a moment, trying to regain his composure.
"Are you alright?" Cith asked with genuine concern as he made his way over to the table where Jörhvítr was sitting. The young man appeared lost in thought, his head bowed and his expression troubled. Cith stood silently by, his eyes reflecting his worry as he observed Jörhvítr's inner struggle. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as he waited, uncertain of how to ease his companion's distress. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Jörhvítr broke the silence and spoke.
"What knowledge do you possess of the North?" he inquired of Cith, lifting his gaze to meet the child's eyes. Cith hesitated for a moment, feeling a twinge of unease under Jörhvítr's intense scrutiny. "Only the tales spoken of by the dryads, of the fate of the North," he responded after the tense silence.
Jörhvítr looked puzzled. "That is all?" he asked, earning a nod. "Yes, that is all," Cith repeated. "The dryads share only the knowledge of history. If I press for more details, their answers would be as cryptic as the Voice that communicates with me." A sense of retort echoed in his mind, but Cith ignored it.
"Did these tales include the history of the Drakins?" he inquired, but Cith shook his head at the question. "That is surprising," Jörhvítr mumbled. "Dryads are beings of yore. They existed in an immemorial age when the great ancestor of my people once encircled the world. To withhold information from you could only mean they will offer no aid." He finished strong and heatedly, slamming his hand on the table in frustration as he stood.
Cith, visibly irritated by the young man's sudden outburst, furrowed his brows and countered with a question of his own. "You've been inundating me with all these inquiries. Tell me, why this sudden fixation?" Jörhvítr's sharp gaze bore into the child, but Cith met it with unflinching composure. "I have lost much of my strength due to those beings and their damn trial," he uttered with palpable disdain.
"The trial I endured nearly cost me my life. Though I survived, I am now left with just a fraction of my former strength. I had hoped that you would have been able to provide some knowledge that they might have imparted to you to restore my pilfered strength. Instead, I find myself trapped in this weakened state, feeling feeble and insignificant," he concluded.
"You mean—" Cith began, only to be cut off abruptly by the weight of realization. A heavy silence filled the room as Jörhvítr struggled to convey the depth of his tribulation. "The beast—the Pantheren, had robbed me of my strength," he uttered with palpable anguish, his voice trailing off as the gravity of his confession hung in the air like a shroud.
With a despairing countenance, he sank into his seat and murmured, "How can I possibly save the world from such impending disaster?" The child, burdened by the chilling truth, furtively absorbed Jörhvítr's despairing words. "Disaster?" Cith interjected, his confusion mirrored by the young man's mounting distress. "What do you mean by such words?"
Jörhvítr fell into a deep silence, his breath catching with an exasperated sigh after an unintended slip of his tongue. He pondered the weight of what he would reveal to the child, who looked at him intensely, waiting for his response. He shook his head, sighing in resignation.
"I was but a child," he began tensely, "when I began to receive these visions through dreams. Perhaps they are memories? Of the past or maybe glimpses of the future? I'm unaware, yet, they were vivid. But amongst these visions was a world enveloped in darkness. The elders of the village. They called it," Jörhvítr met Cith's eyes, a heavy tension in the air as he uttered one word.
". . . Ragnarok."
ᗢᘏᓗ
The grand hall, with its towering arched ceilings adorned with golden filigree, exuded an atmosphere crackling with anticipation. The elegant chandeliers bathed the room in a warm, golden glow, casting intricate shadows on the rich drapery adorning the walls. As the guests, adorned in their most exquisite finery, mingled and conversed, the air was alive with the symphonic strains of a string quartet, their music weaving curtains of enchantment.
From the resplendent nobles to the distinguished dignitaries, every individual exuded an aura of regal sophistication. However, beneath the veneer of courtly grace, beneath the gentle din of conversation and laughter, lurked a world of calculated words and subtle gestures; each participant engaged in an intricate dance for social standing. The grand hall stood as a monument to opulence and prestige, a stage for both the magnificence of the kingdom and the clandestine manoeuvres of its elite.
Amidst the opulent affair, all eyes were drawn to the central figure of the evening, Sir Berholt, the esteemed General of the Kingdom's army. His impeccable uniform was adorned with a dazzling array of medals and ribbons, catching the light of the chandeliers and casting a brilliant glow. While others indulged in wine and revelry, Sir Berholt remained vigilant and composed, navigating the crowd with a commanding yet approachable presence.
His watchful gaze swept across the balcony, where his men stationed themselves steadfastly, their unwavering commitment to duty palpable in the air. This was a momentous night—the coronation of the Princess, who would ascend to the throne as the Queen of the Great Kingdom of Cirith. Yet, amidst the grandeur and celebration, a sense of unease began to stir within Sir Berholt. A foreboding feeling took hold of him, prompting a question to gnaw at his thoughts: What could possibly be amiss?
But before he could dwell on the unsettling foreign feeling that had gripped him, his attention was abruptly diverted by the entrance of a young lord striding confidently across the room toward his direction. The lord exuded an air of haughtiness; his self-assured demeanour attest to his unwavering sense of superiority. He possessed a mane of long, glossy black hair that starkly contrasted with his pallid complexion, emphasizing his overall gaunt and unhealthy visage.
Despite taking note of these distinctive features, Sir Berholt remained composed, standing tall with a hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Has my dear, naïve cousin neglected to instruct her loyal pet on how to properly address his betters?" the young lord derided, referring to the Princess as his cousin. "Or has this old mutt simply grown too feeble to learn new tricks?" he taunted, positioning himself directly in front of Sir Berholt.
A tense standoff unfolded in front of the royal guest as the young lord and Sir Berholt locked eyes. With an air of steadfastness, Sir Berholt confronted the young lord, "Your father is merely a regent holding the throne. How can I show deference to a mere leech in line for the crown? Be aware that the supposedly naive Princess you speak of will soon be Queen following the coronation."
In response, the young lord's expression contorted into a sneer, his lips forming a malevolent smile. "Ah, yes, how could I overlook that sickening display of loyalty. Do you desire my dear cousin, whom you so pathetically address? Is your own lady incapable of satisfying your desires, 'Sir' Berholt? If so, I deeply pity your lady. Her husband seems to display more loyalty to a harlot than to his own wife," he taunted. With the scornful word 'harlot' escaping his lips, the unmistakable sound of a sharp blade being drawn filled the air as Sir Berholt swiftly unsheathed his sword, pressing it with precision against the young lord's throat.
"Lord Angus, I must advise you to refrain from likening Her Highness to a common wench. Any disrespect towards the Princess will not be tolerated. I do hold the authority to take action," announced Sir Berholt. His words caused a commotion among the distinguished guests in the grand hall, many of whom had previously made unsavoury remarks about the Princess.
Tension saturated the atmosphere as the young Lord Angus retorted with a sly smirk. Despite his slender frame, an eerie sense of tranquillity emanated from him as he locked eyes with Sir Berholt's stern gaze, a fleeting flash of unsettling red in his eyes. "Soon, you will come to realize that there is nothing you can do but bear witness as your Princess succumbs to her fate under a new rule," he hissed, each word dripping with threat and presage.
Sir Berholt felt a slight tremor in his composure as he locked eyes with Lord Angus, whose crimson gaze flickered momentarily as the pretentious noble met his. His hand gripped the hilt of his blade, and he inched it closer to Lord Angus's throat, the weight of the demand for an explanation heavy in the air. "I demand an explanation of such a threat," he asserted, his voice resonating with authority. Despite this, Lord Angus remained silent, a sneer playing on his lips as he carefully backed away from the blade aimed at his throat. His eyes never left Sir Berholt's gaze as he retreated into the crowd, his whispered words hanging in the air, faint yet sharp. "You will know. Soon, that is all you will know."