The rhythmic cantering and galloping of giant wolves reverberated through my hazy consciousness, stirring me from the depths of slumber. Each pounding footfall on the frozen ground sent vibrations through my body, mingling with the sting of snowflakes against my face. The world was a blur of motion, the sensation of movement coupled with the ache that sank deeper and deeper into my flesh. The world swayed around me, and I struggled to piece together my surroundings.
Amidst the disorientation, the creaking of an old wagon became a familiar sound, its timeworn timbre lifting my entire frame. It was a bittersweet respite from the agony that had consumed me. But as we entered the gates of a castle that I couldn't quite place, a new wave of torment washed over me. The cold, unyielding grip of strong and heavy metal tightened around my hands and feet, ensnaring me in its unrelenting grasp.
The sigil that greeted my eyes sent a shiver down my spine – House Calore. One of the most powerful clans in Springgan, its influence spanned the seventh region, our town, with the second largest population across the land. House Calore was a frequent contender in the Solstice and Equinox arenas, the very stages where might and power were tested, and destinies were rewritten. Their position was formidable – most households held the IV rank, boasting a 3-star IV*** standing.
A battle was brewing, a contest that could shift the balance of power within Springgan's political landscape. If House Calore emerged victorious in the arena, House Felun could very well ascend as the next ruling house, altering the destiny of our town and its inhabitants. The intricate web of politics and power was a reality none could escape.
The ranking system, an entrenched cornerstone of Springgan society, governed the lives of its citizens. Wealth determined one's position – higher numbers for the rich and lower for the poor. It was an unyielding truth that shaped the lives of elves, a system that dictated destinies and solidified divisions. The history of the land was marked with bloodshed, a legacy that tainted the foundations of its regions.
Resistance had been met with brutal force, a cycle of defiance and death that had driven many to accept their fates, bowing to the status quo. A caste system that seemed unbreakable had firmly entrenched itself, a hierarchy that perpetuated fear and perpetuated the rule of the powerful royals.
I was a product of this system, a victim of circumstances beyond my control. My fate was sealed by a rigid structure that would never relinquish its grip, an apex built upon the fear and helplessness of those at its foundation – the poor.
Springgan was a nation carved from fear and sculpted by power, a land where uncertainty and tension coexisted. Ten regions, each governed by distinct houses, their bloodlines woven into the fabric of the land's identity.
As the wagon rolled on, I found myself within the walls of House Calore, the very emblem that marked my captivity looming over me. The pain was searing, the suffocating grip of metal a stark reminder of my vulnerability. House Calore's gates had closed around me, a prison from which escape seemed impossible.
House Calore was a force to be reckoned with, a major player in the intricate dance of power. In the city of Springgan, House Felun reigned supreme, its five members absolute rulers wielding immense influence. Their monarchy, symbolized by their star-studded emblems, commanded respect and fear. The Felun's ascendancy was solidified, their star rankings affirming their dominance.
The ranks, denoted by stars, painted a vivid portrait of Springgan's stratified society. The ten influential houses ruled equally divided regions, from the first to the tenth. Each house boasted a king and queen, their emblem bearing a five-two-star mark, rivaling even the ruler of the land. The prince and princesses of these minor royals held a one-star V* rank. The hierarchy was intricate, a reflection of the society's complex dynamics.
Beyond the walls of the ruling houses, the Springgan government held its own power. High-ranked officials bore IV*** marks or a ranked four-three-star emblem, their positions earned through service and influence. The warriors, the legends of the arena, held the Rank III, their stars indicating their prowess and accomplishments in battle. Rank II warriors were skilled fighters, while Rank I encompassed the everyday citizens, those who lived outside the realm of royalty and renown.
I, too, bore a rank – I** – a mark of my place in this society. An existence governed by limitations and constraints, shaped by a system that perpetuated inequality. The troops of House Calore, their presence a foreboding harbinger, held my fate in their hands. Enslavement or execution – the two cruel alternatives that awaited me.
And so, my energy waned, my body trembling from exhaustion and hunger. As darkness beckoned, the imposing gates of House Calore marked the boundary between freedom and captivity, the last image etched in my mind before unconsciousness swept me away.
As my eyes fluttered open once more, a cursed realization washed over me – my fate was sealed, and the walls of House Calore held me captive in their iron embrace.
****
Awakened from my thoughts by the creaking sound of steel, I braced myself for what was inevitable. As a native of my nation, I possessed a firsthand understanding of the atrocities endured by individuals of lower social status. We were regarded as nothing more than animals, yet the wealthy could not flourish without us toiling for them.
Questions weighed heavily on my mind. Would my fate be to hang? Would my connection with the elven official I sought to save be severed, leaving me to face execution? In my lowly status as a low-ranked elf, would I be denied a fair trial by combat or the chance to prove my innocence? I wished for a private dungeon over a public execution, a swift end if my life had indeed been predetermined. Let it come quickly, a release from my torment, much like the mercy I granted my victims.
The echoes of metal-capped boots reverberated through the halls, the sound of household guards approaching. Upon closer inspection, I recognized the emblem of House Calore – an eagle's head representing the 7th region. Beneath the crest lay their identifier, III***, indicating an extraordinary level of skill in combat. Perhaps their talent was innate, explaining their high rank.
Who or what had set its sights on someone like me? A lowly elf, without the status or means to oppose formidable adversaries. How could I hope to triumph against such odds? Should I continue to fight, or was surrender my only option?
Suddenly, arms encircled me, the encounter less bloody than I'd imagined. My body trembled, but not in the way I had anticipated. Weakness gave way to renewed strength, and the soldiers aided my unsteady form, helping me walk. Our journey covered mere meters, but it felt like miles, leading to a lavish room that seemed familiar from photographs.
This was House Calore, a land of purples and golds. Three grand chandeliers adorned the ceiling, crafted from diamond-like stones that cast a captivating glow. The illumination revealed a room of opulence – a large dresser adorned with a mirror, gowns of royalty, and a scent of flowers. Glass walls and ceilings encapsulated the space, a labyrinth of delicate furnishings.
In this realm of luxury, I was positioned before a massive mirror, my scruffy appearance a stark contrast to the elegance that surrounded me. The cushioned bench offered respite, a moment to contemplate the path that had led me here.
As my eyes closed, the armed guards departed, leaving me alone with three porcelain-skinned women. They moved gracefully, their floor-length gowns and flower crowns exuding an air of sophistication. The first maiden carried a large box, quickly arranging its contents among the ball gowns. The second, with short hair, presented a tray of fragrant oils, soaps, and scents, disappearing behind a closed door. The third woman placed food on a nearby table before dispersing its aroma with a flick of her ring-adorned hand.
A mage, my mind surmised. The sight of her conjured memories of my earlier defeat, the reality of elven power cemented in my mind. They were extraordinary, their abilities beyond the realm of regular elves. The royals, even more so.
"Your elegant room is ready, Miss," one of the handmaidens announced, guiding me gently. Their treatment was a stark departure from what I had anticipated. My captors, in their elevated ranks, were showing me an unexpected level of hospitality.
Resisting wasn't my priority. I allowed them to lead me, discarding my filthy clothing as they ushered me into the "beauty chamber." It was a transformative experience, a sensation of helplessness akin to a newborn being bathed, a mere observer of the process.
Why was I being treated with such care? Why the sudden shift from the impending executioner's blade to the hands of those tending to me? In this intricate dance of politics and power, my role seemed to shift from criminal to curiosity.
A purple A-line dress with golden embroidery was presented to me, a choice that aligned with House Calore's color scheme. I pondered why I was adorned in their emblematic colors – a juxtaposition of my own persona against the delicate hue. As I allowed myself to be dressed, the significance of the attire remained a puzzle.
Time passed in a blur as three women entered, each bearing an aura of authority. They worked meticulously, a choreography of elegance and grace. It was almost surreal, akin to being transformed into a statue, every action orchestrated by unseen hands.
A feast of emotions surged within me as I found myself being treated as a princess. The irony was not lost on me, and I wondered about the underlying motives. Despite the opulence and care, there was an unease, a foreboding sense of a hidden agenda.
The transformation complete, I was led further into the castle's depths, anxiety gripping me as we approached our destination. The grand doors opened, revealing a space that radiated authority. The room's previous occupants departed, leaving me alone with a man who held my fate in his hands – King Argus Calore of the Seventh Region.
Our entry disrupted his conversation with a high-ranked official, and as his gaze fell upon me, an unexpected undercurrent of delight shone through his composed expression. His features belied his age, a testament to his delicate features, his presence commanding attention.
Addressed as "Idrish of House Rendin," I couldn't help but feel like a pawn in a complex game. The king's inquiry hung heavy in the air, and I braced myself for his words.
"Do you know why you're here?" he asked, his attention unwavering.
My voice emerged shakily, "I am not entirely sure, Your Grace." It was the truth, a reflection of the ambiguity that surrounded my circumstances. The gaze of all present was upon me, a tense atmosphere punctuated by the presence of a formidable official marked IV***.
The king's words resonated with a weight I couldn't ignore. "You have slain the monarch," he declared, the accusation hanging in the air. The room held its breath, the expressions of pain and anger etched across his face. My world, already turned upside down, tilted further into the unknown.