"In the day of the reception for the delegations from the northern kingdoms, the nobles assembled, standing along the perimeter of the grand hall, at the Nordhall Royal Palace. The King Father and Prince Alaric stood together, positioned to formally receive their guests. The center of the hall was deliberately left empty, a space for the royal procession. Clytos stood beside Eden, murmuring commentary in a low voice."
"This will be… a significant day," Clytos said, his tone a mix of anticipation and apprehension. "You'll see wonders, oddities. Have you ever attended a royal reception before? Anything of this sort?"
Eden shook his head. "No, Master. This is my first time seeing anything like this."
A herald, standing near the entrance, boomed, his voice filling the hall, announcing the representatives of each northern kingdom in turn.
"Prince Vargus of the Kingdom of Voschenya!"
Prince Vargus entered the hall, his bearing confident, almost arrogant.
Clytos whispered to Eden, "That's Prince Vargus. A typical Shai prince… handsome. They say he fought to the death to secure his position. Fought his own brothers. But frankly, I doubt it. See how he loves to draw attention to himself?"
Prince Vargus approached, offering greetings to both the King and Prince Alaric.
The herald's voice rang out again. "Prince Razafir of the Kingdom of Vovania!"
An elderly prince entered, his hair mostly white, his movements slow but deliberate.
Clytos leaned in towards Eden. "That's the Prince of one of the eastern northern kingdoms. Small, comparatively… the smallest of them. They survive, maintain any position at all, by diplomacy. That is their prince. He was a clever man. But now… he's senile. Forgets things constantly."
"Prince Razafir approached, and mistaking, believing it was the King Father, and mistaking Prince Alaric for the King Father, began to offer his greetings. 'It is an honor to be here. A great honor to greet you, Your Majesty. It is a tremendous honor to be in your presence this evening, and to see peace flourishing between the northern kingdoms.'"
Prince Alaric, correcting him gently, said, "I am not the King Father, Your Highness. This is His Majesty, the King."
"Oh! Oh, my apologies," Razafir said, flustered. "I forget things… so often."
The King Father smiled indulgently and greeted the prince warmly. "My old friend. You look well."
The herald announced the next arrival. "the Prince and Princess Jacinda, rulers of the Kingdom of Concordia!"
A royal couple entered, hand-in-hand, their faces alight with what appeared to be manic joy, completely absorbed in each other.
"Eden, curious, made sure he was close enough to be unheard. He asked Clytos in a low voice, 'Why are they a Prince and Princess?'
Before Clytos could even begin to whisper an explanation."
"Those two… they're mad," Clytos whispered to Eden, before starting explaining. "They rule their kingdom… together. Their story… it defies belief. Before they became rulers, they were locked in a brutal civil war. Each commanded their own army, slaughtering each other, causing chaos, death, and destruction. Then… they made peace. And married. And if they have a disagreement… they start another civil war. If you want to see the world as pure chaos, look no further than those two. But… that's not important now. Now, you are about to witness something you will never see again. Something truly rare… unprecedented."
The herald's voice, ringing with a mixture of formality and suppressed tension, announced the final arrival. "Her Royal Highness, Hiran, former Queen of the Kingdom of Gorica. And Prince Georgi."
Clytos muttered under his breath, "Here we go…"
The entrance of Hiran, that of. The room fell utterly silent. The only sound was the rhythmic tap… tap… tap of the old woman's cane as she entered, accompanied by her two sons: Prince Georgi, and Falken, striding purposefully beside her.
As Hiran made her entrance, with that presence,
Eden, perplexed, whispered to Clytos, "A Queen? Attending in person?!"
"Clytos gave a short, humorless chuckle. "'Former* Queen, Eden. A rare occurrence indeed. She surrendered the Sacred Womb long ago, and, well… returned to her natural size. Her successor now carries the Womb, the current Queen. This kind of transition… it hardly ever happens smoothly.'"
Hiran stood in the center of the hall, her gaze fixed on the King Father, her eyes burning with unadulterated hatred. In a voice that rang with contempt, she spoke his name – his given name, a shocking breach of protocol – loud and clear.
"Wahi."
The King responded in kind, his voice equally devoid of respect. "Hiran."
The entire hall held its breath, every eye fixed on the two figures.
"The Devil himself stands here," Hiran said, her voice dripping with venom. "Before us all. I do not know why he has chosen to return… with one who has defy our Gods. Who has broken every sacred boundary. A usurper of authority, a stealer of the Sacred Womb. A man who dares to violate the laws of our Gods by bearing the Sacred Womb within his own body! It is an abomination! And this… this is the creature you celebrate?"
The King Father's voice, a thunderous rumble that echoed through the hall, was dangerously low. "I do not believe you have the right to address princes and nobles in this manner, Hiran. As if you were their appointed guardian, the self-proclaimed protector of the Gods. We are all free to worship as we choose, but to impose your beliefs on me, in my kingdom… that will have consequences. Dire consequences. All the kingdoms, and their princes, assembled here have chosen their own interests over the intransigence and outdated dogmas you cling to, Hiran. All have the right perspective, all have a way, but... The goal remains singular: the prosperity and security of our people. These kingdoms before you have chosen the welfare of their peoples – their own welfare – through peace with us. You… remain behind. Rigid, trapped by the past, by ancient traditions… backward. Let us move towards progress, towards the advancement of our peoples, our lands. And they agreed. What… is it that which you accuse them of confessing?" The King Father paused, his gaze sweeping across the silent, watchful assembly. "Is that what you browbeat them into admitting? That bearing the Sacred Womb within my body, instead of a Queen's, is the… affront to the gods?
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Hiran's voice was ice. "You dare question me? What will i do? This, Wahi: Let it be known, then, that there will be no peace with you, not as long as you rule. Not as long as I draw breath. Nor with your kingdom. Not until your fall is complete."
And suddenly, Marcus, silent until now, moved. He took several deliberate steps forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the movement clearly audible in the tense silence.
Georgi mirrored Marcus's action. He moved with equal deliberation, his own hand gripping the hilt of his sword, his steps echoing Marcus's in the sudden, charged stillness.
Before the confrontation could escalate further, Prince Alaric stepped forward, his voice calm but firm, attempting to de-escalate the situation. "Please, Your Majesties. Please. Today, we have a race. Why not let the field, let sport, determine who is the worthier, the stronger? Wouldn't that be for the better, my good sirs?"
The King, his gaze still locked on Hiran, responded, his voice still carrying a hint of menace, "You are correct, Your Highness. We are not here to… spoil… the enjoyment of this great day. We desire that only… on the field. Only through action."
***
Shortly after the reception, the focus shifted to the race, the royal box overlooking the track was a study in contrasts. In the front row, the King Father sat upon a massive, ornately carved chair – more a throne in its imposing size than a simple seat – with Prince Alaric to his left, and the elderly Prince Razafir to his right. Beside Razafir sat Prince Vargus, while on Alaric's left sat Hiran, her son Prince Georgi beside her. Next, to those. sat the, Prince and Princess Jacinda, both mad of each others. Each royal party was flanked by their respective retinues, standing at attention on slightly raised platforms behind them – a second, elevated row, then the third.
The Aslilian rider, named Kaelar, was being prepared by his attendants. They strapped on his light armor, designed for speed and agility rather than brute protection. He secured his twin short swords, crossed at his back for easy access. Mounting his sleek, muscular steed, he patted its neck, whispering encouragement.
The announcer's voice boomed across the track, introducing the riders one by one. The crowd roared its approval, the cheers rising and falling with each introduction. A diverse group of riders lined up, some representing kingdoms, others simply seeking glory. The rider from Nordhall entered, greeted by a deafening roar from the home crowd, their excitement palpable. Then, the rider from Gorica – an imposing figure, his massive frame clad in heavy armor, his enormous greatsword dragging along the ground – made his entrance. He, too, received a roar of appreciation, though tinged with a hint of fear, a recognition of his brutal reputation. This was Brakon, a name whispered with respect and dread throughout the northern kingdoms. Finally, Kaelar, the Aslilian rider, entered. The cheers were polite, welcoming – a show of goodwill towards their newly-reconciled neighbors.
The riders lined up at the starting line, each gripping their chosen weapon. The squires holding the horses' reins waited, tense and ready. The announcer, his voice rising in anticipation, declared, "The victor will be decided after three laps! You may use any means necessary to win! Prepare yourselves!" He tossed a brightly colored cloth into the air.
The squires instantly released the horses, and the race began in a thunderous explosion of hooves and steel.
It wasn't long before the first clashes erupted. Brakon, the Gorican rider, relying on brute strength, lived up to his fearsome reputation. From, behind. Catching eyes of audiences. With a single, earth-shattering swing of his massive greatsword, he unseated a nearby rider, sending him sprawling to the dust. He followed this with another devastating blow, the sheer force of the impact, combined with the speed of the horses, easily unhorsing his next opponent. It was a display of raw power and ruthless efficiency.
Meanwhile, Kaelar, the Aslilian rider, was navigating the chaos with a different approach. He weaved through the pack, prioritizing speed and agility, avoiding direct confrontations, until he had moved up into a front. Two riders, seeing an opportunity, boxed him in, one on his right, one on his left, their swords drawn.
The first rider lunged, aiming a blow at Kaelar's head. Kaelar ducked, the blade whistling harmlessly over him. He parried the second rider's attack, the clang of steel on steel echoing across the track. Then, with breathtaking speed, he drew both of his short swords. A double strike – lightning fast – caught the first rider completely off guard, unseating him instantly. The second rider, momentarily stunned, tried to recover, but Kaelar was too quick. He blocked a clumsy blow with one sword and, with the other, disarmed his opponent as quick, ending his contest, at last.
The crowd roared, amazed by his speed and precision. Kaelar, emboldened, urged his horse to even greater speed, drawing closer to the remaining leaders. He wouldn’t play fair anymore, to get the win at last. He targeted a rider on his right, one who was close ahead. The opponent, focused on the race ahead, had only started raising his own sword, to be used. Kaelar struck first, his blade finding its mark before his rival could even react.
Then, with a display of masterful horsemanship, Kaelar pulled his horse into a sharp, almost impossible turn to the left, cutting directly in front of another unsuspecting rider, as they are on the hard track. The sudden maneuver startled this rival, throwing the rider off balance with pure horror, to the face, leaving him defenseless as Kaelar swiftly dispatched him.
The second lap began.
Brakon, fueled by brute strength and the cheers of the crowd, had fought his way to the front. He had his eyes now locked on Kaelar. The Aslilian, however, was currently engaged with another opponent. Just as Kaelar disarmed and unseated this rider, Brakon launched his attack, a massive, overhead blow aimed at cleaving Kaelar in two.
Kaelar, reacting instantly, crossed his swords in a desperate block, bracing himself for the impact. Brakon's blow connected with a deafening clang, the force of it almost ripping the swords from Kaelar's grasp. Their horses collided, the impact jarring. The two riders locked in close quarters now, exchanging attacks.
Brakon, relying on brute strength, rained down a series of heavy blows. Kaelar parried some, dodged others, but he knew he couldn't withstand this onslaught for long. Then, with a sudden, unexpected maneuver, he pushed forward, using his entire body to shove Brakon off balance.
Brakon, momentarily thrown, his massive weight working against him, wavered. At that exact same time! Suddenly, the new opponent appeared from the back of his vision, another rider he totally not focusing on. He regained control so fast. And he thrusted with the giant sword, that new rival who he had an eye contact moment before.
The crowd roared with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. Kaelar, seizing the opportunity, spurred his horse forward. But he needed distance. The man got pushed hardly, he would be after Kaelar with furious face! So he standed, on his own horse! With both his swords hold, on his hands, in the air, Kaelar launched himself in a daring, acrobatic leap – a whirlwind of motion – aimed directly at Brakon.
The impact was devastating. Kaelar's momentum, combined with the element of surprise, sent Brakon sprawling from his saddle, his body crashing to the earth with a sickening thud. The crowd erupted in a frenzy of cheers and shouts.
In the royal box, a mix of reactions played out. Some gasped, others cheered, while still others stared in stunned silence. The Aslilian delegation erupted in cheers, while the King Father allowed himself a small, satisfied smile, clenching his fist in a gesture of quiet triumph.
Kaelar, now mounted on Brakon's horse, quickly leaped back to his own steed. As he did so, in a swift, brutal motion, he slashed the Brakon's horse's throat, sending the beast crashing to the ground, creating a chaotic obstacle for the remaining riders.
Among those who fall victim to that obstacle… One of Nordhall’s riders!
The crowd gasped with "Oooooh."
“You stupid fool!” Prince Alaric Shouted, so furious at what happened, thinking of that fallen rider.
The King Father chuckled, that loud noise echoed. He then looks towards the direction where Hiran and her sons, witnessing as they departed from that madness event. And so, the laugh went louder, much happier.
Kaelar, now clear of the carnage, surged forward, winning the race with, ease. The crowd went wild, cheering and applauding his victory. He dismounted, raising both his hands towards the King Father, shouting, "This victory… is for you, our Father!"
The King Father rose from his imposing chair, returning the gesture with a booming, "Well done, my son! Well done!" He turned to the cheering crowd, acknowledging their adulation, as everyone starts applauding.