ROWAN
**Best of Ten, it is**
We are deep into the eighth round. The stakes are high: Harlen has secured three sets, Julden has one, and Odwen has two, am with two sets. The dice are once again enclosed in the ornate cup, the process beginning anew. As the dice are spun, our spirits clash fiercely, each of us striving to bend the outcome in our favor. This is my moment. Channeling the wisdom of my master's chant, I subtly shift the odds in my favor. The dice tumble and settle, landing perfectly on the set of odds I had bet on.
"That's it!!!" I slam my hand on the table with triumphant force. "Now we're talking." A wave of murmurs sweeps through the room as all eyes turn to Julden. His gaze remains fixed on his drink, his expression one of disbelief and frustration. Julden has consistently been on the losing side during our games, and it's evident that his lack of training in spirit control is taking its toll.
"Shall we continue?" August, ever the showman, introduces another dice. His smirk hints at the excitement of the challenge. "Let's make it perfect match style." The new dice, crafted from the Pirch cry tree, is unalterable by external forces—a true test of our predictive and controlling abilities.
"Raising the odds?" Harlen inquires, his gaze steady. The addition of the Pirch cry tree dice heightens the complexity of the game. This dice requires us to predict its outcome with precision, as its path cannot be influenced by outside forces.
The stage is set for the final act. August, with a practiced flick of his wrist, initiates the shuffling of the dice. He spins them gracefully through the air, their movement an elegant blur of potentiality. With a deft motion, he returns them to the cup, shuffling them once more before placing the vessel on the table. The air hums with anticipation as he completes the ritual, the dice now poised for their final revelation.
"Place your bets!!!" August's voice rings out, laced with an air of challenge as he grins, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Three odds, one even," Harlen declares with unwavering calm, his hand fan fluttering as he watches the dice with a keen, analytical gaze.
"Perfect evens," Julden chimes in, his frustration momentarily forgotten as he slams his jar onto the table and takes another hearty swig. "Even for me," he asserts, gulping down his drink with a determined flourish.
"A set of odds and evens," I state with a confident smile, my eyes gleaming with the thrill of the game. "This is my moment."
"Like hell it is," Odwen retorts with a smirk, his tone both challenging and amused. "Three evens, one odd," he announces, pushing ten silver jades and three gold bars onto the table with a flourish. "I'm all in."
"Count me in as well," I respond, sliding a set of seven golden bars into the growing pile. My monthly allowance as a princess may be ample, but the thrill of the game is what truly fuels my passion.
"I guess I'm all in too," Harlen adds, his voice measured as he matches the stakes. The tension in the room escalates, each player locked in their own strategic mindset, awaiting the final verdict of fate.
August's hands moved with practiced skill, sending the dice spinning in a fluid, captivating motion. The room was electric with anticipation, every gaze locked on the metal cup. The soft clattering of the dice against the cup resonated through the air, mixing with the quiet, steady breaths of those waiting for the outcome. The atmosphere was thick with the struggle of focused spirits, each player's intent clear in their watchful eyes.
Julden's frequent gulps from his drink cut through the silence, a stark reminder of the stakes involved. The sense of urgency was almost tangible, with every heartbeat echoing the importance of this final round. My own heart raced, my focus narrowed to a single point: the dice. This roll would decide everything. The weight of it hung heavy, and I concentrated fiercely, determined to sway fate in my favor.
Just as the dice were about to reveal their outcome, a voice shattered the tension. "Well, if it isn't my precious niece!!"
The sudden outburst sent a wave of chaos through the room. People scrambled to their feet, rushing to escape as chairs toppled and the noise of movement filled the space. "Don't let any leave!" my uncle's commanding voice boomed, his authority clear. His unexpected arrival and sharp command threw everything into disarray, ending our high-stakes game abruptly and shifting the focus away from the dice and toward the new, pressing crisis.
Ifreen Grimclaw VII, my uncle and the fourth brother of my father was the formidable head of the capital's security. His arrival was a force of nature in itself, capable of transforming any gathering into disarray. His men sprang into action, chasing after the fleeing gamblers with precision and urgency. Harlen had already vanished, slipping away before the commotion erupted. Julden lay prostrate on the floor, two long boards strapped across his head, muttering curses through clenched teeth. Odwen had made his escape with equal speed, blending into the crowd and evading capture.
"Damn it!" I exclaimed, frustration boiling over as I slammed my palm against the table. "Why did you have to show up just as I was about to win?" I cried, arms crossed in exasperation. My victory had been snatched away, and my anger was palpable. My uncle stood there, his imposing presence commanding attention. His long beard, streaked with a stark white stripe, contrasted with his deeply tanned skin. He wore a heavy suit of golden armor, emblazoned with the kingdom's emblem on his chest, signifying his high rank. The sword at his waist, both a symbol of power and a practical weapon, was securely fastened.
I stood on my tiptoes, attempting to confront him with a measure of defiance, though my frustration was evident. "Why did you have to arrive now?" I demanded, trying to infuse my voice with authority. His smirk only deepened as he regarded me, clearly amused by my plight.
"You little brat!" he said, his voice tinged with amusement as he crossed his arms, clearly reveling in my vexation.
"What old man?!" I exclaim, widening my eyes as I take exaggerated steps toward him, inhaling deeply in an attempt to make myself appear larger. But before I can fully close the distance, his amused smile broadens, and in a flash, he covers the ground between us with a single swift movement, too quick for me to even react. A sudden, sharp tap on my head sends me dropping to the floor, hands clutching my throbbing skull.
"You fu—!" I begin, only to be cut off as he grabs me by the ear, pinching it just enough to send jolts of pain through my head.
"Ouch! Ouch! That hurts, old man!" I cry out, squirming in his grasp, but the more I struggle, the sharper the pain grows.
"Oh? I thought you wanted to look bigger?" he chuckles, clearly enjoying my futile attempts at escape. "Why are you so tiny?" His teasing words only add insult to injury as he glances over his shoulder. "Gellix," he calls out.
"Yes, sir," comes the prompt response from his right-hand man, Gellix.
"You know the drill," my uncle orders, a nod exchanged between them as if they've done this a hundred times before. "I'll leave it to you," he says before wrapping an arm around me and initiating the teleportation spell that whisks us away to the castle grounds.
The world blurs for a moment, and when it sharpens again, we're standing before the grand entrance of the royal castle. Almost instantly, ten lady servants materialize as if they were summoned by our arrival. Their attire is nothing short of opulent; each wears a pristine, high-collared blouse made of fine white silk, with delicate gold embroidery tracing intricate patterns across the fabric. The sleeves are long and fitted, ending in cuffs adorned with tiny sapphire buttons. Their skirts are deep midnight blue, made of a thick, luxurious velvet that sweeps the ground as they move, a golden thread running along the hem in an elaborate design that mimics the royal crest. Their hair, dark and lustrous, is pulled back into intricate braids, adorned with small jeweled pins that catch the light as they bow in unison.
"Welcome, Master," they greet my uncle in perfect harmony, their voices smooth and practiced. Then they turn to me, their eyes briefly lowering, though I can feel their silent judgment seeping through their composed expressions. "Miss," they add, but the tone is unmistakable—they see me as lesser, unworthy of the respect they so easily offer to my uncle.
"Well, well! Look who just showed up," Athera's voice rings out from above. Descending gracefully through the air, his presence commands attention, the third prince of the kingdom, clad in robes of deep indigo that shimmer like starlit skies. Beside him, floating with equal poise, is his younger sister—my arch-enemy, Flollisa. Her disdainful gaze locks onto me, her eyes narrowing with a mix of superiority and contempt.
"Welcome, young master," the servants chorus in unison, their voices reverent as they bow to Athera. "Welcome to the young miss," they add, turning their attention to Flollisa with the same practiced deference.
At least she is granted the title of "young miss." I, on the other hand, am just "miss." A title so generic it could apply to anyone—no distinction, no honor. Flollisa steps forward, her posture exuding confidence as she crosses her arms over her chest. The gown she wears is a striking red, flowing like liquid fire down to her ankles. The bodice is cinched with a delicate belt adorned with intricately embroidered lotus flowers, each petal seeming to pulse with life. Her lips are painted the same shade of red as her dress, a bold, blood-red hue that stands out against her flawless, porcelain skin. A captivating fragrance wafts from her, a mix of exotic blooms and rare spices, leaving a lingering sweetness in the air. Her hair is woven into a perfect ponytail, the dark strands gleaming as they catch the light. The style is simple yet elegant, a testament to her refined taste. On her feet, she wears red glass heels, their crystalline structure catching the light and scattering it in a dazzling array of colors with every step she takes.
"Miss Flollisa, I heard you have ascended to the peak-rift stage," my uncle remarks, his voice warm with approval as he regards her. "Well, congratulations."
His words are sincere, but they only serve to deepen the pit of frustration in my stomach. Flollisa beams under his praise, her eyes flashing with satisfaction. Even in this moment, standing before the servants who bow so deeply to her and the uncle who praises her achievements, she manages to exude an aura of untouchable superiority. Every detail about her—the perfect gown, the flawless makeup, the carefully chosen fragrance—screams perfection, a perfection that seems to highlight my own perceived flaws.
"Well, it wasn't hard," Flollisa sighs, stopping right in front of me. Her eyes narrow as she takes a deliberate step back, her nose wrinkling in disdain. "What is *that* doing here?" she sneers, covering her nose. "What an unpleasant smell."
"What did you just say—" I start to march toward her, but my uncle's hand lands firmly on my shoulder, halting my steps.
"The king has called for her," he replies, his tone calm but firm.
Flollisa scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder with a dismissive wave. "I see. Well, could you at least try to look presentable? I know you hate him, but he is still your father." Without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and walks away, offering her hand to Athera. He takes it with a bow, and together they head toward the castle.
As soon as they're out of sight, I open my mouth to hurl a string of curses after her, but my uncle beats me to it.
"That brat," he hisses under his breath. "She couldn't even bother with a bow. Just a small enlightenment and she thinks she's made it. That—"
"If people heard you, your title as Battle General would be laughed at," a gentle female voice interrupts from behind.
"Aunt Beail!" I exclaim, spinning around and running toward her. I leap into her arms, hugging her tightly. "I missed you! Did you bring me any goodies?" I practically bounce with excitement.
"Of course, dear," she replies with a warm smile, signaling her maids, who step forward carrying two large metallic boxes.
As they open the first box, my eyes widen in awe. Inside is an exquisitely crafted Elven bow, accompanied by a set of twenty arrows. The craftsmanship is stunning, the wood of the bow smooth and polished, with intricate carvings of ancient Elven runes running along its length.
"I heard a legend about an Elven princess hero and thought of you," Aunt Beail says as I carefully take the bow out, testing the string with a gentle pull. The bow feels perfect in my hands, as though it was made just for me.
"What do you think?" she asks, watching me closely.
"Ooooh! Are you kidding me? I feel connected to this bow," I gush, already eager to try it out. I rush to the second box, lifting the lid to reveal a pair of woven boots. "Woolen boots!" I exclaim, quickly removing my old ones and slipping into the new pair. The boots are incredibly light and warm, and as I move around, I barely feel any friction against the ground.
"They're from the Dwarven kingdom," Aunt Beail explains with a smile.
"You're the best, Auntie!" I cry out, running around in the new boots, testing their comfort and grip.
"Tch! When will you stop spoiling that brat?" Uncle grumbles, rubbing his beard as he watches me dash around. "And for the love of God, you're a girl—please act like one for once," he adds, exasperated as I pretend to aim my new bow at imaginary targets, imitating a firing range.
"Is there a problem if I spoil my only niece?" Aunt Beail retorts playfully, walking over to Uncle. "Besides, if it weren't for the constant letters from you, I might have forgotten to bring her the boots."
"For real? This is from Uncle?" I ask, my face lighting up with a broad smile. I rush over to him, planting a quick kiss on his cheek in thanks.
"Hey! That's enough, kid!" he protests, shoving me away, but there's a faint smile tugging at his lips. Aunt Beail chuckles softly at the sight.
She is my mother's younger sister and is currently married to Ifreen. As I grab one of the arrows, fitting it to the bowstring, ready to take aim, another presence suddenly looms in the doorway. It's the Chief of State, his appearance as commanding as ever. He's dressed in a long red and white gown, the fabric draping over his tall frame with an air of authority. A large magistrate cap sits atop his head, completing his formal look.
"The king has summoned General Ifreen, his wife, and the Sixth Princess. You may enter," he announces, his voice steady as he gestures for us to follow.
I quickly return the bow to its box, securing the arrows as well, and then we all head inside.
___________________________________________________________________________
Emperor Augustine Grimclaw IV, the tenth ruler of Jingajar, is a living legend—a force that commands both respect and fear across the realm. His name is spoken with reverence, for he stands as the third strongest emperor in the history of Jingajar, and many believe that he is on the path to becoming the seventh strongest hero in human history. If nothing befalls him, he may well shatter that record, and ascend to a level of power unheard of in our time.
He exudes an aura of immense strength, an overwhelming presence that can be felt by any cultivator who dares to stand before him. The spirit energy that courses through him is barely contained, often seeping out even against his will. He has mastered a form of cultivation meant to restrain his power, but there are moments when even that fails—particularly when he sleeps. In those moments, the kingdom itself trembles as the raw energy he emits plunges it into chaos.
Physically, Emperor Augustine is a giant among men. Even seated on his imposing throne, he towers over those who approach him. His stature is immense, his broad shoulders draped in a simple yet resplendent golden robe that shimmers in the light of the grand hall. On his fingers, he wears five golden rings, each one imbued with ancient power. In his hand, he casually holds a scroll, the contents of which are unknown but undoubtedly significant.
Beside him stands the kingdom's guardian, a man of unrivaled strength—second only to the emperor himself. The guardian is a master of the sword, and together, they are considered the strongest beings in the kingdom. Both have achieved the elusive realm of self-awareness, a state of cultivation that grants them near-divine powers.
As we stand before the emperor, his golden eyes narrow, focusing on us with an intensity that is almost palpable. He leans forward slightly, muttering something to the guardian at his side. The guardian nods in response, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.
Then, without lifting his head from where it rests on his palm, Emperor Augustine turns his gaze upon us fully. His blue eyes, cold and piercing, lock onto mine. The fierce intent to kill emanating from those eyes is like a physical blow, and the air around me seems to thicken with the weight of his presence. The pressure crashes down on me like a tidal wave, making it difficult to breathe.
My knees buckle under the strain, and I collapse to the ground, all strength draining from my body. It's as though he has transformed into something beyond human, an otherworldly being whose very existence dwarfs my own. I feel like a mere insect, staring up at a colossal titan, fully aware that with a single movement, he could obliterate me.
I try to gather my spirit, to push back against the overwhelming force pressing down on me, but the emperor's eyes flash with a silent warning. My feeble attempt at resistance is crushed instantly, and I fall back onto the cold marble floor, my legs giving out entirely. My head tilts upward, and I am forced to look up at him from my position on the ground, utterly powerless in the face of his overwhelming might.
"That's enough!" Uncle Ifreen's voice booms through the hall, cutting through the suffocating tension as he steps forward, placing himself between me and the emperor. The force of his aura collides with the emperor's, and for a moment, it feels as though two mighty lions are facing off, their images materializing in the air behind them, snarling and snapping at each other. "You know she can't draw out her aura, brother. Stop this madness," he demands, his tone firm yet respectful.
"How dare you address the king as 'brother'!" the chief of state interjects, his voice dripping with indignation. But before he can finish, Uncle's sword is out in a flash, its blade stopping just short of the chief's ear. The man freezes, the color draining from his face as he realizes how close he is to losing his head.
"I warned you before," Uncle growls, his eyes locked on the chief, "never interfere when I'm speaking to my brother, you insignificant ant. The next time, I'll take your head without hesitation." His words are a deadly promise, and the chief takes a hasty step back, fear evident in his wide eyes. Uncle then shifts his gaze back to the emperor, who is watching the exchange with an unreadable expression.
"My lord, I request your restraint," the kingdom's guardian steps in, his voice calm yet commanding. "We have urgent matters that require your attention." The emperor's eyes flicker, and after a moment, he exhales deeply, the crushing pressure of his aura withdrawing like a receding tide.
"Rowan," the emperor calls, his voice resonating with authority. Before I can even catch my breath, I find myself moving forward, instinctively obeying the command that's woven into his very tone. I kneel before him, the distance between us shrinking as I come to a stop just before his throne, his piercing blue eyes staring down at me. As much as I hate to admit it, of all his children, I resemble him the most—from the sharpness of his eyes to the curve of his nose and lips. The only difference is my blonde hair, a trait I inherited from my mother.
"Prepare yourself," he declares, his voice unyielding. "You will be participating in the MoonBound event this year. You must attend." His fingers brush lightly against my jaw, a gesture that feels both possessive and dismissive. "You're too thin," he adds, his eyes narrowing as he turns to my uncle. "Why is that?"
A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Thin? Are you serious? How would you even know?" I shoot him a sharp look as I pull away from his touch, anger bubbling up inside me. "Stop pretending you care. You've never even bothered to visit me since Mom died, and—" My voice rises, and the words spill out before I can catch them. "You old bastard!" I curse, the frustration and resentment that I've kept bottled up for so long finally boiling over.
The hall falls silent, the echoes of my outburst hanging in the air. Uncle stiffens beside me, and the guardian's eyes narrow as he watches the emperor's reaction. But I don't care. The anger, the pain—it all pours out of me, years of neglect and bitterness that I've carried like a heavy weight on my shoulders.
The emperor's expression hardens, and for a brief moment, I think I see a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or maybe just annoyance. But it's gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold, indifferent mask he always wears. He says nothing, simply turning his gaze away from me, as if I'm no more than a nuisance, a rebellious child throwing a tantrum.
"How dare you!" Flollisa's voice cuts through the tension, sharp and venomous, but before she can say more, the king raises a hand, silencing her with a mere gesture as he leans back on his throne.
"There's no need for rude remarks, my little sister," Violet intervenes smoothly, stepping forward with the grace of someone who knows exactly how to navigate such situations. Violet, the second princess, and a proud member of the White Tiger Clan, is known far and wide for both her beauty and her intellect. Today, she's dressed in a simple green gown, a woolen scarf draped elegantly around her neck, enhancing her regal appearance. Her eyes soften as she shifts her gaze to the king, offering a respectful bow. "After all, Father is just worried and looking out for you," she adds with a delicate smile, her words a stark contrast to the underlying tension in the room. "You called for me, my lord?"
"Back off, you ugly witch!" I snap, my patience running thin. My frustration boils over, and I can't help but lash out. "This is between me and the old man."
"Old man! Interesting," a voice echoes from behind me, filled with amusement. I spin around, but before I can catch a glimpse, the first princess, Asdeff, has already materialized beside the emperor, her movements swift and silent. The golden jar of red berry wine she holds gleams under the light, a reminder of her deadly precision and stealth. Known for her lethal figure and unmatched agility, Asdeff has reached the Prime God realm, a level that makes her almost untouchable. She's dressed in a dark red widow's outfit, the fabric clinging to her form with a sinister elegance. Black high boots cover her feet, their heels clicking against the marble floor as she steps closer, her lips curling into a sly smile. "You too?" I glare at her, feeling cornered as all my sisters close in.
"That's enough, Rowan Fairch Grimclaw," the emperor's voice cuts through the air, commanding and final. The authority in his tone leaves no room for argument as he addresses the room. "Since all of the princesses have arrived, I will repeat myself," he declares, his voice echoing off the walls of the grand hall. "All of you, apart from Hastra and Molly, will be attending the MoonBound in five days. I will not tolerate anyone missing this event."
A murmur of disbelief spreads among us. "Why is that, Father?" Asdeff is the first to question him, her voice as sharp as ever. "Initially, we were allowed to attend according to our desire."
The emperor's gaze sweeps over each of us, his golden eyes burning with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. "Of course, but this MoonBound will involve all five deities," he states with a gravity that none of us can ignore. "I want at least some of you to be bound by one of them."
"What?!" The word escapes our lips in unison, a mix of shock and disbelief hanging in the air. The idea of binding with a deity—let alone the possibility of all five being present—is overwhelming.
"Are you certain?" Uncle Ifreen steps forward, his voice filled with concern. "If it's all the deities, then…"
"Yes," the emperor interjects, his tone brooking no further questions. "He too will be present. All five young deities will attend."