Rederick entered the grand throne room, the clang of his iron boots echoing through the stone floor. Tapestries of legendary heroes adorned the chamber, their images illuminated by sunlight angled toward them, while torches were placed in place where the sun couldn’t touch.

  At the far end of the room, Peter stood beside Bernhard, who stood before the throne is a towering seat of chiseled stone, its surface adorned with gold and laced with bone. War trophies clung to its form, silent testaments to past conquests. One, without a doubt, had been provided by Wilhelm.

  The skulls decorating the throne varied in shape and size, yet all retained an eerie humanoid resemblance.

  ′Sire, I have brought the body of Drettius,′ Rederick announced, his voice steady but heavy with exhaustion. Behind him, two guards dragged a shrouded corpse into the chamber, laying it at the center for all to see.

  Peter’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, leaning on a cane that now steadied his once powerful stride. The addition of the cane spoke volumes, a man weighed down not just by age but by the burdens of rule. He studied the body in silence, his gaze sharp despite the weariness in his posture.

  ′That was… quite fast,′ Peter remarked.

  Rederick observed the subtle change in Peter’s demeanor. The cane, the careful way he moved, and the tension in his jaw all spoke to a man bearing the weight of his office and the endless challenges it brought.

  ′There’s one problem with this body,′ Peter continued, his voice measured. ′We have no one who can definitively identify it. The clothes may match, but something feels off. How could you have found a trail leading to him when the murder happened so long ago? Drettius should have been long gone, or in hiding. Who would have killed him? And who would have left the body here?′

  ′Rederick met Peter’s gaze, unwavering. ′It’s possible he wanted to leave a false trail,′ he explained. ’Using the green metal to make it seem as though he had fled, while secretly staying in Dunten to observe us. By the time I was traveling back, I had already inspected the body. If you examine it yourself, you’ll see that poison was what ended this man.′

  Peter’s expression hardened as he stepped closer to the body, his cane tapping against the cold stone floor. Kneeling down, his hand trembled slightly as he reached out to pull back the shroud, quickly clenching his fist to regain composure. The face beneath was pale, bearing the unmistakable signs of death’s cold touch. But it was the eyes, sunken, lifeless, yet somehow resolute, that drew Peter’s attention.

  ′This body,′ Peter murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, ′I have a feeling it will bring more headaches than healing.′ He stood up slowly, leaning on his cane as he looked back at Rederick. ′A poisoned man, dressed in Drettius’ garb, with a wound that tells a story we may never fully understand.′

  Rederick remained silent, his doubts gnawing at him. The journey to find Drettius had been perilous, each clue leading him in circles, always just beyond reach. Now, standing in the heart of the Duke power, he felt the crushing weight of uncertainty pressing down on him. I should have followed the trail further, he thought. I should have discovered who left the body there. Why did I hold myself back?

  Peter turned to Bernhard, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, his youthful face etched with concern. ′Bernhard, what’s your take on this?′

  Bernhard stepped forward, his eyes shifting between the body and Rederick for a split second before turning to Peter. ′If this truly is Drettius,′ he began cautiously, ′we need to confirm it as quickly as possible. But if it isn’t... we could be facing a much greater problem.′

  Peter nodded, fingers rustling through his beard. ′Indeed. This mystery requires more than brute force to unravel. We must tread carefully; the truth is buried deep, and there is still much we do not understand.′

  Rederick hesitated for a moment, gathering his thoughts before speaking again. ′There’s something else,′ he said, his voice steady but weighted with the gravity of his discovery. ′When I examined the body, I noticed something odd. There was only one set of hoofprints, a single horse that Drettius had ridden into the forest. After he fell, the horse left and nothing remained with him. I faced a difficult choice. I didn’t want to risk letting the body decompose while chasing after the horse.′

  Peter and Bernhard exchanged glances, their expressions reflecting the same sense of unease. Peter remained silent; his face inscrutable as he turned the new information over in his mind. Bernhard, however, could not suppress his curiosity.

  ′Why would he ride away after being poisoned?′ Bernhard asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. ′What kind of logic is there in that? It doesn’t add up. Does this mean the killer is still in the city?′

  Rederick sighed, his uncertainty evident. ′Honestly, I’m not sure I made the right choice. Bringing back the body instead of following the horse. With the weather like this, the trail could be days old by now, if not longer.′

  Peter finally spoke, his voice resolute, as if preparing to issue orders. ′This only complicates matters further. If Drettius was poisoned, why was he still on horseback? And who, if anyone, walked away after poisoning him? The answers are beyond our grasp for now.′

  He turned toward the guards standing nearby. ′Take the body to the tomb for safekeeping. We cannot afford to let it deteriorate, but we must wait for more information before drawing any conclusions.′

  The guards moved swiftly, lifting the shrouded form once more and carrying it from the throne room. Rederick watched them go.

  Peter’s gaze lingered on the departing body before he turned back to Rederick and Bernhard. ′We must be patient,′ he murmured, almost to himself. ′This puzzle has many pieces, and we’ve only begun to see the shape of it. But rest assured, we will find the truth no matter how deep we must dig.′

  Bernhard nodded, though his mind raced with questions. Rederick, too, felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him. Their journey had led them here, but the answers they sought seemed further out of reach than ever.

  Krahlik perched silently in the branches of a tall tree, his gaze locked onto Kian as the young man searched the forest floor, unaware of the eyes tracking his every move.

  Kian moved cautiously, using the giant leaves as a shield against the light, keeping himself in the shadows. Each step was placed carefully, making no sound as he steadied his breath and scanned his surroundings. Krahlik had to be nearby. Brushing aside a cluster of leaves, he peered into the distance, trusting his camouflage to keep him hidden.

  Nearby, Hraban leaned casually against a tree, his gaze shifting between Kian and Krahlik. After a few moments, he gave a subtle nod toward Krahlik. Krahlik, understood the signal, nocked an arrow onto his bowstring with deliberate slowness, its tip coated in a sticky substance designed to mimic a real threat. Taking a steadying breath, he released. The arrow whistled through the air before striking my shoulder with a dull thud, the impact reverberating through my bones.

  The force of the impact drove Kian to the ground. A sharp sting spread through his shoulder, and he let out a painful scream. Before he could recover.

  Hraban’s voice cut through the silence, calm yet laced with instruction. ′You’re improving, Kian, but your greatest flaw remains. You are still blind to your surroundings, placing too much trust in that special camouflage of yours.′

  Krahlik leaped down from the tree, landing lightly on the forest floor. He strode over to Kian, who was still pushing himself up, reeling from the impact.

  ′You’re too focused on the ground,′ Krahlik said, his tone firm. ′You need to be ready to face both heaven and hell. Neither can be trusted in the wild.′

  That’s not entirely true, Kian wanted to say, but he was too busy holding back his tears. All that could be done was take their words to heart. Just hold it in, I told myself. It needs to be done. I have to become stronger, to live up to their expectations. I’ll learn every lesson I can, even if it comes through pain.

  Hraban extended a hand to Kian, his expression softening just enough. ′Get up,′ he said, his tone firm but not unkind. ′There’s more to do. The next exercise will be even harder.′

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Albaras rode along the open road, the sound of Machi’s hooves the only break in the heavy silence of the wide, empty landscape. His leg had finally stopped bleeding, but the jagged mark of battle still marred his arm. With a faint grimace, he flexed his fingers, testing their movement, then slowly bent his elbow, feeling the dull ache beneath the motion.

  ′Not perfect, but it’ll do,′ he muttered under his breath, his voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind. The road stretched ahead, an unbroken ribbon of dirt and uncertainty, and he couldn’t help but feel the weight of the days yet to come.

  Machi’s steady pace was a comfort in itself, a quiet reminder that despite the wounds, the damage, the poison, he was still moving forward. ′A few more days,′ he thought, and for once, the thought didn’t feel like a burden. It was a promise.

  Albaras urged Machi onward, the journey ahead calling to him like a challenge he was determined to face.

  Rederick stood atop the battlements of Dunten, his gaze sweeping over the northern fields that stretched endlessly toward the horizon. The land lay desolate, save for the distant specks of soldiers marching in tight formations and small squads of horsemen scattered further afield. The chill in the air bit at his skin, but it was the weight of uncertainty that gnawed at his thoughts. How would this all end? The question lingered, heavy in the stillness.

  The sudden blare of horns shattered the silence, their deafening notes echoing from the towers of Dunten and reverberating through the castle’s ancient stone. Rederick knew what it signified: the prince was to be declared protector. Yet, the mystery of Drettius′ murder lingered, an unresolved shadow that no horn blast could dispel.

  He looked down once more, watching as soldiers moved with precision, forming ranks around the castle while others entered its gates. A stirring of uncertainty settled within Rederick. A crowning ceremony, and an assassin still unaccounted for. ′I need to know how this ends.′ He turned away from the battlements as the horns blared again, their call beckoning him toward the throne room.

  As I descended from the battlements toward the peak, a feeling of something being wrong washed over me. As I walked, I noticed the flow of people heading toward the throne room. Yet, there was something odd about the crowd. There were no middle-aged men in plain clothes, only the elderly, children, and women draped in ponchos unfit for battle. It was as if the war had taken all the able-bodied men, leaving only the vulnerable behind.

  Through the gates of the second wall, a sea of people pressed in, making it impossible to find a clear path. Rederick used his armor as a show of authority, parting the crowd as he made his way forward. As he moved, he noticed that the door on his left was now open, revealing where the crowd was gathering. He veered toward it, curious to see where they were headed.

  Upon entering the throne room, Rederick was met with a solemn sight. The room was grand, yet its magnificence felt distant, overshadowed by the weight of his thoughts. Peter, standing near the throne, immediately noticed him and signaled to two guards. They approached with measured steps, the soft clink of their armor echoing in the silence, their halberds resting against their shoulders.

  Rederick removed his helmet, holding it at his side as the first guard drew near. ′Follow me,′ the guard said, his voice steady. ′Peter wishes to have you as a guest of honor.′

  Rederick hesitated for a moment, surprised by the offer. After a brief pause, he gave a small bow and replied, ′I... should not accept this as a hunter, but I would be honored. Lead the way.′

  As he was escorted toward the throne, the horns sounded one final time that day, their call muffled by the thick stone walls. The notes were softer now, almost mournful, as if marking the end of something more profound than the day itself. Yet, in that moment, it should have heralded greatness—the rise of a new protector. But as Rederick looked at Peter, it felt as though only they bore the truth of where this would all lead.

  The eyes of those gathered in the throne room followed him as he took his place beside Peter, a small applause breaking out in recognition of the honor bestowed upon him—not only as a guest but also as a visiting hunter who had helped with their defense after discovering Drettius body.

  Bernhard stood in front of the throne, clad in black and gold robes over a layer of chainmail. The gold reflected his newfound stature, the black bore the colors of his house, and the chainmail was a quiet tribute to his father.

  The throne, bathed in the firelight behind it, seemed to loom larger than ever. Peter stood tall beside it, but Rederick could see the strain etched into his features, the weight of leadership pressing upon him. His grip tightened around his cane, not just for support but as if anchoring himself against the burden of unanswered questions and impossible decisions.

  The murder of Drettius was only a single piece of a much larger puzzle, and Rederick sensed that today’s events would shape not only the fate of Dunten but possibly the entire North. The mystery of Wilhelm’s killer lingered in the air, and with the toll of the bell announcing the new protector, the lords will gather for a warpath.

  As the last echoes of the horns faded, the throne room sank into a heavy silence. All eyes turned to Bernhard. The ceremony had begun with the sharp blast of trumpets, their regal notes filling the grand hall, only to be followed by a hush that settled over the gathered nobility.

  Then, as if emerging from the fire behind the throne, a man strode forward, his attire a striking contrast to the somber colors of House Duke. The flames made his flamboyant garments shimmer even brighter, their vibrant hues almost blinding. His hat, adorned with an array of brilliant feathers, bobbed with each step, making it difficult to tell whether he was a jester or a warrior. A long, thin mustache curled elegantly above his lips, framing a face that held quiet confidence. As he moved, Rederick continued to observe the crowd. Something strange caught his attention. Each face shifted through different emotions, though he could not quite determine what they were as he followed their stares to their end destination.

  Yet the man paid no mind to their stares. With purposeful strides, he moved forward, commanding attention without a single word if they liked it or not. At his hip hung a slender blade, a rapier, light yet lethal. If the gathered crowd or nobility harbored unease at his presence, at least they dared not close the distance.

  As he stood looking down at the crowd, his smile carried a special kind of meaning, warm and rewarding to those who knew his story yet hateful to the rest. When he spoke, his voice bore a rich accent, one that added weight to his words while holding an exotic quality that drew every gaze to him even if they didn’t like it.

  ′I am Aadalarasu Aalura, better known as the Dancing Dragon,′ he announced, his voice slicing through the silence like the blade at his side. The room stirred as whispers spread, drawn by what he had just said. ′Prince’s Guard of Gaurfield, sent by my king’s decree to serve as Guardian to the new Protector.′

  He turned, his movements fluid, and his gaze settled on Bernhard, who stood tall and proud before the throne. The crowd murmured in anticipation as Aadalarasu continued. ′Bernhard, first of his name, eldest son of Wilhelm, Hero of Ayan Village, Defender of Dunten,′ his voice swelled with reverence, ′and now, the rightful Protector of the North.′

  A collective breath passed through the gathered nobles, warriors, and courtiers. This moment, sure to be spoken of for generations, was marked by a sudden silence. Aadalarasu paused for a heartbeat, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the room. With a graceful, practiced motion, he knelt before the young Protector, his cape swirling around him, bowing his head in deference.

  ′I am at your service,′ he said solemnly, his voice quieter now but still clear, resonating throughout the room.

  One by one, the crowd followed suit. Nobles draped in silks and furs knelt alongside weathered warriors, their armor clinking softly as they lowered themselves to the ground. Women, children, and elders all bowed in silent tribute to their new protector. The torches on the walls flickered in the air, casting their shadows with the kneeling people, making it seem as if the very castle itself bent in honor of Bernhard.

  Everyone knelt, except for one. Rederick stood alone, a solitary figure amid a sea of reverence. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword; his face set in quiet contemplation. As a hunter, one who had walked the edges of kingdoms and courts, bound to no lord nor crown, he could not kneel in service. It was the hunter’s code, their unspoken oath.

  Peter knelt beside Bernhard, his eyes lingering on Rederick, who remained standing in quiet defiance. He said nothing. There was no malice in Rederick’s stance, only the silent dignity of a man who answered to no one but his oath. The hall remained still, the tension between Rederick and the assembled crowd palpable. An unspoken understanding passed between him and those who watched, a recognition of his unwavering code.

  Bernhard, standing tall amidst the bowing crowd, glanced at Rederick, his expression unreadable. Though young, the new Protector understood that loyalty came in many forms. In Rederick’s resolute stance, there was a loyalty to protect and keep men safe from monsters, beasts, and the wilds.

  Turning to his people, Bernhard offered a slight bow. ′Rise, my countrymen,′ he said, his voice firm but compassionate. ′Stand proud, for I am a peacemaker. I do not come to prolong conflict with the beastkin, but to end it.′

  His words resonated through the hall, and the crowd slowly rose to their feet, united in the gravity of the moment.

  Aadalarasu, having fulfilled his ceremonial duty, rose with grace and stepped aside from the throne. Yet, his sharp gaze lingered on Rederick for a moment longer, as if measuring the weight of the hunter’s unyielding resolve.

  Peter, rising slowly with the aid of his cane, made his way toward Bernhard. ′Follow me,′ he instructed, gesturing toward the steps leading to the throne. Bernhard followed, taking his place in the seat once held by his father. Turning to face the assembly, Peter spoke again.

  ′Let all the lords and kings of the North remember Wilhelm, the Untamed Protector. He defied the emperor’s call to destroy the beastkin, choosing instead to safeguard our people from a war that would have no end. His legacy now passes to Bernhard.′

  With that, Peter turned and lifted the crown from the pedestal beside the throne. It was a striking piece, gold-coated and adorned with gilded bones, both beautiful and fearsome, much like the throne itself. He placed it gently upon Bernhard’s head, the weight settling over him like the burden of his new title.

  Though Bernhard had proven himself in battle, leading men with the courage of a seasoned warrior, he was still young, his experience limited to the harsh realities of the political world. Now, he would need to learn to lead not only in battle but in the delicate art of politics.

  The ceremony continued, but Rederick’s quiet defiance remained like a stone at the heart of the room, unspoken yet undeniable. His presence served as a stark reminder that, though Bernhard now bore the title of Protector, true power was not solely vested in crowns or titles. The Protector of the North was but a small cog in a much larger machine.