Kalian sat, a figure of nascent power, on the grand throne in the Great Hall, his gaze sharp and unwavering as he received Atenak’s report.
The air in the cavernous room was heavy with the unspoken weight of political maneuvering and the King’s precarious health.
“The girl bestowed as a slave to Sir Leharth isn’t Martin Scarson’s biological daughter?”
Kalian queried, his voice a low, thoughtful murmur as he idly stroked his chin, a habit he’d picked up from his father.
“Yes. A newborn was abandoned in the forest where the gypsies were massacred, and Scarson took her in,” Atenak confirmed, his voice precise and devoid of emotion, relaying the cold, hard facts.
“Hmm,” Kalian mused, the sound barely audible.
Does it truly matter if she’s his biological daughter or adopted? he pondered.
Martin Scarson was a trusted friend of the former King, a confidant whose loyalty ran deep.
It was highly probable that he had been acting as an informant for Tigrinu for a long time, feeding him crucial intelligence from the shadows.
Does his daughter know about her father’s true identity, his clandestine activities?
Kalian recalled Leni’s fiery spirit, her quick wit.
She has quite a temper, she’s no ordinary child. Is she helping her father with his espionage out of gratitude for raising her, a pawn in his game?
But then, another thought pricked at his mind.
Blayden’s seemingly inexplicable concern for Leni was strange, almost out of character for the ruthless warrior.
What connection could there possibly be between the two of them?
***
At Atenak’s call, Kalian shifted his gaze, prompting his subordinate to elaborate.
“It was Sir Scarson who saved Sir Leharth after the victory in the Sun War,” Atenak revealed, delivering a piece of information Kalian hadn’t known, a surprising detail that cast a new light on the intricate web of relationships.
“Really?” Kalian leaned forward, his interest piqued.
“Yes. Your Majesty drew his sword the moment he saw Sir Leharth,” Atenak continued, recounting the brutal events.
“Even after executing King Odin, he tried to cut down Sir Leharth—who was then a dethroned prince—many times. Each time, Sir Scarson implored Your Majesty to spare the child, saying he was merely a child.”
“Scarson is Blayden’s savior, then,” Kalian concluded, piecing together the fragments.
“Does Blayden know this?”
“He probably remembers,” Atenak responded, a hint of certainty in his tone.
Yes, that must be it.
Kalian also vividly remembered the traumatic events that happened when he was only seven years old, the fall of Kiabek, the brutality of his father. Such memories were not easily forgotten.
Is Blayden repaying the debt he owes Scarson through his daughter?
Kalian dismissed the thought almost immediately.
No.
Blayden wasn’t that soft, not that sentimental.
There was something else at play, a deeper, more complex connection.
Kalian, feeling as if he was enveloped in a thick, unsettling fog, commanded, his voice sharp with newfound determination, “Find and bring the slave of Sir Leharth to me.”
***
Emerging from a discreet, secret passage, Blayden unexpectedly encountered Lentz on his way to his quarters, their paths crossing in the shadowed corridors of the palace.
“Go bid farewell to your father, Sir Krovet,” Blayden instructed, his voice even, though a subtle tension underscored his words.
Lentz’s father was the elder noble Duke Dernan Krovet, a powerful figure.
Blayden had seen him among the murmuring nobles earlier, before he entered the Great Hall at Kalian’s summons, a silent witness to the court’s anxieties.
At the unexpected remark, Lentz merely nodded, his face impassive, without asking any questions, a testament to their long-standing camaraderie and understanding.
However, Lentz’s composed face flinched almost imperceptibly at the words that followed.
“I’m going to the Shadow Lands.”
“The Shadow Lands?”
Lentz echoed, a note of alarm in his voice.
“Isn’t that the home of the Shadow Tribe?”
A place shrouded in dark legends and whispers of madness.
“That’s right. It’s a special autonomous zone in Berden,” Blayden confirmed, his tone casual, almost dismissive, belying the inherent danger of the mission.
“It’s His Highness’s order to get the Shadow Flower. Looks like I’m in for a treasure hunt.”
Lentz, having fought alongside Blayden on countless battlefields for five grueling years, detected the underlying tension in Blayden’s nonchalant demeanor.
He knew that Blayden invariably adopted a more relaxed, almost flippant attitude when facing a particularly difficult or perilous battle.
“I heard the Shadow Tribe confuses human minds and drives them mad,” Lentz observed, a faint concern etching his features.
“Being confused and feeling like you’re going mad is the same here,” Blayden retorted with a bitter sarcasm, gesturing vaguely around the palace.
“Don’t you find the court’s machinations a headache, enough to drive a sane man mad?”
Lentz offered a bitter smile, agreeing with Blayden’s dry wit, and then, his voice more serious, asked, “How many troops do you intend to take?”
“No need to make a fuss,” Blayden replied, his strategic mind already at work.
“His Highness’s condition is critical, so to move swiftly, it must be a small number. Only the Kinolf unit will go.”
“Understood. I’ll instruct the unit members to pack immediately,” Lentz affirmed, his military discipline overriding his concerns.
Lentz strode away with long, purposeful steps.
Immediately after his formidable figure disappeared around the corridor corner, a young attendant appeared, running so fast his clothes fluttered around him like a frantic banner.
The attendant, breathless and flushed, stopped abruptly before Blayden and spoke urgently, “Sir Leharth, a message from the Tower of Time.”
***
Boren and Martin stood in front of the stone platform in the top room of the Tower of Time, their faces illuminated by the eerie glow of the events unfolding before them.
A thick, dark blue mist hung around the platform, obscuring the King’s form entirely, a swirling vortex of unknown energies.
“What’s happening?”
Blayden demanded, gesturing at the mist that writhed like a living creature, expanding ominously, and turned to Boren, expecting an explanation.
Boren, however, left the room without a word, giving Martin only a meaningful, silent look before he exited.
Blayden took a step closer to Martin, his gaze demanding an explanation.
Martin, who had been gazing at the sinister mist with a troubled expression, unexpectedly blurted out, his voice filled with a desperate urgency, “I heard Leni has become your slave. Please protect her.”
Why is he mentioning that little girl in this grave situation?
Blayden thought, a fleeting flicker of irritation.
He considered reassuring Martin that nothing untoward had happened between Leni and him last night, dispelling any potential rumors.
But he quickly changed his mind.
The people in this palace, fueled by gossip and suspicion, would undoubtedly assume he had slept with Leni, given her status.
For now, it was strategically convenient to let them believe that, allowing him a degree of plausible deniability and leverage.
“Leni is now your property, Sir,” Martin continued, his voice heavy with solemnity.
“That means the blessings and misfortunes she brings are also yours. Please cherish her.”
Blayden couldn’t truly promise to “cherish” her, a word that felt alien on his tongue, but he certainly had no intention of mistreating her either.
Right now, Leni was definitely closer to a “blessing” than a “misfortune,” her unexpected usefulness already proving itself.
But with Martin pleading so desperately, a raw emotional vulnerability in his voice, Blayden instinctively knew he had the upper hand in their unspoken negotiations.
“She’s a dull, delusional, meddlesome, and unnecessarily stubborn little girl,” Blayden declared, a calculated exaggeration designed to diminish her perceived value.
“Such a child isn’t property, she’s a burden. She’ll only get in the way.”
He had truly thought that, of course, until he realized her unexpected usefulness, her potential as a tool.
Blayden bowed his head slightly towards Martin, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“But I’ve discovered quite an interesting fact.”
Martin’s eyes sharpened, his full attention now fixed on Blayden, a subtle flicker of hope in their depths.
“I’m going to the Shadow Lands,” Blayden revealed, outlining his mission.
“I’ve received His Highness’s order to retrieve the Shadow Flower. I intend to take her with me. Read His Highness’s thoughts well until I return. If you give me His Highness’s mind residing in your body, I will give you your daughter.”
“Do you mean you’ll free Leni from her slave status?”
Martin asked, his voice barely a whisper, a desperate hope clinging to his words.
“That’s right.”
Blayden truly made the promise, a cold, calculated exchange.
If he could discern Tigrinu’s true intentions, his deepest strategies, it was a valuable trade, well worth the seemingly insignificant cost of a slave girl’s freedom.
Martin’s eyes settled, becoming like a tranquil surface, devoid of agitation.
It was as if he had expected this very conversation, as if he had known, with an almost prophetic certainty, that this moment would come.
“I hope you don’t take what you just said lightly,” Martin stated, his voice quiet but firm, a clear warning.
“I always keep my promises,” Blayden replied, his voice equally steady.
“Do not treat Leni like a slave,” Martin continued, laying out his conditions.
“Allow her freedom of action and thought. Discover her abilities and use them as you see fit. But in return, you must protect her.”
After hearing Martin’s earnest, almost desperate plea, Blayden became confused.
‘Use her as you see fit,’ what did that cryptic phrase mean? It was an odd request, a deviation from the expected demand for her immediate freedom.
“Don’t you want her to be free from slavery?”
Blayden pressed, genuinely puzzled.
“For the sake of a greater cause in the future, immediate freedom must be sacrificed,” Martin explained, a profound sadness in his voice.
“She doesn’t yet know who I am, or the full scope of her destiny. But someday, she will realize the weight of the destiny she carries, the burden she must bear.”
“A greater cause in the future?”
Blayden echoed, his mind racing to connect the dots.
“Are you not preparing for war, Sir Leharth?”
Martin asked, his voice gentle but piercing, striking at the core of Blayden’s hidden intentions.
Blayden flinched almost imperceptibly at Martin’s question, a subtle sign of his agitation.
Martin’s eyes gleamed with an uncanny insight, like a master swordsman who had approached without a sound and struck a vital point, exposing a hidden truth.
“One hears many things while wandering,” Martin simply stated, acknowledging the vast network of information he possessed.
Blayden looked directly at Martin, his gaze unwavering, trying to hide his agitation, to maintain his carefully constructed facade.
The reason to make this man an ally became even clearer, more urgent.
If Martin were to reveal what he knew to Kalian, the liberation war Blayden was meticulously planning would end before it even began, snuffed out by a single word.
“Sir Leharth, you are playing a chess game on thin ice,” Martin prophesied, his voice resonating with a quiet authority.
“And Leni is not a burden. She is the hand that works the board, the piece that will decide the game.”
Blayden was momentarily overwhelmed by Martin’s dignified tone, his unexpected depth of understanding.
This rarely happened to him, a man who commanded battlefields, unafraid of even death, yet he felt a strange sense of being understood, seen.
How could Martin Scarson be so calm, so composed, even after discerning the unmistakable signs of rebellion in Kiabek?
If the game has already begun, is Martin Scarson an enemy or an ally?
And where does that little girl, Leni, truly stand in this complex, dangerous game?
Martin shifted his gaze over Blayden’s shoulder, his eyes distant, troubled.
He looked up at the clear sky stretching beyond the iron bars of the window with sad eyes, then prophesied as if to himself, his voice a low, ominous murmur.
“Someday, the fate of the Ratznian continent and Solenia’s fate will be placed on either side of a scale. At that time, Sir, you must choose the people living on this land. Solenia will be as heavy as all of them combined.”
As if drawn by the ominous voice, the black mist around the King’s platform transformed into a long, thin, serpentine strand and encircled Martin’s neck like a noose, tightening almost imperceptibly, a silent threat.
***
“There was a place like this too.”
Following Gabriel to Forêt Forest, Leni was filled with pure admiration at the sight before her, momentarily forgetting her predicament.
A clear stream flowed gently along a soft, carpet-like green meadow, its banks dotted with vibrant life.
Colorful flowers, simple yet friendly wildflowers, bloomed in profusion around the clear, sparkling water, glinting in the sunlight.
Beyond the meadow, trees grew dense and ancient, their branches intertwined overhead, creating a dappled canopy.
And beneath them, in the cool, shaded earth, mushrooms lined up in clusters, their diverse shapes and colors looking more appetizing than any fruit she had ever seen.
Though lush with new growth, the scenery was quite different from the wide-open clearing of the gypsy campsite she was used to, a wilder, more untamed beauty.
“It’s beautiful,” Leni breathed, forgetting her status as a slave for a precious moment.
She clapped her hands together softly, her eyes sparkling with genuine delight and wonder.
Unlike her, Gabriel, who seemed largely unmoved by the scenic beauty, approached a mushroom patch with a practiced eye and said, “We need Red Goblets and Golden Fans.”
“Goblets and fans?”
Leni asked, her curiosity piqued, as she followed closely behind Gabriel.
“Ah, those are the names of mushrooms,” he explained patiently.
“See that red mushroom? It’s called a Goblet because its cap looks like a large cup. The yellow mushroom spreads out like a fan, right? It’s nicknamed Golden Fan because it sparkles like gold in the sunlight.”
Oh, I see.
Leni thought, a small smile forming.
Pretty things have pretty names.
Do they taste good?
“If you dry them and brew them as tea,” Gabriel continued, offering more information, “they’re effective in relieving pain and restoring vitality.”
“Yes,” Leni nodded, listening intently to the explanation, her mind already connecting the dots.
She thought of the sweet strawberry tea Blayden had given her, the one that had caused her to lose consciousness.
“Um, Gabriel,” she began, attempting to sound as innocent and casual as possible, “Do you also make medicine for Sir Leharth?”
Whether her effort to sound guileless worked, Gabriel showed no signs of suspicion.
He simply plucked a Golden Fan mushroom with practiced ease and replied in the same calm, even tone as before, “The Captain doesn’t need painkillers. He’s someone who transcends pain.”
Transcend pain?
Leni’s eyes widened.
This was new, unsettling information.
She sat closely beside Gabriel, her gaze fixed on him, eager to learn more.