KING ARLON PIERRAN sat antsy in the plush interior of the royal carriage. He was riding the distance to the Seer Towers. Latchlon had convinced him to get Marsil to the Seers, hoping the scholars could discover something about the boy's nature. Arlon sat wondering why he ever agreed to his brother's request.
He could hear the rumble of other accompanying carts from behind.
The caravan was all splendid gold, handled by the best horse-masters in the realm. It was the royal transport. Arlon didn't like when he had to ride in the dingy box. It made him feel god-like, and Arlon wasn't anything if not a broken man. He was a devout ruler who loved the masses, not some arrogant monarch vested in wealth as the caravan he was riding made him out to be.
Anxiety made his fingers tick on his knees.
He had told Latchlon to wait until he arrived at Goldstone, but he also knew his brother. He was worried enough as it was for Marsil's safety. The boy had been transported from the White Keep to the Seer Towers in a crumbling wagon. Arlon didn't even want to imagine what the journey must've felt like. The White Keep was on the outskirts of the capital, and the distance from that far west to Calipsos was in miles. The boy would be plagued by fatigue. Not to mention the sun.
The Sun...
Arlon groaned in his seat. Why ever did he let Latchlon take him?
Marsil was a vampire. A bloodchild. A sliver of sunlight would scar his pale flesh.
He'd ordered Latchlon to ensure he used a dark-veiled carriage but still the summerland was so named for a reason. The sun of Syveria was scorching. The heat alone would be unbearable for his son, Marsil.
"Ride faster!" Arlon found himself growling to the horseman leading the caravan.
He had to get to Goldstone, before his brother made him kill him. He knew he would should anything happen to his son. Bloodchild or not, Marsil was his.
The ward of his royal blood.
The carriage finally pulled up to the colossal front of the western Seer Tower, Goldstone. Lieutenant Byron and the other towerguards moved to open the drapes for the King but Arlon was already out before they could stretch out a hand.
"Your Majesty!" Byron boomed in greeting. "May we—"
He was interrupted by a blur, then a whip of breeze. He abruptly looked up from his bow. The king was no longer before him.
He looked behind, and there was their sovereign, striding up the steps, like man whose wife was in labor. His royal robes breezed around him in his fastened gait, and the sun made the golden apparel shine.
Byron looked to his officers and they quickly followed, jogging up the steps to meet the king's stride. He and his men stopped at the 30ft-high doorway and only the king's own guards followed him in; men of few words and great stature, and of the most trust-worthy kind.
Byron stared at the entrance until the Sovereign and his Kingsguards vanished down the shiny halls. The doorway was wide as it was high. Four upright men couldn't measure up the height, and the width could accommodate a small ship. Such was the grand superiority of the Goldstone Tower. It was no wonder visiting merchants payed good coin to walk the promenade.
Above, in letters of graven gold were the Golden Knight's name, placed in honor of his legend.
~NIHILA, GOLDEN ONE OF THE SOUTH~
An excellent tribute to the First Ruler of the Summerlands and Sovereign during the Dark Ages.