Note: here's the 1st bonus chapter for reaching 1,000 followers! I'll have the 2nd bonus chapter up this weekend.

CHAPTER FIFTY

A Knight to Remember

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The Oaken Hall of Bram’s bastion wasn’t as opulent as the throne room of the Sovereign’s White Palace. It carried not the grandeur evoked by that brightly lit Hall of Dawnlight whose every surface gleamed under the glow of countless sunstones. In comparison, Bram’s Oaken Hall was dark, sparsely lit by the stone braziers whose glow barely penetrated the gloom that seemed to have permanently settled here.

Time seems to slow to a crawl whenever I’m here…

Bram couldn’t help noticing the frayed emerald carpet stretching from one end of the hall to the other. Nor could he unsee the stains on the glass of the windows set at intervals between the hall’s weathered stone walls.

“Will all promotions to knighthood require this much pomp and circumstance?” Rowan asked.

“There will be an accolade ceremony for each aspirant, just not as elaborate as yours,” Bram answered. “As a daughter of the noble House Wolfe, you deserve an event where others can witness your rise.”

“Oh, joy.”

From above, Bram could hear the chirping of birds that must’ve come in from the many holes that once marked the roof which had often sent rainwater down into the hall to help keep it in its state of disrepair.

Such was the condition of Bram’s Oaken Hall with its shabby interior—the trappings of once-great fortune in decline—that it was like a stark reflection of the realm he inherited from his predecessor. However, Bram had recently tried to fix what was broken in what many considered the hall at the heart of the realm.

He glanced up.

“Even the gods seem interested in tonight’s festivities.”

Beyond the Oaken Hall’s vaulted ceiling was a new glass roof raised high by thick wooden columns which the prince commissioned with his own money to replace the rundown roof that had been full of holes. This new design allowed those within to witness the heavens and the bright canvas of stars watching from on high, which Bram hoped evoked in his courtiers the sense that his rule would be better for all those who lived underneath it.

“Don’t jinx me,” Rowan replied. “I have enough envious gazes fixed on me down here to be concerned over the feckless gods above.”

It was true that many of the young highborn of Bastille looked at Rowan with envious stares. Indeed, rumors were already swirling in Hightown that Rowan’s knighthood wasn’t an accolade given for her prowess as a warrior and sorcerer but because she was in an intimate relationship with Lotharin’s talentless governor.

Having received reports of these rumors, Bram could only grin widely at those jealous youths who must have started them. Like their elders, these young nobles knew not the sharpness of Rowan’s sword, the strength of her arm, or the unimaginable sorcery she commanded.

Suddenly, gasps reverberated among the audience.

Bram looked up again and saw what they all saw.

“You realize you’ve just started a rumor of bad omens and ill-fated knighting ceremonies…?”

A thick white fog was rolling over the other side of the glass roof in tune with Rowan’s steps like a white veil trailing after her.

“I don’t want the gods bearing witness to our achievements…not yet.”

As they neared the end of their procession, the pair were greeted by the frosty gazes of the relatives of the high nobles who’d been sent to witness Rowan’s knighting ceremony.

Among these elites were two brown-haired youths who were spitting images of each other though one was a man and the other a woman. These two were among a few in this gathering who smiled at Bram and Rowan as they passed.

“Do you know them?” Rowan whispered.

Bram nodded. “Ser Severin and Lady Petra of House Adler. They’re children of the Eorl of Lorraine.”

“The same Eorl of Lorraine who’s refused your summons twice now?”

“The very same.”

As its closest neighbor, Lorraine Shire at the southern tip of Central Lotharin was the ideal ally to protect Bastille’s flank. However, with Eorl Anselm of House Adler refusing Bram’s summons using the excuse of poor health, an alliance between the two shires seemed unlikely. At least this was the situation before Bram’s successful adventure in the Red Forest.

“If the eorl sent his twin heirs to Bastille,” Bram began, to which Rowan finished, “This eorl can read the flow of fortune beginning to press on your back.”

“We’ll find out which way the eorl is leaning toward soon enough… Ser Severin will likely seek you out later.”

“Whatever for?”

“He was also recently knighted… He’ll want to join your Showing of Mettle.”

“What…?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

Past the twins was another noble who caught Bram’s interest; a middle-aged woman with wavy chestnut hair and green eyes hidden behind square-rimmed spectacles—eyes fixed on Bram.

“You have an admirer.”

“Not an admirer, but an enemy…maybe. She’s Vicomte Henry’s replacement…Baroness Ursula le Goede.”

“So, the Rhyneland sent a representative… I must have made an impression for the vicomte to warn them about me.”

“Rowan…you make an impression everywhere you go.”

Finally, the pair arrived at the foot of the dais, and that’s when Bram was greeted by the tall man standing beside Ser Anthony.

“Your Highness,” he said as he bowed his head.

Like a ripple on the surface of a lake, the others followed his example, and soon, all the hall was bowing to their governor. For once, Bram didn’t think they’d done it in jest.

While his gaze swept over the hall, Bram couldn’t help recalling one of Ser Anthony’s old teachings.

Respect is not given but earned.

When his gaze returned to the tall man, Bram said, “Uncle Conrad.”

Despite having not met him even once, Bram recognized one of his father’s brothers because the tall man shared the same dirty blonde hair, trimmed beard, and pale blue eyes as the portrait hanging on the prince’s bedroom wall. However, unlike the man in the portrait, Vicomte Conrad of House Lothaire, second brother to Margrave Albert, was alive and well.

“Did you hear that, Ser Anthony?” Conrad elbowed the seneschal lightly on the shoulder. “My nephew knows me.”

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Bram’s eyes couldn’t help narrowing at seeing a man who’d been an absent chair for the entirety of his life being friendly with his only loyal retainer. He couldn’t help resenting him just a little too. If Vicomte Conrad or Margrave Albert had shown even a little interest in Bram when he was younger, what a difference their support would have made.

“Nephew, I come on behalf of my brother to discuss—”

“Matters of state can be discussed later,” Ser Anthony cut in. “Right now, we have an accolade to bestow.”

Seeing his seneschal beaming at him and Rowan caused Bram’s mood to lighten because he was reminded that he had never been alone. The prince had a great man watching over him when he was younger, and now, the number of hands pressing against his back to keep him from falling had multiplied and will continue to multiply.

“Yes, of course.” A slightly disgruntled Vicomte Conrad stepped back. “Apologies, Nephew.”

“Your Highness,” Ser Anthony corrected the vicomte right before giving instructions. “Now, Lady Rowan will remain here while His Highness takes his seat.”

While he untangled himself from Rowan’s arm, Bram gazed up at the dais. On it stood a large yew tree with branches spreading like a canopy over the dais. A simple wooden throne was carved into the yew’s thick trunk. It was to this throne that Bram sat on, and from how he fidgeted in his seat, anyone could tell that the throne made him uncomfortable…and they all knew why.

Since becoming governor, Bram had sat on this throne only once…during his coronation. Tonight was the first time since then. It was also his first time holding court. He would’ve preferred to stand at Ser Anthony’s side, but the seneschal would allow no compromises in Rowan’s knighting.

“The number of times she’s saved your life has earned Lady Rowan as grand a knighting ceremony as we can give her,” this had been Ser Anthony’s argument, and Bram knew better than to argue with someone who’d been caught in Rowan’s charms.

The seneschal cleared his throat, and the prince took that as his cue.

“Let’s begin the—”

Someone coughed purposely, forcing Bram’s gaze to drift to the only person allowed on the first step of the dais.

“Right…divine blessings first then.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” spoke the middle-aged, raven-haired woman dressed in the blue robe and gold trappings of a grand cleric of the Great Library, the more recognizable name given to all the temples of Pallas, Goddess of Knowledge.

The grand cleric turned to face the crowd and raised her hand in greeting.

“Blessings of Pallas upon you all,” she proclaimed.

“May she shower us with wisdom and glad tidings,” came the mumbled reply of the gathering.

When she turned to face Rowan, the grand cleric offered her the blessings of the goddess.

The prince watched from his throne as the trickster rolled her eyes at each verse of scripture spoken on her behalf—and he had to stifle his chuckles. When the grand cleric asked Rowan to bow her head and be anointed with holy oil, Rowan asked, “Must I?” like a petulant child, and Bram couldn’t stop one loud chuckle from escaping his lips.

Ser Anthony cleared his throat. “Lady Rowan.”

“Oh, very well.”

Fortunately, the grand cleric of Bastille’s Great Library didn’t seem upset by Rowan’s rudeness or Bram’s little outburst. Indeed, she too chuckled while she anointed Rowan in holy oil which scriptures claimed were the tears that had fallen onto the land while Pallas wept over the ancient humans who’d used the knowledge she’d gifted them to make war on each other.

“She didn’t burn from the touch of holy oil…guess that proves she’s no demon,” Bram said in an undertone. Then, in a louder voice, he commanded, “Now that the blessing’s finished, let’s proceed with the oathtaking.”

Along with his seneschal, the four other knights of Bram’s household gathered around Rowan in a semicircle formation. In response, the trickster pretending to be a knight aspirant knelt before the prince’s throne.

“Heed well our words, Rowan of House Wolfe,” Ser Anthony began, “for these words have been spoken since the founding days of the Atlan Imperium…”

“I do heed them, Grandmaster,” Rowan answered.

One by one, each knight spoke a part of their vow, with Rowan repeating the lines afterward.

“A knight seeks adventure,” spoke the second knight, a broad-shouldered man with long graying hair tied back in a ponytail. “We shall not hesitate to answer her call when it comes.”

Ser Edwin Mallory then unsheathed his longsword to point its tip at Rowan’s back while she repeated the words.

“A Knight fights with honor,” said a third knight, a familiar-looking middle-aged woman with short brown hair and a scar across her nose. “We shall wield our sword only for a righteous cause.”

Again, Rowan repeated the words, while Bridget’s sparring partner, Ser Aveline Allard, drew one of her twin sabers to point its tip against the trickster’s back.

“A knight values wisdom,” spoke a fourth knight, a stout man with a plump face and curly blonde hair. “We shall have good judgment even in uncertain times.”

As the two before him had done, Ser Lief Coulson also pointed the tip of his broadsword’s blade at Rowan’s back.

“A knight fears not even death,” spoke the fifth knight, a lanky, dark-skinned Damascan with thick brown hair styled in a warrior’s dreadlocks. “For should our time come, it shall arrive in a moment of true worth.”

While Rowan spoke the final words of the oath, Ser Bennu Sabry’s scimitar joined the line of blades pressed against her back.

Having witnessed other knighting ceremonies before, Bram knew that the swords pressed on Rowan’s back meant no harm. They served as a symbolic reminder that there was no turning back from one’s sworn oath.

“Your Highness,” Ser Anthony called, but the prince was already walking down the dais toward him, asking, “Give me the sword.”

Once he stood in front of Rowan’s kneeling form, Bram drew the sword his seneschal offered him; an ornate-looking falchion the prince had commissioned for his newest knight.

“I have heard your oath and accept it,” he spoke the words he’d only said five times before, “and shall hold you to them from this day until the end of your days.”

He laid the flat of the blade against her left shoulder.

“I dub thee, Ser Rowan of House Wolfe…”

He laid the flat of the blade against her right shoulder.

“Knight of Scarlet Blossoms!”

It hadn’t taken him long to think of a title to bestow on her because the vision of Rowan’s sorcery covering the sky with crimson petals was ever-present in Bram’s mind.

Bram returned the falchion to its sheath in Ser Anthony’s hands so that his hands were free to raise Rowan to her feet.

“Rise,” he commanded, “rise a knight of the Order of the Peerless Heart!”

There was a spattering of applause from the gathering.

Neither Bram nor Rowan cared about the lukewarm reception though, because they were both busy reading the notification that arrived for them.

CONGRATULATIONS! Rowan Wolfe was successfully promoted to [Knight Lv.1]! You have earned the achievement [First to be Promoted], [First Promotion], and [First Knight]!

“Oh, dear, I believe I just stole Chris’ thunder,” she whispered.

“Isn’t this a demotion?” Bram whispered back.

Rowan was already a blood champion, a trickster, and who knew what else…becoming a knight seemed like a step down by comparison.

“I don’t believe so.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I cannot be who I was in the past for I’ve chosen to follow a new path that will help me grow further than I ever have before.”

“The Loom guides your fate…”

“It guides us all…”

CONGRATULATIONS! The system’s knowledge base has grown! The Loom’s resources have increased by [0.01%].

Current resource rate: 1.25%

Ser Anthony cleared his throat, forcing Bram and Rowan to look away from each other.

As the grandmaster of her order fastened her new sword’s sheath to her belt, he announced, “It is time for the Showing of Mettle.”

It was a long-standing tradition in the imperium that newly anointed knights tested themselves against fellow knights who’d come to witness their knighting ceremony. Through a series of duels, a knight could show off their talents while also providing entertainment for the nobles who’d come as guests.

“Are there any who wish to challenge the Knight of Scarlet Blossoms?” Ser Anthony asked.

“Aye!” spoke a young knight.

“Aye!” roared a second knight.

“Aye!” challenged a third knight.

Many more answered the call, but only the first three knights who were young like Rowan pretended to be were called up first. She would fight them one by one, and if she won all three duels then more knights would be allowed to take up the challenge.

“How many of these children am I allowed to fight?” Rowan asked.

“As many as you want until you give up the challenge, lose, or triumph over all who could challenge you,” Bram answered.

“I see…” Rowan flashed Bram a knowing look. “This was your purpose for such a grand knighting ceremony…to show off the sword standing at your side.”

“The death of a baron and the defeat of his soldiers…though no one can tie me directly to this, accepting the Flametail Tribe as my vassals was proof that I was involved in the Red Forest incident,” Bram answered. With a grin, he added, “They assume that we have fangs now…”

His gaze swept through the hall.

“Some of these nobles may be persuaded to join our side—”

“If I can show them proof of our strength,” Rowan finished his thought.

“Exactly.”

“Interesting. Very interesting.”

A space in front of the dais was made for the Showing of Mettle. Then the first of Rowan’s challengers stepped up to meet her; a tall and lithe young man with a confident grin and a bastard sword strapped to his back.

This time, the crowd cheered quite loudly, though they were cheering for the enemy instead of the Knight of Scarlet Blossoms. Neither Rowan nor Bram minded though, because she would shut them up soon enough.

“And how much of my strength am I allowed to show off?” Rowan asked.

Before returning to his throne, Bram leaned in to whisper into her ears, “Go wild…”