Chapter 5; The Wreath

THRYSTAN

While Elaria diligently exchanged her muddy boots, I took it upon myself to shed the sweat-soaked shirt I had worn while dancing in the wind with Daelan. I opted for something more regal, a wardrobe transformation echoing the taste of my father-something he would not just approve but adore.

I slipped into a refined ensemble: a cream-colored inner shirt paired with a knee-length black coat adorned with intricate gold trinkets along the edges. The coat, deliberately split open, showcased the inner shirt. A brown belt cinched my waist, complementing the sleek black pants that gracefully met a cleaner pair of boots.

Presenting myself in the hallway, I found Elaria standing before the colossal oak doors of the throne room. She fidgeted and twisted, her hand meticulously arranging her hair in the most perfect manner possible.

"Ease up a bit," I mumble from the shadows, jolting her so much that she drives a punch straight into my gut. Her swift strikes are irritatingly effortless, and woe betide any man who falls for her only to betray her. Elaria is a force to reckon with, especially when she tightens her grip on your breath. A Diremage-that's what she is. Rare, lethal, and captivating.

"I wouldn't have to if Father stopped sizing me up to you," she retorts, rolling her eyes and patting her dark mane of hair.

"Father measures you to me?" I respond, intrigued. It's a revelation. I had almost considered myself nothing more than a pawn in his game-a spare being managed until I produce an heir he can mold to his whims. If he survives that long, that is.

"Oh, spare me the lecture and don't pretend you're not relishing this moment."

"That Father is shaping you in my image?" I grin devilishly, my right hand adorned with regal princely rings waving through the air. "It does give me a certain thrill." I pivot to gaze at her, capturing a fleeting smile on her face before it vanishes like a fleeting shadow. "Out of sheer curiosity-what exactly are you to model?"

The doors swing open, sparing her from the need to respond. Not that she would've answered anyway. In more ways than one, Elaria is more akin to Father than she realizes. Cold, unyielding eyes with a trace of softness, lips pressed in a deep line, and brows eternally furrowed, much like his.

Any Vakythian civilian wouldn't contest that she inherited striking features from Father. While she claimed his straight, raven-dark hair, I possessed Mother's soft dark curls and her eyes-those sweet, calm blue eyes. Father's, on the other hand, were dark, darker than the night itself.

Entering the room with Elaria by my side, I survey the occupants of the dining table. Father presides at the head, Mother by his side, and Uncle Morwin seated at the opposite far end. Two vacant chairs await us, Elaria and me- and an extra one for Nerys. I settle into the seat next to Father, opposite Mother, while Elaria takes her place at my side.

"Good evening, Father, Mother..." I gaze down the table. "Uncle."

My uncle's icy gaze fixes on me, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "Evening, Thrystan." His dark mane of hair, reminiscent of Father's, is sprinkled with strands of silver. I always found it intriguing, and Mother claimed his hair had always carried that touch of silver.

"A bit late for dinner, I must say," Mother's voice resonates in the expansive space, scolding both Elaria and me. At least there's warmth in her tone.

"Tardiness is unacceptable for royalty. Wasn't that drilled into you at finishing school, Elaria?" Father narrows his eyes at my sister, and I sense her flinch beside me.

"I- I had a bit of trouble with my hair," she stammers.

Servants flood the room, carrying trays laden with an array of dishes - roasted chicken, pork, lettuce, beans, all the culinary delights. Yet, the only sensation in my stomach is one of repulsion. A nauseating feeling, fueled by the distaste for how Father consistently addresses Elaria, treating her like an inconvenience.

Father was like that with me too. His manner of speaking and addressing me where rough and remained unchanged until Nerys died, and I became his sole hope.

"Don't be late again," the king grumbles through gritted teeth, then picks up his knife and fork, stabbing at a lobster with a sense of restrained anger.

My boot playfully nudges Elaria's leg, and she glances at me from the corners of her eyes. Even through the tear-clouded gaze, she's holding back a sob-such strength in her vulnerability.

Beyond my physical prowess, I can't help but think Elaria is the stronger of us.

"Race you to the hot springs after dinner," I whisper, a mischievous grin dancing on my lips. She snorts in response. The table buzzes with the clatter of everyone filling their plates and indulging their appetites, offering the perfect cover for our private banter. Father and Uncle are deeply engrossed in political discussions, matters I should be attending to as the future king and ruler of Vakythia, but damn, that.

"Naked," she grimaces, a look of disdain twisting her lips. The springs—once a favored escape during my younger years. Nerys and I would sneak there under the cloak of night, reveling in the warmth of the natural tubs, our powers competing to create the most steam.

"No, not naked. I'd rather not expose my royal jewels to the entire palace," I reply, a hint of amusement lacing my words.

Elaria rolls her eyes. "We wouldn't want to blind the court with such dazzling gems, now would we? Modesty, dear sibling, modesty."

"You're not taking this seriously because you're my sister. You should see the ladies—"

"Thrystan," Father's voice cuts through our banter, drawing my attention. I freeze, my hand hovering awkwardly over my plate, meat suspended from the fork. His proximity is uncomfortable, suffocating. "How are your trainings with Brax? A king must know how to wield a sword."

The same mundane conversation, repeated ad nauseam. There's never been a father-son bond between us—just a king addressing his heir. Endless lectures on politics and ruling with an iron fist.

"Brax is a competent teacher," I mutter, my tone flat.

Mother interjects, delicate fingers playing with the jewels adorning her neck. "I just hope he's not pushing you too hard, dear, or that you're engaging in anything too strenuous."

She has no idea. The Wreath doesn't discriminate—it toughens you up, whether you're battered and worn or finely shaped.

"Just the essentials," the lie rolls off my tongue effortlessly.

"Thrystan is a capable young man," Uncle Morwin chimes in, his hand brushing against the scar on his face. "And I'm sure he's quite capable of handling himself." His gaze lingers on me expectantly.

I hesitate, my throat tightening. "Right."

"Talk of the plague has reached Ketel," Father declares to Uncle, shifting the topic to more pressing matters. "We need to act swiftly to contain it."

"The physicians are working on a cure, are they not?" Mother's concern is evident. "Cidron save us, let it not reach the capital."

The Plague—a euphemism for the demon-infested curse ravaging the land. White spirits emerge from the Mossy Woods each evening, claiming souls with each appearance.

"I'm recruiting soldiers to protect the villagers," Uncle announces, setting down his fork with a resolute clang.

"Soldiers can't stop spirits," I interject, frustration seeping into my voice. "You're leading them to their deaths."

"And what do you propose we do? Nothing?" Uncle's tone is sharp, his gaze piercing. "As the future King of Vakythia, you should have some suggestions."

I can't tell if he's mocking me or not, but Father's eyes are on me now, along with the entire table's. Elaria's dark eyes remain unwavering.

"We could try to figure out why they're targeting the village," I suggest, struggling to maintain composure.

"And how do you intend to communicate with spirits you can't even feel?" Uncle's chuckle is mirthless. "Your son amuses me, Brother."

My grip tightens on my fork, anger simmering beneath the surface. I need to stay calm—don't be rude. But the anger bubbles inside me, threatening to spill over. I drop my fork slowly, opting for silence.

"Thrystan is just tired. He sparred with Daelan at the Dragon's Spire today," Elaria offers, nudging me under the table. A subtle reminder to keep quiet.

The rest of dinner passes in silence, punctuated only by Father and Uncle's discussions. When I've made little progress on my plate, I push it aside and make my exit from the dining room.

As I traverse the grand hallway, the muffled chatter of the First Embers reaches my ears from the second courtroom. Not all Embers reside at Reedridge; Father handpicks two each year to join us in the palace. Among them is Daelan, who arrived about four years ago, earning a place as a steadfast friend. Nerys held him in high regard.

Daelan was outspoken, caring, and a true friend. But not when we're sparring. I huff at the memory of our time at the Dragon's Spire.

"We can see you lurking in the hallway," Daelan teases, and I push the door open wider, revealing eight familiar faces.

My gaze finds Sora at the far end of the table, her green eyes meeting mine with a stern glare. Her presence catches me off guard—I hadn't known she was back in the kingdom.

"Good evening, Prince Thrystan," Kyle greets me with a smile. Despite being a Terramancer, he's always cheerful and amiable.

The rest of the Embers offer their greetings, but I only nod in response, feeling uneasy about the formality that persists despite my requests to avoid it.

Daelan, of course, never adheres to formality with me, and neither does Sora. They arrived at the palace at the same time. I turn to leave, but Sora calls out to me.

"Thrystan!"

I pause, waiting for her to catch up. "Rude of you not to say hi to me," she chides, a genuine smile lighting up her face.

I find myself staring into those green eyes, eyes I would have done anything for.

"My bad, didn't want to ruin dinner for everyone," I reply, aware of Daelan's amused gaze.

"Why would talking to me ruin dinner?" Sora's hurt expression tugs at my conscience, but I can't confront this now. I need to escape. "Maybe we'll revisit this conversation later?" I offer a faint smile before turning away, striding confidently out of the room.

Outside, in the gardens, I hurry down the stone steps, Daelan's footsteps echoing behind me.

"Headed for the Wreath?" he calls out.

Sighing, I shoot him a glare. "Don't try to stop me."

"When have I ever stopped you? I only advise caution, suggest avoiding a few lip bursts, so I don't have to spin tales to the king about our 'practice sessions,'" he grins, tapping my shoulder. "Besides, having Sora here in the palace again must be tough for you after everything, so I reckon you need something to punch."

"Volunteering?" My lips curl up in a sly smile.

"Wouldn't dare. That's why I'm advising you to tread carefully out there tonight." With those words, he presses a dagger into my hand. My dagger.

The one Nerys once cherished, a family heirloom that never left his belt until I found it that day after the dragon Spire incident. Since then, it never left my side.

"Thought you might need this. You dropped it at the dragon Spire today."

My goodness. I hadn't even realized I'd lost it.

"Thank you, Daelan," I say, playfully ruffling his hair before skipping ahead. It's a mere couple of minutes' ride to Wyrm, the quaint village encircling the palace. The blessed Wreath lies in the eastern part of Wyrm. My horse is already prepared and saddled when I arrive, a thoughtful touch that could only be Daelan's doing.

Funny how just a few hours earlier, he was urging me to quit the Wreath, and now he's actively supporting my endeavors. Nevertheless, I mount the horse and bolt out of the stable, determined and resolute.

As I ride through the winding streets, the cool evening breeze tousles my hair, carrying with it the familiar scents of the village of Wyrm. The sounds of chatter and laughter fill the air, mingling with the clatter of hooves against cobblestone.

People pause in their activities to glance at me, their expressions a mix of curiosity and reverence. I offer a nod or a brief smile in return, acknowledging their silent greetings as I make my way through the bustling thoroughfare.

The buildings gradually thin out, giving way to open fields and the sprawling outskirts of the village. Here, the sounds of civilization fade into the background, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a passing bird.

As I approach the Wreath, my heart quickens with anticipation. The arena stands before me like a colossus, its wooden stands rising high above the packed dirt floor. I dismount my horse, handing the reins to a waiting stable boy with a quick word of thanks.

Stepping through the gates, I'm enveloped by the electric atmosphere of the arena. The air crackles with excitement, anticipation hanging thickly over the crowd like a tangible veil.

I weave through the throng of spectators, exchanging nods and greetings with familiar faces along the way. Clover- my arena buddy-enthusiastic cheer catches my attention, and I offer him a smile of recognition before turning my focus to the action unfolding in the arena.

Fighters of all skill levels engage in combat, their movements fluid and graceful as they dance across the packed earth. The clang of metal against metal echoes through the air, punctuated by the occasional roar of approval from the crowd.

With a sense of purpose burning within me, I make my way toward the edge of the arena, where a group of fighters are preparing for their next bout. As I shed my coat and roll up my sleeves, I feel a surge of adrenaline coursing in my veins.

As I start to stretch and warm up, Clover's boisterous voice cuts through the din of the arena.

"Thry! Fancy seeing you here, ready to show these amateurs how it's done?" he calls out, his grin infectious as ever.

I chuckle, clasping his forearm in a firm handshake. "Always, Clover. Can't let you have all the glory, now can I?"

He laughs, a deep, hearty sound that reverberates through the air. "That's the spirit! Though I must say, you're looking a bit too clean for the Wreath today. Didn't get into too much trouble with the old man, did you?"

Clover is the only one in the Wreath that knows where I come from.

I roll my eyes playfully. "Nothing I can't handle. Just a typical day in the life of a prince, you know?"

Clover raises an eyebrow, his expression one of mock disbelief. "Ah, yes, the glamorous life of royalty. Must be tough, having to deal with all that luxury and privilege."

I smirk, knowing full well the hardships he faces as a commoner. "You have no idea, my friend. But enough about me. How's training been going? Any new moves you're itching to try out today?"

His eyes light up with excitement. "Oh, you bet! Been working on a few combinations that I think might surprise a few opponents. But enough chit-chat, let's get out there and give the crowd a show they won't forget!"

With a shared grin, we exchange a nod of determination before heading towards the center of the arena, where our opponents await. As we step onto the packed earth, the roar of the crowd reaches a deafening crescendo, spurring us on as we prepare to unleash our skills in the ultimate test of strength and agility.

Clover goes first, fighting with a third time winner of the Wraith. The champion towers over the arena, a formidable figure with muscles sculpted from years of combat. His armor gleams in the sunlight, reflecting the fierce determination burning in his eyes.

With a broadsword gripped firmly in his hand, he exudes an aura of confidence and strength that commands the attention of everyone present.As Clover steps into the ring to face the champion, I can't help but feel a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

My friend may be smaller in stature, but his spirit is unmatched. With a grin plastered on my face, I shout words of encouragement, urging him to give it his all.

"Show him what you're made of, Clover!" I yell, my voice blending with the chorus of cheers from the crowd. "You've got this!"

Clover meets the champion head-on, his movements fluid and precise as he dodges and parries the champion's attacks. Despite the vast difference in size, he holds his own, proving that skill and determination can overcome even the most daunting of opponents.

I'm hollering and whooping, bare-chested and clad only in weathered trousers. My cheers for Clover are relentless, echoing through the arena as I pace around its perimeter. Suddenly, I collide with someone-a body distinct from the usual rugged figures I encounter here. This one is smaller, softer.

It's a woman. A squeak escapes her lips as our bodies collide, and I instinctively reach out to steady her before she topples over.

"Easy now," I grin, locking eyes with her. The dim lighting makes it hard to discern the exact shade of her eyes, but I detect a faint smile playing on her lips.

As she regains her balance, I release her, a playful glint in my eyes. "Sturdy shoes are essential in these parts, especially with the kind of ruckus happening around here."

Her response is a soft chuckle, and she straightens her posture, adjusting the straps of her satchel. "Noted," she says, her voice carrying a hint of amusement.

With a flick of her hand through her chestnut brown hair, she adjusts the strap of her bag securely on her shoulders, hands clasped behind her back.

Curiosity gets the better of me. "What brings a lady like yourself to the fray? Searching for inspiration or perhaps contemplating a daring escape from the ordinary?"

She raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into a mischievous smirk. "Perhaps a bit of both," she replies, her tone laced with defiance. "But mostly, I'm here to shake things up a bit."

I chuckle at her boldness, feeling a surge of excitement at her rebellious spirit. "Well, you certainly have my attention," I admit, a grin playing on my lips.

Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she meets my gaze. "Glad to hear it," she quips, before starting to saunter away , her hands still behind her back.

"Wait," I call after her, my curiosity piqued and a grin tugging at my lips. "I never got your name."

Stopping in her tracks, she turns back to face me, a playful glint in her eyes. "Arwyn," she says simply, her voice carrying a hint of mystery, before disappearing into the crowd.

I watch her retreating figure with a mixture of fascination and intrigue, captivated by her daring demeanor. However, my musings are abruptly interrupted as the realization dawns on me-my dagger, the one that belonged to Nerys, is missing from its sheath.

Frantically, I scour my surroundings, but it's nowhere to be found. Panic sets in as I realize it could only have been the lady who took it.

"Hey! You're up, buddy!" Clover's voice jolts me from my thoughts, but my eyes remain fixed on the path where the lady had vanished. She had come and gone like the wind, leaving no trace behind.