Chapter 20 – The First Steps into Court
The king's approach road ran straight through the outer gates, past the host fields, and into a quarter that never seemed to rest. Merchants shouted over one another in half a dozen dialects. Porters staggered under loads, sweating through their tunics. Horses stamped, oxen bellowed, and banners crowded the sky until colors blurred together like spilled paint. The escort kept their line steady, shields out, boots clean, pikes upright. The hawk standard of Delsar cut through the chaos like a knife, and men made space, whether they wanted to or not.
For Aric, the sheer weight of the capital pressed from every side. He had thought the host field vast, but here every street was another market, every corner another tide of voices. He kept his chin high, but his eyes moved. A lord who stared too long from his balcony. A woman with ink-stained fingers counting each banner that passed. Two boys with quick hands circling closer than they should until Wren's glare sent them fleeing. This was not the valley. Here, nothing was wasted—not a coin, not a glance, not a whisper.
The palace rose above it all. Its outer walls were ash-gray stone, weathered but sharp-edged, ringed with lions carved so lifelike that Aric felt their gaze follow him. Towers capped with green copper speared into the sky, catching the sun until they gleamed like fire. The closer he came, the quieter the streets grew. The hawkers fell away, the smells of roast meat and dung gave way to clean stone, and the noise of the crowd thinned into the measured step of soldiers.
At the inner gate, crown guards in deep-blue stood in two ranks. Their halberds gleamed, their faces were set like iron. Not one pair of eyes flickered when they saw the hawk banner.
"House Delsar," Malrec announced, voice steady. He held out the sealed parchment.
The chamberlain's men read the seal, checked the lead token from the host field, and stepped aside. "Ten men may enter. The rest remain in the host ground," one intoned.
Wren called the names. Ten Hawks stepped forward, every boot polished, every strap checked twice. They marched inside with Aric, while the wagons and the rest of the escort were led away to a side yard where a swarm of scribes waited, quills already scratching.
Inside lay a hall greater than anything Aric had ever seen. The ceiling soared like a sky of painted wood; pillars the size of towers bore scenes of old battles and kings long dead. Hundreds of candles burned though it was midday, their light catching on marble tiles black and white as chess squares, polished so smooth that every man could see himself reflected.
At the far end, under a canopy worked in gold thread, sat the king. His hair was silver but thick, his robe a deep red, and on his brow rested a circlet of fire-bright metal.
The herald's voice cracked across the hall: "Present the heir of Hawk Keep!"
Aric stepped forward. The sound of his boots on marble carried to every corner. He bowed—not shallow enough for insult, not deep enough to scrape—and when he straightened, he met the king's gaze.
"This is Aric Delsar," Malrec said formally. "Firstborn son of Arion Delsar, Lord of the Hawk."
The king's eyes weighed him like scales. "So this is the boy who broke a siege."
"I stood with men who would not bend," Aric said.
A ripple of whispers moved through the benches. Some mouths curled with smirks. Others studied him more carefully.
From the right side, Lord Fenrel's voice cut through: "So modest! I heard you tore ladders down with your bare hands. Or is that only tavern talk?"
More murmurs rose. Heads turned back toward Aric. For a moment the hall was a net, and he was in the center.
Aric let the silence stretch until it felt heavy. Then he said, calm and even, "If taverns sing of men who held their walls, then perhaps taverns remember better than some halls."
Laughter broke, sharp and uneven. Some genuine, others mocking. Fenrel's smile thinned, though he bowed his head as if in jest. The king raised a hand and silence fell at once.
"You will present your gifts to the chamberlain," the king said. "And remain in the host field until we have weighed your house's worth."
"As the crown commands," Aric replied.
The scribes came forward, listing each gift as servants unveiled them: the bright-forged blades, sharp and clean; the tallies signed in two hands, Hawk and Valeor; the river charts inked with precise lines; linen bleached white as snow; honey sealed in jars like amber; salt so dry it poured smooth even in damp. Each gift practical, each one proof of labor and order rather than mere wealth.
"Unusual," one noble murmured. "A valley house that brings numbers."
"Numbers feed armies," another answered.
When the ceremony ended, Aric turned with his escort and walked from the hall. His step was as steady as it had been on the way in, but only when the doors closed behind him did he allow his breath to leave his chest. He had stood. He had not stumbled.
Yet this was not victory. It was only the first step into a hall full of men who sharpened their smiles like daggers.
And the game had only just begun