Aldrich waited until all were settled, the chamber’s gloom wrapping them like a shroud.The candles flickered, casting their faces in grotesque relief—Varis’s scowl, Elowen’s predatory calm, Garrick’s fury, Holt’s sly calculation.Shadows pooled in the hollows of their cheeks, making them appear almost spectral, conspirators bound by a shared hunger for power and the pain of betrayal.Aldrich leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to draw the darkness closer."Brothers and sister in blood," he began, "we gather not in fear, but in resolve.For fifteen years, we have endured the rule of an outsider—a shepherd's son who dares claim a druidic throne.Thorgrin, they call him King.I call him usurper."
Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table, the air growing heavier with their shared venom.Varis slammed his goblet down, wine sloshing onto the maps.“Aye!He marries our Queen, sires an heir, and remakes the Ring in his image.My vineyards—my family’s for generations—now shared with filthy farmers who know as much about viticulture as I do needlecraft!His ‘equality’ is theft!”
Elowen’s fingers traced her raven pendant, her eyes glinting.“And his policies?This ‘unity’ he preaches dilutes our bloodlines.Southern Islanders in our courts, druidic mysticism over sacred rites.My spies, once the crown’s eyes, are branded traitors.The Queen, once our hope and beacon, is blinded by love for this upstart.”
Garrick’s scarred face twisted, his fist clenching.“He weakens our armies!Peace pacts with the Empire’s remnants, no conquests to expand our borders.The Silver fills with commoners, while true warriors like my kin rot in obscurity.And now, the Shield cracks—his sorcery fails, and he rides off, leaving us to face beasts!If they overrun us, his name will be cursed!”
Holt’s thin smile widened, his voice dripping with venom.“Economically, it’s ruin.Trade monopolies shattered, taxes funneled to ‘public works.’My caravans compete with royal fleets, profits halved.His heir, Guwayne—pampered, untested—will inherit this travesty.The outsider drags us all down to his level.”
Aldrich let their grievances spill, each word fueling the fire of their dissent.The chamber seemed to pulse with their collective rage, the walls absorbing their words like silent conspirators.“Precisely,” he said at last, his voice cutting through the din.“Thorgrin’s absence is the gods’ gift.While he chases breaches north, we position ourselves.The people fear; we offer stability—the old ways, noble rule untainted by common blood.”
Varis grunted, wiping wine from his beard.“But how?The Queen holds the throne firmly, her council loyal.”
Elowen’s eyes sparkled with malice.“Subtly.Spread whispers—link the breaches to Thorgrin’s foreign magic.Rally lesser lords to our cause.My networks, though diminished, still whisper in the shadows.”
Garrick cracked his knuckles, the sound like breaking bones.“And if words fail, steel.My men are loyal; a show of force at the right moment could sway the wavering.”
Holt leaned in, his fingers tapping a ledger.“Finance it wisely.Bribes to guards, merchants, even priests.Undermine from within, weaken the roots.”
Aldrich raised a hand, silencing them.His flinty eyes swept the group, ensuring their commitment.“We are not alone in this.For moons, I have corresponded secretly with contacts beyond the Ring—discontented elements in the Empire’s fringes, old allies in the Wilds who chafe under the Shield’s shadow.We are far from alone.Our numbers will surprise even you.”
The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in like a blade.Varis’s eyes widened, his goblet frozen halfway to his lips.“You mean… treason?”
Aldrich’s smile was cold as the stone around them.“Opportunity.The conspiracy is already in motion.When the Shield falters further—and it will—we strike, reclaiming the Ring for true blood.”
The nobles exchanged glances, a volatile mix of excitement and trepidation flickering in their eyes.The chamber's shadows seemed to deepen, as if the walls themselves listened.Aldrich leaned back, satisfied.The seeds were sown; the harvest would be revolution.And power.
CHAPTER SIX
The eastern plains unfurled before Guwayne like a tapestry of green and gold, the morning sun gilding the grasslands that stretched toward the distant Canyon.A crisp breeze carried the scent of wildflowers, damp earth, and the faint tang of river water, tugging at his hair as he rode at the head of his training troop.They crested a gentle hill, the rhythmic clop of hooves mingling with the chatter of his comrades, and there, rising from a cluster of ancient oaks, stood Eldridge Keep—a weathered stone fort perched on a rocky outcrop where the plains met the riverlands.Beyond it, the Canyon’s misty depths carved a jagged scar across the horizon, the Shield’s ethereal shimmer a faint promise of protection under the dawn haze.King’s Court, with its towering spires and festival revelry, lay two days’ ride behind, its grandeur a distant memory in this raw, open country.
Gwendolyn’s orders had come swiftly after the containment of the second Shield breach—a fleeting crack near the river, through which a handful of goblin-like creatures with barbed tails and venomous hides had slipped before the barrier had once again sealed itself.The news had sent ripples of unease through the court, but the threat was swiftly neutralized by patrols, leaving only whispers of panic among the nearby villages.Guwayne had stood before his mother in the council chamber, the weight of the Sorcerer's Ring heavy on his finger, as she delivered her charge."The people need strength," she had said, her blue silk gown proudly embroidered with the MacGil crest that gleamed in the torchlight.“Lead your troop to Eldridge Keep.Conduct maneuvers—scouting, formations, shows of force.Show the people of this land that we stand firm.”Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed a mother’s worry, a flicker of fear for the son she was sending beyond the safety of the capital’s walls.Guwayne had nodded, a spark of excitement igniting despite the lingering sting of being left behind on the real mission with his father, riding north to face an unknown peril.
This was no grand quest like his father’s, but it was command—his first true taste of leadership beyond the training grounds’ wooden swords.The ring, its black band etched with pulsing runes, seemed to hum with approval as he rode, a reminder of the destiny he both craved and feared.In King’s Court, he was the heir, forever measured against his parents’ legendary deeds, but here, among his troop, he was simply Guwayne—their leader, their friend.It was the only place he felt at ease.The only place he felt he could be himself, not the person he knew deep down everyone wanted him to be.
His troop numbered a dozen, all Legion apprentices chosen for their skills and camaraderie.Lila rode to his left, her fiery red hair tied in a practical braid, her green eyes scanning the terrain with an archer’s precision. She was deadly with a bow, her freckled face splitting into a grin when she outshot her peers or landed a sharp quip.Marcus, broad-shouldered and boisterous, guided the supply wagon behind, his booming laugh a beacon for the younger recruits.His chestnut curls bounced as he teased them, his strength evident in the ease with which he hefted crates.Toren, the quiet tactician, scouted ahead on a lean mare, his dark eyes and close-cropped hair giving him a hawk-like alertness.The others filled the ranks: Elias, the healer-in-training with a gentle demeanor and deft hands; Sera, the nimble scout who could vanish into shadows; Kael, a wiry fourteen-year-old with boundless energy; and a handful of other young apprentices, their chatter a lively hum against the plains’ quiet.
Guwayne thrived in their midst, the court’s expectations fading like morning mist.They teased him about his “princely” swordsmanship, challenged him to races across open fields, and shared stories without the stifling deference of courtiers.Unbeknownst to him, he mirrored his father’s youth—the shepherd boy who found purpose in the Legion’s brotherhood, forging bonds through shared trials.Guwayne, born to royalty, sought that same connection, blind to the irony.The ring pulsed faintly, as if sensing his ease, its runes catching the sunlight in fleeting glimmers.
Eldridge Keep grew sharper as they approached, its granite walls weathered by centuries of wind and war, rising from gnarled oaks like a sentinel guarding the river’s bend.The fort was modest—a gatehouse flanked by two low towers, with a courtyard, barracks, and armory within—but its elevated position offered a sweeping view of the eastern Canyon, where the Shield’s glow flickered on clear days and nights.A skeleton crew of veteran guards, their silver armor dulled by years of quiet duty, manned the ramparts.The gates creaked open, and Sir Harlan, the outpost commander, greeted them with a bow.His face, like weathered leather, bore scars from battles alongside Thorgrin, his gray beard framing a warm but wary smile.
“Prince Guwayne,” Harlan said, his voice rough as gravel.“Her Majesty sent word.The keep is yours for the exercises.The recent disturbance—those creatures—are contained.No further trouble reported.”
Guwayne dismounted, his boots sinking into the soft earth, the scent of oak and the nearby river filling his lungs."Thank you, Sir Harlan.We'll drill here for three days—scouting, formations, mock defenses.Your men are welcome to join."
Harlan’s eyes crinkled with approval, seeing so much of the prince’s father in the apprentice standing in front of him.“As you command, my lord.The plains are yours.”
The troop settled in with practiced efficiency, unpacking gear in the stone-walled barracks, where the air was cool and smelled of straw and old leather.Horses were stabled in the yard, their whinnies mingling with the river’s murmur.Guwayne oversaw it all, assigning tasks with a confidence that surprised him.
It wasn’t just him who felt the pride coursing through his veins.It was the first time any of them had been on an expedition without members of the Legion of Silver leading them, telling them what to do.Each felt this was the first and greatest step to becoming a noble warrior.
Lila set up archery ranges, challenging anyone to take her on.Marcus stacked provisions in the armory, joking about eating the entire stockpile.Toren pored over maps in the command room—a cramped chamber with a single high window, its stone walls etched with the faded names of previous recruits and guards—plotting patrol routes with a quill.By midmorning, the exercises began on the grassy expanse beyond the keep, dotted with wildflowers and bordered by the river’s gentle curve.
“Form up!”Guwayne shouted, his voice carrying over the field.The apprentices snapped into a phalanx, shields raised in a tight wall, their wooden swords gleaming with polish.Guwayne paced before them, his training blade in hand, demonstrating a thrust-parry sequence with fluid grace that echoed Thorgrin’s battlefield prowess.“The Shield protects, but it is us who defend,” he called.“This is our greatest weapon.For defense and attack.”He tapped his temple with his finger.”
The drills were rigorous: shield walls advancing in lockstep, arrows thudding into straw targets, cavalry charges simulated on foot with spirited shouts.Guwayne moved among them, correcting Elias’s shield angle, praising Sera’s stealthy flank, his gray eyes alight with focus.He was in his element, leading not from a dais but from the dirt, sweat mingling with his comrades’.Lila’s arrows split targets with precision, earning nods from the veteran guards, while Marcus’s laughter rallied the group, his strength hauling Kael to his feet after a stumble. Guwayne sparred with Elias, disarming him with a deft twist that sparked cheers, then spent patient minutes refining the boy’s grip.
As noon passed, the drills’ discipline softened, youthful energy blurring the line between exercise and play.A flanking maneuver turned into shield-tag, recruits dodging and weaving across the field, their laughter ringing like bells.Lila challenged Marcus to an archery contest, betting a week’s camp duties on splitting a distant apple.His shot grazed it; her shattered it into pulp, prompting mock outrage and a playful shove.Toren, usually reserved, joined a wrestling circle, his tactical mind turning grapples into lessons on leverage, his rare smile drawing cheers.Kael, the youngest, wielded a wooden sword with exaggerated bravado, charging a straw dummy as if it were a dragon.
