VERNON
Vernon entered his room with a heaviness he couldn't shake. He collapsed onto his bed, still in his boots, his tunic half-loosened, and his breath uneven. The Skaldrith men's words echoed relentlessly in his mind. Nearly a thousand of them, fierce and vengeful, were marching toward Darnell Palace, ready to destroy everything. His thoughts raced, knowing that the end of his reign could come before it had even truly begun.
In his quieter moments, he had always found refuge in the palace library, reading about tribes like the Skaldrith. He knew of their unrelenting nature, their refusal to be subdued. A chill ran down his spine as he remembered those texts—nothing and no one had ever survived their wrath. Now, that storm was coming for him, and all he could do was wait, the crushing weight of inevitability settling over him.
Suddenly, his wife, Nina, entered the room. She glanced at him with concern and sat down beside him, asking softly, "Vernon, is something wrong?"
Though Vernon understood that their marriage was primarily political, the sight of her face brought him a small measure of comfort. He reached out with his cold hand to touch her cheek, causing her to flinch slightly. However, as she met his gaze, she relaxed and nestled her head against his chest, seeking solace in his presence. Exhausted, Vernon drifted off to sleep without realizing when it happened.
When he awoke in the evening, the first thing that caught his attention was the sight of Nina sleeping peacefully on his chest. Her delicate features were softened in slumber, and he marveled at the serenity she exuded. Carefully, he shifted his position, making sure not to disturb her sleep. As he watched her, a heavy realization settled over him: the Skaldrith raid had taken not only his own peace but also the lives and dreams of countless others. The weight of that knowledge pressed down on him, mingling with the warmth of her presence, reminding him of the shared burdens they both carried.
Vernon entered the room hastily, his urgency palpable as he scanned the surroundings. His gaze fixed on his father-in-law, the Keeper of the Realm, who stood resolutely before him. Atop his chest rested a badge—a key that rotated slightly, adorned with a king's crown perched elegantly on top, symbolizing the weight of his authority and duty, with no other embellishments to distract from its simple yet powerful significance.
"Your grace," his keeper said, his tone indicating he was unaware of the full situation. He began to explain everything: the impending raid and the horrific actions committed by the guards.
"What are we supposed to do now?" Vernon asked, watching as his keeper settled slowly into the chair across from him.
As he looked at Darien Darnell's face, Vernon sensed that the situation was worse than he had initially thought. However, Darien remained true to his reputation. After taking a sip of water, he spoke, "This is undoubtedly a dire situation... but it also presents a golden opportunity, your grace."
Vernon's brow furrowed in confusion. What was he scheming? He noticed Darien's expression shift, adding, "But whether this situation is deadly or golden ultimately depends on you, your grace."
"How?" Vernon inquired, glancing sideways at him.
"The Drak of the Skaldrith tribe are incredibly prideful; they see themselves as the strongest among their people. Their followers respect him because Skaldrith values power above all else," Darien explained.
"If you can defeat their Drak and demonstrate that you are more worthy to lead them than he is, they will surely follow you," he added confidently.
"So you mean a one-on-one duel to determine our fate against theirs?" Vernon asked, seeking clarification.
"Exactly," Darien affirmed, his eyes locking onto Vernon's with intensity.
RONAN
A week had passed since Ronan had let his sword speak for him, and now he languished in the dank, shadowy confines of a Ravenshade dungeon. The cold seeped into his bones, and he shivered in the absence of even a scrap of warmth. Hunger gnawed at him, a relentless reminder of the brutal act he had committed—slaughtering Lady Dacy Ravenshade before a crowd of witnesses.
Today was the day of his hearing, the moment when the weight of his actions would come crashing down. A guard approached his cell, the metallic clang of the key turning in the lock signaling it was time to face his fate. As he was led into the hall, the sight of Lord Ravenshade seated high above the murmuring crowd filled him with a mix of dread and defiance.
As he stepped into the center of the hall, Lord Ravenshade's voice thundered, "Ronan Winterbane, heir to Frostspire Keep, you are charged with the murder of Lady Dacy Ravenshade based on false allegations. Do you deny these charges?"
"I do, my lord," Ronan replied, a smirk dancing on his lips, clearly unfazed by the cold and hunger that had plagued him. The crowd erupted into a chorus of angry murmurs, their outrage palpable.
"All the allegations are true," he continued, his voice steady. "You and all your vassals were present on those fateful days."
Before Ravenshade could respond, Ronan interrupted, "Even if you believe they were mistaken, my actions were conducted under the king's seal—king's actions represent truth and justice. More than that, she made a murderous threat against me, and you were among many witnesses, my lord."
"No, we did not hear that," Ravenshade snapped, his denial sharp and unwavering.
"My guards witnessed it as well," Ronan shot back, a smirk playing on his lips. "Perhaps you should summon them to testify about the words spoken by your wife." He paused, leaning slightly forward. "Sorry, I meant 'late wife.'"
This taunt sent Lord Ravenshade into a furious rage. He stood abruptly, his voice rising above the crowd, "You are guilty! I sentence you to execution!"
Cheers erupted from the crowd, reveling in their lord's wrath, but Ronan's voice cut through the din. "I DEMAND A TRIAL BY COMBAT!"
A tense silence descended upon the hall, the weight of his challenge hanging heavily in the air. The whole North knew of Ronan's prowess with a sword, and his declaration sent a ripple of tension through the gathered nobility.
"By the constitution of Indagian, I have every right to request this. Denying my request would be an insult to the constitution," he added, locking eyes with Ravenshade.
Reluctantly, the lord nodded, unable to deny Ronan's demand. Moments later, the champion representing Lord Ravenshade stepped forward—a towering figure standing at a daunting seven feet tall, his broad physique intimidating. He wielded a nearly ten-foot spear, its menacing tip glinting in the hall's light.
In stark contrast, Ronan felt small, like a child before a giant. Clad in a steel chest plate that gleamed dully, he gripped his thin sword tightly, steeling himself for the battle that lay ahead.
The battle commenced with Ronan focusing on agility rather than charging directly at William. He danced around the arena, relying on his speed to evade the towering figure before him. As William lunged forward, spear aimed with deadly precision, Ronan deftly dodged, feeling the rush of air as the weapon sliced past him. The impact of the strike landed hard against the ground, sending shards of dirt flying and drawing gasps from the crowd.
"Scared, kid?" William taunted, his voice echoing in the hall.
Ronan's anger flared at the derision. Fueled by rage, he decided to retaliate, but a powerful kick connected squarely with his chest, sending him sprawling backward. The crowd erupted in a mixture of cheers and jeers.
Rising to his feet, Ronan quickly rolled to avoid another spear strike, narrowly escaping the sharp point aimed at his heart. The two exchanged blows, with Ronan deftly dodging the relentless assaults. However, despite his agility, he could not completely evade William's prowess. A sudden strike caught him in the side, and he felt the sting of blood trickling from the wound.
Realizing that his chest plate was doing little to protect him and was only slowing him down, Ronan made a bold decision. He quickly removed the heavy armor, ignoring the laughter that erupted from the crowd, who thought him mad for discarding his protection. With a fierce determination, he hurled the chest plate at William's face, temporarily blinding him. Enraged, William swung the spear in retaliation, but the force of the blow lodged it deep into the ground.
Seizing the moment, Ronan lunged forward, successfully piercing his sword through William's right shoulder. The knight let out a pained shout, but Ronan's weapon became stuck in the armor, leaving both combatants disarmed.
Now locked in a battle of stamina and wit, Ronan knew he had to think quickly. William, despite his injury, took a menacing stance, preparing to kick Ronan into submission. But in a split second, Ronan drew a hidden dagger from his belt and stabbed it into William's foot, causing him to collapse to his knees in shock.
As the warrior knelt before him, his eyes widened in disbelief. Ronan seized the opportunity, slipping his dagger into the narrow gap between William's helmet and chest plate, delivering a swift and decisive blow. With a final gasp, William fell forward, his body crashing to the ground, leaving Ronan victorious.
He draws his dagger, casting a cold glance at Lord Ravenshade before leaving without a word. Despite their anger, they can do nothing, for in the eyes of the gods, he remains innocent.
A few days later, when he arrived at his closest vassal castle, he slept for an entire day and woke up in a surprisingly good mood. As he made his way to the dining hall, ready to eat, the lord approached him, wearing the same worried expression he had when delivering the news about Seyran.
"What's happened?" Ronan asked, rising to his feet.
"My lord," the man replied, swallowing hard before continuing, "the king... Geralt has fallen into a coma."
REIN
Rein stood amidst growing tensions—first with his son, Ronan, then with his old friend, Geralt. Now, Geralt and his family were surrounded by danger, unable to tell who might be behind the ominous threats. The memory of the message he received from Ansel still weighed heavily on his mind.
"Lord Rein, I don't know how to say this, but something terrible has happened. This morning, when my mother went to wake Father, she found him unresponsive. He's always up with the dawn, but today, no matter how hard she tried, he wouldn't wake. We are in Roarstern, and as you know, the Lionheart family harbors deep hatred for Father. We are surrounded by enemies on all sides. The healers claim he was poisoned—something potent enough to plunge him into a deep sleep. They say the cure is only known to the tribes in the Republic of the North.
As you are aware, I am not yet of age to rule. My father wanted you to act as regent until I come of age. I beg of you, Lord Rein, please come to the king's court. My mother and I are not safe here."
Rein had wanted to leave at once, but with Ronan's situation unresolved, he couldn't abandon his son. Only after receiving Ronan's letter, stating that he had triumphed in his trial by combat, did Rein make the decision to set sail for the king's court.
Two months later, after a long journey by sea, Rein arrived in the capital—a city bustling with over five million people and dominated by the massive structure of King's Justice, the royal castle. Upon being escorted inside by soldiers, Rein's breath caught at the sight before him. Cedric sat on the throne.
"My lord, welcome to King's Justice," Cedric greeted him, his lips curled into a smirk.
Rein, without hiding his disbelief, replied, "Lord Cedric, am I hallucinating, or are you truly sitting on the throne?"
Cedric's smirk faltered, but he quickly composed himself. Standing up, he responded, "You are not hallucinating, my lord. I have been named king regent by order of his grace."
Rein's shock deepened. Cedric, acting as king regent? It was almost unthinkable. As if to solidify his claim, Cedric tossed a scroll toward him. Rein unraveled the paper, his eyes widening when he saw Geralt's signature, naming Cedric as king regent.
"It should all be clear now, my lord," Cedric said, his tone dripping with satisfaction.
Knowing he had no allies here, Rein realized arguing would only be a foolish move. He nodded, asking where Geralt and the others were. A soldier led him to a quiet chamber where Geralt lay in bed, pale and frail, his wife Lyanna seated by his side, her face etched with worry. Ansel sat nearby, his sword at his belt, no longer a boy reliant on others for protection.
"Rein," Lyanna whispered, her voice heavy with hope, as she lifted her tear-streaked eyes to him.