The King Trials 2: Beyond.
~A Royal Invitation~

“I don’t know.”

“You must know something,” I urge.

The sounds of our scuffling footsteps ricochet against the stone walls of the stairwell.

Juwela fidgets with the folded towels in her grasp, the strange liquid soap neatly placed on top.

“All I know is that for the past three days, the Ecclesia have been occupied by an ongoing symposium. I know a few of the guards that shadow their assemblies, and they would not divulge even an inkling of their debate to me. But what was worrying is how bothered they seemed, aggressive towards my inquiry.”

We amble down the flight. Welcomed by a whirring melody. The sound of ever rushing water pelting the surface in a harmonious permanence, a strong torrent, yet it tempers with gentle swooshes.

“Then what of this, Tigress?” I prod on. “She is higher than them and the Kumentah is above them all. Why is she not consulted in momentous, constitutional assemblies?”

I trot off the last step.

Jewula sighs loudly. “The Tigress is not some political instrument or a governing figurehead. She is the anointed one, she speaks the will of the Kumentah. She resides in a separate keep of the bastion, secluded in perpetual prayer. When it is time, and the Ecclesia reach some kind of consensus, then they appraise her.”

My eyes are drawn to the cascade pouring down into the rock pool, it shimmers like the tears of angels; the waterfall fuses itself like threads of watery fabric into the surface, as smooth and fluvial as glistening dew.

Jewula sets the collection of items on a stand near the pool.

She turns to face me, her cosmic eyes reflecting the gem-blue waters. “Do not concern yourself with the nuances of our regime. I think it is nerve-wracking for us all to house foreigners sent by another ruler to broker an alliance. There is a reason why the leaders of old never wanted Velheim to be known, let alone encumbered by others’ problems.”

“Other’s problems?” My voice hits a sharp peak. “The re-emergence of the Ulris is not only our problem.”

“No, now it is all of our problem,” she says with a tincture of resentment. “I do not know what lies they fed you about your history. Yes, the first High King, his armies and his allies defeated the remaining forces after the breach was closed. But they were the ones that opened it in the first place.”

She shrugs and looks at me ruefully. “One cannot be acclaimed for cleaning their own mess.” She bows her head to me. “Do you require anything else?”

“No.” My voice harsher than I expected. I refine my tone and try again. “No, thank you.”

She nods and breezes past me, soon swallowed by the darkness.

I face the rock pool and I take a few steps towards it as I pull the one strap of the dress off my shoulder. Then I spot another assortment of towels on the opposite verge of the pool.

I fumble a retreat as a burly figure burst through the iridescent surface—I clap a hand on my hammering heart.

He slicks his hair, hands sliding down, the wet tips drip to his collarbone. Contoured muscles bunching in his back, skin marred by old, jagged scars, varying in lengths of severity.

Vince swivels around, the waterline reaches the hip, caressing his defined v-line.

“What’s this?” he asks breathlessly, his muscled chest rising and plummeting. He sets his hands on his hips, a leather band bound on each bulging bicep.

I try to summon words, but all that I gather is pitiful spluttering.

He watches me curiously, his eyes sparkling with intrigue.

I clear my throat. Several times. “What were you doing?” I pull the strap back up, crossing my arms, flooded with a sudden sense of insecurity. “Were you… down there this whole time?”

His breathing regulates. “For a time. When I can, I practice holding my breath under water. It improves longevity, strengths the diaphragm and promotes brain tissue generation.”

Whilst he lists a litany of benefits. My eyes fall on his brawny chest strewn with glittering droplets. But I am more enticed by the pedant that sits on the throne of his chest. Emerald grass shaped like a fang with a black metal binding eddying around it.

Vince thunders a clap and it shocks me out of my daze.

He stabs a finger at his face. “My eyes are up here, Hera,” he scolds, his smirk impossibly vexing. “I do not appreciate you objectifying me for your own visual pleasures.”

My gaze drifts to his waist. A fresh but healed gash lines the side, a laceration done by powerful claws.

“If so, then I wouldn’t taint my eyes with the sight of you,” I retort with a faux small. Diverting, I say, “I have never seen you wear that necklace before.”

“That’s because you have never seen me naked before.” He raises his chin, the turquoise veins on his neck prominent. “I believe we all have our keep sakes. Reminders.”

I meet his eyes. “And what does that remind you of?”

He shakes his head at me reproachfully; he lifts a hand to run his fingers through his drenched tresses. “Some secrets I like to reserve for myself.” A mischievous look ignites his eyes with a daunting glimmer. “But I will strike a deal with you. I will tell you anything you wish to know, if you join me.”

I hold back a laugh, but a snort escapes me. “Tempting,” I say dryly. “You drive a hard bargain. One that I will happily refuse.”

I twirl around and move to collect my things.

“Hera Aurora.”

I pause and I observe him from over my shoulder.

“There is something you must know about me,” he says with layered solemnity, so soft his words are nearly drowned out by the pounding spillway behind him. “Something… you must know.”

I pivot to face him fully.

“Out of all my days, both conquests and tribulations that I have faced.” The gleaming waters shine in his eyes. “Everything that I have done.” His lips curl into his trademark smirk. “I have never failed. What I aspire, I achieve. The same goes for the one that I desire.”

I nod coyly. “You know, I used to think that I belonged to the wisest Regnum, that my blood is the one of intellects. But it turns out that we do not know everything, the knowledge we possess, possibly distorted. I came into the King Trials thinking one way about myself, now I come to realise that I do not know even that.”

He listens to me raptly; his gaze never wavers.

“The moral of the story is that nothing is what it seems.” I turn on a smile. “And that you should acquaint yourself with disappointment because you are able to endure a rude awakening.”

“Do you speak of me or yourself?” He gives me a full once over, contemplating. “I think there are some things about yourself that you are in denial of. Things that you refuse to face because then you would have to acknowledge it. That it is exists. That it is real.”

I can feel my expression rotting. “And there is your second mistake. You know nothing about me.”

I whip around and walk briskly to the stairway.

“You would be surprised,” he says to my back. “I know more than you know.”

I frown at his tone, saturated with enigma.

Two days tumble by and still no word from the Ecclesia.

During that interlude, Primus Kelan has only made the briefest of visits. He would come by at arbitrary intervals and do perimeter check of the bedchamber, a peruse over the balcony then leave. He refuses to spare even a moment, like he fears being around me longer than he has to.

Holding the scroll to the sun, my eyes squinted as I read the last half of the inscription.

Woe to the guilty, for they will reap the destruction they have sown.

The Light arises, the new dawn.

As the Light strengths, so shall the Dark.

The law of balance, one that cannot be overturned.

The Darkness will pierce the Light; the Light will consume the Darkness.

I slowly lower the scroll. Though comprehensive understanding eludes me, it seems to foreshadow impending doom. The death of the Light. Which I cannot help is a metaphorical reference to the Sagetai. Me.

I free a volatile breath. Faintly lightheaded, I saunter back into the bedchambers. Thoughts racing in my mind, I make my way to the vanity and I set the bare scroll on the table. I slant forward to plant my hands on the edge, hanging my head, my hair sweeps forward, blanketing my shoulders.

Gradually, I lift my head to see a familiar reflection. A girl I used to know.

But she’s gone now.

I straighten—my eyes strike wide. Alarmed, I brush my hair off my shoulder, and I hold up a sheet of hair with my forearm to spot a lock of midnight black amidst the golden yellow. I lean closer to the mirror, disbelieving what my eyes are showing me.

With my other bandaged hand, I reach for the lock and draw it in front of me to examine it.

“By the grace of the Almighty.”

I flinch the sound of the byzantine doors opening.

Two short rows of females glide inside, clothed in virgin-white, their faces aimed at the ground, shrouded by a lace shawl. I muse my hair, lapping it over my shoulder.

They separate, each row forms an arch shape, exactly opposite from the other.

Then, the Tigress herself strides in, her round hat bedecks her head, the silk veil falling to her wrists, concealing her face but the transparency exposes her skin; the painted crimson stripes.

She radiates strong energy, exerting effortless power.

“Vaya toj, pra kanho ja šmala čuŭ?” She asks me directly, as if knowing that I will understand, expecting an answer.

And I give it to her.

“Jana josć i vieĺmi radynaka sustrecca z vam,” I say, I bow my head to her and look up.

She lifts her head marginally, just enough to see a glimpse of her red lips, a curve of blood.

“I think you are mistaken,” she says in Ramien. A language native to Armathis, the Prime Province. My home. “I think it is me who should be honoured to be in such a presence.”

I try to mask my surprise.

“I came here to deliver a message personally. The Kumentah requests an audience, and I am here to take you to him.”

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