Chapter 4

  Anya Arathan

  Breathe in… Breathe out. Her fingers grasped the coarse bowstring and the shaft of the arrow, its texture all too familiar. Eyes narrowed, she focused intently on her target downrange. Nothing else mattered in this moment besides hitting it. Steadying her breath, she made one last adjustment before releasing her arrow. After soaring through the air, it found its mark perfectly. Bullseye.

  Anya’s lips curved upward into a satisfied grin as she lowered her bow. Each bullseye gave her a thrill of accomplishment. Archery wasn’t just a pastime hobby; it was her escape, her sanctuary. Running over to the target, she carefully removed every arrow. Five had found their mark right in the center.

  After replenishing her arrow quill, Anya made her way back to the other side. Shifting her gaze, she looked toward the palace, its towering walls gleaming in the sunlight. She wondered if that council meeting had ended by now. Surely, whatever had been discussed couldn’t have been very interesting. Well, those fat old lords wouldn’t have taken it kindly to have a woman sitting on the council anyway, she thought.

  As she turned back to face the targets, she heard someone calling out her name. Turning again, she saw that it was Anthranor, who was running out of the palace.

  “Anthranor!” she called out with a smile, waving. “How was the council meeting? I’m sure it was a thrill.”

  The prince took a moment to catch his breath, hunching over his knees. “Father…” he muttered. “Father’s making me fight in the Trident.”

  Anya frowned, setting her bow aside. “Why?”

  “He said it’s about time I fought another man for real.”

  In a way, she didn’t exactly disagree with what their father had said. Her brother needed to grow a proper spine, and soon, if he was to come out of this in one piece.

  “He’s not wrong,” Anya said. “You haven’t really sparred with anyone else besides Ser Dorristan.”

  Anthranor’s eyes hardened in frustration. “He’s not a bad fighter at all.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Then what are you saying?” Anthranor sat down on a bench. Picking up an arrow, he idly spun it around with his fingers.

  Anya placed herself beside him, with her bow still in hand. “Ser Dorristan is an amazing fighter, I don’t deny that,” she said. “But what father means is you haven’t gone against a real opponent. Someone who actually wants to hurt you. Or kill you, even.”

  “…So father wants to whip me into shape with this grandiose tournament?”

  She nodded her head. “Essentially. At least, that’s why I would do it.”

  Anthranor sighed, pressing his hands against his forehead. “Worse yet, Daelanor is going to be in it, too.”

  “Good,” Anya said. “It’s about time you faced your fears.” She could see the dread that Anthranor wore on his face. She understood his worries, but she wasn’t going to hold back now. Anthranor needed this.

  “I know,” he admitted, sounding rather defeated. “…But I’m just not ready.”

  “Then you need to get ready.” Anya stood up with her bow. “That will include exercising your body, practicing your shooting, and learning how to fight with a trident.”

  “Hold up just a minute—“ her brother stood up.

  “No!” Anya’s voice was stern as she sat him back down. “I’m talking now, so listen, and listen well.”

  Distraught, Anthranor could only sit there in silence as she started pacing around.

  “I’ve protected you for the longest time, Anthranor,” she said. “But I can’t do so forever, you realize that, don’t you?”

  “…Yes.”

  “Then you know what has to be done,” Anya continued. “You have to learn how to stand up for yourself. Now, I’ve seen your potential, Anthranor. A glimpse of the fiery blaze that I know is within you. I’ve seen it come out, but it withers away too easily.”

  Anthranor’s gaze lowered, his lips tightening. She could only hope that her words were getting to him. If not, may the Lord help us all.

  Setting her bow down, Anya sat beside him again. “What is our family’s symbol, Anthranor?”

  He looked at her. It didn’t take him long. “A dragon,” he answered.

  “And the fiery blood of Alderin the Great runs through our veins, does it not?”

  Anthranor nodded. “It does.”

  “Then set your heart alight,” she said. “Don’t be afraid. Be a dragon.”

  For a moment, nothing more was said. But looking into his eyes, Anya could see a speck of light from within. This was just the beginning. The fire had only just been started. God willing, it would rise.

  Cane Calborne

  “You are suggesting that I disinherit my firstborn son?” The Emperor’s voice was deep, ripe with a bitter distaste. With his back toward Cane, he stood in front of the fireplace, staring idly. “Don’t you know what repercussions such an act would have?”

  “Yes,” Cane answered, his voice steady. Still seated at the round table, he glanced beyond the balcony, where a bustling city was spread far and wide around the bay. “But we should consider an alternative that could be worse.”

  The Emperor stood there in silence, no doubt pondering. The firebox lay dormant beneath the mantel, where a shield bearing the crest of House Arathan was prominently displayed: two dragons, black and gold, facing the other, their opposite color painting each half of the background.

  When a short moment had passed, Aremos spoke up again. “I must admit Daelanor is hardly worthy of the crown,” he said. “But my younger son is no better. While Daelanor is reckless, at least he’s got strength. Anthranor? The boy’s got copper for a spine, I tell you. He’s got a long way to go.” He took a long sip of wine from his goblet.

  Cane bit his lip. The Emperor’s point was not entirely unfounded. However, although Daelanor had strength, it was raw and unchecked. He was prone to violence, and surely would not shy away from it to get what he wanted. “But you have heard the tale that I told you.”

  Aremos exhaled, turning to face him. “About Daelanor’s mistreatment of Anthranor, yes, I am well aware.”

  Walking to the table, he set the goblet down to refill it with more wine. “But what can I do about it, now?” he questioned as he poured. “Were he younger, it would’ve been easier to just spank some sense into him. But now, the bastard’s a man grown. I’d have to cross swords with that fool just to get through that thick skull of his.” Raising his cup, he drank.

  “Daelanor is like a relentless storm,” Cane said. “No matter what you do, no matter what you say, you will only harden his resolve. He would rather break before bending.”

  Aremos clicked his tongue in frustration. “You’re not wrong.” Slowly pulling out a chair from underneath the table, he sat down with a heavy, exhausted sigh. Amidst the Emperor’s bushy beard and swollen cheeks, Cane could see the sullen shadows that clung beneath his eyes.

  “You are my father by law,” Aremos said, looking at him. His booming voice had become a quiet, gentle one as he spoke. “And you were my father’s chancellor. Whenever he needed, you gave him wise counsel to heed.” The Emperor had a pleading look in his eyes. “…I ask that you counsel me now, as you did my father before… What must I do?”

  Tapping his finger against the table, Cane thought about what he would say. Whatever was said, it had to be carefully and deliberately chosen. The fate of the realm hung in the balance. His brows tightened as he concentrated.

  Although he would have immediately deposed Daelanor in favor of Anthranor, such a move was far too risky. The crown prince was sure to not go down without a fight, and Anthranor was far from ready to inherit the throne. But there were simply no alternatives.

  Eventually, he figured, Daelanor would have to be removed for the sake of the realm’s future, and perhaps there were only a few who could see what he saw now, but it was only a matter of time before the worse was to come. Yet, he doubted if Aremos would be so willing to disinherit his eldest son. He would have to slowly, but gradually, tip the scales in favor of Anthranor.

  “Daelanor can remain as heir, should he prove himself,” Cane said.

  This seemed to shock Aremos, who frowned in response. “I thought you wanted him gone.”

  Yes, I do, Cane thought. And I would have him exiled, were it my decision. But he didn’t say it. “Give both of the boys a chance to prove themselves, and then we may decide who is worthy.”

  Stroking his scraggly beard, Aremos thought about it for a moment. “That sounds fair,” he said, at last. “But how shall we go about it?”

  “Assign them certain responsibilities, ones that will test their mettle in what it means to rule. See how they perform their duty. The Trident will occur within six months, will it not?”

  “Ordinarily, yes, but I plan to host it earlier than anticipated,” Aremos answered. “While the Bothic is investigated, we need the Trident to do its job in distracting the realm.”

  “How early?”

  “Within a month or two, perhaps.”

  Cane leaned onto the table, pitting his hand beneath his chin as he thought. “When the lords have finished their bidding, and a winner is announced for who gets the honor of hosting the Trident, I propose that we send Anthranor to help oversee preparations as an Imperial envoy.’

  Aremos looked at him. “Are you sure about this?”

  “In case it goes horribly, we can send one of our own trusted ministers to accompany the prince.” Such as myself, Cane mused, but he doubted if he would be up for the task of traveling.

  “Very well.” The Emperor waved his hand. “What shall we have Daelanor do, then?”

  “Send him to the north.”

  “The north?” Aremos rose an eyebrow at him, but Cane was adamant.

  “Yes,” he said. “Among all of the lords, they are perhaps the most distant in terms of relations with the Crown. Perhaps Daelanor can help amend this. We must also check on how our border guard fares.”

  “I see.” Standing, Aremos took his goblet in hand once more. Before he could drink, however, he suddenly began stumbling. Anticipating his fall, he caught himself against the table. Unfortunately, some wine had spilled onto his coat, but the Emperor still stood.

  Setting down the cup, Aremos cleared his throat. “Apologies,” he said with a smile. “Wine must be finally getting to me.” He gave a hearty laugh as he sat back down.

  Lightheartedly smiling, Cane gave him an unused napkin. “You were saying?”

  “Seeing that my—” Aremos burped. “I beg your pardon.”

  The scene made Cane chuckle. Silencing himself afterward, he nodded in anticipation.

  “Seeing that my current condition is such,” the Emperor continued, wiping the wine away. “I trust that you will handle the bidding and send word to Archduke Corent of Daelanor’s visit.”

  “I shall.”

  “Excellent.” Aremos slapped the table. “After the winner of the bidding has been declared, I shall assign Anthranor and Daelanor their respective duties.”

  “Very well.” Cane nodded.

  “Does that conclude our business, here, then, Lord Chancellor?”

  “It does.”

  Sighing in relief, Aremos grabbed his goblet to take another swig, but then stopped himself. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be wise,” he said, looking at Cane. The two of them laughed.

  “I would suggest getting some rest,” Cane suggested.

  “Aye, you’re probably right.” Aremos’ words were starting to get slurred. “Are those two nimrods still standing out there?” They both turned toward the door.

  “I'm sure they are,” Cane said as he got up. “If they were gone, we’d be in quite a lot of trouble if some assassins showed up.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we could take them on just fine.” The Emperor laughed.

  Slowly opening the doors, Cane peaked his head out. Ah, there they are. Ser Jacklyn Gendrel and Ser Alerion Tor Qaled. He was fond of them, for they were kind and honorable knights.

  “Lord Chancellor.” Ser Jacklyn greeted him with a smile, bowing his head in respect.

  “Ser Jacklyn.” Cane returned the courtesy. “May I ask the both of you for a small favor?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

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  "Right this way." After going back to the room, he gestured for them to take a gander. Stepping in after him, the two knights saw a slumbering Aremos, who had fallen unconscious against the table.

  “His Eminence has had a touch too much wine.” Cane smiled at them. “Carry him to his chambers, will you?”

  Anthranor Arathan

  Another day of training was upon him. Although he had been instructed in the martial arts ever since he was seven, it was never as serious as it was now. With the Trident a little more than two month away, his efforts would have to be accelerated. Merely being average in certain skills was no longer satisfactory. He wanted mastery.

  Yesterday had been dedicated to swordplay, and archery the day before that. For hours on end, he tried to perfect his form. For every failure, and every mistake, he made himself push heavy stones or run around the training yard. Ser Dorristan had protested such self-inflicted punishments, but he had insisted on doing so. He didn’t want to take it easy. Surely, his opponents would not grant him such mercy.

  Today was the day of the trident, the weapon that would decide his ultimate fate as a winner or loser. Because they were rather uncommon in warfare, there were few ever stockpiled in the palace armory, however Anthranor had been able to procure one for his own usage.

  Three points. Sharp. Long like a spear. Good for thrusting and grappling, he figured, but not as ideal as a sword for cutting. It felt so foreign. Twirling the weapon around, he tried getting used to how it handled. I wonder if I can throw it. Anthranor turned to where the targets were. Although typically used for archery, he figured they could serve just as well for spear-throwing. Just as he was about to hurl the weapon, Anthranor caught a glimpse of someone approaching him.

  Stopping, he turned to face the newcomer. He recognized him at once. “Ser Dorristan!” he shouted, smiling.

  “Good evening, my prince,” the knight greeted, patting Anthranor’s shoulder. “I see that you’re early today. How are you?”

  “Doing just fine, ser. How about yourself?”

  “I’m doing well, thank you.” Ser Dorristan nodded his head. He observed the weapon in Anthranor’s hand. “I see that you have introduced yourself to the trident."

  “I have. Although, I must admit I’m not quite used to it.”

  “It’s rather similar to a spear,” the knight explained. “But it’s got more potential for hooking your opponent’s weapon and grappling with him.”

  Ser Dorristan pointed at each prong of the trident, which had been blunted for training purposes.

  “See these?” he asked.

  Observing closely, Anthranor nodded. “Yes.”

  “It’s rather obvious, but these are quite good for stabbing,” said Ser Dorristan. Then he pointed to the gaps in between the prongs. “But more importantly, here, for catching and pinning. You will have to anticipate your opponent’s move and intercept them when the moment is right. Play your moves well, and you can deprive your opponent of their weapon in one fell swoop.”

  “I see,” Anthranor acknowledged. Ser Dorristan made it sound easy, but he knew it would be much harder in reality. More than likely, his opponents would have much more experience since they were older. As such, he was at a distinct disadvantage in the arena. To make up for this, Anthranor had decided he would train as much as possible before the Trident was set to occur. Every single day. There would be no room for slacking off.

  Learning the trident was what plagued him the most. He had never trained with it much. The star of the show, it was certainly an unusual weapon. Any ordinary knight would typically make use of a sword, as was so in every legend involving one. For the Trident, however, contestants were made to use a trident when it came to fighting in the main spectacles. Hence, the name.

  Ser Dorristan grabbed his own trident from a nearby weapons rack. “Shall we begin?”

  Anthranor guessed that he had been struck down at least thirty times that evening. By their fortieth spar, his entire body was in revolt. Despite his consistent training in past years, the new technique that the trident required felt foreign. Although his body was accustomed to exhaustion, he was starting to feel the weight of it all. His shoulders ached in a way they never did with a sword, and his legs felt stiff.

  Sweat ran down his face, which he wiped off with his sleeves. His armor had also been caked with layers of dirt. The scent of body odor constantly permeated into his nose. He was stretching his limits, but he didn’t care. He had to keep going. No exceptions.

  As he struggled back up to his feet, Anthranor felt a stiff hand on his shoulder. “My prince, that’s enough,” Ser Dorristan said.

  “No… I can’t stop now.” Using his trident’s shaft like a walking stick, he propped himself up onto his knees. “Once more, Ser Dorristan.”

  The knight halted Anthranor in his tracks and knelt before him, grasping both of his shoulders. Ser Dorristan was stern, yet gentle. “No,” he said.

  It was a struggle in itself for Anthranor to get words out. His breathing was labored and he was still aching. “…I lost, ser. Thirty times. I need to—“

  “Rest,” the knight interjected. “You must rest.” Moving to Anthranor’s side, Ser Dorristan lifted him onto his feet. “If you over train yourself like this, then you’ll damage your body. It hurts more than it helps, trust me, Anthranor.”

  After helping him onto a table bench, Ser Dorristan procured two canteens and gave one to the prince. The cool liquid was refreshing. Tearing off his helmet and tossing it aside, Anthranor doused his head with water and downed the rest.

  By now, the sun was beginning to set. Its brilliant rays cast a golden light across the yard, which made the towering stone walls of the palace glimmer with a soft golden hue. Anthranor bathed himself in the dwindling sunlight and the quiet peacefulness of it all.

  Taking deep breaths as he relaxed, he gradually felt better. Turning to Ser Dorristan, he asked “How can I prevent myself from over training?”

  “Know your limits,” the knight responded. “Although you should not shy away from overcoming them, you should still be wary. If your body aches, or if you feel exhausted, then do not be afraid to rest. Otherwise, as I said before, overworking your body may damage it.” He drank from his flask.

  “But what if I don’t train hard enough? What if I go too easy on myself?” Anthranor fiddled with his thumbs. “I must go above and beyond.”

  “That is not necessarily a poor mindset,” the knight said, chuckling. “But, it’s important not to overwhelm yourself. Take on what you can handle, and keep improving upon your skills gradually. Don’t do everything at once.”

  Ser Dorristan’s words rung true. Anthranor had been so determined on getting into fighting shape as quickly as possible, that he had neglected any self-restraint. A foolish mistake, he told himself. As careless as Daelanor was, even he would’ve realized that. Or not, Anthranor reconsidered. Maybe the dragon prince was so naturally gifted that he didn’t even need to train as hard. Did he even need to train at all? Anthranor shook his head. He had to focus on himself, not his brother. The need to train harder wasn’t the issue. But what was? The need to train smarter, then? Yes, that must be it!

  “Perhaps I should train smarter, instead of harder, then?” He looked at Ser Dorristan for approval.

  Pleased, the knight nodded at him. “Yes, exactly.”

  Anthranor smiled. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Anya Arathan

  The sound of steel clashing against steel rang out across the yard. Leaning over a balcony with a half-eaten apple in hand, she watched intently as Daelanor fought against Ser Evane Casarin, who was among the nine Imperial Knights.

  Moving with a terrifying speed, Daelanor aggressively pushed against his opponent and barraged him with an attack from every angle he could. The knight kept up however, and gracefully met Daelanor’s blade with his own each time.

  Effectively countered, the prince backed off from Ser Evane and took on a defensive stance. Advancing, the knight thrust his blade toward Daelanor’s chest. When the prince answered his attack, however, Ser Evane jerked his sword upwards and struck his helm instead. A feign well-executed.

  “Again!” Daelanor shouted. And so they went at it once more.

  Anya took a bite of her apple, chewing intensely as she brooded. Although she had wanted to see Anthranor train, she knew he would focus better in the absence of an audience. Unfortunately, Daelanor seemed to be the very opposite. He was more likely to thrive in the presence of a roaring mob, which would only make the Trident worse for Anthranor. She bit her lips in frustration.

  There wasn’t much Anya could do to help Anthranor. Directly, at least. This would be, among numerous others, a challenge that he would have to face alone. Although they could give him guidance when needed, the final decision was his. How he trained? His choice. How he fought? His choice, and his alone.

  “Anya?” A voice shook her from her thoughts. Although it was a familiar one, the suddenness of it had surprised her. Gingerly, she turned to face whoever said her name. It was Lord Cane.

  “Grandfather, how are you?” she asked, smiling.

  Looking a bit winded, the old man rested his back against a nearby pillar. “Tired from all of that walking,” he said, chuckling. “I did not expect you here.”

  Her face was one of concern. “You should be getting rest.”

  “No, no,” he insisted. “Not in times like these. There is still a realm to serve.”

  “Did you need something, grandfather?”

  Cane nodded, taking a moment to catch his breath. “Yes, I did. Did Anthranor tell you anything about what we discussed in that council meeting?”

  “He told me about the Trident and the report from the Greencloaks. It’s awful what’s happened down there.”

  “Indeed.” Cane adjusted himself to get a better position of rest. He sighed appreciably when he found it. “But the birds have flown, and reinforcements are on their way.”

  “How many have we sent?” she asked.

  “Five hundred soldiers from the Imperial Army’s reserves.”

  She wondered if it would be enough. As elite as the men of the Imperial Army were, a force that was big enough could simply drown them with numbers. “It’s a long way to the Bothic from here. Will they arrive in time to help?”

  “Yes,” Cane answered. “Fortunately, we have garrisons out in Brunzhal and Galeria. They are within the closest duchies to the Bothic, so they should arrive in a timely manner.”

  “That’s good. I hope it’s enough.” She started picking at her fingernails.

  “I hope so, as well.”

  Turning back to the training yard, they watched as Daelanor fought against Ser Evane and scored three successive victories. He had improved already. Anya bit her lip in a mix of worry and frustration. She must not lose faith in Anthranor.

  “I also had a conversation with your father.” Cane looked at her knowingly.

  She glanced at him. “What of it?”

  “Best not to discuss that here,” he whispered.

  Anya felt another presence. Turning aside, she found Daelanor down in the yard, looking straight at them. Plated in a full suit of armor, he stood there rigidly with his sword, his green eyes boring into hers like a pair of sizzling hot knives. Not a word was spoken.

  “We best get going,” Cane said at last. “The results of the bidding are in. Your father wants everyone at dinner tonight.”

  Peeling her eyes from Daelanor, she helped her grandfather walk as they went away. “Quite important, then.”

  “Indeed,” he answered. “We shall speak about that conversation after dinner. Find me in my chambers.”

  “I will.”

  Anthranor Arathan

  Hobbling along in the hallway, he made his way to the dining hall. With Ser Dorristan at his side helping, he tried his best to move as quickly as possible. Being late would set a bad impression. He didn’t want to be a Daelanor.

  “My prince, perhaps we should see the physicians?” Ser Dorristan looked at him with concern.

  “No,” Anthranor waved him off. “We can do so after dinner.”

  Tightening his lips, the knight merely nodded in compliance. “As you wish.”

  Finally, they arrived, to which Anthranor sighed in relief. Surely, we aren’t too late. Standing on guard was Ser Tony Avonta, the younger brother of Lord Leo Avonta, and Ser Oren Olsandor, the youngest son of Lord Mace Olsandor.

  Ser Tony smiled at the sight of them. “My prince.” He bowed his head. “I see you have been hard at work today.”

  Although his legs were throbbing in pain, the prince offered a meager smile in return. “Yes, I have. But I do believe that quite a price has been paid.”

  Lending Anthranor an arm each, the trio of knights lifted him up the stairs that led to the dining hall. “Careful now,” Ser Tony cautioned.

  After a brief moment of struggle, Anthranor was up. Stepping aside, Ser Tony and Ser Oren opened the doors for him the same time. The knight of Avonta took the pleasure of heralding his arrival. “May I present Prince Anthranor of House Arathan.”

  The Lesser Hall, as they called it, was decorated rather plainly, with only a few golden ornaments and delightful plants placed about, and lit by massive braziers beside towering pillars. For more important occasions, however, such as a visiting lord, the servants and maids were sure to pretty it up. But this was different from the Great Hall, where a massive feast could be held for hundreds. Here, they mostly ate as a family.

  His grandiose welcome fell rather short, as all eyes were laid upon a straggling prince who could barely walk on his own. At once, Anya rose from her seat and assisted Ser Dorristan in getting him to a chair. “Good Lord, what’s happened to you?” she whispered.

  A wry smile crossed his lips. “Training,” he answered.

  “Good heavens.” Eyes widened with concern, Anya went back to her seat.

  Bowing courteously, Ser Dorristan took his leave. As Anthranor scanned the room, he spotted his father, grandfather, and Daelanor. Good grief, you somehow beat me here.

  His older brother smirked at him, seemingly on the verge of laughter. Perhaps he found Anthranor’s state of affairs amusing.

  When the doors were shut, they lowered their heads and held hands as they prayed. They asked the Lord to bless their meal, so that they may be nourished, and then gave him thanks. “Páreda Erodus.”

  After making the sign by pressing their thumbs over their foreheads and then their lips, they began eating. For tonight, it was roast chicken. Grabbing a piece for himself, Anthranor tore off a leg to consume. To wash down his food, he indulged himself with water. Wine had never been a favorite of his.

  “The results are in,” Aremos announced. “We have a winner for the Trident bidding.”

  Every head perked up from their plate. “Who’s won?” asked Anya.

  “House Gendrel.”

  “This year’s Trident shall be a splendid one,” Cane said with a smile. “Archduke Gendrel has a talent for showmanship. The people will love it.”

  Anthranor had only met Archduke Cormund Gendrel once when he was a small child, around five or six years old. He did not remember much about the visit, only that the Archduke had given him a beautiful short sword. The crossguard and pommel were golden and decorated with intricate detail, and the grip had been crafted with high quality leather. Such a sword would have cost a fortune for any ordinary commoner, but the Gendrels had plenty a coin to spare. Always one for sentiment, Anthranor had kept the sword and hung it on his wall for display. Perhaps the Archduke would be thrilled to learn that the prince remembered his gift fondly. The next time I see him, I can tell him all about it, he thought.

  Aremos cleared his throat. “Now, onto important matters of business. Firstly, Daelanor.” He looked at him sternly.

  “Yes, father?” Daelanor’s voice was a mocking one. Anthranor felt nothing but contempt for his brother’s attitude, clenching his fists underneath the table.

  “About time that you get off your arse,” Aremos said bitterly. “You will be going north to meet with Archduke Horace Corent. Your task will be to inspect our border’s fortifications and our forces, and ensure that the Timbarmen cannot catch us unaware.”

  Daelanor’s eyes looked to be glistening. He leaned forward from the back of his chair at once. “When do I leave?”

  “In two days. Once the Trident draws near, I will recall you. You have tomorrow to make your preparations.”

  “No need.” The crown prince had already gotten up from his seat, and was on his way out. “I can pack everything I need within the night and leave on Dormund at first light.”

  “You will not be taking that dragon.” Aremos’ voice bellowed. “Wouldn’t want you doing anything stupid with it. Instead, you will travel north by horse, with Ser Evane to accompany you.”

  Scoffing, Daelanor merely smiled and bowed with a half-baked courtesy. “You honor me, father. I shall serve you well.”

  Anthranor watched his brother leave their presence. After the doors had closed, he heard his name called out next.

  “Yes?” Anthranor stood erect in his chair, waiting what was to be commanded of him. Surely, it will be to some meager outpost on the backwater frontier… a place of utter insignificance.

  “At first light tomorrow, you leave for Hildan Keep.”

  “…Hildan Keep?” Anthranor felt stunned. He could scarcely believe it. “To Archduke Gendrel?”

  “Yes,” answered his father. “I want you to oversee their preparations for the Trident, and make sure that all is in good order. You will be a direct envoy of the Crown to House Gendrel. I hope that you serve in your capacity well.”

  Rigid, Anthranor could only nod his head in gratitude. “Thank you, father. You honor me.”

  He did his best to mask how nervous he was. The pressure would be on. A real assignment, with an actual sort of stakes to it. Would he have to manage it by himself? It was a daunting feeling… yet still an exciting one.

  “Ser Dorristan and Ser Tony will accompany you, along with an additional escort of household guards. I suggest you start packing as soon you are finished eating.”

  Throwing down his napkin onto the table, Anthranor rose from his chair. Ouch. He tried his best to ignore the pain that pulsated from his legs. “At once, father.” There’s no time to waste!

  Summoning Ser Dorristan into the room, he walked out with his help. The chance to prove himself had come at last, and he wasn’t going to butcher it.

  “Come on, Ser Dorristan, we need to go quickly!” Anthranor had an almost gleeful smile as he hobbled down the corridor. “There is work to be done.”

  The knight was understandably confused. “What’s happened?”

  “My father has tasked me with a mission to Hildan Keep.”

  “To the Gendrels?”

  Anthranor nodded. “Tomorrow, we leave at first light. So we must hurry.”

  “What about your legs?”

  “Oh.” He had forgotten. How foolish. The thrill of it all had thrown his mind into a sort of frenzy. “I suppose we should seek out the physicians first, then.”