The palace loomed above them, towering over everything in the city. Its columns and walls were made of polished timber and gleaming metal that caught and reflected the sunlight. Within, a crowd of young people filled the great hall—sons of merchants, farmers, soldiers, and even nobles. All between sixteen and thirty, they stood shoulder to shoulder, rank forgotten by the king's order, waiting, murmuring, and shifting restlessly.
Arindor entered the palace flanked by River and Eloween. His clothes were simple—clean riding trousers and dark leather boots paired with a crisp, white tunic that hinted at dignity without pretense. Eloween wore a simple dress. The dress cinched at her waist and cascaded gently down, brushing her ankles, the sleeves delicately embroidered by her own hand. It made her hazel eyes gleam, a green touched with gold, and her loose blond hair shimmered like the summer sun. River, on the other hand, had polished up in full flair. His dark blue tunic was richly embroidered at the collar, his boots shone, and his bronze-brown hair, usually wild, was smoothed back. He wore his belt jauntily low, accentuating his lean, strong frame, almost princely. Arindor gave him an appreciative nod. "Well, look at you," he murmured. "You cleaned up quite nicely."
"I thought I would surprise you," River grinned, and his boyish charm earned an amused smile from Eloween.
The hall itself was restless, buzzing with talk and laughter, and as Arindor scanned the crowd, he noted the sheer range of people summoned by the king's call. Some had the sun-scorched look of farmhands, while others wore robes of finer fabric and bore the keen looks of educated city folk.
Conversations died down as a tall man entered, his stern face shadowed by a prominent, hawk-like nose. His dark gaze swept the crowd, assessing, before he stepped forward.
"Attention!" His voice cut through the hum of voices with practiced ease, his sharp, brisk stride carrying him to the front. "My name is Chamberlain Harlan, and you are to follow me in a timely, orderly manner. Any deviation," he glanced at a boy trying to stifle laughter, "will be noted." He turned on his heel and began to lead the way through the hall, his presence commanding absolute silence.
As they filed after him, River leaned in toward Arindor and Eloween. "Do you think he polishes that nose of his each morning?" he muttered, barely containing his grin.
Eloween tried to hold back her laugh, nudging River in the ribs. "Stop it! He will hear you," she whispered, although her amusement was clear.
Arindor frowned, his attention sharpening. "Why the gardens? Why not the throne room?" He cast a wary glance at the palace's high archways as they passed through, suspicion lurking in his eyes.
River clapped him on the back with a roll of his eyes. "Relax, no one is planning to murder you."
They were led through marble corridors that gave way to open air as the group finally spilled into the palace gardens, their footsteps muffled on the gravel paths. Under the midday sun, the gardens stretched before them, green and vivid with bursts of color from flowering shrubs. Roses, honeysuckles, and irises lined the walkways, and the scent filled the air, soothing and strange all at once. Unlike the crowded hall, here there was space, an openness that spread before them like a stage waiting for its actors.
A hush fell over the crowd as the king arrived, walking with a dignified strength despite his age. His hair was still dark, thick and wild at the edges, and his beard, well-trimmed, was streaked with threads of gray. Though his years were etched on his face, his eyes held a brightness that had not dimmed. He wore a simple but regal robe, woven of deep purple with a faint gollden trim that shimmered in the sunlight. It was not ostentatious, but rather the robe of a king confident in his own authority, a king who did not need to dress himself in finery to command respect. His attendants set down a high-backed chair, and he took his seat without ceremony, surveying the crowd with a gaze that was both piercing and calm.
At his side stood another man, markedly different from the king yet commanding in his own way. He was shorter, his frame thickset and solid, as though carved from stone. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped close, lending him an air of discipline, and he wore stark black, from his boots to his thin, dark cloak. There was an intensity to him.
The king lifted his hand, and his voice rose, firm and steady. "Today, you all stand here because you are the strength of this kingdom. I have summoned you, not merely to acknowledge that strength, but to harness it for what lies ahead." He gestured to the man beside him. "This man is Regal Broadsword, one who has known war, peace, and the trials that lie between. He will speak, and you will listen."
He will speak and you will listen? Arindor snorted loudly at the words. The old man's head snapped around, his dark eyes fixing on him like a hawk spotting prey. The expression on his face was unreadable. Without hesitation, he stepped down from the dais.
He stopped in front of Arindor, close enough that the younger man could see the scars hidden beneath the rough stubble on his jaw. A silence thickened around them. Regal's hand moved to his side, and he drew his weapon—a broadsword that seemed almost black under the sunlight. He raised it slightly, and Arindor felt a chill run through him
The blade hovered and Regal fixed Arindor with a steady gaze.
"Do you find this amusing, boy?" he asked, his tone a silken threat.
Arindor clenched his jaw but stayed silent. For a moment, it looked as though Regal would press further, the sword hovering in his grip like a held breath. But, seeing no response, the warrior's eyes narrowed, and he returned to the dais. He turned to the assembled crowd, his voice booming through the still air.
"I have fought through snow and storm and hellfire to get to a gift," Regal declared. "The Sorcerer's Stone. By prophecy, it has been foreseen by the Four Sisters that the next sorcerer would be from Gesa."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Some faces were alight with wonder, others dark with apprehension. The mere mention of the Four Sisters—those veiled, mystical women who held court in smoke-filled temples, speaking in riddles—was enough to stir unease. Though they were revered across the land as holy seers, their prophecies were often cryptic and few could understand them. Only the devoted claimed the Sisters as lights in the darkness; Arindor, on the other hand, believed them to be little more than charlatans. But the crowd hung on to every word Regal said and Arindor found himself doing the same.
Regal continued, "The Four Sisters have spoken, and their words are not to be questioned." He signaled to a group of servants who shuffled in, struggling with the weight of a large wooden table. They set it down before Regal, and he slowly reached for a pouch he wore and drew out a bundle wrapped in rough cloth. Reverently, he unfolded the layers, revealing a smooth stone that glowed faintly in his hand. It was round and had a amethyst hue.
"This is the Sorcerer's Stone," he announced, holding it high for all to see. "It has chosen before, and it will choose again. Each of you will touch the stone until it marks one. That person shall bear the power and burden of the sorcerer." His gaze moved over the crowd, meeting every eye as if daring someone to question him. Finally, a voice from the back called out.
"And how will we know if we are marked?" someone asked.
Regal offered them a thin-lipped smile. "Oh, you will know. Believe ne"
He paused, his eyes lingering on Arindor. "You, boy." He said, "You will be the last to go."
A ripple of whispers spread, but Regal's order went unquestioned. The crowd shifted as the first of the youths stepped forward, eyes wide, fingers trembling as they reached to touch the stone. Slowly, the line began to move forward. One by one, they put their hand on the stone and stepped back, unchanged and disappointed.
As the hours wore on, the energy in the crowd began to wane, replaced by uncertainty. Eloween moved forward, her gaze steady but hopeful as she touched the stone. For a breath, her fingers lingered, as though she believed she could will it to respond, but she, too, withdrew unmarked, a flicker of sadness in her hazel eyes. River was next. His face was tight with anticipation. But after a long, tense moment, he stepped away unchanged. His frustration showed in his clenched fists.
Finally, only Arindor remained. As he approached, he could feel the weight of every gaze. Regal watched him closely. The stone was smaller than he'd imagined, yet it seemed to pulse faintly under the darkening sky.
Arindor took a breath, steeling himself. Then he pressed his hand against the smooth, cold surface. For a moment, there was nothing, only the quiet stillness of his own heartbeat. And then, without warning, a shock of pain tore through his palm, white-hot and searing. He cried out, jerking his hand back as a fiery line burned into his skin.
The crowd gasped as Arindor staggered, clutching his hand, the pain so fierce it seemed to blur his vision. Regal rushed forward, catching him. He held Arindor's arm and pulled back his sleeve. There, on the inside of Arindor's wrist, a fierce, intricate dragon tattoo had appeared, black as night. It was seared into his skin like a brand.
"Gods above," Regal whispered, his face pale but alight with awe.