Chapter Two

  Zorandor Cragoria

  “Right. Left. Left. Right.” Zorandor quickly followed the commands ducking and tchweaving between the sword hits to avoid them. At last Ser Gidran gave ease to his blows and held his own blade near his hilt.

  “You improve with ever passing day my prince.” He said with a rare smile across his face. Zorandor couldn’t help but grin to himself looking up to where his sister was watching him. She smiled at him saying something that he couldn’t quite catch. Everyone was watching him actually. All members of the council, soldiers and common folk alike came here to watch him train almost everyday. It made him wonder who he was to these people. His people. He wanted to understand if he were nothing more than just a necklace to be hung for them or was he the future of their kingdom? He did not know.

  “Maybe the prince would like to try me.” Said Ser Huer approaching Zorandor with a small bow.

  Ser Huer was one of the best swordsman this kingdom could offer. But he was not the best. The best wasn’t here.

  “It would be mine own pleasure, Ser Huer.” Zorandor responded taking up his sword once again. The blade sat light in his grip, swift and easy to wield—yet it was nothing compared to the sword promised to him. It was a longsword forged before time had a name. The metal was legendary only few houses and men having such swords. The metal was called Vaellyn, a word lost to time. Meanwhile the sword’s own name was Reaper.

  “The sword is so long and heavy, that the old kings and queens could use it to reap through the mountains.” He remembered his sister saying to him.

  “How could they carry something so heavy?” Zorandor asked not fully understanding. His sister laughed a little brushing the hair out of his face.

  “They were bigger back than. Stronger. We’re too small compared to them.” Zorandor didn’t find the story believable and looking back neither did his sister. The sword couldn’t cut through mountains and men could carry it just fine. One truth of it though was that it really could cut reap through men as if it were nothing. Such a large and heavy blade could not be so light. It seemed impossible.

  “You’d do good to keep your head on your shoulders my prince.” Ser Huer said cutting up with his blade towards Zorandor’s face. Zorandor fell back quickly, almost losing his footing. In Cragoria they fought with sharpened edges and real blades. That was how the greatest of warriors were made and the weakest were picked out like weeds.

  “The prince don’t think of you as much of a challenge ay, Ser Huer?” Bellowed a soldier who was sitting down with his drink. For a second Zorandor thought he saw the knight's face harden. Zorandor blocked a blow with his own sword and pushed against the knights sword locking them together. They turned in a circle eyeing each other carefully. Each one of them calculating the next move they could make leaving them in a stalemate. Zorandor’s breathing slowed as he weighed his options as quickly as possible. He could fall back. That's what he should do, he couldn’t win in a contest of strength with Ser Huer. Before he could make a move Ser Huer grabbed his hand and flung the sword out of his hand and pushed Zorandor to the floor. Before he knew it the blade was being pressed against his throat and he was dead.

  “Thats not fair.” Zorandor spat furiously pushing the sword out of the way. Clapping erupted as some celebrated the knight’s win while others were hushed whispering amongst themselves.

  “Honor will not win your battles my prince.” Ser Huer said turning his back to Zorandor. “You’d best learn that.”

  “But honor does earn us our ‘Sers’ and ‘Lords’ Ser Huer.” Said a voice coming from the entrance of the castle walls. It was Lord Galen Pierce followed by Ser Alder, Captain of the Sworn Knights. Ser Huer did not look back at the hand nor acknowledge his arrival unlike everyone else who took to their knees as quickly as possible or muttered their respects. “You’d best remember that.”

  Lord Galen turned his attention to Zorandor his forehead creasing. “The Queen has requested your presence my Lord.” Lord Galen said dipping his head to Zorandor. Zorandor looked up to where his sister had been and realized she was gone. Everyone else surrounding them also began to disperse. Training for today was over and tomorrow it would be bow they practiced.

  “What business does my sister summon me for my Lord?” Zorandor asked going to hang his sword on the wall, his defeat still on his mind.

  “She requests your opinion on a matter that has just encroached upon us.” Lord Galen said.

  “You’d do good to know the implications of that my prince.” Ser Alder said putting an arm around Zorandor. “It was bound to happen you know? Thirteen already and with a sharp mind like yours the whole kingdom knew the Queen would seek your council.” Zorandor felt a little excitement grow in his belly but he tried to stave it off his defeat still fresh in his mind. No other warrior than him would have lost to such a childish move on that field. Maybe it was true that Ser Huer had played a childs game but Zorandor had been the one who had started it.

  “I’d suggest you lower your enthusiasm Ser Alden.” Lord Galen said his voice tight. “The Queen merely wants to see his opinion on the matter.” He turned to look at Zorandor before muttering something under his breath.

  “Ignore him.” Ser Alden said lowering his voice. “He’s jealous because you’ll be taking his spot soon enough.” Zorandor smiled at the knight but it felt more forced than genuine. He liked Lord Galen. He had never been anything except kind and true to him and his sister. Zorandor wouldn’t want to take away Lord Galen’s position. Not if it meant hurting him in any way. In more ways than one Lord Galen had been a father to him and had helped him and his sister through their hardest times.

  It would also seem like a disservice to the realm to abandon Lord Galen in such a crude manner. To be replaced by a boy. After all he’d done.

  Zorandor realized they’d arrived as Lord Galen nodded to the guards at the large doors who pulled them open with great effort. The doors slid open but did not creak, something his sister had gone great lengths to make sure their ancient doors wouldn’t make a sound. Inside the throne room was a man at the center and upon the throne sat his sister. As they walked in Zorandor saw the seats at the sides had already been filled. If this was a trial then there could be witnesses and testifiers and advisors on any of those seats.

  Nothing was said to them as they entered and Zorandor froze for a moment waiting for his sister to welcome him to her side. It wasn’t until he realized that she was waiting for him to seat himself that he moved. A little more frantically than he would’ve liked but he seated himself next to his sister. A seat lower and Lord Galen found his spot next to the Queen standing while Ser Alden took place next to his fellow Sworn Knights and lowered his helmet to cover his face.

  “Let it be known that all men and women sworn to truth have been gathered here in the Throne Room.” Juramor declared loudly. They called him the Keeper of Scrolls but in reality he was their Juror. Normally it was him who conducted the business of the Queen but it seemed something was off today.

  Even at the sides he could see some of the more important council members gathered. Juramor’s brother Zilron, their diplomat was seated at the bottom nearest to the event while Mavron, the Keeper of Coin stood rigid dressed in regal attire with his weight in gold on his fingers.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  Zorandor always felt self conscious around Mavron who always dressed so much better than him. Who always wore more jewelry than him. It seemed as if Zorandor was too small to fit so much gold onto himself. This time he could only manage an earring decorated with obsidian and rings fashioned from gold and sapphire.

  “Then the trial may begin.” Queen Zorvaia, his sister declared at last. Juramor came up to to the Queen his face full of seriousness.

  “The man is named Rikard, my Grace he has been charged with the illegal hiring of sellswords and a failed coup against their Land Lord, Lord Dorin.” Lord Dorin stood up from where he sat amongst the people. He wasn’t as well dressed as some of the others but Zorandor could’ve sword his buttons were fashioned from gold.

  Lord Dorin stepped forward, his heavy boots striking against the marble floor, the sound sharp in the heavy silence of the throne room. He was a broad-shouldered man, with a thick beard shot with silver, his tunic plain but well-made. A man of the old ways, who valued loyalty and strength above all else.

  “This man,” Lord Dorin said, his voice steady but edged with resentment, “was my sworn bannerman. I gave him land, coin, and the right to rule in my name. And in return, he sought to unseat me.” The accused, Rikard, knelt in chains before the assembled court. He was thin, his tunic torn and muddied from his capture, but his eyes were sharp with defiance. He lifted his head, gaze flicking between the queen and her council, before settling on Lord Dorin.

  “I did as any man would, when left to starve beneath the weight of a greedy lord,” Rikard spat, his voice raw. “I hired men to take what should have been mine by right.” A murmur rippled through the court at his boldness. Even Ser Alder shifted slightly, his fingers brushing the pommel of his sword. Queen Zorvaia remained unmoved. She was young, but there was a quiet power in the way she sat, in the way she studied Rikard as if weighing him against an unseen measure.

  “You claim you were left to starve?” she asked, voice calm but commanding. “And yet you found enough coin to hire swords for a coup?” Rikard stiffened. His lips parted, but no words came.

  “The Queen asks a good question,” Lord Galen said, his deep voice filling the chamber. “Tell us, Rikard—who paid for your war?” Silence stretched in the throne room, thick with expectation. Rikard licked his lips.

  “I found the coin,” he said at last. Zorandor watched him carefully. The way Rikard spoke—too quickly, his fingers twitching against his bonds—he was lying. Or, at the very least, withholding something. Zorvaia’s fingers tapped against the armrest of her throne. She knew it too.

  The silence that followed Rikard’s feeble excuse was deafening. The weight of so many eyes, the cold judgment in their stares—it was suffocating. Zorandor could hear the measured breaths of the council members, the faint rustle of silk and armor as nobles and knights shifted. Lord Dorin was the first to break the stillness.

  “You found the coin,” he repeated, his tone laced with open disbelief. “Where, then? Beneath a loose floorboard in your meager hall? Or perhaps the gods themselves took pity and rained down gold?” He scoffed. “Speak true, Rikard, lest your cowardice shame you further.” Rikard’s jaw tensed, his fingers curling into fists despite the weight of his chains. He glanced about the room, as if seeking some unseen ally, some hidden lifeline among the gathered court. When none revealed themselves, he let out a sharp breath and forced a smile, though it was thin and humorless.

  “Perhaps my lord would rather I have died a pauper’s death in silence?” he sneered. “I did what any man would. I sought strength where I could find it. And I found it.” Queen Zorvaia’s expression remained unreadable. She leaned forward ever so slightly, her hands folded before her.

  “And yet, you still fail to answer.” Ser Alder shifted from his place among the knights, speaking for the first time since the trial began. “You paid for steel and men. Men do not fight for empty promises. Who gave you the coin, Rikard?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, sharp as the weapons they wielded. Rikard let out a humorless chuckle.

  “Does it matter? I lost. The game is played, the pieces fallen.” Zorandor watched as murmurs spread through the court. Some whispered of treachery deeper than a single failed coup. A few exchanged knowing glances, as though they had their own suspicions of who might have funded Rikard’s rebellion. But no one spoke it aloud. Juramor stepped forward, clearing his throat.

  “The matter at hand is not only treason, but deceit. This man not only sought to overthrow his rightful lord, but he withholds the truth even now, when his fate is nearly sealed.” Lord Galen let out a slow breath, looking to the queen.

  “He insults the court with his silence.” Zorandor felt the weight of the moment pressing down upon him. His sister had not called upon him just to observe. She was testing him, guiding him into the role he was meant to play. He could see it in the way she watched him now—silent, expectant. A choice had to be made. The boy straightened, schooling his features into something resembling the composure his sister wielded so easily.

  “If he will not speak, then we must decide his fate without his words.” A hush fell upon the chamber. Queen Zorvaia gave the faintest nod.

  “You will decide it, Zorandor.” His breath hitched. He had known, deep down, that this was coming, but hearing it aloud was different. The whole of the court turned their attention to him now, awaiting his judgment. The weight of expectation, of duty, settled upon his shoulders. Rikard scoffed.

  “A child will pass my sentence?” He turned his gaze to Zorvaia. “Have you no men with enough spine to wield the authority of this throne?” Zorandor clenched his jaw, but before he could speak, his sister’s voice rang out, cool and unwavering.

  “The strength of a ruler is not measured by years, but by wisdom. And my brother has been given the right to pass judgment.” Rikard let out a dry laugh, shaking his head.

  "What Magister shoved those words in your throat?" he sneered. "Did you rehearse them in some dimly lit chamber, hoping they'd sound profound?" Zorandor forced himself to ignore the words of the traitor despite the truth in them. Zorandor forced himself to breathe for fear that he may get caught up in himself. This was no longer training, no longer just a lesson—this was real. His hands curled into fists at his sides before he slowly released them.

  “Treason cannot be met with mercy,” he declared, his voice steady despite the storm within him. “The sentence is death.” There was no celebration, no murmurs of approval. Only silence, thick and suffocating.

  Zorvaia did not nod, nor did she look pleased. She only regarded Zorandor for a moment longer before speaking again. “Then you will carry out the sentence.”

  The chamber seemed to close in around him. Zorandor blinked, not sure if he had heard her correctly. “My Queen?”

  “A Cragorian does not order death from the shadows. If you pass judgment, you must be willing to deliver it yourself.” She turned to the guards. “Bring forth Reaper.” A ripple of movement stirred through the court, but Zorandor didn’t know what it was.

  Reaper. The weapon of kings and executioners alike. It had ended wars, shaped history, and now, it would be wielded by a boy. The court watched as he slowly stood from his seat, his legs feeling heavier than they ever had before. Each step toward the pedestal rang in his ears. Reaper gleamed in the torchlight, its dark metal drinking in the fire’s glow. It looked too large for him, too ancient, too steeped in the weight of history. Rikard let out a dry chuckle as Zorandor’s fingers closed around the hilt. Everyone in the throne room could tell it was far too heavy for Zorandor. Too long. How could a warrior let alone he, wield such a blade?

  With all his might Zorandor took the blade and raised it up afraid it would scrap across the floor. He had to use both his hands as he approached the traitor.

  “So this is how I die? Not in battle, not by the blade of a true warrior, but by the hands of a child? One who can hardly wield his own blade”” His smirk was sharp, mocking. “Some would call this a disgrace.” Zorandor felt the cold steel beneath his palm, the sheer weight of the sword sending a jolt up his arm. He turned to Rikard, meeting his gaze.

  “If disgrace is what you fear,” Zorandor said quietly, “then you should not have chosen treason.” The hush in the court was absolute. The sentence had been spoken. There would be no turning back. He raised Reaper in both hands, feeling the heft of it, the centuries of blood and history that clung to the steel. The blade seemed to hum in his grip, an extension of judgment itself.

  He stepped forward, standing over Rikard, who knelt before him, chin raised, eyes burning with something unreadable—pride? Defiance? Resignation? The room held its breath. Zorandor exhaled, steadying himself. It seemed useless though as he raised the blade. He had to steady his body afraid that it would fall out of his hands. It really was too heavy for him. Somehow though with the help of the Gods Zorandor managed to used the downward motion of the blade to strike at the traitor’s neck slicing it off cleanly. The blade hitting the ground made a loud noise covering the sound of the head falling to the ground. Zorandor’s ears rang but that was the least of his concerns. A crimson arc painted the floor, and Rikard’s body slumped forward, lifeless. The court remained silent. There were no cheers, no whispers—only the crackling of torches and the slow drip of blood upon stone. Zorandor released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He lifted his gaze to meet his sister’s. The lesson was over. The trial was done.

  Ser Alder stepped forward slowly to stand next to Zorandor. The Prince looked up at the knight trying to see his expression but he could see little.

  “That was your first.” Ser Alder observed, his tone missing the light humor it had when they had been in the hall. “There will be many more to come.”

  What changed the outcome?//

  Aerakos gave a small grin in it no answer...