Kingdom of Celeniara, The Forbidden Castle, Year 178
Peter Wilightson stood beneath the ruthless gaze of his father, the King of Celeniara. The hall seemed to shrink under the weight of the throne, the golden light of torches glinting off the King's crown of gold and jade.
"Please, Your Majesty! It's all lies! I am innocent!" A voice rang out, strong at first, echoing across the marble floor.
Before him, a man in ragged garments knelt at the center of the castle court. His faded trousers were patched and worn, his hands calloused and trembling. He crouched with his back curved, shoulders shaking under the weight of fear. Beside him, a small boy clung desperately, eyes wide, sobbing. Every eye in the hall bore down upon them—nobles, soldiers, and the jury alike.
"Silence, unworthy one!" thundered the high commander, his voice like a whip cracking across the hall. "Numerous villagers have testified to seeing you wield your corrupted magic to mend your son's wounds!"
With a bark, the high commander shoved the boy forward. The man's shirt was torn open, revealing a frail, almost skeletal frame. His chest and arms were so thin they seemed boneless, pale skin stretched over each rib, smooth and unmarked. No scar betrayed past injuries.
"Your Majesty," the high commander continued, voice dripping with disdain, "Roger Burghon, the son of this man, was mauled by a wild dog while playing with his companions. The wounds should have killed him. Yet now they are gone. Not a single scar remains."
Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to look away, but his icy eyes held on the boy.
"Your Majesty! I beg you!" the farmer cried, clutching his son to his chest. "I am but a simple man. I have no magical powers." The child's sobs pierced the hall, sharp as the swords of the guards surrounding them.
The jury encircling them burned with a savage hunger for blood. They spat curses, shouted "Devils!" and hurled vile names, the echo of their rage bouncing off the stone walls like thunder. The prisoners trembled, hearts hammering with terror. Even Peter felt the weight of that fear, a bitter taste on his tongue.
The King Alaric rose from his throne. Every movement was measured, deliberate. He lifted his arm, and instant silence fell. The hall seemed to hold its breath. Step by slow, commanding step, he approached the chained prisoners. His voice, when it came, cut through the silence like a blade.
"By my supreme authority, granted by all the gods of Celeniara, I command the execution of this man, William Burghon, a farmer from the village north of Silvania, for the most heinous of betrayals: the possession of forbidden sorcery. His son, Roger Burghon, shall share this fate for accepting its aid. Execute them at once."
Peter advanced, trying to project pride and confidence. He had just celebrated his sixteenth year. By ancient and unyielding tradition, a prince of Celeniara was required to prove his strength on the day of his birth. The prince's judgment. On that day, he must confront the kingdom's enemies—prisoners of war, traitors, or wielders of forbidden magic—and strike them down before the eyes of the court. It was a rite of blood and steel, designed to harden the young heir, to temper his courage, and to prepare him for the relentless battles that awaited against those who trafficked in the dark and in the forbidden arts. The weight of the crown, the expectations of the kingdom, and the fear of failure pressed upon him like a living thing.
His jaw was set, his hands steady. The crowd cheered, a wave of approval washing over him. Yet inside, his heart pounded, and doubt crept like a shadow. Could he really strike down a man—and a boy—who had done nothing but save a life?
He halted before the trembling farmer. William's hands shook violently as he clutched his son, pleading through quivering lips.
"I beg you, Your Majesty. I had no choice. My son was dying. I used what little I had to save him. Would you not do the same?"
Peter felt a pang of unease, a sick twist of sympathy. He swallowed, trying to quell it. Blame and shame had no place here. He was a prince. He was a future king. To hesitate was to fail.
"Blasphemy!" the commander snarled, spitting on the floor. "How dare you accuse the King of betraying his people with corrupted sorcery?"
The King raised his arm, silencing all voices in the hall. His eyes, black as obsidian, locked onto Peter, unyielding.
"I would never fall to the corruption of devils, even to save my son," he declared, each word a hammer striking Peter's pride. "Should my own blood bear the taint of magic, he would be executed as well."
"Your Majesty… my son… spare him at least, he didn't consent for it. It was my own decision!" William screamed, desperation etched into every line of his face. The boy clung to him, shivering.
"Prince Peter, carry out the execution," the King commanded, his tone final, unbreakable. His black beard, streaked with grey, framed a face carved by decades of war, conquest, and unyielding authority. His dark eyes burned with a fire that left no room for mercy.
Peter swallowed hard. His hands trembled as he drew the ceremonial blade. The cold steel felt heavy, almost alive in his grip. His pride forced him to stand tall, shoulders squared. But as his eyes met Roger's, pale and terrified, the boy's fear mirrored his own. Same age. Same eyes.
The blade rose. Peter hesitated, a shiver running through his body. He imagined the boy's life extinguished by his hands, the sound of blood spilling across the stones. He clenched his jaw and pushed the doubt down.
The blade came down. It pierced William's chest and Roger's heart. Blood sprayed across the cold stone floor, soaking Peter's hands, staining his blond hair. A shudder wracked him. The metallic scent was overpowering. He felt sick, dizzy, hollow. He had killed for the first time, and it shattered something inside him.
The crowd cheered. The King's smile gleamed through his beard, proud and cruel.
But then, as William, dying, clutched his son with the last of his strength, a strange, shimmering purple mist poured from his trembling hands, flowing into Roger's small body. The boy gasped, ragged breaths filling the hall.
"What crime lies upon a man," William rasped, voice trembling yet full of sorrow, "who only sought to shield the life of his child… Prince Peter?" His words lingered in the air like smoke as his body sagged, spent, collapsing to the cold stone.
Roger stirred, chest heaving, his injuries knitting together under the fading glow of the strange light. He was fully healed—saved from the brink by his father's last, desperate effort.
The King advanced furiously with a force that made the stone floor tremble. His voice thundered through the hall, shaking the very walls. "Finish him, Peter! Strike him down again!"
Peter froze. The ceremonial sword slipped from his fingers, clattering against the cold, hard stones. His gaze locked with Roger's, and in the boy's terrified eyes he saw a reflection of himself—innocence mirrored in fear. Panic clawed at him, rooting him to the floor.
The crowd erupted into a frenzy, screams and shouts for blood filling the hall, a tide of rage pressing down on him like the weight of the entire kingdom. Peter's chest tightened, the metallic tang of blood and iron filling his nostrils.
With a sudden, violent shove, the King flung Peter aside as though he were nothing more than a ragdoll. The King's face bristled with fury. His massive hand seized his sword, and in one merciless stroke, the blade cut through the air. The farmer's and his son's heads fell, rolling across the cold marble. A hollow, sickening thud echoed through the hall, silencing everything but the pounding of Peter's heart.
"You disappoint me, Peter," the King said, his voice cold, unyielding, and sharp as flint. "Guards, take the prince to his chambers. Make sure he cannot leave them."
Armored hands seized Peter, yanking him roughly to his feet. The stench of blood clung to him, mingling with fear, shame, and the taste of guilt. He tried to look away, but he could not escape Robert's wide, terrified eyes, still fixed on him. The boy's chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, a cruel reminder of the life they had taken, the mercy they had denied.
Peter's mind swam. The hall spun around him. He had obeyed. He had killed. And yet, the weight of every scream, every gaze, every drop of blood would follow him forever.
***
In his royal chambers, Peter sank onto the window bench, gazing down at the bustling castle courtyard. Guards drilled with heavy swords, servants hurried along shadowed corridors, and messengers dashed across the stone floors. Rumors had already spread. They would say he was weak, a coward incapable of striking down the kingdom's enemies. Sorcerers, wielders of forbidden magic, were the ultimate evil.
Many years ago, the followers of Anguisha had descended upon the kingdom with fire and steel, slaughtering all who could not wield sorcery. Those without magical power were deemed unworthy, treated as if their lives were of no account. Towns burned, villages were razed, and countless innocents—men, women, and children—perished. None who lacked magic survived their wrath.
It was Peter's grandfather who finally confronted Anguisha in a brutal, week-long battle, turning the tide of history and ensuring that magic was forever outlawed. Since that day, any person born with magical ability was executed without mercy, and the use of sorcery was strictly forbidden.
Peter sank deeper into the bench, drenched in the aftermath of his own actions. Every lesson of his youth screamed that magic was evil, that its wielders twisted minds and led men to ruin. And yet, that farmer—helpless and desperate—had used sorcery not to harm, but to save his son. In that fleeting moment of execution, Peter had wavered, felt a spark of mercy… and now he despised himself for it. He had allowed doubt to creep in, and the weight of the King's disappointment pressed down upon him like a blade. He had been deceived, tricked by the very force he had been raised to fear. The farmer's desperate act now seemed a cunning snare, meant to make him falter in his duty. What fate awaited him now, after this failure, after being outwitted by the corruption he had been taught to abhor?
A knock echoed through the massive wooden door, adorned with amber and jade. Peter leapt from the bench, hands trembling.
"Come in!" he called.
The door creaked open. "It is I, your dearest servant, Osric."
The boy, younger than Peter at fifteen, stepped inside, brown hair falling into his concerned green eyes. Relief softened Peter's features, a faint smile breaking through his solemnity. Osric closed the door firmly, shutting out the noise of the courtyard.
"I witnessed everything, Your Majesty," Osric said, his voice low, heavy with emotion.
"Drop the formals, Osric. It is just you and me," Peter replied, striving to sound steady.
While courtiers and attendants fussed, bending and bowing at every movement, Peter had felt their eyes like chains upon him. Every gesture, every sip of wine, every step he took had been measured, recorded, judged. In the midst of gilded curtains and polished stone, Osric remained the only friend who reminded him what it was to feel human.
"I bring tidings," Osric said.
Peter's gaze drifted to the tall window, sunlight gilding the hall. "So… everyone must know. My failure. I am the coward prince," he muttered, bitterness in his voice.
Osric's green eyes narrowed. "Some nobles dared to call you a traitor for sparing the sorcerer's kid. They claimed your title should be stripped from you, that you had failed the crown."
Peter's stomach twisted. All the years of training, study, sacrifice—his life—could amount to nothing. He pressed his hands to his face. "Let me guess… Matilda again."
"Yes," Osric said grimly. "Worse than a witch in malice. Ever since the banquet humiliation, she has plotted revenge. The court whispers are poisoned with her venom."
Peter's lips tightened. Last year, Matilda, a high noble of the southern lands, had offered her daughter to him as a future concubine for when he would one day ascend the throne. He had refused, firm in his choice, though the court had laughed and the King had chuckled. Matilda had never forgotten.
"Perhaps she is right… I am a traitor. I fear what the King may do to me now," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Osric shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Do not fret. Your father has sanctioned Matilda herself. He stripped her of her title and the southern lands she controlled, claiming mercy only because her brother commands the second army."
Peter blinked, disbelief etched across his face. "Why would he do that? I failed the crown."
Leaning closer, Osric lowered his voice. "You are mistaken. The King ordered every guard, every courtier, every witness to remain in the hall after the execution. He declared that the sorcerer had enchanted you, forcing your hand to falter. You were a victim, not a coward. Now the people speak your name as one who struck down the devious, not one deceived."
Peter's hands fell to his lap, trembling. "Everything… forgiven thanks to my father?" His voice wavered.
"Not forgiven," Osric said firmly, placing a steady hand on his shoulder, careful to avoid the stains of the day's horror. "Protected. Your father's eyes are keen as a blade, but even he recognizes the truth. You are the only son—the only one who carries the blood of her majesty. None other could bear the crown, the legacy. He defends you as he would the kingdom itself."
Peter blinked, disbelief clouding his gaze. "He… he is defending me?"
He exhaled slowly, leaning back against the wall. Yet unease lingered. No, his father was not defending him. The King defended the crown—its image, authority, and unassailable power. Any hint of weakness, any whisper of scandal could unravel the respect and fear that held the kingdom together. His father's intervention was strategy, not mercy. Every sanction, every command served to protect the crown's sanctity, not Peter's life.
"You are in desperate need of a bath. I shall prepare one at once. And mark my words—should the prince be seen in such a state, I shall be the one to meet the executioner's blade," Osric said, his grin mischievous, lightening the heavy air.
Peter closed his eyes, inhaling the mingled scents of polished wood, candle wax, and lingering tension. For the first time since the execution, he allowed a fleeting thought of relief. Yet beneath it, a sharper question gnawed: how long could protection endure in a court rife with whispers, lies, and ambition?