Yet, as quickly as pride bloomed, worry seeped in like ink through water, darkening her thoughts.Guwayne was only fifteen, thrust into the jaws of battle far too young.The script spoke of wounds—minor, Harlan assured, but wounds nonetheless.What if the breach had been larger?What if more beasts had poured through?She had sent him on what was meant to be a training exercise, a chance to build confidence away from the court's stifling gaze, not a life-or-death struggle.Memories flooded her: Guwayne as a babe in her arms during the exile, his tiny fists clutching her gown; as a child, wide-eyed at tales of the Blood Lord; as a youth, restless in the training grounds, yearning for purpose.She had wanted to shield him from the world's cruelties a while longer, to let him grow in peace.But peace, it seemed, was a fragile illusion, shattered by cracks in the Shield and horrors from beyond.And she also knew that peace was the last thing he craved.How could you prove yourself on the training ground?
Gwendolyn rolled the scroll tightly, her knuckles whitening."Send a reply," she instructed Lireal."Commend Sir Harlan and the defenders.Order Guwayne to return at once—his valor is noted, but the court needs him safe."Lireal nodded and hurried off, leaving Gwendolyn to gaze northward.No word from Thorgrin yet.Three days without a raven, without a sign.Her hand rested on her abdomen, a habitual gesture from years past, though no child grew there now.Worry for her husband gnawed at her—his druidic powers were vast, his company skilled, but the northern wastes held mysteries even he might not foresee.
Especially now.She couldn't put her finger on what it was that gnawed at her, but she had a feeling of unease.That somehow the world had shifted on its axis.
By midday, news of Guwayne's heroics had spread through King's Court like wildfire through dry grass.Ravens and riders carried the tale to every corner of the Ring.In taverns, bards wove hasty songs of the "Prince's Stand," their lutes strumming tales of a golden-haired heir who turned apprentices into warriors, his sword flashing like the Destiny Sword of old.Merchants whispered of it over their ledgers, villagers toasted it with ale, and even the nobles—in their opulent halls—murmured approvals dripping with envy."The blood of Thorgrin and Gwendolyn runs true," they said, though some voices, quieter and more insidious, added, "But is he ready to lead, or just a boy playing at hero?"
Gwendolyn felt the shift in the air as she descended to the great hall for court.The chamber, vast and echoing, was adorned with tapestries depicting the Ring's triumphs: the restoration of the Shield, the Day of Seven Weddings, the defeat of the Blood Lord.Crimson and gold banners hung from the rafters, and the long oak table groaned under the weight of maps, parchments, and goblets of spiced wine.The council assembled swiftly—Godfrey with his thoughtful gaze that had become as much a feature as the slovenly, fun loving one of old, Aberthol poring over ancient tomes, Steffen standing rigid by the doors, and a cadre of nobles whose faces betrayed a mix of relief and calculation.Whispers filled the room, eyes turning to her with newfound respect for the queen who had borne such a valiant heir.
She took her seat at the head, her poise unbroken, though her mind churned with dual emotions: pride in Guwayne's feat, worry for his safety and Thorgrin's silence."The Ring endures," she began, her voice resonant and commanding."Word from Eldridge Keep confirms the breach has been contained, thanks to the bravery of our defenders—and our prince."A murmur of approval rippled through the hall, fists thumping tables in salute.Godfrey raised a goblet, his eyes twinkling."To Guwayne, the shield of the east!"
But celebration was brief; the kingdom's response to the monster attacks demanded focus.Reports flooded in: another small breach near the western bridges, beasts slain by Kendrick's patrols but not without casualties—two knights dead, villages evacuated.Livestock vanished in the night, fields scorched by venomous trails, and fear spread like a plague.Gwendolyn leaned over the maps, her strategic mind dissecting the patterns."The breaches are erratic," she noted, tracing lines with a quill."North, east, west—no logic, but each heals swiftly.We must assume more will come.Double the patrols along the Canyon—every bridge, every outpost.Arm the villages; train able-bodied folk in basic defenses.Steffen, coordinate supply lines: food, weapons, healers to the borders."
Steffen saluted, his hunchbacked form belying his iron resolve."It shall be done, my Queen.The Silver stands ready; we'll forge civilian militias where needed."
Aberthol cleared his throat, his ancient voice crackling like dry leaves."The archives yield clues, Your Majesty.Ancient texts speak of 'primordial stirrings'—forces bound beneath the earth, weakening barriers like our Shield.Tied to tremors, perhaps.If the King's expedition uncovers the source..."
Gwendolyn's gaze flicked northward again, anxiety tightening her chest.Thorgrin's silence weighed on her like an unseen chain.What perils had he encountered in the wastes?Her son’s visions haunted her: her husband engulfed by shadows.She pushed them aside, focusing on the council."Until word arrives, we prepare for the worst.Godfrey, quell the rumors, the news is bad enough without loose tongues adding to it with falsehoods and exaggerations fueling the fires—organize gatherings in the squares, tales of our victories to bolster spirits.No panic; unity is our strength."
As evening fell, casting long shadows across the hall, a knock echoed—urgent, insistent.Steffen ushered in Sir Kellan, captain of the Shield Guard, a towering man with a face like chiseled granite and armor etched with the Canyon's motif.Flanking him were two of his lieutenants, their expressions grim."My Queen," Kellan said, kneeling briefly before rising."We bring reports from the borders—and beyond."
Gwendolyn gestured for them to approach the table, her council lingering at her nod."Speak plainly, Sir Kellan.What news?"
Kellan's voice was low, measured, like a man delivering ill tidings."The patrols hold, Majesty.Three more breaches contained—beasts fewer each time, but cunning.Venom that corrodes steel, hides like stone.We've lost good men, but the lines stand."He paused, glancing at his lieutenants."But it's the unrest among the nobles that troubles us most.Scouts report unusual movements: riders from House Aldrich meeting in hidden glens, missives exchanged under cover of night with House Varis and Elowen.Lord Garrick's Highland forts stockpile arms beyond patrol needs.Baron Holt's caravans detour from trade routes, carrying not goods, but cloaked figures."
The hall fell silent, the weight of his words settling like dust after a storm.Gwendolyn's mind raced, piecing together fragments.Was this driven by what was happening with the Shield.Was it intrinsically linked, or merely opportunistic?Or were they born of the same devilish seed?
Her worry for Thorgrin mingled with a new dread—a conspiracy brewing within the Ring's very heart.These houses, ancient and proud, had chafed under Thorgrin's reforms: lands redistributed, commoners elevated, their monopolies broken.Now, with breaches sowing chaos and the king absent, opportunity beckoned.But evidence?Shadows and suspicions, nothing concrete—no intercepted letters, no confessed spies.
She leaned forward, her eyes sharp as daggers."Unrest, or treason?"she asked, her voice steady, edged with steel.
Kellan shook his head."Unclear, Majesty.No overt acts—yet.But the patterns...they echo the old intrigues before Andronicus's fall.We need eyes inside their halls, but acting without proof risks fracturing the court further."He shifted on his feet, showing rare unease.“I hope I am not speaking out of turn Your Majesty, but I thought you should know.”
"No, you did well to warn me, Sir Kellan."
Her eyes went around the chamber.Her pride in Guwayne's heroism is now tempered by this new, internal threat.Worry for her son deepened—he had defended the realm from beasts, but what of daggers in the dark?And Thorgrin...gods, send word soon.She sensed the conspiracy's tendrils, coiling like serpents in the shadows, but without evidence, her hands were tied.To accuse prematurely could ignite division; though to wait might invite disaster.
"Double the watch on those houses," she commanded."Discreetly.Gather what you can—witnesses, documents.The Ring faces enemies without and, perhaps, within.We will not falter."
As Kellan and his men departed, Gwendolyn stood alone by the window, gazing into the gathering dusk.Pride and worry warred within her, the kingdom's fate balanced on a knife's edge.
CHAPTER TEN
The gates of King's Court swung open with a resonant groan, admitting Guwayne and his weary troop amid a fanfare of trumpets that pierced the late afternoon haze.The city, still reeling from the festival's abrupt end and the shadow of recent breaches, erupted in cheers that rolled like thunder through the cobblestone streets.Banners of crimson and gold, hastily repurposed from the celebrations, fluttered from every turret and balcony, emblazoned with the MacGil crest and fresh additions: hasty sketches of a young warrior wielding a glowing ring against monstrous shadows.Word of the "Prince's Stand" at Eldridge Keep had preceded them by ravens and riders, transforming rumor into legend overnight.Merchants paused their bartering to applaud, children waved makeshift flags torn from festival ribbons, and even the grizzled guards on the walls saluted with fists to their chests.
The canceling of the festivities had left a vacuum, a vacuum that had been filled by the growing unease caused by the talk filtering into King’s Court about the repeated breaches of the Shield.People were glad to cling to anything that would make them feel proud, safe once again.It was far better to celebrate a hero than tremble at an onrushing beast.
Guwayne rode at the head, his horse stepping proudly despite the mud-caked flanks and the rider's own exhaustion.His training leathers were torn and stained with blood and filth, a makeshift bandage wrapping his shoulder where a beast's claw had grazed him.Lila rode to his left, her bow slung across her back, a weary but triumphant grin splitting her freckled face.Marcus lumbered beside her on a sturdy destrier, bruised but unbroken, while Toren and the others followed in a loose formation, their faces flushed with the afterglow of their ordeal and the surprise at what had awaited them on their return.The crowd's adulation washed over them like a tide—cries of "Prince Guwayne!Hero of the East!"and "The Ring's true shield!"—but to Guwayne, it felt like a weight pressing down, heavier than any armor.
He managed a wave, his stormy gray eyes scanning the throngs with a forced smile.Inside, turmoil churned.This fame was unearned, a fleeting spark compared to his father's eternal flame.Thorgrin had slain dragons, toppled empires, restored the very Shield that now faltered.What was one skirmish against beasts, no matter how desperate, against such deeds?The Sorcerer's Ring on his finger pulsed faintly, as if echoing his doubts, its runes warming against his skin.He had led his friends to victory, yes, but only because fear had left him no choice.
And it had not been fear of the beasts, but fear of doing nothing, or worse of running and proving once and for all he was not fit to carry his parents' name and legacy.Now, returning as a "hero," the expectations loomed larger than ever—whispers of him as the future king, the one to carry the legacy forward.How could he, when he still felt like a boy playing at swords in the shadow of gods?
He had thought proving himself in battle would make him feel better, would assuage his doubts, but if anything, they had only made them worse.Or rather, the reception and reaction had.
The procession wound through the main square, where bards had already composed ballads.One, a lanky man with a lute strung with silver threads, strummed a hasty tune: "From the breach they came, with claws of night, but young Guwayne stood firm, his ring alight!With friends at side, they turned the tide, the prince's stand, the Ring's new pride!"The crowd sang along, their voices swelling, but Guwayne's cheeks burned.Marcus leaned over from his mount, his eyes twinkling with mischief."Enjoy it, princeling.Tomorrow they'll forget and go back to complaining about taxes."Guwayne chuckled weakly, but the jest did little to ease the knot in his gut.Fame was a double-edged blade—sharp with glory, but cutting deep with the fear of falling short.
As they reached the castle steps, Queen Gwendolyn awaited, regal in her embroidered gown.Her eyes, sharp and knowing, softened at the sight of her son.Beside her stood the council remnants: Godfrey, Aberthol, and Steffen.Gwendolyn descended the steps with graceful urgency, embracing Guwayne as he dismounted.Her arms were strong, her scent of lavender a comfort from childhood."My son," she murmured, pulling back to inspect his wounds."You've returned a hero, but gods, you look half-dead.Come inside—let the healers tend you."
