Eryndral
"Alaric Eldryn. Such a fine name... befitting a handsome Lord," Kaelion said fondly.
"I am no Lord, my king," Alaric replied.
"And smart as well. Your mother raised you well."
"Thank you, my king."
The room was warm despite its sparseness, with only the three of them present. Yet it pulsed with something else—Kaelion's smile was wide, almost fatherly, as though he were laying eyes on a long-lost son. His gaze lingered with admiration, watching the boy who, despite standing before a throne, seemed to be looking far beyond it—searching.
"What is the young Lord searching for?" Kaelion asked, noticing Alaric's wandering glances.
"Where is Asher, my king? Mother always said he was unmatched with a sword. She promised she'd bring me to meet him someday."
There was a pause. Alaric's voice had softened, his eyes lit with anticipation. Kaelion exchanged a glance with Rowenne, her lips barely holding back a smile.
"She told him I hated fighting," Alaric went on, his tone shifting slightly, "and he thought to taunt me by sending a scroll."
Rowenne bowed her head, a smile curling faintly at her lips.
"And what did this scroll contain?" Kaelion asked, amused.
"Some basic sword forms. Stances for beginners. Something like that. I didn't go through it—it was below me," Alaric said with a shrug, feigning disinterest.
"I am here as a master now," he continued dramatically, "ready for an epic duel with him. Our swords shall dance in such harmony the knights will gaze in awe. The winds will part at each swing… and our battle will be sung as the tale of the Wolf and the Tiger."
He posed theatrically, arms wide, voice echoing like a young bard claiming his place in legend.
"A tale of a Wolf and a Tiger... interesting story. Who read it to you?" Kaelion asked, stifling a chuckle.
Alaric froze, caught.
"...Mother," he confessed shyly.
"How good are you with a sword now?" Kaelion asked.
"I'm still better than him," Rowenne cut in smoothly.
"Mother!" Alaric groaned, clearly betrayed.
Kaelion laughed.
"Do you know, the Shadowrend is also just a sword?" the king asked suddenly, his tone quieter. "And if you continue down this path... perhaps one day, you may be the one to wield it."
Rowenne's expression shifted at once—her smile vanished like the wind snatching out a candle.
"I thought only the chosen ones could wield it?" Alaric asked, curious.
"Yes, Alaric, you heard right. And fortunately—or unfortunately—we've yet to find the one. The true hero of Eryndral. Who knows? It could be you."
"And it could not be him," Rowenne added quickly, her voice sharper than before.
Kaelion's gaze met hers and held it. The air turned still. Tension crept into the room like a shadow through a crack, and Alaric felt it—silent, unsettling—as he looked from his mother to the king, unsure of what passed between them.
Kaelion stood slowly from his throne and walked toward Alaric, speaking with calm reverence, like a king slipping into the memory of a dream long past.
"Alaric… there are stories I was told when I was your age. Old tales passed through the generations—not in books or scrolls, but in whispers by the fire.
I wonder if your mother still remembers them."
He glanced sideways at Rowenne, who did not respond.
"The first… was of a silver stag, born under an eclipse moon—a creature said to carry the weight of destiny in its blood. All the kingdoms feared what it might bring. Some believed it would end their suffering, others feared it would end their reign.
So its mother, wise and wild, hid it in the mountains, far from the reach of kings and blades. She swore to keep him safe, to raise him far from the noise of thrones.
But fate, like fire, always finds its fuel. One day, the stag was found—not by a hunter, but by a king.
He did not raise a bow. No, he offered the stag his hand… fed it by palm, clothed it in gold, whispered to it of glory.
And in time, the stag forgot the wind of the mountains, forgot his mother's voice, and began to dream of thrones.
But the king only ever fed what he meant to one day feast upon."
Alaric blinked, uncertain of the lesson. Kaelion continued.
"Then there was the sleeping hound. A beast born for war—bigger, stronger, faster than any of its kind.
But its mother feared what it might become. She swaddled it in lullabies, kept it from the scent of blood, softened its jaw with kisses instead of commands.
'He will never know battle,' she said. 'He will be more than what they made him for.'
But war came anyway. The gates broke.
And when soldiers dragged the hound from her arms and dipped blood on its tongue… it remembered.
It did not grow into the monster they feared.
It became worse."
Rowenne shifted her posture ever so slightly. Kaelion noticed.
"Lastly… there was the tale of the broken sword.
It was meant for a Champion. The blacksmith spent months forging it with steel from the stars, but during the quenching, the blade cracked. He panicked.
Afraid of the king's wrath, he buried the broken blade beneath ash and forged another in secret—sleeker, brighter, perfect to the eye.
And the king gave it to another.
But when battle came, the perfect blade shattered with the first blow, and the Champion fell.
The king returned, furious, and demanded the truth.
'What happened to the first blade?' he asked.
'It was flawed,' the smith replied. 'Imperfect. I feared it would fail.'
The king looked down at the sword that never fought and whispered,
'Yet it never failed.'"
Kaelion now stood before Alaric, his voice quieter, softer, but laced with something cold and unspoken.
"So tell me, Alaric…
If you had the choice—
Would you run like the stag? Wake like the hound? Or be reforged like the sword?"
He smiled faintly and turned to Rowenne.
"No need to answer. In time, the world may choose for you." Kaelion said as he walked back to his throne and sat again
Have you seen the Hall of Valor, Alaric?"
" No, your majesty. My friend is there now. Mother said we have to come here first"
" Well, what do you say you go visit it now?"
" I'd love it!" Alaric said excitedly
Then, to a nearby guard:
"Leave us. I would speak to Lady Rowenne alone. Take Alaric to Hall of Valor to meet his friend there"
"You happen to have raised such a handsome and caring boy," Kaelion said, his voice softer now that they were alone.
Rowenne didn't waste a second. "I'm sure you didn't bring me here to commend me on my upbringing skills, Your Majesty," she said, her words edged like steel.
"Indeed, I did not," Kaelion replied, the softness fading from his tone. "I'll go straight to the reason I summoned you, then. I want Alaric to come live here, in the palace. And of course, you're free to move in with him, if it pleases you."
"And what if I refuse this generous offer?" Rowenne asked, her arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"I never said it was an offer," Kaelion said, his voice flattening. "It is neither an offer nor a request. It is a command."
Rowenne's jaw clenched. The heat in her eyes could have scorched the throne room floor. "For years, you never cared," she snapped. "All that mattered to you was Asher and your kingdom. Don't start caring about us now. We've been fine on our own—and we will continue to be fine without your palace, your help, or your pity… or whatever you call it."
"Careful now," Kaelion warned, calm but cutting. "You're speaking to your king."
He rose from his throne, slowly, deliberately. "I'm worried about his safety. And where can he be safer than here—within the palace walls, surrounded by seasoned knights and loyal soldiers, with servants ready to meet his every need?"
Rowenne took a step forward. Her voice, though low, struck like thunder. "Your misconceptions will be the reason for your fall. You think that being surrounded by knights, soldiers, and servants makes you invulnerable. But you've never been more wrong. You're surrounded by plotting lords, conniving eunuchs, and soldiers whose loyalties can be bought with gold or promises. Lions and foxes fill these halls, waiting—just waiting—for the chance to tear you apart. If I were you, I'd be worried all day… and stay up all night."
She took a breath. "I'm not bringing Alaric to this den of masked men, not to be paraded or poisoned, not to be caught in your games of power and whispers."
Kaelion's gaze hardened. "And you think where you are is any different?" he asked. "Maybe the palace is as dangerous as you say—but I know who my enemies are. And it is always wiser to keep your enemies close."
He stepped closer. "You don't know what's coming for you where you are. You don't even know what exactly you're running from. Your safest bet—if you want to preserve the warm air in your lungs—is this palace. Whether you want to admit it or not, it is the truth."
Silence fell, thick as fog. The two stood locked in a battle of wills, eyes aflame with rage, defiance, and something deeper—fear.
To Rowenne, this wasn't just another argument. This was war. And it was one she could not afford to lose. She'd rather lose her life than hand over Alaric to these gleaming walls filled with shadows. But Kaelion… Kaelion wasn't backing down either.
Not this time.
"Your Majesty, I think it's time we stop pretending," Rowenne said, her voice firm. "Because we both know it's not our safety you're worried about."
Kaelion went still. For a moment, silence wrapped around him like a cloak. His eyes dropped to the floor, his thoughts wandering deep. Then finally, he spoke slowly, deliberately.
"Asher was born the same day, same hour as Alaric," he said. "He is only one side of the coin. If Asher is the hero of Dravenloch… then Alaric must be the hero of Eryndral."
Rowenne's face softened, though her voice trembled with urgency. "I'm begging you, Your Majesty… let the boy live as a boy. Let him grow up like every other child. Don't steal his smile by burdening him with a fate that's far too heavy for his shoulders."
Her plea was not just for Alaric but for the mother inside her who had watched him grow, laugh, dream.
But Kaelion's reply came with quiet conviction. "No fate is bigger than the one it chooses. And if he doesn't help… everything we've done will mean nothing. The circle will remain broken. And it's not like he can hand his place over to someone else."
Rowenne's gaze turned sharp again. "This wasn't the song you were singing twelve years ago," she said, the bitterness rising in her voice. "You were so certain then… when you made the decision to have him killed."
"But I didn't!" Kaelion snapped, his mask cracking. "I was only looking out for the good of our people."
"Alaric is my son," Rowenne said, stepping forward. "And he will do as I say."
"But I am his father!" Kaelion thundered, stepping down from the throne to face her.
Rowenne didn't flinch. "And what kind of father chooses his people over his son?" she said coldly. "The moment you made that choice—to kill him—you already did. In your heart, you killed him that day. And since that moment, you lost every right to be his father."
She turned sharply and made for the exit. Two guards moved into her path. She stopped, but didn't turn around.
Kaelion raised a hand, silently. The guards stepped aside.
Rowenne walked past them without a word, her back straight, her head high.
Kaelion sat back down, the fire in his eyes slowly dimming to something else… something darker.
He stared at the closed door and allowed himself a quiet smirk.
"Rowenne… just as expected."