Solmar chose a side door, slipping quietly into the shadows of the corridor, while Nysera walked through the main hall, her steps graceful but thoughtful. Yet her mind lingered on her brother, unsettled by his sharp displeasure at their father's orders.
"What's gotten into you?" she called after him, her voice steady but tinged with concern. "Not everyone is here to bring harm to the kingdom. Can't you judge people for yourself instead of being so guarded… Is this all just from that old trauma, brother?" She paused, letting a small sigh escape, trying to read the source of his intensity. "I just hope you don't intend to stir trouble on your own…"
Solmar returned to his room, the door thudding shut behind him as he moved toward his desk and leaned over it. His eyes immediately fell on a document that had been gnawing at him since it arrived.
"Everyone's acting foolish. Father's decisions… they're reckless. This will only bring more suffering," he muttered to himself, staring intently at the paper before snatching it up with one hand.
"Have you forgotten? Our kingdom already endured war—the same war that took Mother from us. And you, composed and polite with every visitor, have no idea how dangerous some of these people can be. One powerful individual could wreak havoc in an instant. I won't let history repeat itself. I'll find a way to change Father's mind… I'll handle this myself."
He remained tense, acutely aware of the potential threat posed by outsiders to their kingdom. "I swear on my life, Father. Even if it comes down to confronting you directly, I won't let history repeat itself. But for now… rest. You have no idea how serious I truly am."
Outside the grand entrance of the palace, at the top of the sweeping staircase, a young man stood with calm composure. His sharp teal eyes carried a steady focus beneath his blond hair, while a flowing white hooded cloak draped over a dark blue, samurai-inspired uniform. Black arm guards, light gray pants, and a rope belt adorned with red tassels gave him both a traditional and battle-ready presence. With his katana already drawn but held loosely at his side, he exuded the air of a disciplined warrior—swift, precise, and perfectly at ease in stillness.
"Alright… it looks quieter than I was told. My orders are clear—confront the king and remove him. But… why capture him? Why not just end it? Something doesn't add up. Still, this chance is too important to waste. Father had better stay out of this before he ruins another mission for me."
The man shifted slightly aside as a woman approached down the stairs. He gave her a brief glance, but didn't realize until too late that she was the princess herself. Nysera paused before him, her presence carrying an effortless grace that left him momentarily distracted. She was striking—beautiful enough to pull his thoughts off course—but he held his tongue.
"Is something the matter?" Nysera asked, her voice calm but direct. "If you came to see the king, the audience has already been dismissed."
Caught off guard by both her words and her beauty, he shook his head quickly, his reply fumbling. "No… no. I wasn't here for the king. I just wanted to see the palace up close. I was… hoping to take some notes and maybe paint it."
Her eyes widened slightly at his response. Paint it? Then, with mild curiosity, she said, "Are you a painter? You should know, though—sketching or painting the palace without permission is prohibited."
He cleared his throat and tried to recover, rubbing the back of his neck. "I… wasn't aware. Forgive me. Still, if there's someone who could grant me permission, I'd be grateful. It'd be an honor to add such a remarkable structure to my collection."
Nysera lifted a finger to her lips, thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose I could grant you that permission. Though I'd need to be certain my father would allow such a task to pass." Her serious tone softened as she tilted her head back and let out a light giggle. "But I'm sure he will. Go on—I'll be waiting to see the finished piece." With a graceful wave, she turned and descended the grand staircase, heading toward the city that stretched below the palace.
The young man in uniform froze, struck silent as her words lingered. His gaze drifted upward into the empty air, the weight of realization settling on him. "Father?" he murmured, eyes narrowing on her retreating figure. It hit him all at once—she was royalty, a princess beyond any doubt. "I... didn't expect to cross paths with someone so important, and so soon." He exhaled, shaking his head with a wry smile. "All the more reason to focus on this painting." Reaching into his satchel, he rummaged through his supplies. "There's bound to be a shop nearby."
Solmar rifled through the wardrobe until he pulled out an empty flask. "Alright… let's see. I'll need a pinch of virethorn dust, a drop of serpent's whisper oil, and a fragment of ashen bloom root. After that, I'll probably have to stop by the alchemy chamber to finish the mix."
Solmar lifted his chin, eyes settling on the vibrant city beyond. The people moved about, unaware of the chaos he was already weaving in his mind. "Once the king falls, the throne is mine. My rule, my kingdom. They'll have no choice but to bend to every command I give."
As the meeting drew to a close, strained by the endless disputes within the family, a company of scouts—warriors sworn to the kingdom—received their command: to track down a vessel said to linger at the farthest edge of the island's desert dock.
Before setting out, they assembled in the rear courtyard of the palace, a space built precisely for such gatherings. There they waited in disciplined silence, anticipating the arrival of their appointed missionary who would deliver their orders and outline the path ahead.
Their uniforms were purpose-built for the wastes: sand-dyed hooded cloaks with split hems for easy movement, high collars, and veil-wraps that could be drawn across the face. Lightweight, lacquered-leather scale cuirasses sat over indigo linen tunics; matte bracers and fingerless gloves guarded the forearms and grip.
Loose desert trousers were tucked into wraparound boots bound with rawhide, the soles ribbed for traction on dune slopes. Each belt carried a water gourd, a compact kit of salves and bandages, a coil of thin rope, and a signal whistle; hardware was muted to avoid any telltale jingle. A bronze sun-pin at the shoulder marked their allegiance.
For arms, they favored short, curved sabers, throwing knives strapped along the thigh, and compact recurved bows with horn-backed limbs sealed against grit. Tinted sand-goggles hung at the ready beneath their hoods—one pull, and a scout became a faceless silhouette in the storm.
At the very front of the waiting warriors stood their leader, a masked man wrapped in desert-born attire—sand-colored fabrics layered tight around his lean frame, bound with rope-like cords, every fold built for the heat and dust. The mask concealed his face entirely, making him seem less a man and more a figure carved from the wastes themselves.
Beside him stood another warrior, his partner, draped in flowing desert garb of lighter cloth. The fabric hung loose and practical, etched with vine-like patterns that shifted faintly in the breeze, giving him the look of a seasoned wanderer shaped by the dunes and stone.
The young warrior following the masked man stood firm, his arms resting straight against his legs, posture sharp and disciplined like one accustomed to leadership—yet his manner carried a quiet composure, a restraint that set him apart from the restless crowd.
"Zevros…" his voice was low, steady, though curiosity edged it. "What's this for? You summoned everyone here without a word of reason. Is it about those outsiders again?" His eyes stayed fixed on Zevros' back, as if trying to read the truth through the weight of his silence.
Zevros finally turned, the sun catching faintly on the rough lines of his mask. His gaze, hidden, still carried command. "I don't know yet, Rhyven," he admitted, his tone calm but grave. "The king himself called for this assembly. That alone means it's no minor affair. Something stirs—something pressing enough to pull every blade into formation."
Rhyven's brow furrowed. "Then we wait for the envoy?"
"The king's herald," Zevros corrected, the word carrying heavier meaning. "He comes with answers. Until then… we hold steady. But keep your guard up, Rhyven. If the king sends word with a herald instead of his own tongue, it's because he doesn't want whispers spreading before steel is needed."
The younger warrior let out a small sigh, shifting his weight slightly as he kept his eyes on Zevros. "Honestly… sounds to me like the king doesn't trust his own soldiers with this kind of task. Probably thinks they're not cut out for it, or maybe he's just too lazy to manage it himself. Either way, I guess that leaves it up to us to handle whatever mess he's thrown our way."
Zevros gave a slow, deliberate nod, the motion sharp but calm beneath his mask. "Could be," he murmured, his voice low. "But we do what we're told, and we do it well. That's how this works."
Just then, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed across the courtyard. A herald emerged from the palace gates, carrying a rolled parchment and moving with the urgency of someone who had been waiting for this exact moment. Zevros straightened, his posture firm, and gestured for the younger warrior to stay close. "Looks like we're about to find out," he said, watching as the herald approached, ready to relay the king's orders.
To be continued...