The princess had always shouldered her responsibility. Despite being renowned as the best female fighter in the Peaks, doubts flickered within her. Deep down, Katherine longed for the shadow discipline to protect her kingdom's future.
Before her thoughts spiraled further, a knock interrupted her. Opening the door, she found her favorite maid, Mary.
"The Highness summons you to the East Entrance. He's with the old woman," Mary said, mischief in her eyes.
Katherine laughed briefly, relieved. "No matter what, I must go. Show me the way, Mary." Walking towards the East wing, she glanced at the vibrant garden.
The lively scene contrasted sharply with the impending ritual. Among the spectators stood an old woman. Katherine approached respectfully. "Are you the seer?" she asked, bowing.
"I'm not your seer today, but I will be for the others. Just this once," the woman replied cryptically, beckoning Katherine to hold her hand. Confused, Katherine hesitated, but the woman's ominous words spurred her on.
As she touched the seer's wrinkled hand, darkness engulfed her. Swirling colors danced before her eyes until she found herself back in her bedroom, shrouded in darkness but with acute awareness. Investigating, she found a velvet box in her closet containing a golden polearm identical to hers, but with an inexplicable aura.
Steeling herself, Katherine opened her chamber door, stepping into a desolate cavern. Searching for an exit, she found none, her attempts to climb or break the walls futile. Armed only with her golden polearm and in simple clothes, she pressed on towards the cavern's center, where skeletal remains and pools of blood marked the path of those who had come before her.
Her heart raced, fear creeping in as she neared the center. Hours passed as she trekked onward, pain shooting through her feet on the sharp rocks. Finally, she reached the apex and a realization dawned upon her as the ground rose towards the middle.
Upon reaching the top, however, Katherine’s hopes crumbled. The space revealed nothing but a vast expanse of black rock, obstructing her only escape route. Grimacing, she grappled with her disappointment, her mind scrambling for an alternative plan. Suddenly, movement erupted from behind, jolting Katherine’s senses to full alertness.
Katherine spun around, confronted by a faceless figure slowly advancing toward her. Adorned in armor and brandishing a simple wooden sword, its menacing demeanor frightened her. While curiosity swelled within the princess about the origin and nature of this apparition, she had no time to think. Without warning, the spirit charged at her with a sword raised, embodying the fierce grace of a seasoned warrior. Katherine had no choice but to defend herself.
The spirit lunged, launching swift strikes in her direction. Yet, in its relentless assault, it unwittingly exposed numerous spots in its armor. Exploiting these openings, the princess plunged her polearm deep into the spectral figure. Resistance met her weapon, but no blood stained the ground. The spirit crumpled, dissolving along with its armor, swallowed by the earth itself. She didn’t even need to turn around as the next wave of adversaries surged forward, aiming to end Katherine’s life. A smile graced her lips as she reflected on the countless hours dedicated to training for this very moment. The trial appeared deceptively easy, inflating her confidence.
Little did she know, she would be proven wrong.
Alaric:
The old prince’s grunts reverberated within the confines of his cell as he slowly gathered the minuscule strands of twine that clung to his clothes. With careful dexterity, he rolled the threads together, fashioning a horizontal string using his tongue—the only free body part he could use. Despite specifically requesting cooked Eocona for his last few meals, the prison’s inhabitants, in their collective ignorance, had unwittingly supplied him with the one food item capable of aiding his escape. Alaric knew that cooked Eocona acted as a potent adhesive, and with saliva as the sole agent to weaken its grip. He had deliberately refrained from using his tongue for hours, biding his time for the perfect opportunity to craft a fragile lock-breaker.
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Coating the twine with the sticky residue of the Eocona, Alaric felt it congeal with remarkable tenacity. Using his teeth, he deftly maneuvered the makeshift tool, wedging it into the mechanism that held him captive. Over the course of countless years, he had diligently chiseled away at the inner workings of the lock, the concealed sections eluding the guards’ scrutiny. However, to his anger, this method failed to release the lock.
Rather than opening the clasp, his approach had likely compromised the metal holder. It would audibly pop. Casting a wary gaze around his cell, Alaric’s eyes widened in apprehension, questioning if anyone had heard the noise of the pulling. Assured that the coast was clear, he broke the chains that had burdened him for so long, swiftly discarding his garments and tying a makeshift loincloth just around his waist. With welts and injuries marking his body, he had no choice but to venture forth with no armor or weapons for defense. Aware of the weak structure of the walls, he resorted to a military strategy he had employed countless times before, breaking through the designated right wall that would lead him beyond the confines of the facility.
With his heart pounding, Alaric sprinted as fast as his legs would carry him, taking him from Winterfort to Goldacre—a treacherous and perilous path typically guarded by patrols. However, this time, those sentinels would likely be his adversaries. A gnawing suspicion burrowed within him, suggesting that his father, upon his return, would not welcome him with open arms. Political machinations rendered him a symbol of weakness, unfit for the throne. It made logical sense, yet the shocking revelation that assassins still pursued him only deepened his madness. Moreover, news of his father’s dethronement had not reached his ears, further confusing Alaric.
Goldacre, the bustling trade center of Lutra, stood as the largest city in the land. According to legends, the castle was meant to be situated there, but tales spoke of a time when people migrated from the mainland to the island. Alaric, however, remained skeptical about the existence of such a mainland. He recognized that legends were often mere fables. The races that inhabited Lutra were confined to this island, and he silently expressed gratitude to the Priestess of Lutra for sparing him the burden of ruling beyond its borders. Yet, a scowl unknowingly etched itself on his face as the thought lingered,
“That might not hold true anymore…”
His plan for reaching the city streets of The Acres, as the locals referred to them, involved seeking the aid of the one person he could trust—a person who, hopefully, hadn’t succumbed to corruption. In his current guise, the likelihood of being recognized was slim, but Alaric understood that this was a risk he had no choice but to take.
“As long as I don’t alter my appearance, I should remain unnoticed,” he reassured himself.
Finally, he had escaped the tormenting confines of the prison system.
After an arduous journey, Alaric at last arrived at the main path of the city. However, given that it was midday, he decided it would be wiser to venture forth at midnight, reducing the chances of encountering vigilant guards. Retreating to the nearby forests, he scoured the surroundings in search of necessary supplies for the upcoming night. Treading over broken logs and dedicating long hours to the task, he managed to collect ample firewood from fallen trees.
Carefully stashing it in a memorable spot, he acknowledged that it was time to proceed, leaving behind the gathering of flint and other materials for another time. With any luck, Clayton would provide him with a bed, and then he would be one step closer to his desired freedom. Alaric believed that securing a place to stay would grant him the opportunity to undertake odd jobs and sustain himself for a few years. With enough savings, he could confront the corrupt guards, armed with a formidable arsenal, should diplomacy fail.
As he hummed to himself, retracing his steps from the forest to the main road, Alaric traversed the darkness without the aid of light. His numerous excursions from a young age endowed him with a sense of navigation. Before his absence left an impact on the kingdom, he used to escape through the main window of his room, venturing into the outside world. He had walked this very path in darkness, fumbling like a fool. While such methods were no longer necessary, Alaric had not forgotten his old shortcuts and late-night walking patterns despite years of confinement.
Swiftly traversing the path, his gaze fixated on the towering buildings illuminated by torchlight, Alaric managed to locate the store where Clayton worked. Certain they would remain until midnight, Alaric hastened his pace across the dirt paths, desperately hoping to avoid detection.