"Is this all?" The traveling merchant's voice carried a hint of skepticism as he surveyed the two ragged men before him. Their attire spoke of disciplined mercenaries, perhaps-hoods drawn low over their faces. One of them nod his head in acknowledgment, and together they hoisted a coffin-like rectangular box onto the waiting cart. The cart, laden with goods, bore the weight of their mysterious cargo: cages draped in cloth, concealing cages that held such .
As they worked, a claw-more beast than hand-lunged from the shadows, aiming for the mercenary's body. The merchant's swift reaction was instinctive as he lashed out, cracking the creature's knuckles with a leather-bound whip. The hand withdrew, defeated but not deterred. Its hiss echoed through the death filled air. "Is that a griffin?" one of the mercenaries dared to ask, eyes wide with wonder. The hood obscured his features, leaving only curiosity visible.
The merchant's grin revealed missing teeth, replaced by gold instead. "Indeed," he replied, his voice a low rumble. "A rare specimen, my friend. A guardian of secret wealth, it is said to bring fortune to whoever tames this beast." The hooded man's skepticism remained intact. "Interested?" The merchant's eyes gleamed. "For a mere 5000 gold coins, this rare beast can be yours."
The hooded man scoffed, shaking his head. The price was steep, even for a griffin. But the merchant paid no heed. With a flourish, he climbed onto the cart, joining the two men. The coachman cracked the whip, urging the horse forward. Wheels creaked, and the griffin's cage rattled, the cries of someone longing for freedom.
Just as they were passing a street, from a skimpy alley awaits another hooded lad. A symbolic crest, shaped into a sun, circled by two moons in its side engraved on the top of its hood. " Iona, have mercy on your son," Hot tears ran down his pale cheeks, a sliver of his white hair peaked out on his drape. He saw the passing cart, eyes drawn to a wooden crate of a coffin.
It all went like a tumultuous storm, the death of King Aeron, The death of his son, the newly appointed king of Adri, and Lewis' head next in line to the guillotine. The Royal Duke, his voice as cold as the blade that awaited its victims, issued a ruthless command: "Execute them all!" The knights who had guarded the banquet hall, their incompetence now a damning verdict, faced the same fate as their fallen sovereign. The castle walls bore witness to the tragedy-the very walls that had once hosted the tragedy that night.
Lewis, hands bound, stood at the platform of destiny. His heart conflicted with emotions, surveyed the crowd below. Shock, confusion, anger-the faces of the onlookers mirrored the chaos that unfolded. Some whispered prayers, while others clenched their fists in silent protest. Amidst the sea of judgment, Lewis clung to a lifeline-a golden pendant adorned with intricate designs. It was more than a trinket; it was his last hope.
Blood, warm and crimson, splattered across his face as the executioner's blade fell. The gasps of the crowd merged with the anguished cries of fallen knights' families. The executioners, efficient in their grim duty, removed the lifeless body. And then, as if scripted by fate, Lewis stepped forward. His voice trembled, desperate: "Wait! I-I..."
But before he could reveal the pendant that bore the weight of his innocence and lineage, a hooded figure materialized from the throng. Riding a steed as dark as the abyss, the figure snatched Lewis's body with swift precision. The crowd watched in awe and terror as the horse and rider vanished into the storm, leaving behind the guards in chaos.
At the kingdom's ragged edge, where shadows clung like desperate ghosts, they arrived with the swiftness of lightning. The outskirts, forsaken by prosperity, harbored a motley crew: squatters, criminals, and villagers whose eyes held secrets darker than the night. But beyond this desolation loomed the Ebonhert Citadel, its stone facade concealing a clandestine purpose. Here, spies from neighboring kingdoms whispered treason, and assassins sharpened their blades.
The hooded figure drew a knife from its pockets and severed the ropes that bound Lewis's wrists. His relief hissed through clenched teeth as he flexed his numbed fingers. Gratitude is poised on his tongue, ready to spill forth, until the figure-no longer a mere shadow-unveiled her face. It was a countenance that defied borders, a face that don't belong to the kingdom but a kind that he's already seen.
Her ears, elongated and pointed, betrayed her lineage-an elf. Her skin, a pale canvas, her hair, the color of rich earth, cascaded around her like a protective veil. Lewis's breath caught; "You're an elf?" Lewis's whisper hung in the charged air, as if forbidden knowledge. "An elf of Myrdadri, to be exact." Her voice, fragile yet sharp. She met his gaze with eyes that held both sorrow and resolve. "Your kin," He said, his voice stern, evident of his years within the castlewalls, "killed King Aeron." The memory of the fallen monarch darkened Lewis's expression. "Why, then," he pressed, "did you save me?"
Her sigh carried the weight of a boulder. She beckoned him to follow, and they moved through the labyrinthine alleys, past sagging houses that leaned on each other for support. The air reeked of desperation, mingling stench with the residue of bloodshed and illicit dealings. Finally, they stood before a cave-like dwelling-a refuge hidden in plain sight.
She pushed aside a curtain, stitched together from tattered rags, revealing a surprising interior. Neatness defied the chaos outside: books lined shelves, their spines whispering forgotten knowledge. Candles flickered, casting shadows on the walls, and incense sticks perfumed the air. Carved wooden furniture lent an unexpected elegance to this hidden sanctuary-a place where peace and elegance reside.
In the kitchen of the cove, an elfen lady moved with grace. Her obsidian-gray hair, a cascade of twilight, framed her face as she deftly washed plump strawberries. The blade of her knife sliced through their ruby flesh, and she arranged the crimson slices on a delicate saucer. But it was the abnormally large oranges that held Lewis's attention. With slim hands, she extracted their vibrant juice, filling a crystal goblet until it glowed like captured sunlight.
Seated at the rustic dining area, Lewis followed the brown haired elf's lead. The knight, raised within castle walls, recognized the unspoken invitation. As her eyes bore into him, he accepted the glass of orange nectar with a nod of gratitude. The tangy sweetness kissed his lips, a bittersweet reminder of life spared.
"Elara," The ombre head lady ventured, her voice a cautious whisper, "is he the king of Adri now?" The words hung in the air, blasphemous and audacious. His cough erupted as Elara's cold response cut through the room like a winter wind. "No," she declared, her strawberry-stained lips unyielding, "King Datura is dead."
Lewis, still recovering from his near-choking fit, straightened. "I am Lewis Winewright," he announced, "the knight of Adri. I owe you my life, Elara, for saving me from execution." The elf lady's eyes narrowed, curiosity and suspicion entwined. "Who ordered your execution?" she probed, her gaze unyielding.
"All the knights present at the banquet hall on the night King Datura died," Lewis confessed. "Royal Duke Daemon issued the command. They blamed an assassin for the king's demise-"
Elara's laughter, sharp as a blade, interrupted him. She bit into a strawberry, crimson juice dribbling down her chin like blood. "Your king's death," she spat, "was the work of a traitor." Her words hung heavy, and Lewis's mind raced. Who had betrayed them? Royal Duke Daemon? Prince Daemizio? Perhaps both conspired in shadows, their motives veiled. The execution order silenced speculation, leaving nobles gossiping and drinking, blissfully unaware, while the truth festered like a hidden wound.
Lewis met Elara's gaze, determination burning in his eyes. "I suspected as much," he murmured. The elf lady's secrets, like the strawberries before her, were ripe for the plucking. "I haven't introduced myself have I ? my name's Aurelia, The elder of the Elven tribe from the kingdom of Myrdadri."
"The dispute between Adri and my kingdom is inevitable," Aurelia mused, her sapphire eyes carrying a weight of empathy and sorrow. Lewis, taken aback, leaned forward. "Wasn't the dispute about the waters?" he inquired, seeking clarity in the murky tides of politics.
"What do you think?" Elara's voice, soft yet incisive, sliced through the air. "That river was as barren as the field. It was a feeble excuse for Adri to ignite war with Myrdadri." Her words held the bitterness of truth. "Most likely," she continued, "they conspired with Royal Duke Daemon-first to kill his queen, then King Aeron, and now his son, King Datura." Envy, hatred, and unjustifiable anger buried them six-feet underground.
"But what did the kingdom of Myrdadri gain?" Lewis pressed, his mind racing. "A promise," Aurelia interjected, her voice tinged with both pride and regret. "A promise to make my daughter queen." She chuckled, revealing a hidden layer of intrigue. "Eraviel, my daughter, was King Aeron's concubine before he wed his queen." The revelation hung heavy in the air. "She was ambitious," Aurelia continued, "and when she discovered their relationship, she ensnared him, casting a spell that bore fruit-a child."
"Eraviel returned to Myrdadri, hidden from the king's wrath," Aurelia confessed, her eyes distant. "I cared for the child, then entrusted him to a friend within the castle walls. A royal pendant marked him-a forbidden lineage, half-elfen and half-royal. You, Lewis, carry that blood." The truth, like a blade unsheathed, cut through the layers of secrecy. He knew of his lineage, he always knew, but he kept a low profile,not wanting to endanger his caretaker-his acting mother. "What must you do?" Aurelia's gaze bore into Lewis's soul.
"Save the kingdom of Adri from ruination," he declared, fire igniting within him. "Avenge King Datura. I will be the downfall of Daemon." His resolve echoed through the coven-a promise forged in his blood, fated to kill for the crown that he didn't dare dream.