Chapter 5; The Wreath

THRYSTAN

While Elaria diligently changed her muddy boots, I took the opportunity to discard the sweat-soaked shirt I had worn while riding with Daelan. Opting for a more refined attire, I aimed for a wardrobe transformation that mirrored my father's taste—something not just approved but adored by him.

I slipped into a sophisticated ensemble: a cream-colored inner shirt paired with a knee-length black coat adorned with intricate gold trinkets along the edges. The deliberately split-open coat revealed the inner shirt, while a brown belt cinched my waist, complementing the sleek black pants that elegantly met a polished pair of boots.

Emerging into the hallway, I found Elaria standing before the imposing oak doors of the throne room. She fidgeted and adjusted, her hand meticulously arranging her hair into the most perfect style possible.

"Ease up a bit," I mumble from the shadows, jolting her so much that she drives a punch straight into my gut. Her swift strikes are irritatingly effortless, and woe betide any man who falls for her only to betray her. Elaria is a force to reckon with, especially when she tightens her grip on your breath. A Diremage-that's what she is. Rare, lethal, and captivating.

"I wouldn't have to if Father stopped sizing me up to you," she retorts, rolling her eyes and patting her dark mane of hair.

"Father measures you to me?" I respond, intrigued. It's a revelation. I had almost considered myself nothing more than a pawn in his game-a spare being managed until I produce an heir he can mold to his whims. If he survives that long, that is.

"Oh, spare me the lecture and don't pretend you're not relishing this moment."

"That Father is shaping you in my image?" I grin devilishly, my right hand adorned with regal princely rings waving through the air. "It does give me a certain thrill." I pivot to gaze at her, capturing a fleeting smile on her face before it vanishes like a fleeting shadow. "Out of sheer curiosity-what exactly are you to model?"

The doors swing open, sparing her from the need to respond. Not that she would've answered anyway. In more ways than one, Elaria is more akin to Father than she realizes. Cold, unyielding eyes with a trace of softness, lips pressed in a deep line, and brows eternally furrowed, much like his.

Elaria and I enter the room together. I glance around the dining table: Father sits at the head, Mother beside him, and Uncle Morwin at the far end. Two empty chairs await us, one for each of us, plus an extra for Nerys. I take the seat beside Father, across from Mother, while Elaria sits next to me.

"Good evening, Father, Mother..." I nod towards Uncle Morwin.

Uncle Morwin's icy gaze meets mine, a faint smile forming. "Evening, Thrystan." His hair, like Father's but speckled with silver, always intrigued me. Mother claimed it had always been that way.

"A bit late for dinner, I must say," Mother's voice resonates in the expansive space, scolding both Elaria and me. At least there's warmth in her tone.

"Tardiness is unacceptable for royalty. Wasn't that drilled into you at finishing school, Elaria?" Father narrows his eyes at my sister, and I sense her flinch beside me.

"I- I had a bit of trouble with my hair," she stammers.

Servants fill the room, carrying trays of various dishes—roasted chicken, pork, vegetables—but my stomach churns with repulsion. It's not the food but Father's treatment of Elaria that leaves me unsettled.

Father used to treat me the same until Nerys died, and I became his only hope.

"Don't be late again," the king grumbles, then digs into his meal with restrained anger.

I playfully nudge Elaria's leg with my boot, and she meets my gaze with tears in her eyes, holding back a sob. Despite her vulnerability, she exudes strength.

Beyond my physical strength, Elaria seems stronger than me.

"After dinner, race you to the hot springs," I whisper with a mischievous grin. She snorts in response. The table is noisy with everyone serving themselves, providing cover for our conversation. Father and Uncle are deep in political talk, but I'm not interested.

"Naked," she says with disdain, twisting her lips. The springs were once our favorite escape in my younger years. Nerys and I would sneak there at night, enjoying the warmth of the natural tubs and competing with our powers to create the most steam.

"No, not naked. I'd rather not expose my royal jewels to the entire palace," I reply, amused. Although with Nerys, it was mostly naked.

Elaria rolls her eyes. "We wouldn't want to blind the court with such dazzling gems, now would we? Modesty, dear sibling, modesty."

"You're not taking this seriously because you're my sister. You should see the ladies-"

"Thrystan," Father's voice interrupts, making me stop mid-sentence. I freeze, fork in hand, meat hanging. His closeness suffocates me. "How are your sword trainings with Brax? A king must be skilled with a sword."

The same conversation, repeated endlessly. There's never been a father-son bond between us—just a king addressing his heir. Endless lectures on politics and ruling sternly. Although, at the mention of Brax, Edina stiffens beside me.

"Brax is a good teacher," I reply flatly.

Mother interjects, playing with her necklace. "I hope he's not pushing you too hard, dear, or that you're overexerting yourself."

She has no clue about the other dangerous training I'm doing. The Wreath toughens you up, whether you're battered or refined.

"Just the basics," I lie smoothly.

"Thrystan is capable," Uncle Morwin adds, brushing his scarred face. "He can handle himself."

I hesitate, feeling a lump in my throat. "Yes."

Father shifts the conversation to the plague spreading to Ketel. "We must act fast to contain it."

"The physicians are searching for a cure, right?" Mother worries. "May Cidron save us from it reaching the capital."

The Plague—a term for the demon-infested curse plaguing the land. Spirits emerge from the Iorwerth Forest most evening, claiming souls.

"I'm recruiting soldiers to protect the villagers," Uncle announces, determined.

"Soldiers can't stop spirits," I interject, frustration seeping into my voice. "You're leading them to their deaths."

"And what do you propose we do? Nothing?" Uncle's tone is sharp, his gaze piercing. "As the future King of Vakythia, you should have some suggestions."

I can't tell if he's mocking me or not, but Father's eyes are on me now, along with the entire table's. Elaria's dark eyes remain unwavering.

"We could try to figure out why they're targeting the village," I suggest, struggling to maintain composure.

"And how do you intend to communicate with spirits you can't even feel?" Uncle's chuckle is mirthless. "Your son amuses me, Brother."

My grip tightens on my fork, anger simmering beneath the surface. I need to stay calm-don't be rude. But the anger bubbles inside me, threatening to spill over. I drop my fork slowly, opting for silence.

"Thrystan is just tired. He sparred with Daelan at the Dragon's Spire today," Elaria offers, nudging me under the table. A subtle reminder to keep quiet.

The rest of dinner passes in silence, punctuated only by Father and Uncle's discussions. When I've made little progress on my plate, I push it aside and make my exit from the dining room.

As I walk down the grand hallway, I catch the muffled voices of the First Embers from the nearby courtroom. Not all Embers stay at Reedridge; Father selects two every decade to join us in the palace. Among them is Daelan, who arrived ten years ago and became a close friend. Even Nerys respected him.

Daelan was a good friend, but not when we sparred. I sigh, remembering our time at the Dragon's Spire.

"We can see you lurking," Daelan teases as I push the door open wider, revealing eight familiar faces.

I spot Sora at the far end of the table, her stern gaze meeting mine. Her presence surprises me—I didn't know she was back in the kingdom.

"Good evening, Prince Thrystan," Kyle greets me with a smile. Despite being a Terramancer, he's always cheerful and amiable.

The rest of the Embers offer their greetings, but I only nod in response, feeling uneasy about the formality that persists despite my requests to avoid it.

Daelan never bothers with formalities around me, and neither does Sora. They both arrived at the palace around the same time. As I turn to leave, Sora's voice stops me in my tracks.

"Thrystan!"

I halt, waiting for her to catch up. "It's rude of you not to greet me," she scolds, a genuine smile gracing her face.

Her green eyes hold me captive, reminding me of a time when I would have moved mountains for her.

"My apologies. I didn't want to disrupt dinner," I reply, sensing Daelan's amused gaze.

"Why would talking to me disrupt dinner?" Sora's hurt expression pricks my conscience, but now is not the time to confront it. I need to escape. "Perhaps we can talk later?" I offer a weak smile before turning away, striding confidently out of the room.

Outside, in the gardens, I hasten down the stone steps, with Daelan's footsteps echoing behind me.

"Off to the Wreath?" he calls out.

I sigh, shooting him a glare. "Don't try to stop me."

"When have I ever stopped you? I just advise caution, suggest avoiding a few lip bursts, so I don't have to concoct tales for the king about our 'practice sessions,'" he grins, tapping my shoulder. "Besides, having Sora back in the palace must be challenging for you after everything, so I figure you need something to let off steam."

"Volunteering?" I smirk.

"Not a chance. That's why I'm telling you to tread carefully out there tonight." With those words, he slips a dagger into my hand. My dagger.

It's the one Nerys cherished, a family heirloom that never left his side until I found it that day after the Dragon Spire incident. Since then, it's never left mine.

"Thought you might need this. You dropped it at the Dragon Spire today."

I hadn't even realized I'd lost it.

"Thanks, Daelan," I say, playfully ruffling his blond hair before heading off. It's only a short ride to Wyrm, the village surrounding the palace. The Wreath lies to the east of Wyrm. My horse is already prepared and saddled when I arrive, a thoughtful touch that could only be Daelan's doing.

Funny how just a few hours ago, he was urging me to quit the Wreath, and now he's supporting me wholeheartedly. Nevertheless, I mount the horse and gallop out of the stable, determined and resolute.

•••

Village of Wrm...

As I ride through the winding streets, the cool evening breeze tousles my hair, carrying with it the familiar scents of the village. The sounds of chatter and laughter fill the air, mingling with the clatter of hooves against cobblestone.

People pause in their activities to glance at me, their expressions a mix of curiosity and reverence. I offer a nod or a brief smile in return, acknowledging their silent greetings as I make my way through the bustling thoroughfare.

The buildings gradually thin out, giving way to open fields and the sprawling outskirts of the village. Here, the sounds of civilization fade into the background, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a passing bird.

Approaching the Wreath, my heart races with anticipation. The arena looms before me like a giant, its wooden stands towering over the packed dirt floor. I dismount, handing the reins to a waiting stable boy with a quick thanks.

Passing through the gates, I'm engulfed by the electric atmosphere of the arena. Excitement crackles in the air, anticipation thickening the crowd like a tangible veil.

Navigating through the spectators, I exchange nods and greetings with familiar faces. Clover, my arena buddy, catches my eye with his enthusiastic cheer. I offer him a smile before focusing on the action unfolding in the arena.

Fighters of various skill levels engage in combat, their movements fluid and graceful as they navigate the packed earth. The clash of metal rings through the air, interspersed with cheers from the crowd.

With determination fueling me, I approach the edge of the arena where fighters are gearing up for their next bout. As I remove my coat and roll up my sleeves, adrenaline pulses through my veins.

Amidst the bustling arena, Clover's voice booms out.

"Thry! Good to see you, ready to school these amateurs?" he calls, his grin infectious.

I chuckle, clasping his forearm. "Always, Clover. Can't let you have all the fun."

He laughs, the sound filling the air. "That's the spirit! But you look a bit too down for the Wreath today. No trouble with the old man?"

Clover is the only one in the Wreath who knows my background.

I roll my eyes at his comment, refraining from mentioning that referring to the king as "old man"  would earn him a tongue-lashing from Father. "Just the usual. A day in the life of royalty, you know?"

Clover raises an eyebrow, pretending to be incredulous. "Ah, yes, the glamorous life of a prince. It must be tough, dealing with all that luxury and privilege."

I smirk. "You have no idea, my friend. But let's not dwell on that. How's training been? Any new moves you're itching to try out today?"

His eyes sparkle with excitement. "Oh, you bet! Been perfecting a few combinations that I think might surprise a few opponents. But enough talk. Let's give the crowd a show they won't forget!"

With a shared grin, we exchange a nod of determination before making our way to the center of the arena, where our opponents await. Stepping onto the packed earth, the crowd's roar reaches a deafening crescendo, spurring us on for the ultimate test of strength and agility.

Clover steps forward to face the three-time Wreath winner. The champion stands tall, a formidable figure with muscles honed from years of combat. His gleaming armor reflects the determination in his eyes.

With a broadsword in hand, he exudes confidence and strength that captivates the crowd.

As Clover enters the ring, I prepare to cheer him on with all my might—it's what we do for each other.

Despite his smaller stature, Clover's spirit is unmatched. With a grin on my face, I shout words of encouragement, urging him to give his all.

"Show him what you're made of, Clover!" I yell, my voice blending with the crowd's cheers. "You've got this!"

Clover meets the champion head-on, his movements fluid and precise as he dances around the arena. Despite the size difference, he holds his own, proving skill and determination can conquer any challenge.

I'm shirtless, wearing only worn trousers, hollering and cheering for Clover. My shouts echo through the arena as I pace its perimeter. Suddenly, I collide with someone—a figure unlike the usual rugged fighters here. This one is smaller, softer.

It's a woman. She emits a squeak as we collide, and I instinctively reach out to steady her.

"Easy there," I grin, locking eyes with her. The dim lighting obscures her eye color, but a faint smile curves her lips.

As she regains her balance, I remark, "Sturdy shoes are a must in these parts, especially with all the commotion happening around here."

Her response is a soft chuckle as she straightens her posture, adjusting the straps of her satchel. "Noted," she says, her voice tinged with amusement.

With a flick of her hand through her dark brown hair, streaked with hints of blonde, she secures the strap of her bag firmly on her shoulders. Her face, framed by a lean structure, is adorned with freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose.

She doesn't resemble the typical women frequenting this place, with their corset gowns accentuating their cleavage and lips painted to please, leaving little to the imagination.

Curiosity piques my interest. "What brings a lady like yourself to the Wreath? Looking for someone or contemplating a daring escape from the mundane?"

She arches an eyebrow, a mischievous smirk gracing her lips. "Perhaps a bit of both," she replies, her tone defiant.

I chuckle at her boldness, feeling a surge of excitement at her rebellious spirit. "Well, you certainly have my attention," I confess, a grin spreading across my face.

Her eyes glimmer with mischief as she meets my gaze. "Glad to hear it," she retorts, before sauntering away, hands still clasped behind her back.

"Wait," I call after her, my curiosity piqued and a grin tugging at my lips. "I never got your name."

Halting in her tracks, she turns to face me, a playful glint in her eyes. "Arwyn Barcour," she says simply, her voice tinged with mystery, before vanishing into the crowd.

I watch her disappearing form with a mix of fascination and intrigue, taken by her boldness. However, my thoughts are abruptly shattered as I realize my dagger, the one belonging to Nerys, is missing from its sheath.

Frantically, I scan my surroundings, but it's nowhere to be found. Panic grips me as I realize the lady, Arwyn, must have taken it.

"Hey! It's your turn!" Clover's voice snaps me back to reality, but my gaze remains fixed on the spot where Arwyn disappeared. She had slipped away like a ghost, leaving no trace behind.