The King Trials 2: Beyond.
~The Ice Erus~

Summoned by the military tribunal.

The Herems and I are on route to the place of assembly. Once again without Duce Merian present or even our guard, only those belonging to Aelvebore. I do not think a day goes by where I do not need to remind myself unremittingly; one foot after the other. Preserve a calm exterior, an impression of equanimity, maintaining a front of absolute self-possession, pretending not to be overawed by the internal upheaval.

But I find it difficult when my own body fights against me.

In the eye of a hurricane of thoughts, bashing my mind.

Emotions simmering, threatening to erupt.

My heart clenched in a tight fist.

It has been nearly an entire cycle since we left the Pantheon, and the voyage of the King Trials began. So much has happened, I have not had the time to mentally digest the outpour of reckonings and revelations. I had to deal with what was ahead of me, and what is in front of me. And right now, that is a floor-to-ceiling, double doors, massive twin slabs of acacia wood. The posted guards open them both, gradually. As we enter, the rest of them remain behind.

The chamber is enormous with dark stone veneer on all the walls, the floors a polished grey. There are four sets of colonnades in this opulent expanse. One that we stand in, a row of engraved columns that flank our path. The other succession comes from ahead of us, the right and from the left as they all converge to the round centre of the chamber; an expansive space where a round table sits occupied by its members.

The Herems and I stride to them. My eyes glide up the monstrous columns etched with liner calligraphy, I have to crane my neck to locate the vaulted ceiling above, ornate with convoluted, historical murals painted on the surface with a dismal colour palette of dark browns, black and silver.

In due course we reach the centre. The military officials of Nivalis are seated at the round table, and they appear much more intimidating than the Adons.

The Adons bear a cold, aloof aggression.

The officials glower at us with deadly hostility, a silent loathing.

Their faces are marred with perpetual scowls, their broad-shouldered frames shrouded with furs that looked like they were newly skinned off a wolf, others with furry capes that belonged to the skin of some bear-like beast.

Most of their warrior-like hairstyles are a pattern of braids, hair shaved off at the sides and rear, the rest of the tresses plaited in intricate, long coils adorned with silver beads or bands.

One of them directs us to spread ourselves out. We comply and move to stand behind the official’s seat, in between them, in an arc shape and at a comfortable distance.

“I am Okoshere,” the same one says, his accent rough and somewhat broken, but it resonates with influence, a voice that commands submission. “I must understand one thing, purebloods. Your High King send you, privileged nobles to discuss matters of great importance. An alliance, the Ulris and war. What would pampered nobles like you know about war besides seeking refuge from it?”

I rein in a grimace. I know Brennon is bound to—

“I presume I do not need to tell military leaders like yourself that it is a perilous thing to underestimate someone,” Brennon says with sheer smugness. “With all due respect.” A belligerent shift in his tone. “You know nothing of us and nothing of what we have been through.”

Okoshere exchanges a few, undecipherable looks with his fellow officials. Unexpectedly, they burst into rumbling chuckles—even their laughs sound threatening.

“Because of what you faced in King Trials?” Another asks, sneering at him with his tenor fashioned from scorn. “That is nothing. You struggle for a moment; others struggle for a lifetime. You know nothing about true hardship, true pain. Everything in life given to you. Reskue Elma tus neves la pa.”

He looks to Okoshere and waves us off with an apathetic flick of his fingers. “We cannot speak to these children about war. Urus makes a caricature of us; he insults us by sending these uneducated prudes instead of Avangard leadership. I am sure they do not even know what the Ulris truly are.”

The whole tribunal echo their choruses of agreement.

I look across from me, above the heads, at a red-faced Vince, the corners of his face tweaking with increasing anger. I stare at him strongly, hoping I can capture his gaze. He must feel my desperate stare because he then lifts his gaze to look right at me.

I give him a tiny headshake.

He grips onto my gaze—so scorching it nearly burns.

He inhales a breath, his chest inflating. His veiny fingers uncurl at his side, chest deflating.

“I find myself in accord with the other officials,” Okoshere says with world-weary indifference. “I am not oblivious to the diplomatic sentiment. One of you the future ruler, so of course you must learn the ways of a king. It is all a lesson, all a test. My adverseness is towards each of you, unworthy candidates.”

His eyes skim over us all. His gaze lingers on Brennon. “Those that speak out of turn, a brash tongue. A dangerous trait to have, especially if one is to inherit power.” His gaze roams, perusing over Solaris, Treyton and Markiveus. “In a game there are those in forefront and background players. Ones that are overshadowed, they are those that born are born to lead and those who are meant to follow them.”

Markiveus face perishes into a repulsive expression of offense but knows better than to say anything.

His gaze shoots a straight arrow at Vince. “A war-driven Emikrollian. The only reason you stand here is because you are woefully included in the mandate. Otherwise, you Ethane, would not be welcomed in our kingdom.”

His eyes then impale me like a double-edged sword. “It is clear that none of you belong here. Any of you. Your very presence seems as if it was an intended slight.”

“No,” Solaris says, speaking on our behalf. “It was not. High King Urus only wished to—”

“Wished to what?” Another interrupts harshly. “Evidence proves the return of the Ulris. If he truly wished to forge an alliance to stop their resurgence and mitigate the aftermath. He should have sent in an authoritative delegation that controls his armies, members with actual power to enforce decisions and collaborate with on a war strategy. Not you, I do not care who may win the crown. I care for the one that wears it now, for he holds the resources we need.”

They rebuke us as if it was our choice to come here.

“If High King wishes to make sport of the ordinance of succession, he may play game, he is High King. But I do not take it kindly that he wastes our time. What was the aim here? Forge an alliance, if so, do any of you hold power to rectify the terms? To send troops or debate the matter of how to seal the threshold if Vilnus breaks through. The sun crystal is destroyed. How do you plan to close the rift if he and his armies penetrate our world?”

Vince blares a bored sigh.

The attention fastens on him. Tautly.

“Where there is poison, there is a remedy,” he says, his eyes on the ground, hands clasped in front of him. He raises his gaze slowly. “And where is a problem, there is a solution. The sun crystal was one way, but it is not the only one. The Eternal Eclipse is Vilnus’s advantage, we simply need to discover our own.”

After the brief gathering with the military tribunal. Okoshere sanctioned us to go visit the Ice Erus. No-one has met the Ice Erus in the flesh. There has been no need to since all the power of Nivalis is delegated between the tribunal and the Adons.

We now sit in a wobbling carousine on our way to his palace. The roads are unclogged, safe enough to travel, the weather amiable in Nivalis standard. If it is not raining, snowing, or thundering with a blizzard that is considered a warm summer day.

I scan the interior. Everyone nursing their own thoughts.

The only sound heard is the incessant thuds of Duce Merian’s shoe. He’s dressed in his complete regalia, the full white suit ornamented with two sashes of gold and crimson, one embroidered with the Crown’s crest and the other his own. His snow boot tapping on the floorboards restlessly.

“Duce,” Treyton bursts. “Could I ask if you could handle your flare of anxiety more quietly, please?”

Duce Merian tosses him an angst-ridden look, then he quickly masks it with neutrality. “This is a huge, no—momentous occasion. No-one ever set eyes on the Ice Erus. And now we have the chance to converse with him. This may be your only chance to sway them to your content. If you have the endorsement of the Ice Erus himself, they will have but no choice to reconsider.”

“What if they are right?” Treyton asks. “We do not have the power to forge a new alliance in the Crown’s name. Primus Kelan should be the one to speak with them.”

I stiffen at the sound of his name.

“That part will come afterwards,” Duce Merian reveals. “Someone in Primus Kelan’s equal rank would come in with a handpicked delegation of the Crown’s choice who holds the required titles. The test is to see if you have both the finesse and shrewdness to warm the cold hearts of Nivalis’s powerheads.”

“It is torturous to play the sop to their vanity whilst I rather skewer them with a blade,” Markiveus says, his head leaning back to rest of against the headboard. His chin raised, a flattering angle to flaunt a chiselled jawline.

“That is one way of a king,” Duce Merian says with a small shrug. “You must appeal to those who you do not even want to see, let alone work with. But there will come a time when it is necessary to associate with those on the unbound spectrum of unsavoury. To rule a realm, you must first rule yourself. Which means putting your own reservations, qualms and emotions aside.”

After a tolerable interval. The carousine jiggles to a halt. A coachman opens the door, and we all seep out in a line. I round the carriage. Ogling, awe steals a breath. The Ice Erus’s palace is situated in the middle of nowhere, a stretch of infinite white.

The palace is like a glacier that rises from the ground as if it was built on the bed of a frozen lake. The exterior is incandescent, like it was erected from a shimmering, white mineral, a mountain of translucent gemstones. The head of the crystal-like edifice is crowned with glass spires and spiralling turrets.

Cautiously, we make our way to the entrance. A colossal trellis decorated with ice vines that intertwine the glimmering frame. The snow-strewn pathway to the towering, iridescent door is bordered with ice sculptures that dare to reach for the heavens.

“This is strange.” Vince voices his concern. “Where is the imperial security, guards?”

“There are no wards,” I add.

“Well of course not, how else would we enter?” Duce Merian says. “I am certain he has armed protection. Perhaps just not one of the flesh.”

“So you speak of sorcery or hidden creatures?” Treyton inquires.

“That would be my gamble.”

He is right. My pores awaken, nerves serrate. Everything around me eddies with pulsating energy, churning potently but controlled, its origin numerous. Even though we cannot see it, this place is heavily protected.

On approach, the door opens on its own, extending outwards.

“I think I would feel more at ease with our own escort with us,” Brennon slips in.

We enter a gargantuan entry hall that free flows to a throne room. At the very end, many meters straight ahead from us is an elaborate dais elevated in the air with nothing to keep it there. The back of the throne juts out blue-tinted quartz stones that sprawl behind a regal figure.

Below the levitating throne, two pure white wolves erect hostilely at the sight of us, but they remain where they are. All of us trade worrisome looks before we make our way to the pearlescent throne.

On our way, I marvel at the crystalline interior, everything impeccably glossy and white, almost like it is not real. I merely found myself transported into a dream-like, enchanted palace.

We reach the end. A fear-instilling distance from the abnormally gigantic wolves that bear baffling beauty, their furry coats a pristine white but their fangs remind us of our constant peril.

I gaze up at the Ice Erus. His hair like a river of moonlight that streams to his hips, his eyes shining—almost transparent—his skin a sheer reflection of alabaster. A holy splendour in which I can stare upon until my eyes burn for me to stop.

“You must be Duce Merian,” he says, his voice surprisingly saccharine and gentle, like an autumnal breeze that wafts in the treetops.

Duce Merian bows his torso fully, his one forearm held at his stomach. He freezes in the position.

His eyes look to us with an expression I have never seen. “Purebloods, how I awaited your arrival.” His eyes set on me and something ominous swirls within them. “Even though this is not all of you. Welcome to my abode.”

The Herems dip into a rigid bow and I pick up the front part of my gown to lower myself into a curtsey.

“Rise.” We all straighten ourselves. “You journeyed far, and I am sure you are all unfamiliar with the artic climate of Nivalis. Please, my attendant will take you to the dining hall to eat, warm yourselves with a freshly brewed caudle.”

What attendant?

I glance over my shoulder, suppressing a flinch. Emerging from nothing, a hooded being stands directly behind us all cloaked in a silky white robe, the hems embossed with symbols I have seen back at Aelvebore.

“Follow me.” His voice guttural, oddly resembling a hiss of a serpent.

He turns around and strings us back down the hall as we pursue.

“Āpaṇa hērā arōrā nāhī.”

My legs refuse to move. The official in the tribunal spoke in Nuvele, a modernised language. But what the Ice Erus said: Not you, Hera Aurora. In an archaic, old dialect. One, I wonder how he came to assume that I would understand it.

Solaris glances back at me several times before waving me over.

I offer him a faint smile and mouth a quick reassurance that I will join soon.

I swivel around and walk back to where I stood. The wolves lay themselves back to the ground comfortably, their tails wagging behind them calmly.

“Tuwlalā karisē mālehīta,” I respond fluently.

He glares down at me, unimpressed. “You radiate powerful and ancient energy. One might say unfathomable. I felt it the moment you arrived. Who are you?”

“Hera Aurora, sole pureblood to Regnum Valwa,” I recite.

His visible displeasure mounts. “No pureblood possesses such power. So why do you? Think carefully on your reply.”

Why speak when I can show. I look at my hand, clenching and unclenching. Reluctantly, I liberate my hand, peeling off the glove. I hold out my hand to him, exposing the palm. The bindings are back in my bedchamber at Nivalis, unnecessary since I have the gloves to conceal them.

Evaluating the tattoo under his assessment. He confirms his own suspicion with the incline of his head, exhaling his shock. His eyes steel into an irrevocable look of despise. The wolves once again erect whilst stay remaining where they are, as if sensing their master’s aggravation.

His eyes meet mine and I nearly falter a step back.

“It cannot be,” he says in emphatic denial.

I put the glove back on. I glance back at him, anticipating his response.

Under his scrutiny, I nearly wither.

An adorned finger drums the arm of the throne. “Do you expect me to bow? Or be in unutterable reverence that I lived to see the legendary Sagetai arise. The one destined to save us all. Who should we fear when the Sagetai is our weapon?”

I swallow the tirade of scornful cajoling.

“Why are you here, Hera? Is it to save us all?”

I hunt for words, any kind of answer fallen prey. But none are found.

“Who are you?”

After a frigid moment, I say, “I told you who I am.”

“No, your title is given to you by birth. Who you are is earned by who you choose to become, the decisions you make that knit the very fabric of your singular identity. Now, who are you?”

One moment grows to a bountiful of them. Finally, I say, “Someone who wishes to do her part. At least what I can.”

His lips twist into a jeering smile, completely devoid. “And is that to save us, great Sagetai?”

Anger overpowers my deference. “What is that you want me to say? It is not the path I chose, but one chosen for me. I will not run from nor will I charge into something without knowledge or support. Even the Sagetai needs help, and I know I need much of it. I do not know if I am capable of… saving others. But I would be damned if I did not try.”

The Ice Erus scoffs at me like I’m a deceitful storekeeper lying about the quality of my merchandise.

“I do not believe you,” he states unchangeably. “Plenty of powerful beings before you have tried to save people and failed. Not because they lacked the power to, but because they lusted after more. Their own gluttony was the destruction that spelt the ruin of so many dominions.”

“I have never desired power,” I spit the words out like it stung my tongue. “And I never will, it is a poison that has infected those in power, but it was the people that suffered.”

He looks down at me pitifully. “So naïve. That poison is already in you. It is you. A fact that even I cannot deny is that you are destined. But destined for what? Cornelius Qhar wanted to save his people, but he was the cause of its destruction. If the rift had not closed, your Regnum and all of Urium would be nothing but dust and blood.”

“You believe the Sagetai’s power is the poison?” I question. “That power courts challenge, challenge incites chaos?”

“Power consumes,” he says sternly. “You are destined. But for what? In you lies something dangerous. You may have the power to save, but you also have the power to destroy.”

His retort shocks me into silence.

“You are dangerous, and I will not put my faith in a delayed, volatile saviour,” he says icily. “Nor will I hand over my kingdom to a doomed realm like Urium. But I comprehend the ambit of all our imminent peril, which is why I will leave it to those I bestowed my power to. However, I will support you not.”

Frustration gnaws at me. “This is not about me. This is about Urium that needs to be secured, it is a stronghold that Vilnus should never claim—”

“Do not seek to belittle my intelligence, I realise the risks.” His words ripple out. “Which is why I grant you the blessing of my grace to return to Aelvebore and await final judgment.”

I nod my head brokenly. “I understand that but—”

“I have rendered my judgment and you will leave me at once.”

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