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TO&FQ: Book 1 - Chapter 43 (RAW)
🕑 Added 2024-12-21 06:53:20 +0000 UTCChapter 43 - The Grace of the King
“Royalty consists not in vain pomp, but in great virtues.”
- Agesilaus II
“The Lady Seraphina de Sariens of the Sariens Duchy!” the King’s steward proclaimed as the doors opened, his voice echoing through. She half-expected a jarring creak to break the hush, but the silence persisted, more unsettling than any ominous groan of hinges could have been.
Her first step into the Royal Court’s hall was like entering a realm sculpted from myth. Gold—the ever-precious metal—dominated almost every surface. She had seen this before in the game, but now, seeing the lavishness and splendor with her own eyes, she felt an almost dizzying awe. The wealth of entire nations seemed pillaged and poured into this single, place.
The vaulted ceiling soared overhead, fashioned like a celestial cathedral. Seraphic statues of alabaster angels appeared to ascend toward hidden heavens, their ethereal wings plated with shimmering gold. Across the walls and columns flowed intricate scriptures in homage to the Goddess, each holy verse enshrined in delicate gilded inlays. Tapestries and banners of every noble House in the Kingdom of Aranthia cascaded downward from poles along the walls, their vibrant colors and crests woven with grand artistry. And there, in a place of revered prominence to the right of the royal throne, hung the emblem of her own House—wisterias in gentle bloom—proclaiming her rightful place amidst all of this splendor.
To the left of the throne, the heraldry of the Church of Avaria hung in ominous, solemn glory: a sword and dagger crossed above a golden chalice. The sight of it gave Seraphina pause, but only for a moment—something else soon drew her gaze.
A small movement at the edge of the gathered nobles caught her eye. There, her plump friend Michelie dared to break all protocol by offering an enthusiastic wave. It was an earnest but mortifying display, and Seraphina’s face warmed with embarrassment. The taller and more dignified Rashana swiftly jabbed Michelie with an elbow—an unsubtle reminder to behave. Michelie shot her friend a quick glare before ceasing her inappropriate greeting.
Though the attempt at moral support touched her, Seraphina’s stomach twisted. This was the Court of Aranthia, and the slightest breach of decorum could be costly. Struggling to maintain composure, she turned her attention back to the throne and the one who occupied it.
There he sat—King Elidion—an aging warrior of her father’s generation. Legends claimed that he and her sire had once been formidable knights, yet time had settled heavily on his shoulders. The royal garments draped about him like loose sheets, his once-powerful frame reduced to something thin and fragile. He resembled a weary scarecrow, his gaunt face etched with the burden of kingship. One bony hand grasped the scepter of Aranthia, crowned with a ruby the size of a clenched fist. The royal crown itself seemed to weigh him down, his neck straining beneath the glittering circlet.
The King was flanked by his Royal Guard—those so-called elite warriors of the realm—resplendent in their ceremonial armor. Their eyes fell upon Sergeant Frest, one of her escorts, who wore a harness taken in combat against them. Their collective sneers betrayed a hint of shame, a silent reminder of their painful loss.
Seraphina assessed the King with quiet resolve. Someday, she would relieve him of that crown—a kindness, really. Perhaps, if she were feeling merciful, she would allow him a gentle exile on some distant, windswept isle, where his name would fade into memory while she claimed the throne he no longer had the strength to hold.
But those were dreams for another day.
To the King’s left stood Archbishop Faron, a man whose stature seemed carved from solid stone. Short and nearly as broad as he was tall, he presented an almost square silhouette. His powerful jawline, broad shoulders, and arms bulging thick as his own thighs only heightened that impression. He looked more like a village blacksmith than the esteemed leader of the kingdom’s most eminent religious order.
“Your presence is acknowledged and welcomed within the hallowed halls of this Royal Court, Lady Seraphina de Sariens,” intoned King Elidion, his voice surprisingly strong despite his weak frame. “You may approach.”
With almost exaggerated slowness, Seraphina and her entourage moved toward the throne. With no small amount of pride, she saw that her father’s household knights wore arms and armor of similar quality to the Royal Knights, just more of a martial aspect and far less ostentatious. Two of them struggled with a package she had brought for the King, a small piece of theatre she had planned.
“It is my solemn honor to appear before you, Your Most Gracious Majesty,” Seraphina replied, giving the King a deep and perfectly executed formal curtsy. Eloise a pace behind her did likewise a moment later, while her honor guard dropped to one knee. “I come as the representative of the Duchy of Sariens, entrusted by my noble lineage to renew our vows of fealty and reaffirm our steadfast loyalty to the Crown and its righteous dominion.”
The King inclined his head, and for a moment the young girl thought it would fall off his head.
“It pleases us that you have finally made your way to be in our presence. We note that you stand alone, Lady Seraphina. Tell us, what has become of your gloried father, Lord Anatoli, and the beautiful Lady Anaselena? Have they withheld their presence in this courtly assembly?” Elidion replied, almost like the script in the game.
At the mention of Seraphina’s mother’s name, the King’s expression changed ever so subtly, hints of evil behind his tired eyes.
“It grieves me, Your Majesty, to report that they are engaged in critical duties within our borders,” Seraphina explained, the smallest of smiles curving her lips. “A grave blight afflicts our lands. Foreigners, hailing from beyond the Empire’s edges, have trespassed upon your sacred realm, bringing with them banditry, unrest, and the silent whisper of corruption. They stain our fair fields and woods and threaten the poisoning the blood of the nation, sowing discord where harmony once flourished.”
She paused for a moment, pretending to be thinking before she uttered the rehearsed words. “My father’s sword arm is raised in defense of his lands, aided by my mother’s oracular Sight. Together, they root out these malefactors, striving to restore peace and stability to your domain. In their stead, I have ventured forth alone to kneel before Your Majesty and pledge our enduring fidelity.”
It was good to remind the King of her parent’s power and the old man gave the barest of twitches at the mention of her mother’s unique gifts. Seraphina felt that the King had some hidden history with her mother.
The weak man looked at as a wolf might look at a sheep. “Very well, Lady Seraphina de Sariens. Your words are heard, and I accept you as the representative of your House. Step forward, and consider yourself welcomed, under our watchful grace of and the sovereign authority of the crown,” he replied flatly.
“Ahh, that is most unfortunate for them. With the Duchy of Sariens being so dangerous, we are of the mind to invite you to stay as a guest of our royal hospitality as to such a time as your wedding arrangements are formalized with our son, the Crown Prince,” the King declared.
There was an intake of breath around the Royal Court, the courtiers and nobles tittering among themselves. Slowly, under the stern gaze of the King’s steward, the gathered crowded nobles quietened to an uneasy silence. They waited for the response from the heir to the Duchy of the Sariens.
A thousand and one thoughts rushed through Seraphina’s mind as she sought an escape from her predicament. The King’s response put her in a very dangerous situation.
“It is with great regret that I must refuse your generous offer. The Crown Prince Vellens has yet to formally present himself to me, nor is he here now to greet and welcome his would-be fiancée. Accepting under these conditions would be an insult to the Sariens,” she said saucily, smiling sweetly while meeting the King’s gaze with unmistakable defiance.
“And on that note, where exactly is His Majesty the Crown Prince? Your steward, Sir Gantly, assured me he was most eager to see me—pining, almost. Yet he failed even to perform the simple courtesy of arriving at our estate’s doorstep with a full escort of Royal Guards. I must therefore question the depth of his supposed love.”
At this, the Royal Court burst into laughter. It was a good while before they were cajoled into silence by the Royal Guards and the steward shouting for order. The Archbishop looked down at Seraphina, his expression cool and placid.
The King fumed, his fists clenched in a vice-like grip, his expression dark at being refused. Faron stepped forward and whispered something in his ear, causing the King’s anger to subside into a guarded calm. Pushed into a corner, an ominous grin spread across his face.
“By royal decree, we must insist, Lady Seraphina,” he declared.
In response, Seraphine snapped her fingers, and the two knights behind her wrestled with the package swaddled in strips of white silk. They presented it to the girl, who unwrapped it with a single tug, revealing a most fearsome weapon.
Her father’s blade—known as the Titan’s Knife—was unveiled before the Royal Court. A massive, crude slab of iron forged into a heavy blade nearly as tall as she was, its scarred length bore the marks of countless battles. She hefted the great sword almost effortlessly with one hand, drawing gasps from the assembled nobility in a dazzling display of raw Strength.
Instantly, the Royal Guards’ hands flew to the hilts of their own weapons, and in that moment they looked more like frightened boys than disciplined soldiers. Seraphine, however, noted that one among them—Sir Gallant—stood calm and unshaken by her demonstration. She silently resolved to keep a wary eye on him.
“My father sent me with his old weapon, to remind the King of their shared bond. And like my father before me, I would like to swear formal fealty to the crown,” Seraphina declared. Dropping to one knee alongside her honor guard, she offered the sword to the King with both hands.
Even in his youth, King Elidion II could never have lifted her father’s sword. He made no move to take it. Seraphina hoped her message was clear: she would remain loyal—unless the King forced her hand. A part of her even wanted him to challenge her.
Standing just behind Seraphina, Eloise trembled under the weight of the moment, as if history itself were bearing down on them. If the King insisted once more, civil war would be inevitable—a conflict Seraphina almost welcomed, for it would grant her family a clear and just casus belli. She would embrace the chaos and strife, knowing that by force of arms or sheer cunning, she would prevail.
King Elidion looked down at her, his expression at war with itself. Then, he burst into laughter—a peal of mirth that rang through the hall. The Archbishop at his side appeared more and more uneasy, but the King did not cease his laughter.
He shook his head. “Just like your mother, you are bolder than we have ever imagined—and one day, that boldness may be your undoing,” he growled, his warning anything but subtle.
It took all of Seraphina’s self-control not to laugh in his face. Instead, she maintained a calm, serene demeanor, silently challenging the Crown’s authority.
“But you’ve been a good influence on our Vellens,” the King continued. “He’s off on some errand for the Adventurer’s Guild, and it seems your example has given that hopeless young man a spine at last. For the rather obvious love he bears you, I will forgive your recent transgression and breach of protocol.”
She noticed how deftly he had reframed the encounter. If she pushed any further, she would look like an ungrateful brat rebelling against his supposedly magnanimous gesture. Also, it revealed that his steward had been trying to needle her.
Seraphina inclined her head, acknowledging the King’s words. She had one card left to play.
“Very well, Your Majesty,” she said. “If it pleases you, I will take my leave. I have urgent business awaiting me at home. My family fears a potential invasion from the Empire, and I can no longer dally here in the capital any longer.”
Before he could reply, she stood, turning her back on the King of Aranthia in silent challenge. Seraphina had taken his measure and called his bluff; no doubt he was stewing behind her in anger, but to call after her would only weaken his position.
With a confident sway of her hips, she moved toward the exit. In her mind, she has successfully slipped free from the snare that was the Royal Court.
