Two weeks had passed in a blur of preparation. The palace grounds of Atheria were alive with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation as the day of departure to Myrria approached. Brynn double-checked the contents of his travel bag, ensuring his light armor and sword were secure. The morning sun bathed the courtyard in a warm, golden light, and the hum of activity buzzed through the air as other participants packed and made final adjustments to their gear.
Brynn looked up to see Callum rushing over, his elven features bright with both nerves and determination. "You ready for tomorrow?" Callum asked, breathless.
Brynn nodded, giving a reassuring smile. "As ready as I'll ever be. You know this tournament isn't just about the fighting—it's about showing who we are, earning respect, maybe even catching the eye of someone important."
Callum's eyes flickered with a hint of worry. "I know. I just hope I don't mess it up. My father will be watching, after all."
"You'll be fine," Brynn said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Besides, Daemon wouldn't be sending us out there if he didn't think we could handle it."
Almost as if summoned by his name, Daemon appeared from the entrance to the training hall. He moved with his usual calm confidence, eyes scanning the courtyard and settling on the pair. "Ah, there you are," he said, striding over. "Everything ready for tomorrow?"
"Yes, Daemon," Brynn said. He couldn't help the small grin that crept onto his face. "Excited to see what the big tournament holds."
Daemon smirked lightly. "Good. Remember, it's not just strength they're watching for, but strategy, wit, and how you handle unexpected situations. This isn't just about the glory—it's about proving to the world, and to yourself, what you're capable of."
Callum nodded earnestly, trying to soak in every word. "And about the royals and nobles?" he asked. "They're going to be there, right?"
"Oh, they'll be watching. Some will be looking for future knights, others for potential allies or hidden talents. But don't let their eyes make you stumble. The real challenge is on the field."
Brynn tightened his grip on the strap of his bag, a familiar determination filling him. "I'll show them what I've got," he said, more to himself than to anyone else. A shadow of memory crossed his mind—the flames of his village, the cold resolve that had kept him going all these years.
"Get a good night's rest," Daemon said, turning to leave. "The teleporter to Myrria activates at dawn, and you don't want to be late."
Brynn exchanged a glance with Callum. The prince was fidgeting, eyes wide with excitement. The thought of competing in a place as grand as Myrria sent a surge of energy through both of them. Tomorrow would be the first step toward proving themselves on the world stage—a step Brynn had been waiting for ever since that day four years ago.
Daemon's boots echoed softly as he made his way down the polished marble hallway leading to the throne room. The castle's banners, deep blues and silvers, rippled faintly with the draft that passed through the high, vaulted ceilings. As he approached the grand doors guarded by two elven sentinels, they bowed slightly and pushed the doors open, revealing the chamber beyond.
Sitting atop the throne was Feynor Armiel, the king of Atheria. His youthful appearance could fool any outsider into believing he was in the prime of his life, though Daemon knew better. The king's sharp, discerning eyes—ancient and wise—followed Daemon as he walked in and bowed lightly.
"Daemon," Feynor began, his tone warm but carrying the weight of command. "I trust the preparations for tomorrow's journey are in place?"
"They are. Brynn and Callum are prepared," Daemon confirmed, his voice flat but steady. The slightest shift in his posture hinted at his perpetual state of mild disinterest.
A small smile tugged at the king's lips. "Good. This tournament may seem like an exhibition, but with the rising tensions across the lands, it has become more than that. We need allies. Eyes will be watching not just for talent, but for signs of strength that could sway loyalties."
Daemon met the king's gaze, unflinching. "You expect trouble."
Feynor sighed, a rare flicker of worry crossing his face. "Not during the tournament, no. But beyond it, yes. The creatures of Tierra Alta have grown restless. The dragons keep them at bay, but whispers speak of something unsettling them, pushing them."
Daemon's eyes narrowed slightly. It was the closest thing he showed to interest. "And you want me to keep an eye on more than just the tournament."
Feynor nodded. "Exactly. Your strength is unmatched, Daemon. You've proven that time and again, even since the day you saved my wife and son. For that, you have my deepest gratitude, though I know such sentiments mean little to you."
A shadow of memory passed through Daemon's mind, of Brynn's indignant protests as he held him back from jumping in against those bandits. The quick and efficient end he brought to the level 5 Silver Mage leader. The look of relief on Queen Aisha's face. But outwardly, his expression remained unchanged.
"I'll do what needs to be done," Daemon concluded, his voice as steady as a mountain. Before Feynor could respond, a shadow shifted near the doorway, and a figure stepped into the room with the near-silent grace of a cat.
Isolde Sunblade, the king's most trusted informant and advisor, bowed slightly, the deep hood of her dark cloak obscuring her face. She pulled it back, revealing striking features that belonged to someone who looked barely out of her teenage years. Yet Daemon knew she was over three centuries old—youthful in comparison to Feynor but still a seasoned presence in Atheria's court.
Feynor signaled to the guards with a nod. The sentinels bowed and exited, their movements precise and disciplined. As the heavy doors shut with a thud, Queen Aisha entered from a side corridor, her gown trailing behind her in a sweep of emerald and gold. She cast a warm smile toward Daemon and Isolde, though her eyes held a hint of worry.
Isolde cleared her throat, ready to launch into her report, but her demeanor shifted abruptly. She broke into a mischievous grin, eyes twinkling as she quipped, "So, do we really need all this serious energy in here? Feynor, Aisha, Daemon—what's up?"
Feynor's lips twitched, fighting a smirk. Aisha chuckled softly, her elegant facade momentarily lifted. Daemon's expression didn't change, but his eyes flicked to Isolde, acknowledging her.
"Isolde," Aisha greeted warmly. "You always know how to lighten a room. But I sense there's something more to your visit."
Isolde's eyes turned serious as she straightened. "You bet there is. The bandit problem isn't just some ragtag group of opportunists. We've managed to wipe most of them out, but those we caught aren't talking—not a peep about their leader. However—" She reached out, and as if from thin air, pulled an object into view. It shimmered darkly under the room's light: a jagged piece of what appeared to be armor.
Feynor leaned forward, brow furrowed. "That... isn't standard armor," he observed. "It looks almost... organic."
"Good eye," Isolde replied, shifting her gaze to meet each person in the room. "This, my friends, is carapace. Not just any carapace, either—it's from a Myrmide."
A moment of silence, heavy and filled with disbelief, blanketed the room. Feynor's expression hardened, eyes narrowing. "Impossible. The insectoids of Aziya have never crossed into other continents, let alone been controlled. The ants are the most aggressive of them, utterly loyal to their queen. No one has ever managed to command them."
Isolde's playful air returned for a moment as she shrugged, a grin pulling at the corner of her lips. "Well, looks like someone might have figured it out. Or at least, they're trying to. We found traces of Myrmides with some of these bandits. They weren't particularly strong, but their presence alone..."
Aisha's hand went to her mouth, concern darkening her emerald eyes. "If someone has found a way to control them..."
Daemon's eyes were unreadable, his mind racing with possibilities. Insectoids were creatures of pure instinct, unyielding to any master but their own. This development wasn't just concerning—it was a potential calamity.
"We need to move quickly," Feynor said, voice low but decisive. "The peace we've fought for is hanging by a thread, and if the rumors are true, we could be facing something far more dangerous than we ever anticipated."
Isolde's lighthearted tone was gone, replaced by a sharpness that spoke of her centuries of experience. "Agreed. We need to find out who's behind this before they unleash something even worse."
Daemon broke his silence, eyes locking with Isolde's. "We'll start in Myrria. The tournament will draw attention, and if these bandits or whoever controls them have an interest, they'll be watching."
A brief nod passed between them, a silent understanding. The path ahead was filled with uncertainty, but one thing was clear: war, whether by blade or by cunning, was brewing.