The Heirs of the Blood Seal - Family Tree [https://i.imgur.com/Eb7RogS.png]
A tight circle of Myrathian soldiers stood sentinel, their stern gazes methodically sweeping over the gathered crowd. A rope, looped and tied around sturdy bamboo rods, formed a makeshift barrier, keeping the eager onlookers at bay. The air was charged with anticipation as, one by one, men and women stepped into the makeshift arena, their eyes alight with a blend of determination and nerves, hopeful of being recruited into the Myrathian elite army.
The ground within the circle, scuffed and marked, bore silent testimony to the intensity of previous duels. Battles fought with wooden swords; some were swift, concluding with one combatant skillfully pinning the other amidst cheers and gasps from the crowd. Others were more brutal, a fierce dance of combat, with blood and fists flying until one competitor lay bloodied and unconscious. The victor, left standing breathless, their chest heaving, was a solitary figure in the dust-filled, sunlit air.
Inside the palace, in a dimly lit room where shadows clung to the corners like ancient secrets, Master Dhruva stood absorbed in his work, draped in his traditional black turban and robe. Before him lay an alchemist’s table, its surface cluttered with an assortment of glass vials containing liquids of varying hues, ranging from deep ambers to translucent blues. The room's silence was abruptly broken when Master Utkala stepped in. He was dressed similarly to Master Dhruva but was visibly younger by a few decades, his well-built physique evident even beneath the layers of his robe. His footsteps created a soft echo on the stone floor. With a respectful nod, he announced the arrival of the person Master Dhruva had been long awaiting.
Amid the bustling crowd, a young girl of about 19 years watched the duels intently, her eyes burning with fierce determination. Her piercing gray eyes analyzed each movement with the acumen of a seasoned strategist. She was confident her skills surpassed those displayed in the ring, yet her status as an orphan had unjustly barred her from participating. In Myrathia, only individuals of pure or mixed Myrathian blood were allowed to join the elite ranks. Though she could easily secure a position among the lower-level guards, such a role fell drastically short of her lofty dream she clung to. Standing at the edge of the arena, she felt a poignant mix of injustice and defiant resolve. She was determined not to let her lineage dictate her destiny.
Master Dhruva turned, his penetrating gaze landing on a figure who, despite his clumsiness, seemed almost to melt into the shadows. Cloaked in a dark, hooded garment, the cloak engulfed his lean frame. Dhruva's voice, deep and imbued with expectation, cut through the silence. "Good to see you, Fleetfoot. Do you bring us good news? Have you located the rumoured lost heir of Prince Eolan?" Fleetfoot, his eyes wide with a cocktail of fear and urgency, stammered, "Not yet, Master, but I am close to finding the heir." As he spoke, Dhruva gave a discrete signal to Utkala. With the stealth and precision of a predator, Utkala moved forward and delivered a swift, brutal blow to Fleetfoot's abdomen. Fleetfoot's cry of agony shattered the room's erstwhile silence, resonating with the severity of the moment.
On the recruitment ground, as the series of duels unfolded, two finalists emerged, each boasting a physique as robust and powerful as that of a panther poised to strike. Amidst the Myrathian soldiers, a General stood, his aura commanding attention. Time had bestowed upon him a distinguished presence; silver streaks accented his hair, and deep lines of experience were etched into his face, chronicling years of dedicated service and battle. His eyes, incisive and perceptive, surveyed each participant, evaluating their prowess with a keen, unwavering gaze.
The makeshift arena brimmed with tension, poised for the final duel's commencement. The two combatants, muscles taut, circled each other like predators, their intent clear. Yet, as they lunged in a synchronized assault, an unforeseen figure intercepted them. Bursting from the crowd, the young girl courageously positioned herself between the fighters, halting their attacks with outstretched hands. Her light chestnut hair, tied in a neat bun, framed her strikingly fair complexion, a stark contrast to the dusty backdrop of the arena. Clad in simple yet resilient garments, she exuded a raw, unrefined power. Her intervention, unexpected and bold, defied the established norms, marking her as an undeniably formidable presence in the midst of seasoned warriors.
The impromptu fight sequence unfolded with breathtaking intensity, showcasing the young girl's prowess and audacity. Alone against two seasoned finalists, she held her ground firmly. The combatants, momentarily taken aback by her unexpected intrusion, paused only briefly before accepting the silent challenge she posed. A surge of adrenaline propelled their unified attack, with wooden swords cutting sharply through the air towards her. The girl's response was a masterclass in fluid motion and tactical acumen. She moved with an agility that seemed almost supernatural, each dodge a calculated blur, narrowly evading their lunges.
In a swift, ballet-like motion, she deftly disarmed both finalists. Her hand was a blur, swiftly removing their wooden swords and sending them clattering to the ground. The two men, now unexpectedly unarmed, barely had time to register their surprise before she struck back. With controlled yet forceful movements, she delivered a series of calculated blows – a quick jab to the abdomen here, a targeted strike to the shoulder there. Inside, she harbored a deep yearning for recognition, a burning desire to prove that her worth extended far beyond the limitations of her birth.
Inside Master Dhruva's alchemy room, Fleetfoot, clutching his abdomen and still reeling from Utkala's blow, forced himself to stand upright. His face, despite the evident pain, was marked by unwavering determination. "This time, I'm truly close," he gasped, his voice a mix of pain and resolve. He took a moment to gather his strength before continuing, "I've spent years following Prince Eolan's travel entries, searching those towns. But recently, I stumbled upon a substantial lead." He paused, glancing around at Master Dhruva and Utkala, who were listening with intense focus.
"For three winters, there's been a gap in Prince Eolan's travel records," Fleetfoot continued, his voice gaining steadiness. "Old palace guards confirmed he never spent those winters in the palace, especially in the lead-up to the war." A sense of anticipation filled the room. "The one place the Prince was frequently seen, yet curiously never recorded in official logs, is the small town of Itah. That's where his wife and child are likely to be." The weight of Fleetfoot's words hung in the air, dense with implications and possibilities.
The General stepped forward, eyeing the two fallen finalists with a shake of his head. Addressing the girl in a light-hearted tone, he said, "We spent the entire morning under the sun, seeking the best from this small town of Itah. And here you are, undoing our efforts in mere moments." His gaze shifted to the girl, curiosity piqued. "What's your name, and why didn’t you simply participate like the others?"
"I am Ember," the girl replied, her tone carrying a hint of defiance. "Being an orphan, I was barred from your illustrious recruitment drive." The General chuckled at her audacity. "If you think you’re worthy of being a Myrathian Elite soldier, then prove it. Fight against one." With a subtle gesture, he signaled to one of the soldiers, who promptly stepped into the ring, ready to face Ember.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
In the dimly lit alchemy room, Master Utkala, wearing an expression of skepticism, interjected into the intense discussion. "How can you be certain that Prince Eolan even had an heir? This could merely be unsubstantiated rumors." Fleetfoot responded quickly, his voice resolute. "No, it's not just a rumor. I am confident; six years of my life have been dedicated to this search." He turned his gaze directly towards Utkala. "The priest at the Temple of Garbharaksha distinctly remembers seeing Prince Eolan just before the war. It's well known that the only Myrathians who visit that temple are those seeking blessings for their unborn children."
Ember swiftly grabbed the wooden sword of one of the fallen finalists, readying herself to face the soldier. He stood across from her, his sword still sheathed, exuding a calm yet alert presence. They began to circle each other, each step measured, eyes locked in a silent assessment.
Ember, seizing the initiative, lunged first. Her attack, a feint designed to elicit a reaction, was swiftly followed by an attempt at a rapid, circular slash. The soldier, seasoned and adept from years of training, easily anticipated her maneuver. With a swift movement, he parried her wooden sword using his sheathed blade, then countered with a precise kick to Ember's hip, sending her staggering backward. His experience in combat was evident in his measured response and strategic positioning.
Regaining her composure, Ember assumed a poised sword stance, her body angled slightly to present a smaller target, the wooden sword held deftly in front of her. The General, observing her, strolled over and gently lifted her sword to adjust the height at which she held it. He then walked behind her, and with a light push of a finger, corrected her posture. "You are quick and possess impressive hand-eye coordination; you've clearly observed a lot of Myrathian training," he observed thoughtfully. "However, it's evident you lack formal training yourself."
Stepping back to give her room, he continued, his voice carrying a note of instruction, "You haven't seen your opponent in action yet. Don't rush. Observe first and let him make the initial move." With a subtle nod, he signaled the soldier to lead the attack this time.
The soldier, acknowledging the General's command, readied himself, subtly altering his stance in preparation for the attack. He initiated with a direct, piercing thrust of his unsheathed blade towards Ember, a move aimed for efficiency and precision. Ember, quick to anticipate the maneuver, nimbly dodged aside, evading the attack. Unrelenting, the soldier followed up with a powerful downward strike, which Ember skillfully blocked with her wooden sword. She quickly countered with a kick, but the soldier, demonstrating his agility, leaped backward, avoiding the strike.
The General, observing the exchange, offered further guidance. "Good, but you can be more inventive with your counters. Use your entire body in the fight." His voice carried a mix of encouragement and instruction. Ember nodded, absorbing this new approach, the experience almost like receiving formal training for the first time. Her eyes showed a flicker of understanding and eagerness to adapt, ready to incorporate the General's advice into her combat style.
Master Dhruva handed two vials to Fleetfoot — one containing rich, red blood and the other a translucent solution. "You know what to do? A single drop is sufficient. If both blood samples react similarly to this solution, it will confirm our suspicions." Fleetfoot nodded in understanding.
Master Dhruva, speaking in his characteristic measured tone, continued, "The contingent escorting Prince Zane has returned, barely alive. Commander Titus was found dead in his office. And with Prince Zane missing, the only heir left to the king is the child of Prince Eolan. Now, more than ever, it's imperative we find the lost heir." His words underscored the urgency and gravity of their situation.
The soldier launched another assault, this time unleashing a series of diagonal slashes. Ember met each with her wooden sword, parrying the blows with increasing confidence. Then, seizing an opportunity, she ducked under a swing and delivered a powerful elbow jab to the soldier's neck, sending him stumbling backward. A smile of approval swept across the General's face, acknowledging Ember's rapid adaptation and learning.
The soldier, regaining his balance, was visibly irked, his pride wounded by being bested by an unknown challenger. Impulsively, without waiting for the General's signal, he lunged forward, initiating a barrage of windmill attacks – rapid, circular slashes designed to overwhelm. Ember, putting up a valiant fight, blocked and evaded several strikes, but the sheer speed and force of the assault proved too much. Eventually, being disarmed. Seizing the moment, the soldier struck her face with the hilt of his sword, blood splattering from the impact, and followed with a forceful kick that sent Ember crashing to the ground.
Ember lay on the ground, blood trickling from her nose, her body covered in dust. She looked up at the victorious soldier and General, her eyes reflecting pain and defiance. The General appeared visibly disappointed by his soldier's unnecessarily aggressive attack, even as the soldier boasted, "We are wasting our time here, General Arcantheus."
The mention of General Arcantheus's name sent shivers down Ember's spine, catapulting her back to a stormy night in her childhood. As a four-year-old, she had cowered behind a small chest, watching through a veil of fear as a Myrathian soldier callously slit her mother's throat, despite her desperate pleas. The soldier's icy eyes then landed on young Ember hiding behind the chest. He began to advance towards her with heavy, ominous steps. Just then, the door burst open amidst the howling winds and rain, revealing another soldier. He glanced at her mother's lifeless body and asked, "Arcantheus, have you killed the child too?" Arcantheus turned, his face a mask of indifference, "Yes, I have killed them both, let's leave." The memory of that stormy night, when she narrowly escaped death, haunted Ember.
Summoning every ounce of her strength and fueled by her deep-seated hatred for the Myrathians, Ember hauled herself to her feet. Wiping the blood from her face, she let out a howling battle cry and charged with renewed vigor. The soldier raised his sword in defense. Ember, channeling all her power, lunged toward him, skillfully ducking under his swing. She grappled his arm and, using her momentum, flipped him over her body, sending him crashing to the ground. In a fluid motion, she leaped into the air and drove her knee into his face, causing a burst of blood to splatter.
Her gray eyes, now tinged red with anger, Ember knelt over the unconscious body of the soldier. Her intense gaze fixed on General Arcantheus, a fierce desire to exact vengeance at that very moment burned within her. Yet, she was held back by the multitude of unanswered questions swirling in her mind. Who had sent Arcantheus to murder her family 15 years ago, and why had he spared her life? Was his presence in her town for the recruitment merely a coincidence, or was there a deeper connection to his being stationed in this sector? These questions, heavy with the shadows of her past, demanded answers she was determined to uncover.
General Arcantheus approached Ember with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "It seems we have found our recruit from Itah," he said, his voice carrying a hint of a smile. "Just remember not to mention that you're an orphan." His words were barely out when a messenger hurried in, disrupting the tense atmosphere. The messenger brought grave news of Commander Titus's death and, with it, the announcement of General Arcantheus's promotion to the new Commander.
As Fleetfoot departed from the room, Master Utkala, gripped by curiosity, addressed Master Dhruva. "In the absence of Prince Zane, if we find Prince Eolan's heir, would we truly install them as the kingdom's successor?" he inquired. Master Dhruva responded with a knowing smirk, "Son, do you truly grasp our role here?" He didn't pause for an answer but continued, "When Myrathians first arrived in the Eastern Lands, there were about 800 of them, both men and women. Over the centuries, many have amalgamated with the local Aelorian populace. Now, only a select few pure-blood Myrathian families, like ours, remain."
He continued, "Our tradition mandates that only a pure-blood Myrathian can ascend to the throne. However, this was challenged when King Vrihat married an Aelorian commoner, nullifying his lineage's right to rule as Myrathians. Our duty, my son, is to preserve the purity of the royal bloodline, ensuring that only a true Myrathian ascends to the throne." His words carried the gravity of longstanding tradition and the intricate nuances of their power dynamics. "With Prince Zane now gone, if we find Prince Eolan's heir, we simply eliminate them."