VENGEANCE LEAGUE: DRENCHED BLOOD
Chapter 1: Clutter of Courtesy
Setting: Courtesy
(This prologue sets the stage for a long and grueling journey—a blend of joy, hatred, and vengeance born from human darkness.)
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The great hall of King Ozzes Devotas groaned beneath the weight of assembled bodies, every stone corner filled with souls eager to witness history unfold. Today, after a quarter-century of silence, the crown would name a new Espoirer—commander of the royal armies, keeper of the realm's steel.
Twenty-five years had passed since that accursed title was last spoken aloud. Twenty-five years since betrayal carved its mark upon the throne itself. The former Espoirer—once trusted above all others—had turned his blade against Pasrel, declaring himself sovereign of the rival kingdom Juken de Issol, those cursed lands men called the Quastas, or the Esto Branches, which festered along Pasrel's eastern borders like a wound that would not heal.
King Ozzes, in his mercy, had sent forth a letter of forgiveness. The traitor's reply came not in words, but in blood—terror spread like wildfire, hostages taken, innocent lives scattered to the winds. Faced with such darkness, the king had issued the Engravement order. Ninety-nine warriors rode forth to hunt the rogue commander, and after battles that stained the earth crimson, the traitor fell beneath their righteous steel.
Since that bitter day, no soul had worn the mantle of Espoirer. Instead, Vesil Putch, loyal as summer's dawn, had risen to lead the armies under the humbler title of Master. Yet fate, ever cruel, had claimed even him. In the third war between Soilia and Pasrel, Vesil met his end at the hands of Estin Tuch—once a warlord of Pasrel's eastern frontier, banished for his crimes decades past. Now serving Soilia's vanguard, Estin had proven his new allegiance by sacrificing his own eye—a living symbol of broken oaths and the bitter price of vengeance.
As was custom each quarter-year, the Courtesy of Judgment began with matters of the common folk. Small quarrels were settled, humble needs answered with the king's grace. Yet all knew these lesser affairs were but prelude to weightier business. The very air thrummed with expectation, for every heart in that hall beat with one desire—to hear speak of the Espoirer.
When the final petitioner had spoken, King Ozzes Devotas raised his weathered hand, and his voice carried like thunder across stone:
"Proceed to the next session of current and historical affairs."
The common folk were led from the hall, yet they did not depart for hearth and home. Beyond the great doors they lingered, hope burning in their chests like altar flames, waiting to hear that sacred word—Espoirer—upon the wind.
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P. Duix, Minister of the People's Welfare, rose and bowed low before the throne, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand expectant souls:
"My liege, the people remain beyond these walls, their hearts restless with hope. They hunger to hear speak of the Espoirer. Such momentous words should not be spoken in shadow alone. Grant me leave to send forth my servants, that the courtyard be made ready, so Your Majesty's decree may reach your subjects beneath heaven's open sky."
At this, the king's lips curved in the faintest of smiles.
"Indeed. Let it be so."
Then came forth Freyl Wiun, Minister of Affairs, one of the sacred Eight Court Guard. He bent his knee and spoke with measured gravity:
"Sire, before the name of the Espoirer rings forth, I must speak of matters both present and past. The burdens of history weigh upon us still, and without understanding them, no judgment may stand whole. If it please Your Majesty, grant me leave to set forth these truths, that your ruling may be founded upon bedrock, not shifting sand."
Silence fell like a shroud, and every eye turned to the Iron Throne, awaiting the king's word.
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THE KING'S CONSENT
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The council chamber lay heavy with expectation until Freyl Wiun stood tall, his voice ringing clear as temple bells:
"My lords, grave tidings come from the Noiodd Kingdom. That realm bows to three kings of equal right, yet only two—King Willhym and King Steymel—stand as our allies. The third, Lord Monten, holds himself apart, neither friend nor foe."
Head Minister Exxar leaned forward upon his staff, his gruff voice cutting the air:
"This is no fresh news to these ears, Freyl. Long have we known Lord Monten walks his own path."
Freyl inclined his head with respect:
"True words, my lord. Yet hear this—Kings Willhym and Steymel offer us passage into a secret chamber within Willhym's very palace. There lie twenty pages penned by the legendary chronicler Oppeng Ledd. These they shall reveal to us—but at grievous cost. They demand we seize Juken de Issol, the Esto branch men call the Quastas. Yet that land now cleaves to Soilia's banner. To grant their wish, we must wage war."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber like wind through wheat until General Secretary Quins Ray, stern as winter's edge, commanded:
"Then speak plainly, Freyl. What truths lie carved within those twenty pages?"
Freyl drew breath deep as a drowning man:
"The pages speak of revelations that shake the very foundations of our beliefs. They tell of the Verbian Period—the reign of King Verb—not seven centuries past as our histories claim, but nigh on a thousand years, even before the great Askebinz War. This knowledge lies written in Oppeng Ledd's own hand. And know this—the chronicler lived to see one hundred and one winters. He could not speak false of times his own eyes beheld."
Head Minister Exxar narrowed his eyes like a hawk spying prey:
"This court serves truth, not tavern tales, Freyl."
Yet Freyl pressed on, undaunted:
"Indeed, good Exxar. 'Tis why I bring these matters forth. The pages bear witness that King Verb was no tyrant, as our folk believe. His death alone birthed the Askebinz War. Our people reckon his reign but seven centuries past, yet the war itself lies a full thousand years behind us. Thus our sacred lore stands at war with written record."
A troubled murmur swept the assembly until Sub-Minister of Horticulture, Benzil, raised his voice in protest:
"Should we place faith in Oppeng Ledd, who would shatter our people's cherished beliefs? Mayhap those writings were crafted by King Verb's own servants, seeking to cleanse his name."
But Freyl would not yield:
"Yet the kings of Noiodd pledge that, should we meet their terms, they shall reveal forty-five pages more—chronicles of the Askebinz era itself."
Benzil scoffed, his patience wearing thin:
"What use have we for dusty histories? And why do I sit here at all? Matters of my charge are long concluded."
Swift as lightning, Head Minister Exxar turned upon him, voice sharp as drawn steel:
"Guard thy tongue, Benzil! Show proper reverence—thou standest before thy king!"
Benzil bowed his head in shame:
"Forgiveness, my liege."
Freyl continued, his words grave and measured:
"To gather the threads of the past is to weave truth from shadow. These pages may reveal that the dreaded Salasin Assassins—whom our folk name phantoms of old—took root in the Askebinz War's bloody soil. Even now, we know not where Askebinz truly lies, whether 'twas hallowed battleground or simply earth steeped in warriors' blood."
Minister P. Duix added his voice to the discourse:
"It may well be that the Noiodd Kingdom itself was born from that ancient war's ashes, and Oppeng Ledd spent his long years chronicling within their halls."
Benzil muttered beneath his breath, vexation clouding his judgment:
"Always Oppeng Ledd... ever Oppeng Ledd..."
P. Duix leaned forward, his patience spent:
"Enough, my lords. We must turn to present matters, lest we polish the past like merchants counting coppers whilst the kingdom burns."
Freyl Wiun spoke next, his eyes cold as winter steel:
"Speaking of present dangers, we know naught of the Salasin Assassins' true purpose. Yet if there be a thread, it leads to Oren Madello. That serpent's hand moves in every shadow."
General Secretary Quins Ray cut through pleasantries with brutal honesty:
"He schemes to meet with Lord Monten and those Salasin dogs. Monten seeks neither Pasrel's crown nor Soilia's—he merely keeps his hands clean whilst others spill blood for his gain."
Head Minister Exxar turned sharply upon his fellows, voice rough as grinding stone:
"Aye, perhaps thy words ring true. Yet these assassins, supposedly backed by fifty-eight of seventy-five nations—'tis naught but fancy. Their aim lies not in seizing Pasrel or Soilia. And how should any man gain knowledge of Oren Madello's designs? The only answer is that he reveals himself by choice—and I care not for his face, for I know the man by the chaos he hath wrought before..."
King Ozzes Devotas raised his hand, voice cutting through discord like an executioner's axe:
"Enough, Escroif Xans. Guards, bring water for our Head Minister."
A moment passed, thick with tension.
"Calm thyself. Speak no more of Oren Madello this day. Let courtesy guide our words—speak only of matters that serve the realm."
Exxar bowed his grizzled head:
"Forgiveness, my liege."
The king nodded once:
"Continue."
Freyl straightened like a drawn bow:
"Aye, Your Majesty. Our spies report that Juken de Issol cleaves to Soilia's banner—or perhaps 'tis mere illusion, another move in Oren Madello's grand design."
Benzil spoke, scarce above a whisper, yet the hall's hush made his words echo:
"Ask that accursed traitor from twenty-five years past whose kingdom it truly was..."
Then louder, spinning to face the throne:
"My lord, we waste precious breath on these ancient villains—King Verb, Jikra Chillin, Estin Tuch, Oren Madello, Eslvo—"
"Hold thy tongue!"
Freyl snapped, then caught himself and bowed with rigid courtesy:
"Forgiveness, my lord."
He pressed on, wrestling his frustration:
"This is all the knowledge we possess—fragments of King Verb's history, Lord Monten's role in Juken de Issol, and that orchestrator from our bloodied past..."
The chamber held its breath like a man facing the headsman's block.
King Ozzes finally spoke, his voice rough as splintered oak:
"Mayhap we doubt these tales. Mayhap we despise them. Yet we all gaze upon the same charred truths. What we do here shapes the very foundation of our world. Every word spoken in this hall shall be held as truth amongst us—sealed by oath and honor."
He leaned forward, eyes burning like forge-fire:
"Now. Let us fill the most contested seat in all of Pasrel. The Espoirer."
Fear rippled through the court like plague through a battlefield. None wished to be first to speak such weighty words.
Head Minister Exxar broke the silence, his gnarled finger tapping against his chest:
"I put forth my own follower—Asterois Renz. Call it not folly. He alone rode to war at Vesil Putch's side—saved fourteen souls, bore Vesil's body from the flames untouched by corruption. True, he lacks my years and wisdom. Yet neither is he consumed by ambition's poison. I name him worthy of the Espoirer's mantle."
King Ozzes' voice carried no warmth:
"Escroif Xans, thy Asterois possesses courage, I grant thee. Yet he stands nowhere near fit for power that rivals mine own. Hard experience taught me—betrayal costs the entire realm. Asterois saved twelve lives? Most now lie cold in their graves regardless. In truth, his deeds, however noble, lack the weight of wisdom and vision. I shall not wager our kingdom's fate upon good intentions alone."
Cold silence gripped the hall like winter's fist.
After long moments, Minister of the Treasury, Byuil Mot, raised his voice:
"We have candidates throughout the realm—by heaven, if need be, the king's own five sons could bear this burden. Dewold Devotas, thy eldest heir, or Repourge Glathorn, thy acknowledged bastard—both possess the blood and steel for such honor."
King Ozzes brushed aside such thoughts with icy dismissal:
"Nay. They are yet untested, their wisdom unforged by true hardship. I shall not suffer favoritism to poison this choice."
General Secretary Quins Ray raised his hand:
"My lord, you have overlooked one—Siken Dunkworlith, commander of the Western Plot Army. Trained by Vesil Putch's own hand. If any soul proves worthy, 'tis one who learned from our greatest master."
Whispers exploded through the court like wildfire—even Benzil in the rear looked ready to bolt through the doors.
King Ozzes brought his fist down upon his throne's arm, the sound echoing like thunder:
"Silence! Guards, bring forth Siken Dunkworlith!"
The great doors groaned open, and Siken Dunkworlith strode into the Passage of Courtesy, his armor catching torchlight like captured starfire. He knelt before the throne:
"Siken Dunkworlith. Who dost thou name worthy to hold the Espoirer's seat?"
Siken rose, steel ringing softly:
"Not myself, my liege."
Every soul in that hall stared as if witnessing resurrection.
"What say you?"
Siken's voice rang like a hammer upon anvil:
"I put forth my own pupil for the Espoirer's honor."
King Ozzes' eyes narrowed to blade-points:
"And who might this be?"
"Mora—"
Benzil's voice exploded like a siege engine:
"By what right dost thou keep such a pupil? Forgiveness, my lord—I know not this name from any roster of proven warriors. Not one of those ancient traitors' spawn belongs in this hall!"
Fyuil Wuins, cold as northern wind, spoke with deadly quiet:
"Traitor's blood or no, lineage matters naught. Mora carries steel in his veins. Sometimes, that alone suffices."
King Ozzes' voice cut through all discord:
"Why him, Dunkworlith?"
Siken met the king's gaze without flinching:
"Because he hath accomplished what only a true Espoirer could achieve."
Exxar glared, then smiled like a wolf scenting prey:
"I would witness this myself. We all would. Bring forth this pupil."
All argument died—only expectation remained, thick as morning mist.
King Ozzes nodded once:
"Very well. If this youth can prove his worth, the seat is his. But should he fail—both thou and thy pupil shall answer for this presumption."
Siken bowed deeply:
"As my king commands."
The great doors groaned wide once more. Into that hallowed hall strode a figure that would haunt men's dreams—boots leaving crimson prints upon ancient stone, sword weeping gore with every step, eyes hollow as abandoned tombs. In one iron fist, he dragged two severed heads—one hacked clean from its shoulders, the other parted like fruit from branch.
Exxar's voice shattered the silence, loud enough to wake the very dead:
"Sweet mercy... is that... is that Oren's head?"
The council chamber erupted into chaos.
Courtesy—order—all dissolved beneath a tide of horror and awe.
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Chapter Ended up.