Zepharim’s Light part 3

Previously…

I turn to glare at him right as a wave of dust washes over us and the new riders pause their journey in front of the tannery.

And then, I hear a voice that makes me shudder.

PRESENTLY…

DRAXEL

I study the four men and women gathered in this cave. Although we’ve known each other for well over a decade, distrust still runs thick between us.

I clench my torch as I seek any hint of malice. After climbing military ranks to reach my title as General, I’ve learned a few things about spotting a traitor.

“And lastly, what of Ryndor?” asks Ninna, leader of the largest string of parlors and saloons across the continent that runs rich in coin and gossip. The elderly woman does not come from a renowned House. She was born a slave and earned her power.

Furlow–owner of a massive fleet in the west–looks hesitant. The first hint of emotion I’ve seen sting stepping into the cave.

“What is it?” I speak up, my voice echoing through the enclosed space. “Daylight is burning.”

We have been here for the past hour, discussing matters regarding Zepharim and beyond. 

Our order has been intact for the past two-hundred years, passing from family to family save for Ninna who was just enlisted. Her access to valuable information was too valuable to pass up.

“Word is that the king of Ryndor has taken a bride.”

“And?” replies Ninna. “It was about time he did. He was under fire for stalling his marriage.”

“The Queen is of low standing,” he adds.

“Is she from a lesser house?”

Furlow crosses his arms over his chest. “Worse yet. Allegedly, she is a Lowdweller.”

Over the past two hundred years, not much has come from Ryndor–or Kryndor, as they call themselves. It is a distant kingdom across the Unyielding ocean. A quiet, unreachable world whose most dramatic news are of storms and the occasional war.

Although it’s unusual of king Varkon to take a Lowdweller for a queen, this is not note-worthy.

“What of it?” I reply, shrugging off the report. “This is not remarkable. Let us conclude and meet again in six months. I must continue my journey to The Citadel.”

“I regret to inform you, Lord Draxel, that my sources claim this Lowdweller has the blood of fire mages.”

Silence ensues.

This…is problematic indeed.

“What is this Queen’s name?” asks Ninna as she scratches at her thumb–an anxious tick of hers.

“Queen Ceryn.”

I take a step forward. “You must investigate this, Furlow. Ryndor is under your supervision. When we meet six months from now, you better explain how a woman with the blood of fire became the queen of a fucking kingdom.”

Furlow looks outraged. “You are of fire blood, Lord Draxel. Perhaps you are better fitted to answer how one of yours wound up in such a position.”

“Where would he start looking for the Queens origin? There are two-hundred Houses with fire blood, you fool,” snarks Ninna. “Ryndor is your jurisdiction. Figure it out.”

I walk away, removing myself from the group before Furlow tastes my steel.

Outside, I throw my torch onto the rocky earth and stomp out its flame. The smell of smoke is comforting. I inhale, pulling it deeply into my lungs, and I feel my blood answer it’s call.

Mounting my stead, I glance at the sky. It’s dark. Bandits will be roaming the paths, and yet I’ve got no option but to ride. My men have already advanced to The Citadel and await me.

“Steady, boy,” I murmur to my trusty old beast, petting his thick neck.

Grabbing the reins, I take off. Riding down the mountain and into the dark forest that swallows me with its dangerous shadows. I don’t fear its embrace; Not when the darkest secrets of Zepharim swirl in my mind. There is much cruelty and evil in this world. One miss-step, and it will consume me.

That’s the only thing I fear in this fucking life.

Well, that, and meeting her ever again. The woman whose name I dare not speak.

I ride through the night, cutting down two bandits that ambush me. I’ve seen the trick a thousand times: A thick chain that abruptly cuts off my path, and two men ready to kill me once I hit the ground.

Sadly for them, I heard the clanking of the chain a mile back.

Sheathing my bloody sword, I continue riding.

***

The Citadel is an ancient place, and yet none the graceful. The streets are polluted by garbage, drunks, and dust. 

There is crime in every nook and cranny, and the disgraceful army tucked behind The Citadel’s tall, thick walls do nothing about it.

This place was built by stone mages just like most of Zepharim’s manors, palaces, and forts.

I grind my teeth when memories of a particular Stone house rises. I don’t want my thoughts to wander that far into my past. And yet I keep thinking about her lately.

Word is that General Benthorn is on his deathbed. I won’t mourn the old bastard. He has run his army into the ground. 

I am here to oversee the transition of power from Benthorn to his Colonel, and I’m not enjoying a second of the journey..

“We had a problem with the tannery. They have delayed the delivery of saddlebags for three days now,” says Rathe, my left-hand man.

“I’ll see to it,” I reply, studying the main strip of The Citadel.

Eyes follow us. It appears that my reputation has reached this place well before I have.

Rathe and I ride down the path, a wave of dust following us.

Unfortunately for the tanner, he has caught me in a sour mood. I am sleepless and damn ornery. There will be no pleasantries exchanged today. At least none from my end.

I stumble upon a strange scene. A boy is on the ground, a discarded belt beside him, and a startled tanner.

“You,” I growl, my hand instinctively reaching for the grip of my sword.

The tanner straightens, extending his hands. “My–my lord! I was just about to make way to deliver–”

“Have the saddlebags at my front step within the hour. Otherwise, I will let you choose which one of your hands to keep, for I will sever the other.”

I have been called cruel at times, but never unjust. I’ll let the man keep his dominant hand. He needs to make a living somehow, after all.

Below me, I watch a boy cough and sniffle. My shadow is cast over him, engulfing him. He wears crumpled, baggy clothes. His hat is crooked, and I spot a few locks of dark hair clinging to the sweaty nape of his neck.

His hands are on the ground, and his head lowered as if to protect himself from the dust.

“Who is this?” asks Rathe, gesturing to the sniveling boy.

“A…A thief. Don’t inconvenience yourselves with this insignificant matter, my Lords. The sheriff will string him right up to the nearest tree.”

I tug at my reins, turning my mount around. The animal is antsy. Shifting his stance, huffing, as if something is unsettling him.

He must be tired. It’s time for me to ride to the stables.

“Draxel…” mutters Rathe. He gives me a look I’m familiar with.

He wants me to rescue the boy.

The boy heaves, struggling to catch his breath. Still, he rasps, “I…am…no thief!”

I gesture to the boy. “I’ll be taking him along with the saddlebags. Tell the sheriff to stand down if he arrives.”

“Take him?” grits the Tanner. “Whatever for?! He has wronged me.”

The man is clearly eager to have the kid dangling from the nearest tree.

I nod. “I’ll punish him myself. I’ll have him pay off his debt.”

Truth be told, I don’t fucking care whether the boy is guilty or not. I’ll have him polish shoes for an evening and then send him off. It’s the only way to bring him under my wing.

“But…” The tanner stammers, his eyes wide.

I glare at him, declaring the matter settled.

“Rise,” I command the boy. “We must get going.”

Slowly, he rises.

I watch his every move.