LightReader

Chapter 5 - Departure-The road to varethia

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew and pine from the surrounding hills. The chariot stood gleaming in the courtyard, flanked by two white steeds adorned in royal barding. Their silver harnesses bore the crest of the Twin Lions of Varethia, shimmering like molten gold in the rising sun.

Inside the small cottage, the warmth of the hearth was giving way to the hum of preparation. Trunks were being closed, traveling cloaks fastened, and the quiet rhythm of footsteps echoed against wooden floors.

Belial sat on the bed, kicking his tiny legs as Elvira gently buttoned his small tunic—a fine garment of white linen with golden threads woven into the cuffs, far more elegant than anything he had worn before. He tilted his head toward the mirror.

Huh. So this is what nobles wear?

"Try not to wrinkle it in the first five minutes," Elvira teased softly, brushing his silver hair until it gleamed like moonlight. Her touch lingered for a moment, almost reluctant to let him go.

Azrael entered the room, now dressed in a deep navy tunic embroidered with the sigil of a lion across his shoulder, a cloak draped over one arm. His sword—sheathed in black steel and marked with old battle scars—hung proudly at his hip.

"Ready?" he asked, voice steady, though his eyes flickered briefly to Belial with something more than pride—resolve.

Elvira nodded, her hand brushing the child's hair one last time. "As ready as we'll ever be."

As the chariot rolled forward, the wheels crunching against the gravel path, Belial pressed his small hands against the window, crimson eyes wide as the world opened before him.

He had lived his new life in the quiet folds of forest and farmland, never venturing beyond the valley—but now, the land stretched far and wide, vast and vibrant.

Rolling green fields unfurled like an endless sea, dotted with windmills turning lazily in the breeze. Farther on, rivers glittered like molten silver, carving their way through ancient stone bridges and sprawling orchards.

Travelers moved along the royal road—merchants with horse-drawn wagons carrying spice and silk, knights in polished armor astride warhorses, and farmers with carts heavy with grain. Above them, banners fluttered high, bearing the sigil of House Varethia—the Twin Lions crowned in fire.

Beyond the horizon loomed The Capital: Vaeloria.

The heart of Varethia. The Jewel of the North.

It was said the city rose upon the ruins of the first human kingdom, built atop stone older than written history. White spires kissed the clouds, and crimson roofs stretched across the hills like an ocean of terracotta. The Royal Citadel, carved from a single mountain of ivory stone, gleamed brighter than any star, its banners casting long shadows across the city of guilds, mage towers, and markets that never slept.

To the east, far beyond sight, the shimmering veil of the Great Elfin Forest hugged the horizon, whispering secrets of magic and prophecy.

Back in the chariot, Azrael sat upright, gaze fixed ahead, jaw tight. Elvira watched him silently for a moment, then asked the question that lingered unspoken.

"Are you sure about this?"

Azrael didn't answer immediately. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, fingers tapping lightly.

"The King gave us an order," he said finally. "But… the truth is, part of me wanted this for Belial. A life better than the one we had. Away from the dirt and the blood."

Elvira's eyes softened. "And the other part?"

His gaze shifted to their son, who was still staring out the window, eyes shining with childlike wonder.

"The other part," Azrael said quietly, "wants to turn this chariot around, lock the door, and never let the world touch him."

Elvira reached over and rested her hand on his. "Then we protect him. Whatever it takes."

Belial, catching the tone in their voices, glanced back at them briefly—then turned toward the horizon again.

Whatever it takes… huh? He clenched his small fists. Then I'll do the same. I'll grow stronger. Strong enough that no one can take this from us.

As the chariot rolled on, banners of the royal crest fluttered in the wind. The road ahead was paved in stone and gold—but lined with shadows.

The chariot's wheels rumbled across the final stretch of white stone road as the gates of Vaeloria loomed ahead—a colossal archway carved from solid marble, flanked by towers that seemed to scrape the heavens. The Twin Lions of Varethia, carved in gold, roared eternally above the gate, their jeweled eyes burning crimson in the sunlight.

As they passed through, Belial's eyes widened.

So this… is the Capital?

The city unfolded like a living tapestry.

Markets overflowed with colors—scarlet silks, emerald spices, sapphire glassware shimmering under lantern light. The cries of merchants mingled with the music of bards, and the scent of roasting meats drifted from the open-air taverns. Knights in shining steel patrolled the cobblestone streets, their armor reflecting the banners that swayed above—banners dyed in crimson and gold, the sigil of House Varethia blazing proudly.

Mage towers spiraled toward the sky, their runed spires crackling faintly with arcane light, while grand bridges stretched across silver rivers like the arms of gods. Carriages drawn by obsidian steeds clattered past, bearing nobles draped in velvet and jewels that glimmered like stardust.

Beyond it all, rising above the city like a titan, stood the Royal Citadel of Vaeloria—the heart of the human realm. Hewn from ivory stone and crowned with towers of gold, its walls gleamed so brightly they seemed to blind the sun itself.

Belial pressed his tiny palms against the chariot window, breath catching.

It's like in the novels…

As the chariot slowed before the Great Courtyard, a man approached—a figure so commanding that the knights lining the path snapped to attention the moment his boots touched the marble

Azrael's best friend. The man who fought beside him in a hundred battles.

He was a giant in steel—tall, broad-shouldered, his plate armor etched with runes that shimmered faintly like flowing starlight. His crimson cloak rippled in the wind, fastened by a brooch of black iron shaped like a wolf's head. Across his back rested a greatsword so massive it could split a warhorse in two.

His helm was under his arm, revealing a face carved by war—sharp jaw, scar across his left cheek, and eyes like storm clouds, hard and unyielding.

When Azrael stepped from the chariot, Val's stern face cracked into a grin.

"By the gods," Val said, striding forward and clasping Azrael's arm in a warrior's greeting, their gauntlets clashing with a metallic ring. "You actually made it."

"Val," Azrael said with a rare smile. "You haven't changed."

"Neither have you, except for the wife and kid," Val said with a low chuckle, his gaze shifting to Elvira and then Belial, who peeked shyly from her arms. "So this is the Lion Cub, eh? He's got your eyes, Az."

Elvira smiled softly. "And his father's stubbornness, I imagine."

Val smirked. "Poor woman. You're doomed."

The Royal Hall

The Grand Hall of the Citadel was vast beyond belief—pillars of white stone rose like colossal trees, veined with gold, their crowns lost in the glow of enchanted chandeliers. Crimson carpets stretched like rivers of blood toward the throne that stood at the far end—an obsidian seat carved with lions, fire, and swords entwined.

The King awaited them.

A man carved from power and majesty. His mane of golden hair fell past his shoulders, framing a face that bore the weight of nations. His armor—black steel trimmed with molten gold—gleamed beneath his crimson cloak. A crown of silver and flame rested upon his brow, and his eyes burned like suns—sharp, commanding, unyielding.

When Azrael entered, the hall fell silent.

The King rose slowly from his throne.

His voice rolled through the chamber like thunder.

"Azrael Lionheart. The Black Lion of Varethia. The Sword of Endless Winter. The Death that Walks the Battlefield."

Every noble present flinched at the titles—names that carried dread across enemy lines, names whispered by demons as omens of death.

Elvira stepped forward beside him, her beauty draped in a flowing azure gown, yet her presence radiated the calm strength of a battle-hardened mage.

The King's gaze softened as it turned to her.

"And you, Elvira the White Flame. The Witch who Burned a Thousand Shadows."

Gasps rippled through the court. Many had only heard stories of her—a woman whose magic once scorched an entire legion to ash.

And then his eyes fell on the child in her arms.

Belial felt the weight of that gaze pierce through him like a blade—measuring, calculating, knowing.

"So this…" the King said slowly, "is the heir to the name Lionheart."

He descended the throne steps, each stride echoing like a drumbeat.

Azrael instinctively placed a hand on his sword.

The King stopped before them—and smiled faintly.

"Welcome home, Black Lion''

The Royal Hall shimmered with golden light, but beneath the brilliance lurked whispers like coiled snakes. Nobles lined the crimson carpet on either side, their robes of silk and velvet rustling as they leaned toward one another. Jewels glittered in the chandeliers overhead, but the shine in their eyes was envy—cold, calculating envy.

"Azrael Lionheart…"

"…a common-born warrior granted an audience with the King?"

"…and bringing his… peasant wife and child to court?"

"…What merit does brute strength have against bloodlines older than kingdoms?"

The murmurs slithered through the air, growing bolder as the King descended the marble steps.

He ignored them.

But Azrael heard every word. His jaw tightened. His hand itched toward his sword hilt—but Elvira's fingers brushed against his arm, steadying him.

Then, a voice rose—smooth, dripping with arrogance.

"Your Majesty," said Duke Rhaemond, a gaunt noble whose velvet cloak shimmered like midnight wine. "With respect… granting land and title to a sellsword, no matter how skilled, cheapens the sanctity of our noble order. What is next? Shall we knight the blacksmiths and butchers?"

Soft laughter rippled among his faction.

Azrael's eyes burned. His aura stirred, and the temperature dropped slightly as if winter crept into the hall.

The King stopped mid-step.

He turned his head slowly toward Rhaemond.

And smiled.

A cold smile.

"When the blacksmiths and butchers hold back demon legions and deliver me two enemy generals' heads in a single campaign," Daeron said softly, his voice a blade of silk, "then yes… I will knight them."

The hall fell silent.

The King resumed walking, stopping before Azrael and Elvira.

"Azrael Lionheart," he said, his voice resounding like war drums, "you are summoned here not as a sellsword… but as the shield of Varethia. Your valor has carved peace for a hundred thousand souls. For that, I name you Duke of Lionheart, Guardian of the Northern March."

Gasps erupted. Nobles stiffened like struck trees.

Azrael dropped to one knee, bowing his head. Elvira curtsied gracefully, her gown flowing like water. Belial just stared, confused but feeling the weight of something immense.

The King unsheathed a ceremonial blade—black steel with veins of gold—and tapped it lightly on Azrael's shoulder.

"Rise, Black Lion of Varethia."

Azrael stood, his presence filling the hall like a storm.

The King smiled faintly… then his eyes darkened.

"Now," he said, voice lower, meant only for Azrael and Elvira, "a shadow moves in the East. The demons rally once more—but this time under a banner unseen for a thousand years. I need my fiercest sword at the front again."

Azrael's heart clenched. His gaze flicked to Elvira, then to Belial.

"You want me to leave now?" he asked, voice like iron scraping stone.

"Not now," the King said. "But soon. Preparations begin tonight. And your family will remain under the crown's protection… for their safety."

Elvira's expression hardened. "Protection," she repeated softly, tasting the word like venom.

The King met her gaze without flinching. "If the enemy learns of your son's… potential, they will come for him first. Do not mistake my caution for chains."

And then—

Belial stiffened.

Something was wrong.

He felt it like a shiver crawling up his spine—an unseen thread pulling at his chest, faint but sharp. His crimson eyes darted to the edge of the hall.

There—among the nobles—stood a man cloaked in gray silk, face hidden by a half-mask of black lacquer. His eyes glowed faintly under the shadow of the mask. And when their gazes met, Belial felt it—mana. Heavy. Dark. Coiled like a serpent.

The man tilted his head slowly, almost as if smiling behind the mask. Then he turned and slipped into the crowd, vanishing through the jeweled doors without a sound.

Belial gripped the edge of Elvira's gown, small fingers trembling.

That wasn't a noble, he thought. That was something else.

More Chapters