The King Trials 2: Beyond.
~The Plans of Fate~

I loiter before the hearth on the other side of the drawing room.

The other Herems are gathered on the opposite end, conversing quietly.

My gaze peruses over the sequence of stained glass, pictorial windows, a myriad of designs that brightens the room with colourful hues. Footsteps thud towards me. Vince sidles my flank, too close for comfort.

Staring into the flames, he says, “I wanted to offer my apologies for the last time we spoke. I will not atone for making my feelings known, but I will atone for breaching a line of decorum.”

I glance at him askance. “There is nothing to forgive. I find it admirable that you are… bold about what you want. You are sure of yourself. I cannot begrudge you for that, it is who you are.”

“Do not do that.” His words fall under his breath.

“Do what?”

“Give me hope.”

I snicker dryly. “There is none to give, I’m afraid. Do not confuse platonic care for romantic intrigue.”

“It seems you are the one that cannot tell the difference,” he retorts. Firelight casts one half of his face in darkness. “A symptom of someone in sore denial.”

“I am not—”

“As you said. I am bold in my aspirations. I am even more fierce in obtaining them. I do not relent, and I do not fail.”

I swivel to face him. “Is that what I am to you? An ambition.”

“My desire,” he corrects curtly. “One that I burn for.” His gaze meets in mine and the reflection of flaming tendrils flare in his eyes.

I retreat. I whip around, hastily making my way to the rest of the Herems that are spaced out on different, stately couches and armchairs. I settle beside Solaris, cumbersomely sitting on the edge of a long couch.

Solaris takes one glance at me before he chucks a look behind him at Vince, still standing before the hearth.

He shakes his head and makes a sound of displeasure.

“Do not say a word,” I warn.

“I was not going to.”

Brennon sets the ankle of his boot on his opposite knee. “Do none of you know why Duce Merian requested an audience?”

Treyton props his elbows on the arms of the wingchair. “It must be an emergency; he has never done this before.”

“That is what worries me,” Brennon grumbles.

On cue. Duce Merian and Primus Kelan charge in, tailed by two other Avangard soldiers.

“Herem Vince, follow,” Duce Merian orders. Vince pursues and they all assemble. Vince seats himself on an armchair adjacent to Markiveus. Whereas Duce Merian and the rest remain standing before us.

“I summoned you all here because I bear grave news,” Duce Merian says, giving Primus Kelan a dour glance. “I did not want to say anything until we were all gathered. But I received this.” He holds out a letter that bears the Crown’s crest. “News from the High King, instructions per say.”

Primus Kelan’s frown deepens. “Wait. How—”

“Portal message,” he answers quickly.

Portal message is a form of superluminal communication between realms and even standalone dominions like Nivalis. It is instantaneous to use, but risky. It is not illegal, but it is clandestine, which is mainly why the military only utilises it in the event of a dire emergency. It is frowned upon because messages can be intercepted through the ethereal channels, and it can expose the recipient’s current location.

Even my father is against them. Which is why we only use bloodhawks.

A portal message does not need to be done by a sorceress or a Hische, but it can be performed by a medeis or any being with magic because it is a low-level skill. Portals are known to be volatile. The transportation of living beings or creatures can only be done by very powerful magic wielders like Hitsches.

“Hand it to me,” Primus Kelan demands.

Duce Merian complies immediately. His attention returns to us. “It is a summoning from High King Urus himself. He wants us all back in the Pantheon effective immediately, and for safety reasons to use back routes into Urium.”

“Does that mean that the King Trials are over?” Markiveus bursts.

“Do we leave now? What could be so urgent to demand immediate exodus?” Vilnus questions.

The Herems erupt into an uproar of maddened questions.

Duce Merian raises his hands to pat the air calmingly. “You know as much as I, the summons is rather vague. Only instructions were written, an extract of ship’s manifest, routes, ports and accommodation for our journey back. He cannot disclose any more because of security purposes.”

“Very vague,” Primus Kelan echoes thoughtfully. “I have received plenty summons from the Crown, but none like this.”

“Of course not,” Duce Merian says nonchalantly. “This is not one of your, covert, protect-the-realm missions. This about the future Ruler of Urium. And if we have been compromised in some way or there is a new, great threat from the Ulris underway, we must leave as soon as we can. We will discover later what will happen with regard to the King Trials.”

Primus Kelan persists to study the letter, his gaze authenticating it, suspicion clouds his eyes.

Duce Merian claps his hands together. “The only thing you must focus on is the now. It is imperative you secure a steady foundation with Nivalis and leave a lingering impression before we depart.”

Primus Kelan nods rigidly. “I will make the arrangements for our departure.”

“Good,” Duce Merian says, “It is difficult to say if the Adons or the tribunal would request to see you before then. If they do. Please, refrain from issuing any scornful remarks and gratuitous comments.” His gaze lances Brennon. “Even if they antagonise you, compose yourself—”

The door bursts open and two rows of Aelvebore soldiers march inside in a daunting crescendo. Their armour is more elaborate than usual castle guards. Their knee length armour is plated with silver steel that bears the semblance of roundish scales, the breastplate adorned with four spheres, the entire torso and shoulder pieces are integrated with white fur.

One of them strides further, the only one with a floor-length, furry white cape that trails behind him.

“The military tribunal wishes to see you.”

“We know the way,” Vince says and ascends to his feet.

“We are merely here to escort you. We too were requested.”

“Then I suppose we are all going,” Primus Kelan states.

The soldier flicks him a look. “You are not wanted.”

“The last time I was sent to ‘escort’ foreign guests within the walls of my High King’s castle. I was meant to ambush, detain and lock them in the deepest part of the dungeons. So you will excuse my concern.”

The soldier nods and outstretches his arm wryly. “After you.”

Promptly, we all vacate drawing room, and we make the short trek to the place of assembly. The transition is quick but frigid with tension, a foreboding uncertainty that looms. When we reach the chamber, we all enter. Even though Primus Kelan is told to stand down. He does the opposite.

All the officials are seated at the round table. Attention draws to the dominance that Primus Kelan exudes with his sheer presence. The soldier and his squadron spread themselves on the other side where the Herems and I remain put. Duce Merian, Primus Kelan, and his soldiers stand grouped together.

“Declare your rank,” Okoshere says.

“Primus Kelan of the First Legion.”

Okoshere pardons his intrusion with a primal grunt.

He eyes look to us purebloods. “I have called you here to give you task. The Ice Erus distrusts you, but I believe Urium can be a potential asset. But first I want to test you myself. Easy task.”

He sighs as if he’s bored. “There was an energy surge in the north, in a settlement not too far from here. Nure. I want you, and only you purebloods to surveil and report back. A reconnaissance mission. Easy. For your safety, you can take a squadron of my elite guards. Cergey will take point.”

I look past him to the armed soldiers that escorted us here.

“For what reason?” Primus Kelan questions.

“The reasons are for me to know and for them to follow,” Okoshere says aggressively. “If they complete the task successfully, then I will be reassured that the level of their incompetence is not too high. Even if they succeed, I do not guarantee anything. I need to know if High King falls before Eternal Eclipse. The future Ruler is one that can be possibly reasoned with.”

Duce Merian frees a loud, nervous laugh. “Why would the High King fall?”

A lethal smile curves itself on his face. “No-one knows the plans of fate. Best to be prepared for all alternatives, no?”

“What exactly are we surveilling?” Vince questions.

Okoshere cannot help but to spurn him with an indignant look. “This has been reoccurring even in the last few cycles. Magic wielders trying to exert their power, joining terror faction to do so. A disease that Urium has spread. The people of Nivalis never yield. That is why they are punished.”

Primus Kelan shakes his head with disproval as if the decision lies with him. “So you want them to blindly walk into a potential attack?”

“Not attack,” he denies. “We just received word. “If it were. I would send own soldiers. There is time where soldiers must fight and when they must strategize. I think that is what they are doing now. Planning their next attack. I do not want you to engage. I want them to observe. Find the pattern that we cannot. Something big is at play that we do not see. All these sporadic attacks are not random. They are calculated. Urium is plagued by rising revolts incited by terror factions. It is more than just dissatisfaction of Crown, since it is infecting foreign and sovereign dominions such as us. Unrelated but somehow interconnected.”

“My squadron and I will accompany the convoy.”

“No,” another official refutes. “This is—”

“I was not asking,” Primus’s prevalent voice crushes the other.

“Very well,” Okoshere says. Apathetic to dispute. “The purebloods will need to change into the appropriate attire and be equipped with new arms. Even you and your soldiers, Primus.”

“My sword is sufficient.”

“As is its wielder, I am certain. But since I relay on good intelligence that your weaponry is outdated. You only have metal fibres of Alrosia. Our blades are forged with it entirely. You will likely not need it. But it is best to be prepared.”

Cold air whips my face.

Our blended convoy voyages to Nure. After we left the chamber and geared up, armed with Alrosia blades. We all travel horseback to the location, no carousine or any exclusive treatment of any kind. Nivalis stallions are stalwart and snow resistant, ploughing through laden fields of white with ease.

Everything glints delicately, like pulverised diamond dust. Riding through a sparkling winterscape of white and silver.

The whalebone-white skies are barren. The screeching winds have calmed in sound but preserved its hostility, cutting at the only place where skin is exposed. My face. I am fortified in full body armour, an armour corset made from leather brigandine, a perfect combination of the lightness and the manoeuvrability of leather with the strength of layered plate armour. Paired with leather bracers that protect my forearms and a slender, fur shawl cape draped over my shoulders, light enough to move in but still enough to keep me alive.

The Herems are fortified in dark, tiered armour, the edges lined with silver, their shoulders exaggerated with plated pauldron with matching arm bracers. All breastplates fitted with sword holsters at the back that sheathe our new upgrades. The Avangard wear long furs over their full armour. Primus Kelan starkly stands out, enveloped in a fur black coat.

“Has anyone else grown weary of doing other’s bidding like we are common lowborns?” Brennon asks loudly, from over his shoulder.

Solaris rides beside me. He and I share a knowing look.

“What I like to know is why this bidding?” Treyton adds on. “I could understand the others, even the senseless killings in Sorcia. But this. What does a reconnaissance mission prove? That we are able to observe from a distance and report what we saw?”

“I do not know what plague me more,” Brennon says, casting frequent looks behind him. “Your questions or the fact that we were supposed to carry out this ‘mission’ on our own.”

“Enough,” Markiveus groans from Solaris’s rear. “You should be acquainted with the inevitable dangers by now. Familiar with the absurd requests and challenges that rank from sheer stupidity to unnecessary peril. Because somehow… this ascertains to the High King’s value of worthiness.”

“Were neither of you paying attention?” Solaris asks rhetorically. “He wants to see if we can figure it out. It is strange that terror factions based in Urium founded on their hatred towards the Crown would seek recruitment from people of other dominions that do not share in their plight because they are in a completely different lands, under a different regime than they.”

“Ah, there he is,” Markiveus says scornfully. “The peacekeeper, diplomatic chameleon that speaks for all sides. What will do you next, join them?”

Treyton nods, his head bopping with his torso. “That is exceedingly peculiar. I never knew until then that they would extend their crusade beyond Urium borders. If so, Okoshere is right. It has to do with something more, something larger.”

Passing two neighbouring villages on the way. It takes half a day’s journey until we see snow-topped structures emerge on the horizon. We ride closer and the settlement becomes clear. We all slow our horses to a steady trot as we enter. The moment we do, something in the artic atmosphere just shifts. An unnerving feeling settles.

As we make our way down the vacant path of the ghost town, buildings of stone and wood on our flanks have been destroyed. Roofs are caved in, the walls are shattered like something huge burst through them, debris scattered everywhere. Some of the surfaces have scorch marks seared into them, but in an unnatural way, a way that fire does not move.

The stifling cocoon of silence is slashed by the wail of the wind, a tortured sound of a haunting ghoul.

A nauseating smell rises. Blood. The copper tang invades my nostrils. So much blood.

Primus whips the reins and his stallion leaps into a short gallop ahead. Reinsbure is quick to pursue him.

“Pr—Primus Kelan, what are you doing?” Cergey demands.

He ignores him and yanks his reins towards him. The horse halts. He tears off his coat and chucks it on the saddle without looking as he cautiously moves to the fringes. And only then do I spot a splayed figure at the base of the derelict remains of a staircase.

Reinsbure dismounts and hurries to him.

Primus Kelan squats beside the corpse and examines it briefly.

“The blood is fresh,” he says to Reinsbure. “Whatever happened here was recent. By the extent of the damage done to this settlement, though theirs is considerable. This was no terror faction.”

A realisation strikes him, he snaps to his feet. “Power surge,” he repeats to himself.

“Primus Kelan, we need to leave and report this to the tribunal,” Sergey says, trying to wrangle for authority. “Then can we proceed with a broader assessment.”

Primus Kelan unsheathes his sword furiously, the blade patterned with convoluted symbols. “It is already too late. We rode straight into an ambush.”

On cue. Silhouettes peel out of the darkness, slinking out of doorways.

From beyond and from our rear, shadows swirl, materialising from thin air, they coalesce, solidifying into towering begins made from shadow and metal. Giant blades strapped to their vaporous armour, all crackling with dark energy.

Shadow servants. Servers of the Ulris.

All of us swiftly dismount and rally in a defensive formation. Aelvebore and Avangard united. We all unsheathe our weapons. I rip out my sword, wielding it before me readily.

How is this possible? How have soldiers of the Ulris manage to breach without the Eternal Eclipse to open the threshold for them? If they have breached before time. How far behind is Vilnus?

“Purebloods of the Decuria.” The deep, reverberating voice resounds from all of them at once, as if they are connected in some preternatural way.

The assailants of shadows and metal surround us from all sides.

“I would say it an honour to be the presence of the future Ruler.” Their voice echoing and disquieting. “However, unfortunately for you, it is a future that will never ensue. You have what we want.”

Primus Kelan brandishes his sword in an impressive flourish, undaunted. “And what is that?”

“Your lives!”

One of them fires a bolt of darkness at Kelan, using the sword he slashes it aside and the shadowy blast ruptures a nearby column, sending loose stones flying. Shadows twist out from its palms, preparing for another attack. The other assailants launch into their assault and the sounds of shrieking metal rings out as blades collide. The anthem of war.

A shadowy blast rockets towards my head. I dive into a deft roll to narrowly evade the assault. I leap up to my feet to see a shadow soldier foray its blade in an overhead strike, my own shoots up horizontally to block its assault, his sword greatly dwarfing my own.

I endure his onslaught of rapid attack, its demonic strength and speed overwhelming. Black tendrils lash through my vision—I raise my sword to parry an attack only to have the air in my lungs torn from me as I’m hurled backwards in a bone-jarring velocity, flailing wildly until I land hard on a jagged surface. My back flares with pain, blazing up my spine, drawing out a suffocated gasps from me.

Still clutched onto the grip of the sword, I breathe strenuously. Using a short range of motion, I force myself to stand up. Rubble crunches beneath my boot as I rise from a dilapidated balcony, the railing smashed away.

I peer over the edge. Reinsbure takes on a shadowy assailant, unaware of the other prowling at his rear. I vault over the severed railing, descending rapidly, I lift the sword above my head with a roar. I plunge the blade and it spears through him as it explodes into a tempest of smouldering black dust.

Zipping right through it, I land on the ground, one leg bent with the sword firmly planted in front of me.

I raise my head to see the black dust evaporate like morning mist, ash carried away by the winds. I spurt to both feet. A fresh burst of black dust falls around Reinsbure as he gawks at me wide-eyed.

Before words can be traded. We are separated, swallowed by the masses of shadows. I exchange a flurry of blows with two attackers. I strongly parry its assault and slash at its front before it implodes into nothingness. I repeat the feat several times over. But it does not matter how many times I triumph, more seem to emerge, threatening to overwhelm my vision.

“There are too many of them!” Brennon shouts frantically.

Truly? I had not noticed.

An Avangard soldier swoops in front of him and slays the shadows as they come.

Not far from me. Primus Kelan flows gracefully from strength to strength, swinging his blade in quick, powerful arcs. He fells shadow after shadow.

Vince and a shadow soldier yell twin howls as they lunge forward, clashing with a clang of their weapons.

Something is incalculably amiss.

My head whisks as I watch Solaris slice at an assailant. He misses. As a consequence, he’s blasted several meters into the air, crashing into a pile of crates. He scrambles out, blood trickling down his temple. He shakes off his pain and dashes right back into the fray.

Shadows pour out of a solider as it drills into the ground like rushing tree roots, causing the ground to quake violently before an inescapable force lashes out and the impact launches a group of Aelvebore guards off their feet.

Suddenly I stagger aside as I’m jerked to the left. Tendrils for shadow shoot at me unavoidably, binding around my wrists. I roughly tug my wrists away, but it is locked in a palpable snare.

A mace cleaves into the side its full-face helmet. Suddenly the tendrils burst into sparking black dusts, freeing me. Treyton timely catches his mace before it can drop to the ground.

“A planned ambush,” he says, panting loudly. “How did they know we would come?”

“How did they know where we will be?” I say back.

We swap meaningful looks. Then we split off.

An assailant breaks into a sprint towards me, a wreath of dark energy flowing from its gauntleted hands up both arms. My boots devour the remaining distance.

This is all wrong. Impossible. Ulris soldiers can only use shadow magic, not dark energy.

I propel myself into the air, flipping over as I land nimbly on both feet. I spin around to run the blade through it—it explodes into obscurity.

Before I can draw my next breath. An inexorable force collides into me, sending me spiralling into the air in a speed too fast to even comprehend. My body smashes into a wooden wall and collapsed planks topple all over me, burying me under their heft. Every part of me screams with bottomless agony. Snivelling, smothering a cry. I squirm, a stabbing ache ravages my body.

I try to lift a finger—even that is too laborious. I release a painful holler as I heave myself up—pain stunting the simplest movement as I have to ram through the heft. At full standing, my legs are unsteady, stricken by a spell of light-headedness. Fuzzy dots flit in and out of my vision. Pain is like a sharp-toothed creature gnawing and gorging me from the inside.

I stumble out of the large hole in the side of the building.

Every bone in my body should be nothing but fragments.

Then I realise my hand is empty. I swiftly survey the battle that furies around me, swarms of black drowning any other colour. My weapon nowhere to be found. The ordinary daggers strapped to my thighs are woefully useless.

Air whooshes out of me—struck to the ground, electrifying pain weaves itself up my back. Primus Kelan is braced on top of me, his hands bolted on either side of my shoulders. A heart-wrenching howl of pain emanates from him, his face enflamed, veins bursting through his forehead and neck. He peels off me, collapsing to the ground, writhing in excruciating agony that the sight alone is tormenting to watch.

“Kelan… Kelan!” I search him frantically for any visible wounds. Pain sheets through him with traumatising intensity. He suddenly sags, his head lolls to the side, rendered unconscious.

I whip my head to glare off my shoulder at his attacker with billowing tendrils seeping from it; the tips crackling with sparks of fire. Rage churns within me, heating my blood. A supernova of power pushes itself out into the surrounding air, the air ripples with heat. An effusion of light energy releasing.

I arise.

Inexplicable power floods me, scorching. A blinding golden glow consumes my eyes. Something breaks, setting something free as uncontrollable energy implodes within me, running rampant.

The assailant’s arms wreathed in smouldering shadows. He aims them at me, the onrushing darkness merges together like a funnel gushing at me formidably. I cross my arms in front of my face and a bursting, pulsing force field absorbs the eruption.

My arms lower to my sides, the attack rendered futile.

My turn.

I shoot out my arms, fingers sprawled as torrents blast out of my palms, jets of gold assail the shadow soldier. He crouches, hiding behind his own conjured shield. The power in me only mounts, intoxicating—unstoppable—and I do not want to stop it. A might of a hundred suns erupts within as I channel currents of energy. It shatters its shield, penetrating him. The shadow’s eyes burst with golden light before it disintegrates.

Eyes aglow, I glance at the tattoos exposed on my palms, the bindings burnt away like they were never there to begin with. The tattoos ignited, filled with a brilliant luminescence. I look up at the swarms of black that have set me as their target. They know what I am now.

“Sagetai.” The thunderous voice of one, bellowing from them all in unison as they rampage towards me like a black hailstorm of armed spectres.

Exploiting the cascade of power. I unleash a deadly barrage that seethes into a blinding superstorm, the surge of light consumes them all, eviscerating them as they all explode into a golden oblivion like fireworks.

Once the brilliance thaws, leaving wisps of floating gold. Black cleansed away. Injured soldiers of both Aelvebore and Avangard gawk at me with absolute shock, a meld of terror and revere. I falter at the sudden drain of verve, the light in my eyes dissipating. The Avangard soldiers move hastily to their unconscious commander. Before can I join them. I am brought to a harrowing halt.

A smell of burnt fresh and fresh blood.

I whirl around to see the Herems congregated around someone.

“Solaris!” Markiveus screams his name fretfully.

I flash into run, streaking across. I shove aside the hunched over Herems to see Solaris sprawled on the ground, his mouth pooling with blood. The side of his armour is completely burnt through, revealing a dreadful, life-threatening wound, his flesh charred off, his sopping insides dangerously exposed.

His chest heaves, rising and falling erratically, letting out strangled sounds of pain.

I plummet to my knees beside him. “Get help… now, someone help him!” My screech sounds like an incensed banshee. Tears searing behind my eyes. My own physical pain muted by emotion upheaval.

I skim over the Herem’s faces that are veiled with a sorrowful look of grim certainty.

A feeble, trembling hand grips my wrist. My eyes snap to Solaris.

“Is—okay,” he splutters, blood spitting from his mouth. The same hand retracts tremulously as he reaches for something in his pocket. He takes my hand and plants something wet and smooth inside of it.

“Survive—reign.” He throws his head back quickly. “Uritus—” his quivering finger points at my chest, “within you.” His voice strangled like the cords of the grave have tautened around his throat.

His hand falls away to show the soul of the seven seas in my palm, its turquoise coat blotched with his blood. I reunite with his gaze and there is something alarmingly calm and accepting in them. A tear leaks from one eye.

“Always—been you.”

His eyes glaze over; glossy and fixed. His quavering frame becomes horrifyingly still.

His hollow eyes stare off into nothingness.

“Solaris.…”

I nudge his hand. I pick it up, limp and heavy in my grasp. “Solaris, no. You are not going anywhere. You have a throne to win, one you solely deserve, and you have my sister to make happy. Do not give up on your wonderful plans. Do not leave me, please—I can survive much but not losing you. Answer me.”

I stare into his eyes pleadingly, waiting for a response that will never come.

“Solaris, this is not how you perish!”

“This is your doing,” Markiveus breaths behind me. “You murdered him, just as you slew the others,” he roars.

I pivot to look up at him. He glowers down at me with immeasurable revulsion.

“It was supposed to be me!” Spittle flies from his mouth, splattering on my forehead. “He used his body as a shield to protect me from whatever evil, monstrosity bursted out of you, you abomination!” His turn glassy. “He saved my life! Me! I who has only shown him contempt, and he repaid me with eternal kindness, sacrificing his own life and for what!”

Treyton locks onto him and drags him away as he thrashes in his siege.

“You killed him! You are the monster!” he spews wrathfully. “You deserve to burn!”

I fix my attention on Solaris, my breathes barely escaping. I lean forward and gently close his eyes. And then only does the world-shattering reckoning of his death ruptures through me. Every physical pain I have ever felt in my life, every lash, wound, combines in this moment thundering through me in one instant, like a blaze of lightening tearing through me, shredding my insides.

A great sob wrings from my core.

“Sola—” I choke on his name.

Vince quietly takes a knee beside me and he sets his sword before him, forehead resting against the hilt. Brennon follows along with a few other Avangard soldiers that emulate them in a unified display of respect, to honour the fallen Herem. All besieged by a mournful moment of silence.

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