Blayden had been meticulously preparing for this moment, planning to rebel while the frail Tigrinu was still alive – when the King was a mere puppet, clinging to life but no different from a corpse. His grand strategy hinged on timing.
He had fully expected the sprawling victory celebrations marking Equilium’s conquest to be well over by the time the King’s condition worsened to such a critical state.
By then, the numerous nobles loyal to Tigrinu would also have returned to their respective territories, their attention diverted from the capital.
He planned to seize control of the army, primarily with the troops he commanded, at that opportune moment.
Simultaneously, the secret organization he had fostered, formed by the proud and defiant defeated Kiabek people, had also been preparing to stir up internal unrest, creating a diversion and chaos within the newly expanded empire.
Now, Equilium had seized the entire continent of Ratznia, a vast and ambitious undertaking. With such an expanded territory, there were inherently more places to guard, more rebellions to quell, and more new lands to manage.
The King, or rather, Kalian acting in his stead, would inevitably have to send his most trusted individuals, his elite forces, to Berden, which had resisted until the very end, to manage its recalcitrant royalty and populace.
Blayden had intended to capture Klavil while the King’s close associates were away, their forces dispersed and their attention divided.
But Tigrinu had fallen too quickly, upsetting his carefully laid timeline.
“What will you do now?”
Boren, the priest who had been secretly working with Blayden for the liberation of Kiabek for a long time, asked, his voice low and expectant.
Blayden suppressed a surge of impatience, his mind already racing through new calculations, and spoke coolly, his voice a calculated calm.
“Now is not the time to strike. It’s time to retreat. One step, no, two steps back.”
First, he had to observe the fluid situation, allowing the dust to settle before making his next move.
He needed to move only after carefully calculating whom to win over, subtly swaying them to his side, and whom to eliminate, removing obstacles from his path with ruthless efficiency.
“How much longer must our people suffer?” Boren murmured, his gaze heavy with the plight of their kin.
Blayden thought of the Kiabekian people, who were living like vermin after their kingdom’s devastating defeat, crushed under the heel of the Equilium empire.
As the son of a tyrant, a figure often reviled, he carried a profound debt to them. He had to reclaim the kingdom, to rescue them from the abyss of despair into which they had been plunged.
“The hotter your heart, the colder your head should be,” Blayden stated, his voice firm, a maxim he lived by.
“If things go wrong, we’ll live as slaves forever.”
He had waited for five long years, meticulously hiding the seeds of another war, a war of liberation, within this very war of conquest.
Since Equilium had gone to the trouble of unifying the Ratznian continent, absorbing countless smaller kingdoms and tribes into its vast dominion, all he had to do was place a Kiabekian on the throne of this very palace.
Kiabek would then reclaim its lost kingdom and, through subtle manipulation, rule the entire continent.
That was the audacious dream he had pursued, fighting under Equilium’s banner as a seemingly loyal general, all the while working towards his ultimate goal.
He couldn’t afford to rush and ruin everything now.
If he missed this chance, he would face a brutal counterattack, and all his clandestine efforts for the liberation war could be for naught, dissolving into dust.
Boren slowly nodded, seemingly agreeing reluctantly, his expression thoughtful.
“I heard you had an audience with the King,” he said, shifting the subject.
“Did he say anything special?”
“He proposed a marriage,” Blayden revealed, a hint of bitterness in his voice, recalling the conversation he had with Tigrinu just before the King lost consciousness.
“Things could have been easier,” Boren mused aloud, a flicker of what-if in his eyes.
“If Kiabel had become Queen, we could have used her to liberate the exiled people.”
To think Boren had been considering this as a viable option.
Blayden suddenly recalled the peculiar Tree of Lies in Kiabel’s room, a memory that pricked at his subconscious.
“Did you perhaps give Kiabel a branch from the Tree of Lies?” he asked, a directness in his tone.
“I did. I hoped Kiabel would protect herself from spies,” Boren confirmed without hesitation.
The Tree of Lies was a mystical paradox, also known as the Tree of Truth.
It flourished when exposed to falsehoods, its leaves growing verdant and strong in an atmosphere of deceit, and withered in the presence of unwavering truth, its branches shrinking and leaves falling.
This mysterious organism only revealed itself, and its potent properties, to those with the rare ability to communicate with spirits.
Countless people had been blinded and their hands rotted, withered to useless stumps, trying to forcibly break off branches or pluck leaves from the Tree of Lies, their greed overpowering their common sense.
Blayden himself had left for the battlefield with a few precious Tree of Lies leaves that Boren had given him, a powerful tool in his arsenal.
He had put one to good use right after his pivotal duel with the King of Berden, using its truth-revealing properties to gain an advantage.
Until now, he had thought he was the only person to receive such a sacred gift from Boren.
Why did Boren help Kiabel?
And Boren hadn’t seemed surprised by the talk of marriage.
Had he secretly wished for it to come to pass?
Had he intended to use Kiabel as a stepping stone, a means to an end, to make Blayden Leharth the de facto king, a puppet ruler of his own design?
Blayden was gripped by an ominous feeling, as if he himself had become a mere chess piece in a grander, more insidious game.
He then confessed the anxiety lurking in his heart, the dark premonition that had begun to take root.
“I might have had my hand cut off by trying to grab the Queen too eagerly.”
Boren hummed, a low, thoughtful sound, lost in contemplation.
“You think the promise to enthrone Kiabel as Queen is a trap?”
“Yes,” Blayden affirmed, his eyes cold and unwavering.
“To eliminate Kiabel or me if we show interest in the throne. That way, there would be no obstacles in Kalian’s path to power, no potential rivals.”
“Are you saying he’s actually backing his son for the throne?”
Boren pressed, seeking clarification.
“Traditionally, warriors have been greatly respected in Equilium,” Blayden explained, outlining the historical precedent.
“There’s no history of a Queen ascending the throne, ruling in her own right.”
“But Princess Kiabel is of pure blood, a direct descendant of the royal line,” Boren countered, highlighting her undeniable lineage.
Blayden shook his head with a bitter smile.
“Kiabel’s lineage becomes meaningless if she marries me. Kiabek blood would flow in the bodies of our children, diluting the royal line and giving Kalian an excuse.”
Tigrinu had claimed he wanted to leave descendants of the woman he loved, a seemingly pure devotion. But such sentiment would become meaningless the moment the King died.
The powerful nobles of Equilium would never accept the King’s hunting dog, a man from a conquered kingdom, as the princess’s husband, especially if he held aspirations for the throne.
Boren, having listened intently, closed the window, shutting out the distant sounds of the fortress, and turned back to face Blayden.
“By the way, to become the King of Equilium, two things are needed.”
“Yes. The King’s Seal and the Tears of the Gods,” Blayden replied, the essential components of royal authority.
The Tears of the Gods was a mysterious, legendary gem said to be buried in the northern reaches of Equilium, a place perpetually covered in impenetrable ice.
Legend has it that when the continent of Ratznia was shrouded in evil energy, a pervasive darkness, the Spirit of Winter would melt this gem to purify human souls, cleansing them of corruption.
The ancient map indicating the gem’s precise location was originally divided and kept by the seven ancient tribes of Equilium, each holding a piece of the puzzle.
It was a sacred document specifying the exact burial spot of the Tears of the Gods and the crucial password required to melt the surrounding ice, a secret known only to a few.
Tigrinu, who unified Equilium through brutal conquest, had painstakingly collected and completed this map, and subsequent Kings of Equilium proudly declared themselves its guardians, affirming their divine right to rule. If the King’s Seal symbolized political power and secular authority, the Tears of the Gods map supported the King’s claim as a divine proxy, a chosen ruler by the spirits.
“The seal and the map are missing,” Boren revealed, his voice solemn.
“Kalian is looking for them.”
Boren looked at Blayden, his eyes piercing, as if asking, Do you know their whereabouts?
Blayden shook his head slowly. “I don’t know either,” he admitted.
“What if Kalian sending you to the Shadow Lands isn’t to save Tigrinu at all?”
Boren proposed, an unsettling thought.
With Kiabel gone, if Tigrinu were to die, Kalian would easily ascend the throne, unchallenged.
“Getting the Shadow Flower is just an excuse,” Blayden stated, articulating the very suspicion that had been festering in his own mind.
He nodded in agreement.
“He wants to send me far away,” Blayden continued, “and use the time to find what he needs to secure his position as heir.”
“I’ll keep a close eye on Kalian’s movements here,” Boren promised.
“You come back neither too fast nor too slow.”
If he procrastinated, lingered too long, his loyalty to the King would be questioned, raising suspicions.
But Blayden also didn’t want to rush back to save Tigrinu.
If he could choose his enemy, he’d much prefer to fight Kalian. Kalian, who was politically inexperienced, was far less troublesome and predictable than the seasoned, cunning Tigrinu.
So, at what speed should he retrieve the Shadow Flower? It was a delicate balance.
“By the time you return, Sir Scarson’s value will have increased,” Boren said, uttering something incomprehensible to Blayden.
“Value? What do you mean?”
Blayden pressed, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Time contains emotion,” Boren replied, his voice taking on a profound, almost mystical tone. Blayden stared intently at Boren, a growing realization dawning on him.
The true, terrifying reason for moving Tigrinu and Martin to the Tower of Time now flowed from his mentor’s lips.
“I plan to use special medicine on both of them while reading the wind,” Boren explained, his eyes fixed on the distant tower.
“When Tigrinu’s time flows to Sir Scarson, his memories will also transfer.”
Transfer?
Blayden’s mind reeled.
Does that mean Tigrinu Olaus’s mind will reside in Martin Scarson’s body?
Then!
“So I’ll be able to read Tigrinu Olaus’s thoughts by borrowing Martin Scarson’s body?”
Blayden’s voice was barely a whisper, filled with a mixture of horror and dawning understanding.
“Precisely,” Boren confirmed, a subtle glint in his eyes.
A Story Master imbued with the very mind of the King.
Blayden smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes, a cold, calculating gleam.
“A brilliant move,” he conceded, a sinister appreciation in his tone.
When he returned from the Shadow Lands and persuaded Martin Scarson, he would learn Tigrinu’s true intentions, his deepest secrets.
Conveniently, he already held the key to manipulating Scarson – Solenia Radelaide.
To think you’d be useful in this way, he thought, a dark satisfaction rising within him.
“Then I will depart with that understanding,” Blayden stated, his plan solidifying once more.
“Please keep me updated on the situation in the palace.”
“Understood,” Boren affirmed.
As Blayden was about to turn and leave with a terse nod, a thought struck him, a lingering question that demanded an answer.
He faced Boren again, his gaze sharp. “How did you survive, Priest?”
A deep, vertical furrow appeared on Boren’s broad forehead, a rare sign of discomfort.
“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
“When Kiabek fell, I mean,” Blayden clarified, his gaze unwavering.
“I need to learn your secret, the bargain you made to receive Tigrinu’s protection, to emerge from the ashes of defeat unscathed.”
“Magic, of course,” Boren replied, a faint smile playing on his lips, a touch of weary cynicism.
“The art of communicating with spirits everywhere. What else do I have?”
Blayden let out a bitter, humorless laugh.
“Since I lack such skills,” he said, a cold determination in his voice, “I’ll have to devise other methods.”
As Blayden turned and left the sanctuary, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor, Boren went to the window.
Like a great and solitary warrior, the Tower of Time stood tall against the vast, indifferent sky, a monument to ambition and manipulation.
The words he had uttered twenty-one years ago, kneeling before Tigrinu’s drawn sword, the blade glinting menacingly at his throat, echoed in his mind, a chilling reminder of his desperate survival.
“Lady Lavinia lives within me. If you kill me, you kill Lady Lavinia.”
Thus, he had used the memory of his cherished friendship with Lavinia during her lifetime, a bond that Tigrinu had held dear.
He sold the sacred confidences Lavinia had shared, trusting him as a priest, to the conqueror, Tigrinu.
Like reading a twisted fairy tale to a child hungry for stories, he had doled out the intimate details, little by little, to appease the grieving king.
Under the pretext of comforting a man grieving a lost love, he was, in truth, begging for his own life, a pact with the devil.
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