Chapter 2

Cane Calborne

An abundance of colorful birds flocked about in the gardens of the Alena Palace. The sky was clear and the sun was shining in all of its splendor. Cane Calborne sat beneath a large hamura tree, enjoying the shade of its canopy. Although he was alone, there were numerous guards posted nearby to protect him. Their presence made him feel safer, for his days of sword play were long over.

He sighed in relief, resting against the hamura’s massive trunk. Shutting his eyes, he took in the gentle rustling of the leaves and the lively birdsong. With the busy day-to-day affairs of the imperial court ever-present, it was here, in these peaceful gardens, that he felt most at ease.

Looking up, he admired the hamura tree’s leaves—an exquisite array of pink and white. Every year before the onset of winter, its breathtaking blossoms drew the entire court to marvel at the spectacle.

As often as he could, Cane indulged in his books or came to rest beneath the hamura’s canopy in solitude. Once upon a time, however, these moments were not so lonesome. When his children—now grown adults and with their own to raise—were still young, he would frequently read stories to them there. Rambunctious as they were, he had their undivided attention when it came time to hear the tales of Alderin the Great and his two dragons. His eldest daughter, Alena, would later come to share her father’s love of books. In her free time, she would often sit beneath the hamura to read. After marrying Aremos Arathan and having her first two children, she carried on her father’s reading tradition with them.

But then, Alena died. Even with the passing of sixteen years, the pain of her passing never truly went away and still lingered deep inside Cane’s heart. He had taken it upon himself to honor her memory by continuing to read for her three children in the same way that he had for her. As the years went on, only the youngest, Anthranor, showed a true interest in literature. Anya, the second-born, was more fascinated with running in the outdoors, scaling the palace walls, and playing dress-up with her cousins. Daelanor, meanwhile, shunned books as a “waste of time” and found his passion in sword fighting.

Cane sighed, his thoughts drifting back to simpler, happier days. Alena’s death had shattered the family, and Cane had been left to pick up the pieces ever since. Now approaching his seventy-sixth birthday, he worried what was to become of the realm following his passing. The ambitious yet irresponsible Daelanor was set to succeed his father Aremos, and Cane feared that his reign would be a disastrous one. The crown prince was like a wild dragon—once set loose, he could never be caged again.

“Grandfather!” a boy cried out.

At once, Cane was shaken from his thoughts by the familiar voice. He turned and smiled, watching as two of his grandchildren, nearly adults now, Anthranor and Anya, ran towards him.

“Good morning,” he greeted warmly as they stopped to catch their breaths. “What brings you out here?”

“We wanted to talk to you, Grandfather,” Anthranor said, breathless, his face flushed red. Cane patted the patch of grass beside him. “Have a seat, you two.”

“So, what do you wish to discuss?” he asked after they had settled.

Anya’s eyes cautiously darted around them. Then she turned to Cane. “It’s about Daelanor,” she said quietly, her tone serious. Cane’s lighthearted demeanor diminished. Any discussion about Daelanor was unlikely to be a good one.

He looked her in the eyes. “Where is he now?”

“Last we saw, he was off to the training ground,” answered Anya.

Good, he thought. The farther away from this conversation, the better.

“What do you wish to discuss about him?”

“It’s about his place as the heir,” said Anya. “And… his treatment of Anthranor.”

“What did he do to him?”

She began explaining. “Last night, Daelanor was very late to dinner, and he had also missed several council meetings earlier in the day. But he didn’t seem to care at all, so father was enraged and sent us all out, all except Daelanor. The last thing we could hear was father’s fury as we left. Afterwards, likely out of his own petty hatred, he hunted Anthranor down and backed him into a corner. Then he started attacking him and even violently threw him around until I made him stop.”

Anthranor’s eyes glanced at Anya, a flash of bewilderment betraying her words. Cane looked at him. “I do not doubt Daelanor’s irresponsible nature, but did he truly assault you like that?”

The prince turned to him, his eyes darting to the grass below. “He… was trying to provoke me, and he even pushed me when I talked back to him. But… he didn’t violently attack me or anything of the sort.”

Anya sighed in exasperation. “He’s a bully,” she said. “He has never failed in ceaselessly berating, insulting, and provoking Anthranor. He’s done so ever since we were children, and he has always flaunted his birthright as an excuse to belittle everybody.”

Her words stung with truth. Cane vividly recalled the boy that Daelanor was in his youth—the little menace of the palace, his spirit like an ever-blazing inferno that burned from within. He was an inconsiderate child with little regard for authority. The spankings that Aremos gave out to his son only served to harden the boy’s resolve, and never to stem the tide of his ferocity.

Since the death of the boy’s mother, Cane had laid witness as a darkness festered within him, fueled by his unrepentant behavior, hatred, and unstoppable ambition. He had hung onto a shred of faith, in hopes that the responsibility of wearing the crown and the passage of time would have tamed the boy. However, by now that faith was crumbling. At twenty years of age, Daelanor had changed very little, if at all, from his younger self. There was little doubt that the crown prince would prove to be a strong monarch, but a strong ruler wasn’t necessarily always a good one. Perhaps there was someone better to rule in his stead, but that question alone was a dangerous one to ask. This will take some time to brood over, he thought.

Cane looked at his granddaughter. “I’ll speak to your father about it,” he said. “It is a delicate matter, and it will take time to resolve.”

Both Anthranor and Anya looked relieved, although Cane noticed a glint of fear in Anthranor’s eyes. “Anthranor, Ser Dorristan is your personal guard, is he not?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t follow me everywhere.”

“As of now, you are to change that. Do not go anywhere without him by your side, unless you absolutely must. Understood?”

Anthranor nodded in obedience. “Good,” Cane smiled.

Their heads turned as a guard approached them. With the assistance of his grandchildren in standing and retrieving his walking cane, Cane rose to greet him. “Good morning,” he said.

“Lord Chancellor, my prince, and my princess.” The guard bowed his head. “The Emperor has summoned you to his chambers.”

Cane nodded. “Thank you, inform him we shall be there promptly.”

“Yes, my lord.” The guard bowed once more and left.

Turning to Anya, Cane smiled. “I presume you won’t be attending?”

“Correct.” She smiled back. “Council meetings bore me half to hell, grandfather.”

“I don’t think she’s attended any for the past month or so,” Anthranor quipped.

Anya laughed. “I wager Daelanor has a better chance of showing up than me.”

“We shall see if he attends this one. Anthranor, let us go.” Cane started walking as he waved his guards to move. His grandson followed closely behind. “Farewell, Anya,” he said to her.

She waved as they left. “Farewell!” Then she ran off.

Daelanor Arathan

“Let’s go again! Get up.” Daelanor waited on his opponents; three men of the Imperial household guard, to rise. He stood over them victoriously, having just won their last spar. When the guards were back on their feet, he raised his sword and nodded.

Before the guards could even ready their own blades, Daelanor was already charging them again. Faster this time. He moved quickly, avoiding their bumbling attempts to stop him with ease. When he found the gap in their ranks, he struck like lightning. Cutting through their defenses, he thrust his dulled sword into one’s helmet and sent him to the ground, hitting hard and true.

The other two took their turns at Daelanor next, swinging their swords in unison to try and throw him off balance. The crown prince retained his composure, however, and gracefully parried each of their attacks. When the guards had exhausted their initiative, Daelanor began his own assault. He kept them separated from each other through careful maneuvering, and eventually struck another of his opponents out with a strong hit to the neck.

Taking a step back, Daelanor distanced himself from the last guard. Circling the other, they both tested each other’s swords in hopes of creating an opening.

Come on, you bastard, Daelanor thought. Go for it. Expose yourself.

But the guard remained passive, which only frustrated him. Screw it. Daelanor made the first move and came at him. Seeing this, the guard fortified his stance and swung down. Raising his sword, Daelanor checked his opponent’s attack and moved aside to flank.

Thrown off by the prince’s speed, the guard’s defense quickly crumbled in the face of Daelanor’s relentless assault. At last, Daelanor’s dulled blade smashed into his wrists and struck down his sword. Defeated, the guard immediately raised his hands in surrender.

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Daelanor basked in the glory of yet another stunning victory. His smug smile beaming, he looked at the guard who had just been beaten. ”My congratulations to you, good ser,” he said. “You almost had me there. What’s your name?”

The guard looked almost prideful, though there was a hint of hesitation on his face. “Urwin,” he answered, bowing in respect.

Laughing, the prince glanced at the others, who managed awkward chuckles in return. “Good man,” he said.

His smile suddenly disappeared as he struck Urwin across the face with the flat of his blade. Taken aback, the other guards recoiled as Daelanor followed up with another blow to the side of his head. Unable to react, Urwin was helpless as the prince’s sword smashed into his helmet and sent him crashing into a nearby weapons rack. After Urwin had fallen and knocked it over, all of the rack’s stashed swords were left sprawled across the ground.

Daelanor stood over Urwin, whose cheeks were marred by a deep red mark from the first hit. The guard looked up at him in fear. Bastard, the prince thought. Did you really believe you were my equal? There are none. I have no equal.

Flashing a smile, he tried to play off the outburst by offering his hand. “Come on, get up. There’s no shame in defeat. We’ll get those swords cleaned up for you.”

Urwin hesitated for a moment before taking his hand. After Daelanor had lifted him back up, a knight arrived in the training yard and approached them. The prince turned to face the newcomer. Immediately, he recognized the knight as none other than Ser Dorristan Kelsaphon, sworn protector of his weasel of a little brother, Anthranor, and perhaps one of the few men who could beat him. Over twenty years ago, when he was still squiring under the famed Ser Jolston Selbane, Ser Dorristan had won the Trident at the age of eighteen, the youngest ever to do so. On top of that, he was anointed directly as one of the nine Imperial Knights only seven years later.

Not going to toy with this one, mused Daelanor.

Ser Dorristan bowed his head. “My prince. The Emperor summons you for a council meeting at once.”

Daelanor sighed, handing off his sword to one of the guards. “You can tell my father that I’ll be there shortly.” He yawned, stretching his arms as he started walking away.

Ser Dorristan’s voice bellowed from behind. “The Emperor has instructed me to escort you there, personally.”

The prince ended his stretches prematurely, turning back to face him.

“We may leave whenever you ready.” The knight’s tone was serious and unrelenting. His violet eyes seemed to stab deep into Daelanor’s own soul. Damn you, father, Daelanor thought. Can a man not have but one moment in peace?

Anthranor Arathan

Anthranor walked closely alongside his grandfather as they approached the Emperor’s chambers. The confrontation with Daelanor the night before was still fresh on his mind. In a way, Anya was right about their older brother. Ever since they were young, Daelanor had always made an effort to step over him, both literally and figuratively. There had been little love, if any, between them. Anthranor dreaded the next interaction that he would have with Daelanor. One day, there wouldn’t be anyone left to stand between him and his brother. He’d have to fend for himself.

Fortunately, he had managed to avoid his older brother at breakfast earlier in the day, though that was only because Daelanor had skipped the meal entirely to go out and train. Now, however, with the council meeting at hand, he had little choice but to deal with being in the same room as him. He could only hope the day went on without a hitch from there.

His grandfather took notice of his silence and the dread that he wore on his face. “What’s on your mind?”

Anthranor looked at him. “Daelanor,” he muttered.

“You can sit between your father and I, if that’ll help you feel better.”

Anthranor was mildly comforted by that suggestion. He nodded in approval, his gaze fixating back onto the chambers’ doors. The Imperial Knights that stood guard were Ser Jacklyn Gendrel and Ser Alerion Tor Qaled. Both men were exceptionally skilled warriors and from an Upper House. Their fame was well-known across the realm, and rumor had it that they were especially popular among the ladies of the court. Bowing courteously, they pulled open the heavy doors to the Emperor’s room.

Anthranor held his grandfather by the arm, helping him up the stairs and through the doorway. The household guards that accompanied them were left outside with the pair of knights, leaving only himself and Lord Cane with the Emperor.

Aremos stood by the fireplace, an unfurled scroll in his hands. Anthranor figured he had been brooding for quite some time in their absence, although he was unsure on what. The Emperor’s imposing figure softened in the presence of his father-in-law, and a weary smile crossed his face. Without a word, he joined his son in helping their elder to a seat at the round table. Once his grandfather was settled, Anthranor sat beside him.

He glanced at the table—only four chairs. Frowning, he looked at his father. “Where will the others sit?”

“There won’t be any others today,” the Emperor replied. He took a seat at the head of the table, his broad back to the balcony that overlooked the city’s bustling harbor.

The prince bowed his head in understanding. After a brief moment of silence, Lord Cane struck up a new topic of discussion. “Your Eminence, may I speak with you after this meeting is over?”

Aremos looked at him, chuckling. “I’ve told you before. You can drop the formalities when we’re alone. I don’t give a damn about the fancy titles.”

Cane smiled. “Ah, sorry.”

“No need to be sorry either,” said Aremos. He rose from his chair to fetch a jug, presumably filled with wine. “We can talk over some drinks afterwards.”

Anthranor’s grandfather nodded in approval.

Setting out three cups across the table, Aremos filled each to the brim with a rich red wine, one of the finest purchased from foreign merchants from far across the sea. Leaving the jug at the table’s center, he slid two cups to Cane and Anthranor.

“Thank you,” said the prince.

“Mhm.”

The Emperor took his own cup and sat again, the chair groaning loudly under his weight. After taking a sip, he set it down with soft thud. “I presume Anya won’t be joining us.”

“No,” answered Cane. “She had… other things to take care of.”

Aremos chortled, the sound deep and guttural. “Didn’t expect her to show up anyway.” His eyes hardened. “But that loafer, Daelanor, had better be here soon—or there’ll be hell to pay for that boy, I assure you.” He took a long drink from his goblet and set it down firmly.

The doors creaked open, and in stepped the crown prince himself, Daelanor. All eyes turned to him as he strutted in with his usual confidence. Spotting the only vacant chair—directly opposite Anthranor—a sly smirk played across his lips before he gracefully seated himself.

Anthranor felt his heartbeat quicken, his chest pounding. Daelanor was staring at him, his sharp emerald-green eyes boring into him like a pair of hot knives. Anthranor did not dare to even blink. Not one sign of weakness. The tension lingered until both brothers broke their gaze, turning away as Aremos cleared his throat to begin the meeting. “God’s sake, cut it out, you two. Now.”

Ashamed, Anthranor said, “Sorry, father,” and his brother as well, but he knew Daelanor’s apology was far from sincere.

“We’ve come today to discuss important matters of state.” Aremos held up the scroll that he had been brooding over. “A report from the Greencloaks.”

They all perked up from their seats, their attention focused on the parchment that he held. For once, Daelanor seemed serious. “What did they say?”

“They’ve corroborated the initial reports,” Aremos answered. “There’s something going on down there. Something terrible, and only Erodus knows what. Entire villages have disappeared. Any hopes of settling the Bothic have all but vanquished.”

“The Bothic settlements have always been rather isolated from the realm, but if word gets out…” Cane trailed off.

“Chaos,” Aremos finished.

Daelanor scratched his chin. “I rather doubt it.”

They all looked at him. “Do you, now?” asked his father.

The crown prince slid back against his chair, slouching. “A few sparsely populated villages have disappeared, so what? Bandits likely took them, and a few rogue bandits are hardly anything that could possibly jeopardize the nine realms.”

Aremos’ expression grew tense. “The dead walk.”

Anthranor frowned in confusion, as did the others. What?

“White eyes, as if shrouded in a dense fog,” his father continued. “Rabid. Peeling skin, jagged teeth, loss of mind and self.”

“Father, what on earth are you talking about?” Daelanor’s face was bewildered.

Aremos turned to him, his eyes haunted. “Flesh-eater,” he said grimly.

Anthranor’s brother said nothing, his smirk finally vanquished. After a long pause, the Emperor spoke again. “The villagers have all disappeared.” He tossed the scroll onto the table. “And that is what has replaced them.”

Grabbing the scroll, Anthranor unfurled it and recoiled. A horrifying drawing stared back at him: a hunched monster that was etched into the paper. It had no eyes, only a blank void in their stead. Its flesh looked as if flayed, and blackened teeth protruded from its disfigured jaw. Long, claw-like fingernails curled out from its bony fingers. His eyes trailing down, he found the image’s grim description. It had white eyes, as if shrouded in a dense fog. Its skin was peeling off and its teeth were rotten. They lusted for our flesh and blood. They were rabid, and their minds lost.

“Give it here,” Daelanor said quietly. Anthranor handed him the parchment. The scroll seemed to immediately catch his brother’s attention, his brows furrowing as he read with a rare intensity. When he finished, Daelanor passed it along to his grandfather, who was similarly shaken by its contents.

But Daelanor still sounded skeptical. “How can we be so sure that this isn’t just some senseless prank?”

“The Greencloaks are loyal men of the crown,” said Cane. “They would not lie.”

The crown prince nodded. “Then what should we do about it? Shall we raise the Imperial Army and call all of the high lords to war?”

“No.” Aremos took a long sip of wine. “The matter must be investigated more thoroughly before we take any decisive action.”

Lord Cane agreed. “We should find the root cause of it, and I suggest we send reinforcements as well.”

“I trust that you will see to it,” said Aremos.

“I shall.”

“Good.” Aremos poured himself more wine. “In addition, this year’s Trident shall be held within the month. The people will need a distraction to focus their attention on. Hopefully, it can buy us more time.”

“I presume we're going to host it here?” asked Anthranor.

“No, not here, and we're not going to be the ones hosting it,” Aremos answered. “Not this year.”

To that, Anthranor frowned. Have we not always held the Trident in the capital, Calthorne?

“We shall distract the high lords and ladies as well," continued his father. "Whoever wins the bidding will have the great honor of hosting the tournament. They’ll fight each other for it like mad dogs.” He wheezed, a light chuckle escaping.

“The prospect of gold and glory can blind any man,” said Cane.

“Aye, so they’ll pay no heed to the shithole that is the Bothic, and to make it even better—“ the Emperor’s eyes glinted as he turned to his sons. “The two princes will both partake as contenders.”

Anthranor’s heart sank. What? He leaned out from his chair, its legs scraping against the floor as he blurted, “Father—“

“I will hear none of it, boy,” Aremos cut him off, his voice harsh and resolute. “It’s about time you fought against another man for real.”

Daelanor smirked and leaned back in his chair, amused. Anthranor was reduced to silence, his protest dying in his throat.

“That will be all for today, the two of you are free to go.”

“Best start training, brother,” Daelanor said as he stood. His eyes taunted Anthranor. “I look forward to meeting you in the arena.”

Piss off, is what Anthranor wanted to shout so badly, but he knew an emotional outburst would only serve to encourage Daelanor. Glaring at his brother instead, Anthranor had nothing more to say and promptly left.