Troan raised a curious brow at her testiness.
"Fro, have you been meditating in excess again?"
"Wh—"
However, just as she was about to reply, Troan interrupted her with a raise of his cane.
"Don't answer that, I already know the answer."
Then he looked to Lt. Sol.
"Where is Valerie?"
"I think she's asleep." He replied with an uncertain expression.
Troan seemed perplexed.
"Asleep? At this time of the day? That's unlike her..."
"Like it wasn't your fault!" Frozen grumbled, stabbing a piece of honeyed beef and placing it in her mouth.
Troan raised a questioning brow at that, waiting for her to elaborate. But when he noticed Frozen wasn't willing to speak more on the matter he turned to the maid.
"Is this Ginger dusted ale?"
"Yes, my lord."
Troan nodded, "Very good. I'll have to take a little detour, then."
He turned to Wriggler.
"I need you to take this pitcher with me, along with a tankard."
After he said this he walked towards the main double door.
Wriggler reluctantly tore his eyes away from a steaming slab of meat.
"On it, boss!"
He swaggered towards the items, picked them up, and then followed after Troan.
"Hey! That is mine!" Frozen yelled from her seat.
Troan glanced back at her before turning to the maid by the door.
"Get her some milk or juice, add spice if she desires. Just keep alcohol away from her!"
Leaving those orders behind, he left alongside Wriggler.
"Golem!"
She roared fruitlessly, for he was gone.
——
A while later...
Troan and Wriggler found themselves heading down a spiraling stairway surrounded by cold, damp walls.
Varstones embedded in the walls kept back the darkness with their warm yellow hues.
They soon came down into a stretch of wide enclosed hallway.
This hallway, however, wasn't lit by varstones, but by runic inscriptions etched all over the walls and floor. They pulsed a golden hue, giving the atmosphere a mystical yet regal ambiance.
"So—where are we going?" Wriggler asked what had since been on his mind.
"...Looking for a quiet place to have a drink?" He quipped, glancing at Troan with a smirk.
Troan rolled his eyes.
"We're headed towards the 'King's Tavern'."
"A tavern?" Wriggler looked around in disbelief. "Down here?"
"It is the resting place of all who died whilst heading the Seasult household," Troan informed in a solemn tone. "It is a special place."
"I can see that," Wriggler's eyes wandered around. "I guess not all these runes are meant to light up the place."
Troan's eyes scanned some of the runes, and then he glanced at Wriggler.
"Security measures are a norm, of course."
He said as if stating the obvious.
Troan looked thoughtful for a moment, before asking. "What did Fro mean by that?"
"Hm? What?"
Troan shot him a glance.
"When she grumbled to herself."
Wriggler's eyes widened in realization.
"Oh! That? Yeah...Valerie insisted on guarding your room. She did it during the nights and at other times when Frozen didn't need her."
Troan looked at him curiously.
"Is that so?"
His gaze shifted up to the side in thought for a moment, then he let out a sigh.
"Valerie is a diligent soul. It is the reason she climbed up the ranks quickly and gained the Commander's favor... I reckon I owe her a favor of my own as well."
"Yeah, me too. Her constant fussing over your safety gave me the free time to play around," Wriggler said with a chuckle, attracting a pointed look from Troan.
"You were lucky Fro had already snatched her away from me, Wriggler."
He said, looking ahead towards the large double door they were now approaching.
"It was highly plausible she would've been my Swordbearer long before I even met you. If that had happened, you may not have been drawing breath at this very moment. Fro was exceedingly incensed at your—unwise choice of action."
Wriggler tried suppressing his mirth as a wry smile settled on his lips.
"Ah! Don't be like that boss."
Troan glanced at him.
"Know this, Wriggler. It wasn't I who saved you, but the immunity granted by the Swordbearer title."
"Which you bestowed."
Wriggler remarked with a smirk.
Troan let out an imperceptible sigh and dropped the matter.
As they drew closer, the massive double door became clearer. It was golden and adorned with colorful pulsing runes.
Flanking it were two imposing guards in crimson capes, their armor gleaming gold in the lighting.
"Those guys look intimidating," Wriggler intoned with an impressed smile as he observed the craftsmanship of their armor.
Then he glanced at Troan.
"I wonder if they've got the skill to match their glamour."
Troan's brows furrowed slightly.
"These are fire elemental warriors. I can feel it in the Navar, in the way the air around them undulates."
Wriggler squinted as he observed them too.
"I don't see shit!" He remarked.
"That is because you are not an elemental, Wriggler. You have no sense for the Navar."
Troan eyes lingered on the intricate draconic emblems adorning their armor.
"They are not just any mere fire elementals, it seems. They are House Lavafall's wyvern riders, the backbone of the Imperial Dragon Corps.
"It would seem my stepmother pulled some familial strings to bring them here. Not like they could reject...given who she was." Troan stated.
As they approached, both warriors stirred and banged their glaive's pommelled ends against the floor. Releasing a wild and hot wave of formless varish energy that blasted towards them, almost blowing Troan's cape up and over his head.
"This is a prohibited region! Who are you and how did you get here unimpeded!?" Guard one barked.
Troan groaned lightly.
'This is why you don't let foreigners guard important areas of the castle. They can't tell who's who. I hope Queen Hersana knows what she's thinking."
He pondered for a moment before taking a step forward in a dignified manner, hands folded behind his back.
"I am Troan Re' Ages." He declared in a calm, steady tone. "Some may know me as the 'Most Wanted—'."
"Hah!"
Wriggler chortled all of a sudden, interrupting him, then he glanced at Troan and cleared his throat.
"Sorry, sorry! Please go on."
Troan's eyes twitched slightly, but then he return his attention to the guards and went on regardless.
"...the 'Most Wanted',"
His gaze shifted to the massive doors and a sadness stirred within him.
"I wish to pay the late king, my—respects."
Both guards, upon hearing his words, exchanged glances.
Simultaneously, they looked down at the '⍨' symboled runic inscription on the floor before them.
"The deceit-sensing rune didn't flare up." Guard two noted.
"Seeing how young he looks, he must speak the truth." Remarked guard one as he looked up to observe the youth before him.
"The rumors are true, then." Guard two stated with awe. "The youngest ever Chosen. A living legend."
Guard one scoffed.
"Yes, but surely not as impressive as our young mistress. The 'Warden of Flames'." Guard one mentioned, casting a knowing look at his partner.
Guard two chuckled, nodding in agreement.
"Ah! Yes, very true!"
Watching this banter, Troan's only response was an impassive, dilatory blink.
"Ah!"
Guard one suddenly remembered Troan's request and turned to the other.
"Open the door! Least we invoke trouble upon ourselves!"
Guard two spurred to action, moved, and placed his palm on an '⑄' symboled runic inscription on the door.
It flared up at his touch.
Wriggler couldn't help but notice that the gauntlet on the hand he used to touch the door bore some beautiful gems.
With a low rumble, the massive, apparently heavy doors, grinded opened, revealing a wide breathtaking chamber.
The varstone chandelier at the center crafted entirely from gold, bathed the room in a warm glow. The walls, floor, and ceiling, gleamed from polished gold, and rows of golden sarcophagi lined both sides of the opulent chamber.
At the center stood a round golden fountain that flowed steadily, quietly; judging by the pungent aroma that wafted out of the chamber, it seemed to be ale.
It was an extravagant display of wealth—to say the least. A tavern fit for kings in their final rest.
After a cursory look, Troan walked in.
However, a sudden clank and grunt behind him made him stop and look back.
"Err...boss?" Wriggler had a strange look on his face.
The guards had blocked Wriggler from going in, their crossed glaives barring his path.
"What is the meaning of this?" Troan asked, suspiciously unperturbed by the current event unfolding.
"We have been issued express orders that only those related by blood to the deceased may step into the King's Tavern." Guard one informed.
Troan let out a sigh, like he saw this coming.
Truly, this was an unwritten rule that wasn't unbendable; after all, the place would need to be cleaned from time to time—It wasn't nobility who did this.
Intuitively, Troan guessed that their true motives behind barring Wriggler lay in his distinctive Navethian aesthetic sense.
The suspicion in their eyes was merely a confirmation.
Troan nodded slowly. "True...It is an old custom."
His eyes met Wriggler's.
"But he is my Swordbearer. I trust him with my life. I would make an exception for him, let him through."
"..." The guards hesitated.
Troan groaned and his brows furrowed in annoyance.
"You may report this to Queen Hersana, at a later time. For now, heed my order!"
"..."
Still, they held their ground, apparently torn between their old and new orders. Weighing in their minds who had more authority; the Seventh or the Queen Regent.
Troan suddenly felt a twinge of frustration within, and like an ember falling into gunpowder, something lit up and his eyes glowed.
Troan frowned, already aware that this was a result of one of his emotional spikes. A condition aggravated whenever he had his divine weapon, Ervhen on him.
"These idiots." He mumbled in frustration, realizing he couldn't quell the feelings.
Suddenly, fury blazed in his chest and a frosty wave of varish energy pulsed out from him. Though not in a wild, forceful manner as the guards had previously displayed.
His held an icy quality of order and permanence.
As soon as the formless wave struck them, a buzzing sensation filled the guards heads.
In an instant, blood sprayed against the doors and floor as the guards felt themselves cleaved in twain, their visions spinning as their heads spun through the air.
It was—carnage.