The afternoon sun cast long shadows as Kaldros walked the path leading through a forest. The forest, a place of quiet contemplation for him, was suddenly shattered by the sound of shouts and the desperate pleas of travelers. Two soldiers, bearing the emblem of the House of Thoryssa, were harassing a small family, their laughter cruel and loud.
Kaldros moved with a silent, unnatural speed. He didn't speak, didn't make a threat. He simply appeared, a blur of motion, and in a few swift, precise movements, he disarmed the soldiers. They were strong, but their clumsy aggression was no match for his practiced grace. One of the soldiers, enraged by the ease with which he was overpowered, drew his sword and slashed wildly. The blade cut across Kaldros's outstretched hand, a deep gash that should have drawn blood.
But no blood came. The flesh simply parted, revealing not a crimson wound, but a translucent substance beneath. The soldiers, their bravado evaporating, stared in horror. They had never seen anything like it. With a collective cry of fear, they scrambled for their swords and fled into the trees.
The family, a man, a woman, and two terrified children, looked at Kaldros with a mixture of awe and profound fear. Their gratitude was overshadowed by the sight of his hand, a wound that defied nature. The man, his hands trembling, fumbled for his purse, but Kaldros simply shook his head. The deep gash on his hand was already closing, the skin knitting back together as if it had never been cut.
They shakily entered their carriage and left, their silence a testament to their terror. Kaldros was not new to this. He had seen his own bloodless wounds before, a strange side effect of his unique existence. He simply watched the carriage disappear, then turned and continued on his path, leaving the disturbed scene behind him.
***
The grand chamber of the High Priest of Moon Valora was a study in contrasts: cool marble floors against the flickering warmth of a thousand candles. Lord Varion and Lord Maelor entered, their footsteps echoing in the silence. Their offering was as immense as their ambition: chests overflowing with gold, rare silks, and ancient artifacts, all laid out on the floor like a king's ransom.
The High Priest remained unmoved. "You seek to buy the words of the goddess," he said, his voice a low, raspy whisper. "But the goddess does not speak through gold. She speaks through the heart."
Lord Varion stepped forward, a cold smile on his lips. "The heart is a fickle thing, High Priest. The people need a clear sign. They trust your words. Will you let an unexperienced child's reign destroy Fenroth?"
Lord Maelor, the fat man with the jovial smile, added his own plea. "It's for the good of the kingdom, High Priest. The goddess herself would surely want her people to be prosperous, not to suffer under the rule of a queen who knows nothing about politics. Her will must be done. We, the houses, are merely her humble servants, doing what is right for her people."
For a long moment, the High Priest was silent. The two lords watched him, their faces masks of anticipation. Finally, the High Priest let out a slow, heavy breath. He looked at the chests of gold, then at the two men, a flicker of something close to disdain in his eyes.
"The goddess's will is a river," he said, his voice flat. "It can be guided, but it cannot be stopped. If you seek to guide it, then I can assist you. I will not stop a river of greed, even if it leads to a flood." He turned to a priestess and commanded her to take the gifts to the temple's treasury.
He looked at the two men and added, "The goddess has deemed Princess Calyss an unfit ruler. The throne must go to the rightful heirs, the House of Valmorin. I will make this declaration in the temple, in the presence of the people."
Varion's smile widened. Maelor sighed in relief. They had won. They had bought the words of the gods, and with it, the hearts of the people. They bowed deeply and left the chamber. The High Priest stood alone, the scent of greed and ambition clinging to the air, his eyes closed. He knew what he had done. He had given them what they wanted, and in doing so, he had sealed his own fate.
***
The small, windowless room was thick with the scent of old parchment and cold stone. Princess Calyss sat at a heavy oak table, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Opposite her sat Hand Haelen and Lord Cedricus of the House of Sylvon. They were a study in contrasts: Haelen, the seasoned warrior with a face etched by years of battle, and Cedricus, the imposing, hawk-like figure who commanded the kingdom's armies.
Cedricus began without preamble, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to fill the small space. "Your Majesty, the wolves will come for you. They'll come for your weakest point, which is fear." He leaned forward, his hands, calloused and strong, resting on the worn surface of the map that lay between them. "They will whisper that you are a girl, too young and too inexperienced to rule. They will try to make you doubt the very ground you walk on."
Calyss's expression remained calm, a mask of quiet determination. "And if I don't give in to fear?" she asked, her voice steady despite the weight of his words.
A flicker of a grim smile touched Cedricus's lips. "Then you will be a queen in every sense of the word. But they will not stop."
"We will not let that happen," Hand Haelen interjected, his voice a fierce vow. "The House of Sylvon will stand as your shield and your sword."
Cedricus nodded in agreement. "We have seen what happened to your father, Your Majesty. We have seen what greed can do. We will not let them do the same to you. Our loyalty is yours. We will protect you. We will fight for you. But you must not give in to fear. You must be strong."
Calyss rose from her seat, a single, solitary figure in the vast room. She walked around the table and stood between the two men. "I am not strong enough to do this alone," she said, her voice a low and steady echo. She looked at them, her eyes filled with a new kind of resolve. "But with your loyalty, your wisdom, and your strength, I believe I can be a queen worthy of my people. I thank you both."
She placed a hand on each of their shoulders, a small but profound gesture of trust.
***
The Supreme Shrine of Moon Valora was an awe-inspiring spectacle. The very air, thick with the scent of incense and old stone, hummed with the fervent prayers of thousands. Sunlight, filtered through magnificent stained-glass windows, cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the polished marble floors.
In the upper balconies, the nobility of Fenroth were in attendance, their finery a stark contrast to the humble garments of the commoners packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the pews below. Princess Calyss, a solitary figure, sat among them, a heavy weight in her chest.
The High Priest, his voice a low and resonant hum, led the worship. He began by offering the soul of the late king to Moon Valora, asking the goddess to guide him to the afterlife. Then, he raised his arms and began a sermon. His words were a familiar tale, one every person in the kingdom had grown up hearing; the prophecy of the Queen Eternal. According to the first High Priestess of Moon Valora, the goddess would send her avatar, a queen, to rid the world of the Sisters of the Skull and their evil.
As the High Priest's voice rose, he led the congregation in a hymn, praying for the prophecy to come sooner. The people of Fenroth, having prayed for this "Queen Eternal" and against the "Sisters of the Skull" for ages without seeing either, echoed his words back with a powerful, unified voice. They chanted, their faith in the ancient texts and runes absolute.
In the upper balconies, away from the prying eyes of the other nobles, Lord Maelor, Lord Zorven, and Lord Varion were in a private discussion, their voices low and mocking. "Look at them," Lord Maelor sneered, wiping a tear from his eye with a velvet-sleeved arm. "They believe in a fairytale. A queen who will descend from the heavens to save them from a coven of witches who exist only in old fables."
"They'll believe anything we tell them," Lord Zorven replied, a cold smile on his face.
"The kingdom's patience is wearing thin," Lord Varion added, his voice a low, steady rumble. "A king's death and a girl on the throne, with a Hand who defies the laws of the land. We have waited long enough. Our time is now. We have bought the words of the goddess, and with it, the hearts of the people."
They waited. The High Priest finished his sermon. The chants of the people began to fade. A tense silence fell over the shrine. But the words they had paid for never came. The High Priest simply gave a final blessing and turned to face the altar, his face a serene mask.
The worship ended. The people, their hearts full of hope and a renewed sense of purpose, began to leave. The three lords, their faces a mask of fury, stormed out of the shrine. They had paid a king's ransom for the words of the goddess, and they had received nothing but silence. They had been betrayed.