Behind the high walls of the sea-bound citadel, the sounds of celebration stirred like an ancient hymn reborn. Blustarion, proud city of waves and wind, thrummed with life beneath the midmorning sun. Servants hurried through colonnades of white stone, and soldiers moved with purpose beneath banners that danced like royal flames. Everywhere the standard of House Farynore rose — azure silk adorned with wings of gold, symbols of a lineage noble and unyielding, woven in threads of valour.
Upon the distant horizon, where sky met sea, a shadow carved itself against the dawn — not of storm nor omen, but of majesty in flight. Irindir had returned. He came astride Aethor, the elrak of legends, a great eagle with feathers like freshly-burnished copper and eyes that pierced the very veil of the earth.
With grace born of sky itself, the beast descended, its wings folding in solemn reverence. It alighted upon the courtyard of marble, its talons stirring a circle of dust that danced like a whisper of enchantment. Guards of the royal legion stood at attention, their armor polished, their stance unwavering. They bowed as one before their king.
Irindir dismounted without a word, his every motion bearing the weight of command. A helm of silver-veined steel veiled his noble face — it caught the sunlight, casting gleams like starlight upon the stones. With practiced calm, he removed it, revealing raven-dark hair that shimmered under the golden sky. The helm he passed to Sir Kaelan Rutrett, his loyal captain, who took it with both hands and bowed low.
"Welcome home, my liege," Kaelan said, his voice steady and clear.
Irindir's gaze swept the inner court, and his brow furrowed at the unfamiliar brilliance. The banners bore golden embroidery more elaborate than custom, and soldiers donned ceremonial cloaks seldom worn.
"What is this?" he murmured, suspicion tempered with curiosity.
A grin tugged at the edge of Kaelan's lips. "Do not tell me you've forgotten, Your Grace."
Irindir turned toward him, eyes narrowing.
"By the gods…" he exhaled. "My coronation?"
"Your tenth," Kaelan confirmed, a chuckle barely restrained.
Irindir laughed, a sound rich with mirth. He clapped Kaelan's shoulder. "Thank you for the reminder. The wind up there steals more than breath — it steals memory."
"Do you enjoy the heights?" Irindir asked as Aethor gave a shrill cry that echoed across the ramparts.
"No, my king," Kaelan replied, eyeing the great bird warily. "I prefer the ground beneath my feet."
Irindir whistled — a sharp note between fingers — and the elrak obeyed. With a final beat of its vast wings, Aethor took flight, soaring skyward until it was but a speck against the sun.
"A shame," said the king, watching it vanish. "You should ride such a beast at least once in your life."
"I prefer riding women, Your Majesty," Kaelan quipped dryly.
Irindir laughed, deep and unrestrained.
Together, the two men strode toward the great doors of the palace, their guards trailing behind at a respectful distance. Sunlight streamed through arched windows of colored glass, casting shifting hues upon the marble floor where nobles had already begun to gather.
Irindir gave Kaelan a sidelong glance, lips twitching with amusement. "So you'd rather mount something earthbound than take to the skies?"
Kaelan snorted. "Tense sensations, my king, are not foreign to me. But I prefer thrills where both feet remain planted — and where I know the reins are in my hands."
Irindir grinned. "Ah, so it is not the height you fear, but the surrender of control?"
"Control lost is not always a curse," Kaelan replied, raising a brow. "Some nights are better left unsteered."
"You speak like a drunken bard," said Irindir with mock sternness. "Since when has my most disciplined captain become a poet of the brothel?"
Kaelan gave a knowing smirk. "Since I started accompanying you to one, my liege."
Their laughter echoed down the stone halls — until a voice, clear as crystal and alight with joy, called out his name.
"Irindir!"
The king turned, and the world seemed to still.
At the threshold stood Elara, his queen, robed in sapphire silk that shimmered like twilight. Her hair, dark as starlit rivers, flowed down her back, and her eyes gleamed with the light of twin moons. She moved toward him in a flurry of grace and devotion, her gown trailing behind like a banner of love.
Irindir smiled wide, as if ten winters had melted at her approach. "Ten days I've been gone, yet it felt like ten years," he said, his voice a balm. "By the gods, I had forgotten what it means to breathe."
Elara laughed softly, her cheeks blooming rose. "And I forgot what it meant to be alive in this palace without you."
Kaelan, still at Irindir's side, gave a courteous nod. "Then I shall take my leave, before I feel an intruder among such warmth."
Irindir clapped his shoulder again, still grinning. "Go, Sir Kaelan. Seek something earthly to tame."
Kaelan bowed. "Gladly, Your Majesty." With a parting glance, he signaled the guards, and they dispersed like shadows before light.
Left alone in the splendor of the hall, Irindir took Elara's hand, entwining his fingers in hers.
"Now that I am returned," he whispered, "will you help me reclaim each lost day?"
Elara's smile turned wicked-sweet. "With pleasure, beloved. But perhaps we should wait... until after the festivities?"
"I cannot," he breathed, his voice husky. "I have waited long enough."
His hand slid along the curve of her back, fingers tracing the lacing of her gown. She caught his wrist with a laugh, breath catching.
"Not here," she warned. "What if we are seen?"
"Let them watch," he said simply, and kissed her — not with tenderness, but with hunger forged by absence and longing.
She melted into him, all restraint forgotten.
In mere moments, Irindir lifted her as though she weighed no more than a feather, striding past wide-eyed servants who turned away with haste.
Behind the doors of their chamber, garments fell like autumn leaves. Flesh met flesh, breath met breath. They did not speak — for words were too clumsy a vessel for passion so primal, so true.
And thus, as the sun rose over Blustarion, casting its golden light upon towers and terraces and gilded gardens below, the king and queen celebrated not merely the tenth year of a reign — but the eternal fire between souls that had known each other across lifetimes.
At the top of one of the castle towers, a gray dove landed with a soft flutter of wings. The bird perched on the ledge of an open window, cooing quietly as if impatient to deliver its message. Tied to one of its legs was a small scroll, sealed with black wax.
Moments later, light footsteps echoed up the winding stone stairs. A servant in a plain brown robe appeared at the doorway. His face was gaunt, his eyes quick as they scanned the surroundings before he hastened toward the bird.
With practiced hands, he removed the scroll from the dove's leg and tucked it into the folds of his robe. But before leaving, he glanced out the window, ensuring no one was watching.
Down in the courtyard, soldiers trained under the searing sun, the clashing of swords ringing loud and clear. Servants bustled to and fro, carrying trays of food and pitchers of wine for the evening banquet. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
But the servant knew better than to trust the calmness that floated on the surface.
He moved swiftly through the castle's long corridors, avoiding curious eyes that might have noticed him. At each turn, he paused, alert, making sure no guards followed. When two sentries passed through the main hallway, he pretended to brush dust from his sleeve before continuing on.
At last, he arrived at a large wooden door carved with the image of a serpent eating its own tail. Two knocks, a pause, then one more knock—the door creaked open slightly. Without hesitation, he stepped inside and quickly shut it behind him.
The room was dim despite the high sun outside. Heavy curtains veiled most of the windows, allowing only slivers of light to break through, casting long shadows on the stone floor.
Behind a wooden desk cluttered with maps, documents, and a few small knives embedded into its surface, sat a man with a sharp, calculating face. His hair was short and black with streaks of gray at the temples, and a thin scar marred one of his cheeks.
Lord Hadrir, the Kingdom's Spymaster, gazed at his servant with a cold stare. Without a word, he held out his hand. The servant immediately offered the small scroll.
Hadrir examined the black seal for a moment before drawing a long breath. It was from the east. He broke the seal with careful fingers. His eyes swept across the words within, and slowly, his expression shifted.
His brow furrowed. His jaw clenched. His eyes widened, nearly bulging from their sockets. "By the gods…" he whispered, his deep voice barely audible.
The servant swallowed, trying to sneak a peek at the letter, but a single sharp glance from Hadrir forced him to lower his head.
Quickly, Hadrir rolled the scroll back up and tucked it into his robe. He stood and walked to the curtained window, parting it slightly to peer out, as if weighing something.
"Did you read any of it?" he asked without turning. The servant shook his head swiftly. "No, my lord. I only delivered it, as always."
Hadrir closed his eyes for a moment, then looked back at him. "Good. You may go. And speak to no one of this."
The servant bowed low and quickly backed out of the room.
As the door shut once more, Hadrir let out a heavy sigh. He stared again at the scroll, as though hoping what he had just read was an illusion. But the words remained. Undeniable.
From afar, dust rose along the cobbled road leading to the Blustarion palace grounds. Under the scorching midday sun, a group of horsemen emerged, their silhouettes sharpening with each beat of hooves.
At the head of the procession flew banners bearing a white owl with three eyes on a dark green field. They were the retinue of Lord Elmar Valdrith, The King's Chancellor—right hand to the King, the highest seat on the King's Council.
Elmar himself rode a black steed with a silver mane, though his figure was far from that of a proud rider. He was short and rotund, his belly bouncing with each step of his mount.
As they passed through the main gates, the palace guards saluted. The procession slowed, then came to a halt in the grand courtyard. Servants quickly approached to assist the riders down, and among them stepped forward a tall man clad in a deep blue cloak and full armor.
It was Sir Nutrin, the King's Chief Guard, who bowed respectfully. "Welcome, my Lord."
Elmar let out a long breath and attempted to dismount. A guard stepped forward to help, but Elmar waved him off with a grunt. "I can still get down on my own, damn it."
Yet the moment his feet touched the ground, his body wobbled slightly, and he had to steady himself quickly. One of the servants busied himself with the saddle, pretending not to laugh.
Nutrin's face remained stoic. "My Lord, King Irindir has returned."
Elmar raised his eyebrows, then chuckled softly while patting his belly. "Good! There's much to discuss with him."
Without delay, he marched toward the castle, his long cloak trailing across the stone floor as his guards and aides followed.
Through the castle halls, passing servants and officials bowed in respect, but Elmar merely waved a hand lazily. His mind was already occupied with all he needed to speak of with King Irindir.
With heavy steps, he finally arrived at his chamber—a spacious office with tall windows overlooking the palace gardens. Thick books lined the shelves, while maps and documents lay scattered across an ornately carved wooden desk.
Lord Elmar sank into his cushioned chair with a satisfied groan, his belly jiggling as he leaned back. He gave it a few dramatic pats before turning to his aide with an expectant look.
"Bring me wine and food!" he said, then let out a long sigh. "Can't you hear my stomach screaming in agony? I swear, I nearly heard it sing a lament just now."
The aide bit back laughter, his lips twitching slightly.
Elmar shot him a glare and growled, "What are you smirking at, huh?! You think I'm enjoying this starvation?! If you're still standing there in five seconds, I'll shove a wine bottle up your arse and shake it until you cough up grape seeds!"
The aide turned pale and swallowed hard. "R-right away, my lord!" he stammered, then turned and nearly tripped in his hurry to leave.
Elmar snorted, rubbing his belly with a grumble. "That bastard's lucky I'm too damned hungry to get up and kick him myself."
In a spacious war chamber, a grand table of aged oak stood at the center of the room, its surface covered with wide-spread maps of the realm. Miniatures of armies, fortresses, and ships were placed at strategic points, marking defense lines and military movements.
The golden rays of the afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Sheer curtains swayed gently in the breeze, bringing fresh air into the room filled with the kingdom's military commanders.
At the head of the table stood Lord Thalion Thraeven. The King's Marshal—a tall man with a chiseled jaw and eyes as sharp as a falcon's. He was the iron hand that led the kingdom's military on behalf of King Irindir. Known for his unyielding discipline and uncompromising nature, Thalion was respected by every soldier who had ever served under his command.
Gathered in the chamber were the commanders of the royal army, leaders of garrisons, and high-ranking officers. Thalion's gaze swept over them, his voice low yet full of command as he spoke.
"This month marks the rotation of the guard at the Great Wall," he said, tracing a finger along the map to a large marker denoting the colossal fortress in the Blackrock Valley. "What is the status?"
One of the commanders, an older man with a scar across his temple, stepped forward and gave a crisp salute.
"My lord, the rotation proceeds as planned. Our replacement forces have arrived at their posts. No incidents of note during transit, and all logistical supplies have been delivered safely."
Thalion nodded slowly, his expression remaining cool, though a faint glint of satisfaction touched his eyes.
"Good," he said. "I do not wish to carry grim news to His Majesty on the day of his coronation's remembrance. If all continues smoothly, we stay on schedule."
He cast his gaze once more across the chamber, ensuring nothing more required discussion. After a few moments of silence, he raised his hand slightly.
"This council is dismissed. You may go."
The commanders rose, offering respectful bows before departing one by one. Some exchanged hushed words, while others left in silence, their bootsteps echoing across the gradually quieting room.
Once the last door shut behind them, leaving the chamber in stillness, Thalion exhaled deeply. He reached for a silver goblet nearby, pouring himself a measure of red wine and drinking it slowly. The liquid was warm as it slid down his throat, leaving behind the bitter trace he had long grown used to.
He set the goblet down and leaned back in his chair, tilting his head toward the stone ceiling. But his mind had already drifted far away.
A dull ache stirred again in his chest. He winced, his hand instinctively touching the left side, feeling the faint throb beneath his tunic.
The pain had become a frequent visitor of late—more persistent these past few weeks. He did not know the true cause—fatigue? stress? something worse? Yet he made no complaint. No one must know. A King's Marshal does not show weakness.
So he simply sat still, letting the pain gnaw at him in silence while the golden light of afternoon shifted, giving way to the deepening twilight.
That evening, the great hall glowed with the warm light of a hundred candles, casting flickering shadows over a feast in full swing. Lords and ladies conversed, laughed, and savored the bounty laid upon long banquet tables—roasted meats rich with herbs, soft bread fresh from stone ovens, and red wine that filled every silver cup. The melodies of court musicians wove through the air, underscoring the rising cheer of the celebration.
Yet at the high table, where the King's Council had gathered, the talk was heavier—though still colored with laughter and the clink of wine.
Lord Elmar downed his wine in a single gulp, then grinned broadly. "I swear, this year's vintage is finer than the last. Tastes like spending the night with a young courtesan—sweet, smooth, and dangerously addictive."
Beside him sat Lord Aldric, a dignified man in his middle years, silver hair neatly combed, his wine cup nearly empty for the third time. The King's Steward sighed, sipping his drink with more restraint. "You always compare wine to women, Elmar. I'm beginning to wonder which one you truly enjoy more."
Elmar chuckled, patting his round belly. "Listen here, Lord Aldric. Wine never nags, never asks for gold, and is always there when you need it. I'm not sure the same can be said for women."
Laughter erupted around them, some lords nearly spitting their wine at the jest.
Aldric merely shook his head, his gaze drifting toward the empty throne at the end of the hall. "I only hope our king remembers there's a feast tonight," he said dryly.
Elmar smirked. "You know our king. A man who has tasted many vintages surely knows which cup is worth savoring till the last drop."
Aldric stifled a small laugh and drained his wine in one swift motion.
Meanwhile, servants moved briskly, refilling plates and goblets. The music quickened in tempo, a sign that the night was reaching its peak.
Then the grand doors of the hall creaked open with a deep groan, the clash of iron echoing as the guards pushed them aside. Sir Kaelan stood tall at the threshold, his silver armor gleaming in the candlelight. His right hand rested upon the hilt of the longsword at his hip, his chest broad with pride. With a voice that rang clear across the hall, he declared:
"His Majesty the King has arrived."
The hall erupted in cheers. Nobles rose from their seats, some raising goblets, others applauding. The musicians shifted their tune to something more regal, ushering in the arrival of the king and queen.
Irindir entered with commanding grace, his black cloak embroidered in gold like outstretched wings. On his arm, Elara glided beside him, her silvery-blue gown shimmering like moonlight on the sea. Her beauty held many gazes captive, but only one pair of eyes was truly ensnared—those of the king himself.
Behind them, Lord Thalion followed with measured steps, flanked by a column of royal guards, their dark blue cloaks billowing behind gleaming armor.
As Irindir and Elara approached their seats at the end of the grand hall, the cheers rose louder, echoing beneath the vaulted stone ceiling. Guests called out praises and offered blessings for their reign, while silver goblets were once again filled to the brim with rich wine.
Irindir pulled out Elara's chair with a graceful hand, helping her sit before taking his own seat beside her. A faint smile played on his lips as he turned toward the queen.
At that moment, the members of the King's Council at the high table stood and bowed in unison to their sovereigns.
"Your Majesty," Lord Elmar spoke first, his tone respectful though still bearing the familiar lightness that marked his every word. "Your presence has brought true joy to this celebration. I dare say the evening would be far duller without you—though I'm sure I would've found a way to enjoy myself all the same."
Irindir chuckled. "Oh, I don't doubt that, Lord Elmar. Even without me, I suspect the castle's wine supply would still suffer a tragic depletion under your watchful eye."
Laughter rippled among the noble guests. Elmar only shrugged, feigning innocence. "To let good wine go undrunk is an offense to the art of vintners, Your Majesty."
Then Aldric spoke. "Your Majesty, congratulations on the tenth anniversary of your coronation. The kingdom stands firm beneath your rule."
Irindir gave a measured nod, his gaze warm with appreciation. "And it does so thanks to the efforts of this Council. I merely ensure the wheel keeps turning."
Thalion remained as composed as ever. "Your Majesty, it is our honor to celebrate this moment by your side and to serve your throne."
Irindir looked at him with the calm trust of one who knew the worth of the man before him. "As expected of one whose sword has never known rust."
He let out a slow breath, then lifted his goblet high. "Then let us celebrate tonight. To ten years upon this throne—and to the years yet to come."
Lord Elmar rose, raising his cup. "Long live King Irindir of House Farynore, descendant of Huren, Master of the Sky, Lord of the West, and King of Oceareest!"
At once, the hall rose with him. Goblets were lifted, voices thundered:
"Long live the King!"