Tamiron approached the city gates, where a constant stream of people flowed in and out like the pulse of life itself. The clamor of activity filled the air, undeterred by the blazing midday sun. It was a sight he once cherished, now tainted by the weight of his deeds. Drawing a deep breath, he guided his taranos forward, acknowledging the guards’ respectful salutes with a heavy heart.

As he traversed the bustling main street, a path cleared before him, revealing a mosaic of reactions from the city’s citizens. Some cast fearful glances his way, while others feigned ignorance. It was a stark departure from the praise and admiration he once enjoyed, a painful reminder of the havoc he wrought upon this city six years prior.

Though the passage of time had blurred the edges of his memories, the devastation he wrought remained etched in his mind like fresh wounds. Stepping into the courtyard, where echoes of battle still lingered, he was consumed by a wave of hesitation. His gaze swept over the scene, each scar and ruin triggering a flood of remorse and regret.

His attention was drawn to a statue, a solemn tribute to the city’s faith—a three-horned cross towering above a family frozen in eternal embrace. Grief washed over him as he beheld the figures, their stoic faces mirroring his own inner turmoil. Clenching his fists, he dismounted from his taranos with a heavy sigh, struggling to contain the maelstrom of emotions swirling within him.

Each glance at the statues reignited the anguish he once felt, a bitter reminder of the lives he had shattered with his own hands. He stood before them, a solitary figure haunted by the ghosts of his past, grappling with the weight of his own power and the devastation it had wrought.

He looked at his iron hands as they trembled, relics passed down from his father, symbols of authority and might meant to embody the virtues of the Trasidar Empire. Integrity, patriotism, selflessness, resilience—all qualities he was meant to exemplify to be deemed worthy of these Iron Hands.

Yet, where had he wielded this power? Against whom had he directed its force?

Against his own kin. The very people he had sworn to shield and cherish, he had mercilessly struck down with these very hands.

The weight of his actions threatened to crush him, but he steeled himself against the onslaught of despair as his past deeds still haunt him. Before him stood a tombstone, erected in memory of the father he had slain in the chaos of battle and the mother he had robbed of her life. Their child, fate unknown, haunted his thoughts—a silent plea for mercy amid the devastation he had wrought.

The day everything unraveled loomed over him like a specter, each recollection piercing his heart with unrelenting pain and agony. With trembling fingers, he traced the inscription on the statue.

In memory of Mark and Marya. May you find your everlasting life in Vir Melos that you so rightfully deserve.

His iron hand brushed reverently over their names, a gesture laden with remorse and sorrow. It pained him to realize that these very hands had been the instruments of their demise, a fact that shook him to his core.

“Remember, my son,” King Madarick’s voice carried on the breeze of a sun-drenched day, resonating with solemnity and pride. “Soon, you will inherit the fist of our people, the very hands that forged this empire.”

Young Tamiron’s eyes widened with anticipation, gazing at his father with a mixture of reverence and eagerness. “Will I receive them on my birthday, Father?” he inquired, his voice brimming with youthful excitement.

A smile danced across King Madarick’s lips as he chuckled softly. “Yes, indeed. Not this coming birthday, not yet. But be prepared, for it will be your most formidable trial yet.” he said, his gaze drifting to his own iron-clad hands, powerful symbols of authority and responsibility.

“Well, I am fifteen years old now, Father. I believe I am ready,” he declared proudly, puffing out his chest to display his burgeoning strength.

King Madarick nodded approvingly, rising to his feet and beginning to pace amidst the verdant gardens. “Remember, my son, possessing the iron hands is not just about strength—it is about wielding the shield of the empire. It is your duty to safeguard our land and its people, to preserve the unity of our realm,” he intoned, his hands clenching with determination.

“It requires more than sheer force; it demands insight into the workings of our empire, an understanding of our people’s lives and struggles,” King Madarick continued, gesturing emphatically. “You must understand the difference between ruling with brute strength and ruling with enlightened wisdom.”

His brow furrowed in thought before a sudden question burst forth. “Like the Trodonar Empire during the Old War, Father?” he interjected, eager to glean wisdom from his father’s vast knowledge.

King Madarick halted, his demeanor thoughtful as he paused to impart his wisdom. “Yes, we must learn from their mistakes. And from the mistakes of the former United Trasidar Confederation.”

Confusion clouded his face as he struggled to reconcile his father’s words with his own understanding. “What do you mean, mistakes by the former kingdoms, Father? I have thoroughly read and studied history but found no fault with them,” he voiced his perplexity as they traversed a hallway, his sister Tamara engrossed in her studies amidst books that were taken illegally from the Imperial Library.

“They were too lenient, Tamiron!” Tamara's sudden outburst shattered the silence, drawing her brother’s gaze with intensity.

“Too lenient?” his disbelief colored his retort. “But they were thriving!”

“No, they weren’t! It’s basic politics, you know!” Tamara countered adamantly, her conviction unwavering.

A shared moment of laughter between King Madarick and Tamara’s teacher softened the tension, the sound echoing through the halls.

“Your sister speaks truth, Tamiron,” King Madarick affirmed, directing his attention to both siblings. “And you, young lady, focus on your studies.”

Continuing their stroll through the gilded halls, King Madarick elaborated on his earlier statement. “Your sister is correct. A delicate balance must be struck. Excessive benevolence renders one vulnerable to manipulation, as seen in the downfall of the former kingdoms. Yet, excessive power breeds corruption, leading to the demise of empires like the Trodonar.”

Silent admiration enveloped him as he absorbed his father’s teachings, each word a beacon of enlightenment amidst the golden glow of the sunlit halls.

His father’s words resonated deeply within him. “A balance has to be struck,” he reiterated, the weight of those words settling heavily upon his young shoulders. As they continued their stroll, the significance of his father’s teachings unfolded before him.

The notion of balance, once foreign to him, now became a guiding principle in his understanding of governance. It was a revelation that stirred a sense of urgency within him. He realized that his previous efforts had fallen short, lacking the depth of insight required for true leadership.

From that moment on, he made it his mission to bridge the gap between ruler and ruled, to forge a connection with his people that transcended mere authority. He understood the importance of seeing beyond individual perspectives, to view his realm as a cohesive whole, akin to a familial bond.

“A balance has to be struck,” the mantra echoed relentlessly in his mind, a constant reminder of his duty to maintain harmony within his realm. It became clear to him that every decision, every action, must be weighed against this delicate equilibrium.

With newfound clarity, he embarked on a journey of enlightenment, seeking to understand the intricate workings of his empire. He recognized the interconnectedness of every facet of society, from the highest echelons of power to the humblest of citizens.

In his vision, the empire was not merely a collection of diverse parts but a living organism, each component essential to its vitality. The Imperial Council and Court functioned as the sinews and muscles, coordinating their efforts to ensure the smooth operation of the body politic. And at its heart stood the monarchy, the beating heart that pulsed with the lifeblood of the realm, guiding and nurturing its growth.

As he embraced this newfound perspective, he felt a sense of purpose swell within him. He was no longer just a prince, but a steward of his people’s collective destiny. And with each step he took, he was determined to uphold the delicate balance that sustained his empire.

He gradually came to understand the immense significance of his role, ensuring he would be prepared to ascend the throne when the time came. Over the passing days, months, and years, he dedicated himself to serving his people, learning from their experiences, and growing to genuinely care for them. As his birthday approached, the anticipation in the city heightened.

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On the eve of the last day of the year, the thirty-sixth day of Domerein, the city of Tamara shimmered with decorations in honor of the impending ceremony. As dawn broke on his and Tamara’s birthday. But that year was different, as the main focus of the birthday was him. The entire city gathered eagerly at the inner gates, adorned with the majestic Imperial Trasidar Crest. As the gates swung open, a wave of adoration washed over him, evident in the beaming faces of the crowd.

Perched atop the grand carriage of the Temple, he acknowledged the throngs of people with a humble wave, his figure cloaked in thick fur, only his head visible as he knelt reverently. Leading the procession was the esteemed High Cardinal, resplendent in white robes adorned with intricate designs depicting revered figures like the Great Animos, Freigurd, and the Goddess Arumar. Beside him stood his twin sister, accompanied by their father, the King.

He joined in singing the sacred hymn of the Trasidar Animos, Coro Al’arzhem. A melody that resonated with the enduring spirit of trial and perseverance. The procession continued, the harmonious chorus reverberating through the streets as they made their way to the Trasidar Animos’ temple, nestled at the base of the imposing Redicoc Mountains just north of the Imperial Cors’Viridetauros Palace.

As they approached the temple, memories flooded his mind, recalling the overwhelming sense of awe he felt on that momentous day. The colossal statue of the Trasidar Great Animos loomed over them, casting a profound shadow over the sacred grounds. With each step towards the temple, his heart quickened, anticipation building within him.

As he descended from the carriage, he was greeted by the warm glow of candles held by the assembled crowd. With steady resolve, he ascended the temple stairs, the flickering torches and candlelight illuminating his path. At the summit, he stood before the gathered throng, shedding his cloak as the chorus of voices reached its end.

With a deep breath, he entered the vast chamber of the temple, its grandeur matching the reverence of the occasion. Massive pillars soared towards the heavens, supporting the weight of the ancient structure. At the center stood a magnificent bronze statue of the Trasidar Animos, a symbol of strength and guidance.

Moving towards the altar at the statue’s base, he was enveloped by the continued melody, lead by the High Cardinal as he sang Al’arzhem Hoktos, the song of trial’s end. As he approached the High Cardinal awaiting him, a sense of purpose surged within him. This moment, bathed in the gentle glow of starlight and the watchful gaze of the moon, was his to embrace.

As the melodic strains of the song tapered off, he kneeled before the assembly, his gaze steady as he faced the priests and dignitaries gathered within the temple. His father and sister stood proudly before him, with his best friend, Everess by their side. Their presence lending him strength and reassurance on that momentous night.

The High Cardinal’s voice resonated through the chamber, his words carrying the weight of tradition and ceremony. “Today, we celebrate not only the twenty-sixth birthday of our Imperial Prince Tamiron Lluch, but also his ascension to the esteemed role of wielding the Iron Hands,” he proclaimed, his arms outstretched in a gesture of reverence as the priests continued their solemn hum.

A smile graced his lips as he watched the temple servants place two massive blocks of marble beside him, their intricate designs hinting at their divine significance. With a sense of anticipation, he followed the High Cardinal’s instructions, positioning his arms within the carved engravings on the marble blocks.

As the servants poured water over his hands and arms, cleansing them in a symbolic ritual, the hum of the priests ceased at the High Cardinal’s command. He awaited the culmination of the passage rites, his heart thrumming with anticipation.

Then, in a voice suffused with solemnity, the High Cardinal intoned the ancient melody of Kron Hordis, the song of the Iron Hands.

Holding aloft the radiant Madarick Stone, The High Cardinal approached him, the verdant glow of the stone enveloping them both. As the light cascaded over him, he felt a surge of power coursing through his veins.

His eyes, glowed as the jade green of his eyes brightened like freshly polished gemstones as the marble blocks began to glow with the same vibrant hue of jade green. Gradually, the stone melded with his skin, forming a seamless bond between man and artifact. In that moment, he became one with the legacy of his forefathers, entrusted with the sacred duty of safeguarding his people and upholding the honor of the Trasidar Empire.

His father stepped forward, a solemn expression etched upon his features as he approached the High Cardinal. With a reverent bow, the King presented his own Iron Hands, a symbol of power and duty passed down through generations. As the High Cardinal’s voice rose in resonance, a hushed anticipation fell over the assembly.

He watched with bated breath as his father kneeled before the altar, the familiar hum of the priests serving as a backdrop to the sacred ritual unfolding before him. With each note of the High Cardinal’s song, the Iron Hands of King Madarick began to disassemble, revealing the flesh beneath and the scars and huge three-holes in each arm, left by years of service to the empire.

A sense of awe washed over him as he beheld his father’s bare arms, a testament to sacrifice and dedication. Steadying his nerves, he prepared himself to receive the same honor bestowed upon him. As the King rejoined the chorus of voices, the iron and kra’enite plates that once adorned the arms of the Imperial King floated before him, bathed in the glow of reverence and sanctity.

With each piece washed by the temple servants and guided by the ancient rites, the metal merged seamlessly with the marble blocks encasing his arms. The High Cardinal’s song ended, filling the chamber with a divine melody as two men wielding hammers approached.

He braced himself as the blows fell, the clang of metal against stone resonating through the hall. Though he could not discern pain from the overwhelming sensations coursing through him, the force of each strike reverberated throughout his being. With each hammer blow driving the iron bolts into place, a primal scream slowly tore from his lips, echoing amidst the sacred hymns and prayers.

As agony seared through his veins, his body convulsed with raw intensity, each cry mingling with the chorus of the temple. Yet amidst the torment, a faint tingle spread across his arms and hands, suffusing him with a strange energy. The glow of the stone intensified, casting an ethereal light upon his heart and mouth, illuminating the depths of his being in a vibrant green aura.

Another hour had slipped by since the conclusion of the passage rites, yet to he felt like an eternity shrouded in pain. As the final resounding bang faded into silence, he remained kneeling, his hands still enveloped in the searing embrace of iron and metal, remnants of the sacred ceremony that had just transpired. With each ragged breath, he struggled to regain his composure, the weight of the moment settling heavily upon his shoulders.

Slowly, the temple servants approached, their movements gentle as they adorned him with his armor and helmet, shielding his newly transformed form from prying eyes. His gaze sought out the High Cardinal, who approached with purpose, bearing the once named Madarick Stone — now known as the Tamiron Stone to its rightful place within his chest armor. As the stone settled into its designated slot, a surge of vibrant green light radiated throughout his being, infusing him with a newfound vitality.

With a solemn declaration, the High Cardinal pronounced the conclusion of the Kron Hordis ceremony, signaling his ascent to his destined role as the guardian of the realm and bearer of the Tamiron Stone. The echo of applause rippled through the temple halls, a chorus of affirmation for the prince who now bore the weight of his legacy upon his shoulders.

As he stepped outside into the awaiting throng, the fervent cheers of the crowd enveloped him, a cacophony of adulation and reverence. Their chants of his name washed over him, filling him with a sense of validation and purpose he had never known. With a proud smile, he raised his hand in acknowledgment, watching in awe as the metal melded seamlessly with his iron hands, pulsating with a luminous green glow.

In that moment, amidst the swirling currents of jubilation and transformation, he embraced his destiny with unwavering resolve, ready to wield his newfound power in service of his people and his empire.

He recounted that pivotal day with haunting clarity — the day he was bestowed with his iron hands, the very hands meant to shield his people, yet also the hands stained with their blood. His gaze fell upon his hand, now clad in remorse, while his other hand rested upon the statue of the family he had unwittingly extinguished.

With a heavy heart, he reached out to touch the Tamiron Stone, its pulsating glow mirroring the rhythm of his own conflicted emotions. The faces of those he had wronged haunted him, a constant reminder of the lives lost at his hands. Shame engulfed him as he grappled with the weight of his actions.

He looked up to the sky. “Let their child be safe. I pray that their child is safe. I pray that if I ever meet the child, may the child forgive me for what I’ve done.” Then a tear fell from his eyes.

Shortly after, several soldiers arrived to greet him.

He gave a breath of sigh as he gazed upon the mountain. “Any new reports about the tomb?” he asked the soldiers.

“None as of late, Sire,” one of the soldiers answered.

“Prepare some escorts, and also an owl. I will have to inform the Grand Commander of my arrival here at Melgrace,” he said as one swiftly followed his order.

He then looked upon the towering mountain afar, as he took a deep sigh.

“Sire, shall I have some scouts check the place of the incident first?” the one left behind asked.

As he stood up, the weight of his decision settled heavily upon him. Mounting his taranos, he cast a lingering glance at the guard, his expression a mixture of determination and concern. With resolve etched upon his features, he mounted his taranos, his determination unyielding despite the uncertainty that lay ahead. Casting one last glance at the guard, his expression a blend of determination and apprehension, he spurred his mount forward, ready to confront the challenges that awaited him.

“I’ll await your return at the northern gates,” he affirmed, his tone resolute. “The Agun’Der Mountains conceals countless hidden paths. We must tread with caution, lest we become prey to robbers or raiders.”

With a final salute, the guard departed, leaving him alone before the family statue. A palpable sense of uncertainty gripped him as he contemplated the journey ahead. Each step would lead them deeper into the unknown, where danger lurked in the shadows and secrets whispered on the wind.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues and casting elongated shadows across the courtyard, a chill wind swept through the air, causing his cloak to billow and sending shivers down his spine. The encroaching night brought with it an unsettling stillness, broken only by the city’s preparations for the impending darkness.

Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the foreboding that settled over him like a heavy shroud. There was something disquieting about the incident, something that hinted at unseen perils and enigmatic mysteries.

Furrowing his brow, he fixed his gaze upon the looming silhouette of the Agun’Der Mountains, where the mysterious tomb awaited. His mind buzzed with unanswered questions. Why did he feel such trepidation about venturing into those rugged peaks? What secrets lay concealed within their ancient folds, yearning to be unearthed?

And most perplexing of all, why was there a vast tomb in the mountains that he didn’t know of in the first place?

End of Chapter XII