Elaraion raised the bow. As his fingers brushed the string, a profound shift occurred. The world around him seemed to lose its solidity, becoming translucent, ephemeral. The biting wind stilled. The distant sounds of the city faded into an almost imperceptible hum.
TIME STOP ACTIVATED.
He had entered the ethereal space. His vision sharpened, focusing with impossible clarity on the approaching royal procession. It was as if a telescope had been granted to his eyes. The ornate royal carriage, pulled by six magnificent white horses, glided forward, its golden adornments gleaming even in the dim light. His gaze zoomed past the carriage, through its gilded windows, and into its interior.
Inside, three figures. The King, Alaric, sat regally, his crown a heavy shadow on his brow. The next carriage was for his three daughters.
The eldest, Princess Lyra, was a vision of serene beauty, her long, dark hair braided with pearls, her gaze outward, perhaps surveying her future kingdom. She exuded grace, a regal air.
The second, Princess Isolde, was perched on the edge of her seat, her fiery red hair unbound, falling in a cascade around her shoulders. Her emerald green eyes, sharp and intelligent, were alight with an almost restless energy. She was less demure than her elder sister, with a spark of defiance in her posture.
The youngest, Princess Seraphina, was a delicate blossom, her blonde curls framing a youthful, innocent face. She clung to her elder sister's arm, her eyes wide with childlike wonder.
Elaraion's gaze settled on Isolde. She was the one. Her vibrant energy, her slight wildness, called to the newly awakened part of him. He didn't know her name, her station, her temperament. He knew only that she was the second princess, and she would be his key as he had heard that she was the most intelligent and could be the heiress.
He nocked the arrow and drew the bowstring, then aimed straight at Isolde's heart.
He released and the golden arrow soared through the frozen air, piercing the carriage, the princess's gown, and then, with a soft, inaudible 'pop,' it dissolved into a faint golden mist as it struck Isolde's chest.
TIME RESUMED.
The world snapped back into focus. The wind buffeted him. The distant sounds of the city returned. The royal procession, unimpeded, continued its stately advance. Elaraion lowered the bow. It was done.
He turned to Kael. "We leave now."
Kael, eyes wide, eager to follow, moved to descend. "Master, shall I accompany you to the state? Your new servants are ready to serve."
Elaraion shook his head. "Not yet, Kael. This is a journey I must make alone for now. But I shall return. Return to the city. Gather your men. Sharpen your blades, hone your wits. We shall work together again, soon enough." He gave Kael a rare, genuine smile. "I have grand plans, Kael. Plans that will require strong hands and loyal hearts."
Kael bowed, his chest swelling with pride. "As my Master commands!"
Elaraion descended the tower, his steps lighter, his heart thrumming with a new kind of ambition. He made his way back towards the arena. People still mocked him and some even asked where he had kept his rusty crown.
He found the arena mostly deserted, the grandstands empty, the last of the noble house carriages rumbling away. His family's banner, the black raven, was gone. They had left him.
He spotted a modest, enclosed carriage, its driver already half-asleep on the bench. He reached for a grey arrow, nocked it to the bow, and fired it silently into the driver's chest.
"Friend!" Elaraion called out, approaching the carriage. "I find myself stranded, my transport having departed. Would you be so kind as to offer a ride towards the capital?"
The rider practically jumped to his feet. "Aye, good sir! Get in, get in! It would be my honor to convey thee! No coin required, good master!"
Elaraion suppressed a triumphant smile and climbed into the carriage. As they rumbled along the road, the driver, a garrulous fellow named Borin, began to chatter.
"Strange times, these are, good sir," Borin began, shaking his head. "Whispers fill the inns, talk of discontent among the great lords. The King, bless his heart, grows old, and with no sons... well, the vultures begin to circle, eh?"
Elaraion listened intently, feigning casual interest. This was exactly the kind of information he needed.
"The Lord Regulus, the Duke of Veridian, he's been most vocal," Borin continued, dropping his voice conspiratorically. "Speaking of the King's 'inability to secure the line,' hinting that perhaps a new hand is needed to guide Aethelgard. And others, powerful lords, they lend their ears. There's talk, quiet talk, of a great rebellion brewing, a contest for the throne if the King does not name a clear, undisputed male heir."
Elaraion absorbed every word. A rebellion. A power vacuum. This could be his chance, his path to the ultimate prize. The golden arrow he had fired at Isolde suddenly felt even more potent.
Suddenly, a harsh command shattered the night's calm.
"HALT!"
The carriage lurched violently. Borin looked at Elaraion. Elaraion peered through the small window. The road ahead and behind was swarming with soldiers. Not the city guard, nor any common levy. These were elite warriors, clad in gleaming bronze armor, their helmets topped with sweeping plumes.
They carried long, ceremonial spears tipped with polished bronze. The sigil on their breastplates was a stylized, thorny rose.
"The Order of the Crown Princess!" Borin whispered, his face pale with fear. "But… why?"
"Crown princess?" Elaraion asked.
A stern voice rang out. "By the command of Her Royal Highness, Princess Isolde of Aethelgard, second daughter of King Alaric! We seek one Elaraion of the House of Usher! You are summoned!"