The King Trials 2: Beyond.
~Aelvebore~

The castle complex is entered through the symmetrical Gatehouse flanked by two stair towers lined with watchers on the walls. The eastward-pointing gate building is the only structure of the complex whose wall area is fashioned in high-contrast colours. All the exterior walls are cased with brilliant, white limestone. The roof cornice is surrounded by pinnacles. The ground floors of the Gatehouse accommodate the stables.

The castle is actually a collection of buildings sitting in a fortress on top of an extinct volcano. Protected by sheer cliffs with only one direction of approach.

The courtyard has two levels, the lower one being defined to the east by the Gatehouse and to the north by the foundations of the rectangular tower and by the gallery building. The southern end of the courtyard is open, imparting a view of the surrounding snow-engulfed scenery. At its western end, the courtyard is delineated by a bricked embankment with a polygonal protracting bulge.

The three-storey building is connected to the rectangular rower and the Gatehouse by means of a continuous gallery fashioned with a blind arcade. A closed colonnade, a series of alcoves, merely built into the wall as a decorative element.

The structure within the storm castle is spangled with numerous embellished chimneys and ornamental turrets, the court front with colourful frescos. The court-side gable is crowned with a copper beast statue, the figure on top resembles a knight charging into battle.

Aelvebore, the storm castle itself is a settlement on its own.

When we arrived, we were all shown to our separate bedchambers. A servant escorted me to mine where a warm blanket, new clothes and a blazing heart awaited me. After a hot, ice-melting bath, I changed into a fresh gown, Nivalis wool incredibly warm, and I planted myself before the fire. Since then I have not moved, a few servants have even drifted by to bring in my belongings.

Even now, I am seated on a wooden armchair, immoveable from the hearth.

My designated bedchamber is simple, very functional. The semblance of a glorified prison cell. Two armchairs positioned at an angle before the hearth with a small round table interspaced between them. Beneath the furnishings is a plush, dark-coloured coverlet.

The walls are cladded with a dismal grey stones, matching the floor. The bed itself takes up most of the space, a canopy style with furry duvets draped across.

The room bears one tall, relatively narrow window. I can hear the wails of nature. The mangling winds churning into sundering cyclones, eviscerating tempests decimating all in its warpath.

I stare into the fire. It crackles and spits and hisses. Its lambent light steals away from the velvet-black shadows dancing on the wall. Flames of red-orange lick hungrily at the chimney as they clamber as higher and higher.

A purposed knock sounds. Then the heavy door with a radius top slowly opens, and an acquainted servant slinks in carrying a light-hued fur coat, sable fur, cream with blemishes of sepia and pinpricks of dark brown, a meld of an artic golden island.

“Hera, the Adons are requesting an audience with all the purebloods.”

I quash a groan. “Where?”

“Western drawing room.”

I stand to my feet, adjusting the many layers beneath the skirt of the gown. She moves forward, opening the coat in a wide display. Rotating, I redirect the flow of my hair, sliding my arms into the armholes as she fixes the coat onto my shoulders, the hems murmuring to the floor, aligned with the ends of the silvery dress.

I follow her out of the room, and she leads me to the set location.

The design of Aelvebore incorporates Sorcian-esque shapes such as triforia window openings and semi-circular arches, with Byzantine and Gothic influences such as slim towers and upward-pointing lines. The elongate building is characterised by its many towers, gables and turrets.

Distracted, I’m unaware of the twists and turns we make whilst venturing through the labyrinth of palatial hallways. An agglomeration of flagstone.

Eventually we reach the drawing room. The elliptical double doors are flanked by soldiers armed in star-shadow brigandine leather that reach their knees, glaive spears in each hand, the steel engraved with linear, black ornate symbols.

In the distance, the other Herems advance from the opposite direction, guided by their own attendants. As we all approach, the guards open the doors for us simultaneously, most of the attendants remain behind whilst only two follow.

The drawing walls and floors adorned with cultured stone. A prominent fireplace burns on either side of the room. The stone panelling is engraved with rich detailing along with the exposed ceiling beams. Plush and deep-toned rugs blanket the floor.

The surrounding fixtures feature in intricate wooden inlay designs and carvings. Upholstery on chairs and sofas as well as draperies that reflect sumptuous fabrics like chenille and damask.

We are beckoned the centre of the room where a large dining table sits, the one half occupied by gruff-looking nobles, glaring at us with cold hostility. The table arrayed with an assortment of porcelain tea sets, a cup and saucer for each chair at the table.

The Herems and I seat ourselves at the big table.

I survey them. Frames varying from scrawny to stout are shrouded by extravagant furs. Their hair long and sheeny, everything about them boasts affluence.

The one at the head of the rectangle-shaped begins the proceedings. “I am Adon Rolin. On behalf of the Ice Erus and Nivalis, we welcome you to our court.”

His demeanour so flinty, voice monotone like he could make a lull of compliments sound like a slew of insult.

“Please.” His eyes gesture to the round of teapots. “Partake in our Aelvebore-brewed tea, it will keep you warm.”

He raises his hand, snaps his fingers like his summoning hounds. Both the servants scurry over and start to fill each cup with steaming tea.

The one Adon on Rolin’s right says, “You are descendants of the Decuria?” His eyes rove through our group, our crumbled exteriors glazed over with prim and proper visages. “You are all of what is left?”

“Bordamere,” Rolin chides in a stringent tone.

“What?” His disparaging gaze falls on me. “I thought they were supposed to purebloods?”

“They are,” Rolin states.

Bordamere shakes his head condescendingly. “Then what of her? Halflings all have a mark, a flaw they cannot conceal due to their abominable genealogy.”

Rolin looks to me and his eyes trail down my hair.

I obscure a frown with a neutral look. “I am not a half-blood. I am Hera Aurora, the sole pureblood of Regnum Valwa,” I say imperiously.

Bordamere concedes, looking away, his lips peeling back into a snarl.

“Is there a reason you requested to see us without the Duce?” Brennon asks.

Rolin nods, he tents his hands over his plate, steepling his fingers. “The focus is on you, purebloods. Not the lacquey of your High King. One whom I fail to understand. The mandate of the King Trials, the cause of all your tribulations. What was the point of it all?”

A fraught silence chokes the air in the room.

“I have heard that you have been dragged from corner to corner, from wilderness to wilderness. And for what? Will those arduous trials determine the worthy among you, a set of traits that qualify you to reign? Or has Urus sent you as some kind of diplomatic catalyst to further his own agenda, all in the name of the Crown. Which still sits on his head.”

The silence between us Herems perseveres.

“This must all come as a strange adjustment for you,” an Adon speculates. “Out from your abode of luxury to living like savages, making punishing voyages from place to place.”

“Herem Solaris.” Another Adon beckons, his one of the portly types. His hair greying on the sides, sporting a thick, full beard. “I want to hear from you. Your father is a wise being, let us see if you have inherited a slither of his wile. Tell me in your own words what you have learnt in the duration of the King Trials.”

All the attention settles on Solaris. He squares his shoulders, radiating natural confidence.

“At first, I thought the same. I was exhausted, and I bore resentment against my own High King, for he put us all in senseless peril, the lives of our fellow Herems lost. His Majesty took an unorthodox approach to the Shalem protocol, going against procedure, but he had the power to do so.”

He falters but swiftly regains composure. “I think I can say on the behalf of the purebloods that none of us are the same, what we have been through has changed us all in different ways. But I only can attest to my own experience. A pivotal turning point for me was visiting the Orombuc tribe.”

The Adon intertwines his chubby fingers, his gaze locked on Solaris.

“They are simple people with a humble livelihood. It was the first time I had to hunt for my food and do things in a rather primal manner. But I marvelled at their unity, the oneness of their tribe, I wondered if Urium could be that, not hindered by foolish prejudices. But united in our differences because there is strength in unity.”

The Adon nods responsively. My attentions flits to Rolin. His eyes are hard.

“I learnt that a true king does not send his troops to fight, but he himself is there to lead them. To fight and bleed alongside them. Sometimes, in order to save many more lives, you must take the lives of a few. I learnt that a ruler must make difficult choices for the collective good, but must never let those pressures compromise his integrity. That is where our predecessors failed. They made moral compromises, whatever their intention, their actions resulted in the destruction of those they hoped to save.”

Solaris nods to himself, his smile fluctuating. “At the initiation banquet, I can still hear the High King’s words: To understand the nature of the people, one must be a king, and to understand the nature of the king, one must be of the people.”

The Adon inclines his head.

“Now I understand,” Solaris says firmly. “The King Trials gave me a glimpse to see what is in the hearts of other peoples. To witness their perspective of the truth of the past, a good way to make ensure that a better job is done in the future. The King Trials taught me that a great leader does not do great things, but he inspires others to do greater things.”

The Adon nods, perceivably satisfied with his answer.

“That is a poignant sentiment,” one of the seven Adons drawls. Two fingers pressed into his temple, rumpling the skin. “But none of this deals with the present issue at hand. Urium needs our aid to face the looming threat of the Ulris. But we do not need Urium.”

Another adds his voice, “When exactly will this peril descend?”

“When Vilnus’s power is at its peak,” I answer. “The Eternal Eclipse.”

I pick up my cup of tea and sip on it politely; it has a strong herby taste, spicy like cinnamon chips.

“Of course,” Rolin says to his fellow Adons. “He will channel enough power into the threshold to rip a rift open, funnelling his forces.”

“How I see it, it is not our problem. Just as it was not before,” the brash Adon says. Bordamere. “Nivalis can stand on its own as it always has. We do not need the aid of a fractured realm that cannot even salvage itself.”

“Urium may be broken, but it is not irredeemable,” Vince voices, his fingers quietly tapping on the table. “Why do you think Vilnus is targeting Urium to achieve his plan? Urium is the key to unlock unbound power. Urium is the stronghold, the cradle of all life. Even your roots stem from its soil.”

The other Adons shift uncomfortably, muttering, as if ashamed of the fact.

“Unified, Urium can overpower all the realms if it had the right leadership to herald it into a golden age, one free from corruption and selfish ambition. It is not about whether you need Urium or not, it’s about protecting it. For it that power falls into Vilnus’s hands, he will be invisible, and he will conquer your land, dashing everything to dust with a flick of his hand.”

“You know much about Vilnus and the ambit of his threat,” one Adon accuses. “Perhaps history has repeated itself and the Crown has yet again allied itself with the forces of evil for personal gain.”

“In the holy scriptures it states that people perish because of a lack of knowledge.” A wry smile splits his face. “And you shall surely perish because of what you lack.”

Bordamere slams his fist down, rattling everything on top. “Watch your tongue unless you wish to see it cut, boy. Whether Urium falls or not, Nivalis will survive because a kingdom is only as strong as it leaders, and Urium only births weakness. As I’m sure you are aware, Emikrollian. Since your ancestors failed to ascend the throne, their failures handed the Qhar line the Crown. That same inadequacy is the hallmark of your being.”

Vince’s face mutates into a gruesome look, the sheer extent of his anger almost palpable.

He thunders to his feet, everyone rises impulsively.

Vince storms towards the loose-lipped Adon. Markiveus tries to stop him, but he practically bulldozes through him, sending him staggering aside. Treyton and Solaris, the last line of defence as they manage to cage a seething Vince.

The others rumble with a furore, some lifting their hands placatingly.

“If you think me weak, why don’t you challenge me to a Pentium?” Provoked anger sets his eyes ablaze. “Duel me, and we shall see which one of us is inadequate.”

The Adon steps forward, raising his chin to stare down at him. “Normally I would not entertain such barbarism. But the enticing chance to put a bloodthirsty Emikrollian in his place is a challenge I will gladly accept.”

“Enough,” Rolin roars, snapping out his arms. “They will be no challenge. Whilst we devolve into a nonsensical bickering, the real threat, the real enemy we must fight is out there amassing in strength.” Attempting to quell the fraying tempers.

Vince’s gaze is still punctured in the sneering Adon. “If you ever speak ill of my people.” His nostrils flare. “If your unworthy mouth utters their name again, it will be your blood I will spill and revel in. I dare you to tempt my fury, my thirst has not been quenched in a while.”

Rolin chops his hand down. “This meeting is adjourned. All of you are dismissed.”

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