Chapter 5 – The Mark of Nemoran
The heavy bronze doors of the Imperial throne room creaked open, groaning like the weight of centuries behind them. Golden banners fluttered, though the air inside was tense, heavy with incense and unspoken judgment. Guards lined the walls in polished armor, their spears gleaming in torchlight.
Rigorus stepped forward, pale yet resolute. His steps were slow, deliberate. Though his body still bore the memory of wounds, his presence was sharp, commanding. Behind him, Princess Aelistra followed, her hands clutched tightly at her gown, eyes never leaving the man she could not push from her heart. Prince Daevoryn walked at her side, posture stiff, gaze narrowed, his fingers flexing as if on the hilt of an invisible blade.
Upon the raised dais sat the Emperor of Vanyrion. His once-mighty frame was shrunken with age, his face a map of time's cruelty. Yet his eyes piercing, calculating still carried the fire of command. A coughing fit shook him as Rigorus entered, attendants rushing forward, but he waved them away with a trembling hand.
"Bring him forward," the Emperor rasped.
Two guards obeyed, though their eyes lingered on Rigorus with a mixture of awe and unease. One whispered, just low enough for his partner:
"Is this truly him? The one who faced VAELUS… and lived?"
"Aye," the other murmured, "but look at him. He walks as if the grave spat him back out."
The murmur spread. The chamber was alive with quiet speculation, every noble and servant craning their necks to glimpse the pale stranger who carried storms in his aura.
Rigorus bowed his head slightly, but not in reverence. His voice was low, deliberate each word cutting through the silence like a blade.
"You summoned me, Your Majesty. I came. But before I bow, before I bend, I must ask…" His gaze sharpened, his voice rising. "Do you know Naelira? The daughter you cast away along with her mother—once a servant in this very palace?"
The throne room froze. Silence fell like a guillotine.
Aelistra gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Naelira?" she whispered, turning sharply to her father. "Father… what is he saying?"
Daevoryn's brow furrowed, his voice breaking the tension like a whip. "Answer him, Father. Do you know of this? A child? A servant?"
The guards exchanged nervous glances, their grips tightening on their spears. One muttered, "By the gods… this cannot be true." Another hissed back, "Silence. The walls have ears."
The Emperor sat motionless, eyes locked on Rigorus. His lips parted, but no sound came. He coughed, violently, blood flecking the white silk at his mouth. For a long, suffocating moment, he seemed as if he would deny it.
But Rigorus's gaze was unrelenting.
Finally, the Emperor spoke, his voice hoarse yet heavy with truth.
"…Yes."
The chamber erupted. Gasps, whispers, sharp intakes of breath spread like wildfire. Nobles pressed forward in shock, guards muttered among themselves, even the attendants shifted uncomfortably, as though history itself had cracked.
Aelistra staggered back a step, color draining from her face. "You… you had another child? A sister… all this time?"
Daevoryn's fists clenched at his sides. "Father, is this true? You fathered a child outside the Imperial line?"
The Emperor raised a hand, silencing the noise. His voice trembled, but each word carried the weight of iron.
"Yes. Years ago, before either of you were born, I broke my vows. A maidservant… gentle, kind. I wronged her, and I wronged the daughter born of that sin. I had her cast out—not because I wished it, but because the court would have devoured her alive. Do you not understand? A bastard child, born in the Imperial house, would have been used as a weapon against me. Against you. Against our bloodline."
Rigorus's voice cut through, sharp as steel. "And so you abandoned them? Condemned them to a life of exile and shame so you could protect your throne?"
The Emperor's hands trembled on the arms of his seat. His gaze flicked to Rigorus, then to his children.
"Yes," he whispered. Then louder: "Yes! Do you think an Emperor has the luxury of love? Of mistakes? Every breath I have taken, every choice I made, was weighed against the survival of this dynasty. Had I claimed Naelira, had I brought her into this palace, you two" he looked at Aelistra and Daevoryn "would have lived under suspicion, scorn, whispers of illegitimacy. The succession itself might have collapsed."
His coughing seized him again, but he forced his voice through it, fury and sorrow tangled in each syllable. "I abandoned her to save you. To save this Empire. The blood of one girl weighed against the survival of thousands. Such is the burden of a crown."
Aelistra's voice trembled, tears brimming in her eyes. "But she is still your blood! Our blood! How could you how could you not even tell us?"
Daevoryn's voice was colder, steadier. "If the truth had broken in the wrong hands… the Empire would have bled. I understand why he did it." His eyes, however, flicked to Rigorus with unease. "But to bury such a truth… is to forge a blade that one day returns to strike its master."
Rigorus's fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms until blood welled. His voice shook with controlled fury. "You speak of crowns and courts… but you speak nothing of her suffering. Of the child forced to grow without her father's name. Without protection. Without dignity. Do you know what she endured?"
The Emperor's shoulders sagged. For the first time, he seemed less like a monarch, more like a frail old man weighed down by sins he could not erase.
"No," he said softly. "But perhaps… perhaps it is not too late to mend what I have broken." His gaze lifted, weary yet pleading. "Bring her to me. Bring Naelira here. Let me see her with my own eyes, before death claims me. Let me give her… the recognition I once denied."
Rigorus stood silent for a long time, his chest rising and falling with quiet fury. Finally, he inclined his head barely, a gesture more of acknowledgment than respect. "I will tell her." His voice was quiet, but his eyes were storms. "But whether she accepts you… is no longer your choice."
The Emperor leaned forward on his throne, his frame shaking not from weakness but from something stranger amusement. A low, rasping laugh spilled from his chest, echoing across the chamber.
"A true Draeven," he said, his eyes gleaming with something sharper than age. "Bold. Unyielding. A man who dares to spit fire in front of a throne. Yes… yes, you are the only one worthy of shaking the foundations of this dynasty."
The nobles stirred uneasily, whispers like knives in the dark. Aelistra and Daevoryn exchanged startled looks neither could understand why their father would praise this pale, scarred survivor in such a way.
The Emperor raised a trembling hand, pointing at Rigorus. His voice, though hoarse, carried iron.
"But words are nothing. You want truth? You want recognition? Then prove it. Survive what is to come the Trial of Cindralith. Pass it, and I will carve your name into the Imperial records. You will no longer be a ghost, but blood acknowledged by the throne itself."
Gasps rippled across the hall. The guards stiffened; even the courtiers' painted masks cracked into alarm. The Trial was no mere ceremony it was the crucible that had broken princes, generals, and heroes alike.
Rigorus did not flinch. His eyes burned, but not with greed for titles, nor hunger for the throne. His thoughts were colder, sharper. Recognition? Wealth? A crown of ash? None of it matters. What matters is strength—strength to protect what remains of my clan, strength to carve through Kaelvron and Vaelus when the time comes.
He bowed his head slightly, his voice steady, quiet yet resolute. "If trial is the path you offer… then I will walk it. Not for your throne. Not for your gold. But because it will sharpen me for what I must do."
The Emperor's lips curled into something between a grin and a grimace. "Then go, Draeven. Rest, sharpen your blade, steel your heart. If you live, you will be named among us. If you fall… then you were never meant to stand in this hall at all."
Rigorus turned, cloak trailing, his steps echoing like drums of war. The massive bronze doors swung shut behind him with a thunderous boom.
For a heartbeat, the hall stood frozen until the Emperor coughed blood into his sleeve, his voice breaking into a whisper.
"…A true Draeven… a saint born to sin."
For a long moment, silence reigned. Then Aelistra turned on her father, voice breaking. "How could you keep this from us? Do you not trust your own children with the truth?"
The Emperor coughed, sinking back into his throne. His gaze swept over them, weary and sharp all at once.
"Trust?" he rasped. "Children… one day, when the crown rests upon your head, you will understand. An Emperor does not live by trust. He lives by power, by perception, by fear. I did what I must to keep this Empire whole. And if you cannot forgive me… then one day you will curse the same choices you are forced to make."
Daevoryn said nothing, jaw tight, fists trembling at his sides. Aelistra wiped her eyes, her heart warring between fury and sorrow.
And above them all, the old man on the throne coughed blood into his sleeve, eyes hollow, whispering a prayer not to the gods but to the daughter he had never met.
The seas roared against the black cliffs of Varyndor, waves thrashing like beasts chained to the earth.
In the courtyard of a ruined fortress, Kaelvron stood shirtless, his skin steaming in the night air. His body once torn, battered, and stripped of limbs now gleamed with unnatural vigor. Every muscle screamed of rebirth. Every scar was gone, replaced by a sheen of power absorbed from the fifteen slaughtered elders.
His blade swung, each strike tearing the air itself. The ground cracked beneath his relentless movements, gouged stone and shattered earth marking his fury.
"Pathetic…" he snarled between strikes, sweat and blood dripping. "I lost to a child. A child with my blood in his veins… I will not suffer that disgrace again!"
From the shadows, Vaelus leaned against a pillar, his black robes whispering in the sea-wind. His crimson eyes glowed faintly beneath his hood, watching the boy with the detached scorn of a predator observing wounded prey.
"You should have died," Vaelus murmured, voice carrying like venom across the courtyard. "If not for me, you'd still be rotting in that battlefield. Never forget that."
Kaelvron's blade halted mid-strike. He turned, eyes ablaze. "And I will repay that debt, brother… with victory. Next time I see Rigorus, I will split him apart. I will drink his strength until nothing of him remains."
Vaelus stepped forward, his presence alone chilling the air. "Do not mistake my aid for loyalty. That bath of blood was the last time I will save you. Your weakness shamed me, Kaelvron. If you fall again, then stay fallen."
The words sliced sharper than any blade, but Kaelvron only snarled. "Weakness? You think me weak? I will rise above every Draeven, every bastard bloodline, even you!"
For a moment, their auras clashed Kaelvron's raw, blazing fury against Vaelus's cold, suffocating malice. The stones beneath their feet cracked, wind shrieked, the sea itself seemed to recoil.
Then Vaelus spoke again, his voice low, deliberate. "Do you even understand what stirs across these continents? Our bloodlines are awakening. Nemoran sons, scattered across the world, are moving like wolves in the dark. Rigorus… that boy… he is marked now. If you fail to kill him, another will. One Nemoran or another will tear his heart from his chest."
Kaelvron's eyes narrowed, his rage flaring into something darker. "Then let them try. Rigorus is mine to kill. No brother, no bastard, no Nemoran will rob me of that."
Vaelus tilted his head, lips curving into something that was not quite a smile. "Careful, Kaelvron. Obsession is the leash of dogs. And I do not fight with dogs."
The sea thundered behind them, a storm breaking the horizon. Kaelvron raised his blade again, cutting the air with a roar."I will not be caged. Not by fate. Not by Rigorus. Not by you."
Vaelus turned away, his voice drifting like poison on the salt air."Then pray, brother… that when the Nemoran bloodlines converge, you are not the one left bleeding."
The storm crashed into the cliffs, lightning igniting the night sky. In its flash, Kaelvron's silhouette burned bright a man consumed by vengeance, while Vaelus's shadow faded into the dark, already plotting his next move.