Sevidon journeyed through the red-tainted forest of La’Sarien for nearly an entire day. The paved path beneath his steed was strewn with scarlet leaves, guiding him toward the forest’s edge and a vast open field of tall red grass. As he ascended a hill, he paused to inhale deeply, recognizing the familiar scent that signaled the proximity of Radenheim, the majestic capital of the Karinhawi.

Standing at the hill’s summit, he marveled at the city’s grandeur. The walls, a testament to Karinhawi craftsmanship, surrounded Radenheim, adorned with gates and statues honoring the ancient kings who once ruled. Each structure stood as a guardian, steeped in history and tradition.

Resuming his journey, he galloped toward the city, welcomed by the enthusiastic cheers of its people. Radenheim bustled with life, vibrant and festive in anticipation of the upcoming celebrations. As he rode through the streets, the citizens engaged in the lively preparations, adorning roads and buildings with colorful decorations. Every greeting and cheer uplifted his spirits, adding to the excited fever that enveloped the city.

Amidst the hustle and bustle, he envisioned Radenheim during the peak of the festival. The air was already filled with the melodies of children practicing songs dedicated to Uarea and Derulesund, the twin deities of the impending celebration. The harmonious tunes floated through the city, promising an enchanting atmosphere once the festivities reached its peak.

In this vibrant setting, his presence was a source of joy for the people. Their warm welcomes and the city’s lively preparations set the stage for a celebration that would echo through Radenheim, making it an unforgettable spectacle during the imminent festival of Uarea and Derulesund.

You gave us the warmth, animos Uarea,

We thank you for the sun and the life that you gave.

Protect us from harm, animos Derulesund,

We thank you for nature’s bounties and protection.

Together you blessed us with another good year!

We hope to honor you with all of our cheers!

We thank you again for the life and protection.

We hope to bring honor to the Twins of Yor-Jod.

By your graces we are blessed…

By your graces we are blessed…

A child’s joyful exclamation echoed through the air, “It’s Sevidon! Papa look! It’s him!” The little one dashed toward him, enthusiasm lighting up her eyes. Amused by her exuberance, slowed his pace to match hers.

As the child handed him a delicate flower, gratitude painted across her face, she scampered back to her father’s waiting embrace. He couldn’t help but beam a warm smile at the heartwarming scene before him. The connection he shared with the people was evident, and their genuine gestures never failed to touch his warrior’s heart.

With a renewed burst of energy, he galloped onward, acknowledging the waves and cheers of the crowd. Despite the joyous reception, a lingering sense of duty pressed upon him. The festival’s allure tugged at him, tempting him to stay and revel in the festivities. Yet, his purpose lay beyond, he sought the counsel of the Karin King.

The majestic Amarath Palace loomed ahead, a formidable structure against the backdrop of the crimson Peak, a guardian against the southern seas’ relentless waves. Crowning the peak stood the Red Tree of Araqluis, a symbol steeped in significance.

Wasting no time, he pressed forward, traversing the palace compound. Salutes from guards punctuated his progress as he dismounted from his stallion. Guided by two more guards, the creaking doors of the palace opened, revealing the grandeur within.

The Throne Room unfolded before him, a testament to the Karinhawi legacy. The dome-shaped ceiling adorned in hues of red, white, and gold spoke of resilience, determination, and a fierce struggle for glory. Bright fires illuminated intricate banners, weaving a tapestry of the people’s history. Marble floors, gleaming underfoot, bore the imprints of the royal family’s emblem and the Karin insignia.

As he stepped further into this regal chamber, he felt the weight of tradition and the gravity of his purpose. The journey to the Karin King’s presence had just begun, a path laden with history, duty, and the fate of the kingdom hanging in the balance.

Before him stood the Araqluis Throne, a majestic testament to the intertwining of history and nature. Carved out from the roots of the Araqluis tree, which gracefully breached the throne room, it symbolized more than a seat of power; it embodied the very essence of their existence with providence. He laid his gaze upon the magnificence of the throne before moving past it and entering a room beyond, where the Karin King engaged in discussions with his council.

“My King,” he said with a bow.

“Sevidon,” the king replied, prompting him to rise. “It’s good to see you again, my son.” The King’s words carried the weight of years, etched on his features. Despite being part Hawis, their lifespan exceeding that of men, the toll of time was unmistakable.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, he remarked, “The weather is good, my King. In my haste, I arrived a day earlier than I expected.” The king chuckled in response, acknowledging the unpredictability of his actions.

“As expected of a Borinvegeard,” the king teased, settling back into his chair at the table where councilors awaited. He then took a seat at the table’s end, as indicated by a servant. The title of Borinvegeard, while bestowed upon him by the royal family and recognized even by Prince Wraponreth as a brother, remained an uncomfortable burden. A necessary complication in the complex dynamics of the Karinhawis.

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The king, with a smile, signaled for him to wait, shifting the focus to the imminent concerns that gripped their minds.

“So, how are we going to approach this?” the king queried, redirecting the attention to his council.

“In the meantime, we are expecting the Empire to call for aid to secure their southern regions. But it is looking unlikely as we speak,” a councilor began.

“Will the Empire really ask a foreign kingdom to guard its own territories? I mean, come on, we are talking about the Trasidar Empire here,” another councilor pointed out, skepticism coloring the discussion.

“With the current events unfolding as we speak, the Trasidar Empire might even break apart. I say it grows likely every day,” another councilor somberly intoned, his gaze sweeping across the room and finding agreement among his peers.

The king, maintaining a stoic posture, finally spoke, crossing his arms in contemplation. “Still, we have a considerable number of our people residing there. They may come back.”

A dissenting voice sliced through the air, delivered with an edge of accusation, “Why would we welcome back those who willingly chose to live and serve the Empire? We have our own people enlisted in their armies. If these individuals abruptly abandon their posts and return, what use are they but traitors?”

Attempting to inject a note of reason, another councilor countered, “Councilor, isn’t that an exaggeration? The empire upholds an open border policy, fostering trade between its realms and the Free Kingdoms. This encompasses the free movement of citizens across the continent, regardless of their race."

Undeterred, the dissenting councilor reiterated, “Traitors will always be traitors.” adamantly as slowly as he could to make a point.

The king, clearly displeased, slammed his hand on the table. “Enough!” he declared sternly. “I will not tolerate such divisive language, especially when legitimate concerns over the mountains demand our attention. This meeting concludes now. We shall reconvene tomorrow.”

As councilors filed out, the king signaled for the servants to depart, leaving only him and his father in the room.

“Since when are we going to allow our people to perish due to the choices they made?” he suddenly asked, tapping his fingers on the table for emphasis.

The king met his gaze with a determined look. “Who said I’d ever agree to what that old fool said?”

Their eyes locked in a silent understanding as the King rose from his seat and approached the window.

“Karinhawis will always be Karinhawis, be it in the Empire, the Middle Kingdom, or beyond. Their connection remains beneath the roots of Araqluis,” he declared, a wistful smile playing on his lips, reminiscent of days long gone.

“So, I suppose the news reached you through word of mouth,” he inquired of the king.

“Merchants and refugees have fled already. Carrying the news. Their husbands were conscripted by the Arch Chancellor’s command, under the authority of the Imperial King,” the king shared, resuming his seat and tapping his fingers in tandem with his contemplation. Leaning forward, he pointed across at him.

“I’ve never trusted that Anarchu, not since I laid eyes on him almost a century ago. Ruthless, even for their kind in his youth, yet only King Madarick could keep him on a leash without getting bitten. Anarchu only listens to King Madarick, making it troublesome back then when we have to deal with him alone since he commanded an army on his own.”

Having heard the tales, he responded, “Perhaps I was fortunate not to have fought alongside him.”

“Fortunate indeed,” the king sighed. “But the matter of the Imperial Prince troubles me. Could he really had a change of heart? It’s been years since our last encounter,” the king admitted with a touch of unease, gazing out the window once more.

“Can a man truly undergo such a swift change of heart? Do you believe it’s possible?” he added, seeking insight.

“I’m afraid that even I cannot answer that, my king,” he admitted. “Having known the prince since childhood, it is not really like him to change his mind about certain things.”

“And you’re certain of this?” the king pressed.

“The Prince has always been a keen observer. During his return every five years, he kept opening up about the situation in the Empire. While his love for the people remains unwavering, there’s a discernible weariness that has settled in,” he explained, reflecting on the prince’s journey.

“Weariness? How so?” inquired the king.

“His concerns about how the Empire treats its citizens. I’ve gathered enough information to discern that not everyone is treated fairly. With the Prince’s compassionate nature, these concerns weigh heavily on him,” he pointed out, recalling the conversations.

The king sighed, musing, “So the seeds were sown long ago. I wonder who the fool was that reaped them.”

He sighed, turning to the king. “All I know is that I personally trained the Prince from when he was a youngling. Even then, he exhibited profound dedication to his people and the Empire. So a sudden change of heart is impossible,” he asserted, meeting the king’s gaze.

“I’ve witnessed that dedication, and I can tell it to be true. However, yet these events, this news about him, it eludes me,” the king admitted, settling back into his chair. “All I’m left are questions, so many uncertainties.”

“And what are those questions, My King?”

“Where is the Imperial Princess amidst all this? What fate awaits us? The Throne of Four Horns now stands vacant, and the powers of the Imperial King rest in the hands of who could be the most dangerous man in all of Arumar. These questions may demand answers, perhaps acquired through arduous means and sooner than we anticipate,” the king concluded, his gaze steady. “But we won’t allow that to come to pass.”

The king drew nearer, gripping his shoulder tightly. “I want you to be cautious. I want you to find out what really happened to the Imperial Prince. Something feels awry in the reports and letters alone. If he has indeed forsaken his loyalty, then do what you must. Otherwise, the Karinhawis will provide a safe haven for him. Am I understood, Sevidon?” The king’s instructions were clear.

“Understood, My King. I shall take my leave at once,” he affirmed as he rose, extending a courteous bow to each other before leaving the room.

“Sevidon,” the king called out in the throne room.

Meeting the king’s gaze, he noticed the years etched on the king’s face, a stark reminder that despite being of the same age, the king was a Karinhawi, and he was not.

“Is there anything else, King Rav’Threth?”

“I’ve often imagined the day you’d sit here,” the king remarked, gripping the throne by the armrest.

He chuckled, eyeing the throne. “I have no right to claim that chair, Your Grace. I am already pleased to serve the kingdom where I am right now. That alone is enough.”

“Yet between us, you deserve it more than I,” the king smiled, admiring the throne.

Approaching the king, they both marveled at the throne. “I wouldn’t dare sit on an uncomfortable chair,” he jestingly claimed, holding it by the other armrest.

“How about you stay until uareagar? The festival is upon us. You might as well enjoy it,” the king proposed. But he chuckled.

“I’m afraid I can’t, My King. Meskotav awaits your decision,” he replied, smiling.

The king chuckled, sharing a moment of laughter. “Safe journey, my friend.”

Nostalgia washed over him as he remembered the king in his younger years, two centuries ago. Smiling widely, he returned it, “You stay safe as well, my old friend,” then promptly exited the room.

As he traversed the halls once more, he traced his fingers along the mural-laden walls, reminders of the past. A depiction of himself adorned the history mural. With a deep breath, he cast one last glance toward the throne room, and his footsteps echoed through the halls as he departed the palace once more.

End of Chapter VIII