Chapter 520: Refuge for the Dethroned, Glory for the Named (2)
"By decree of the Crown," he proclaimed, voice ringing off marble plinths, "and in gratitude of the realm, I name Count Lyan Arcanium Evocatore Guardian of the Eastern Crest: Grafen, Norhallow, Dunbridge, Valmere, and all unified lands therein!"
Thunderous applause shook leaves from the elms. Trumpets blared, drums rolled. Somewhere a vendor popped a cork; the spray misted in the warm air like brief summer rain.
Lyan blinked. He had anticipated the title; he had not expected Erich to list every border territory now considered his responsibility. Grafen alone was vast farmland and deep rivers; Norhallow boasted forests full of restless timber-spirits; Dunbridge was a maze of trade bridges and smuggling tunnels; Valmere claimed the salt flats. Four battalions, three distinct trade taxes, old disputes over fishing rights—he felt them stack like stones in his chest.
Erich leaned in, wearing a grin too wide for protocol. "You’re basically a whole province now."
"I was hoping for a vacation," Lyan muttered, only half-joking. The line carried on the breeze between them like a tossed coin—one side fatigue, the other dry humor. Erich’s answering laugh rang bright, a deliberate note for the listening crowd, and the prince clapped a friendly palm-swat to Lyan’s pauldron that sent petals puffing off the metal like startled moths.
The gesture did its work: cheers thickened, rippling outward in satisfied waves—see, our heroes jest like brothers; what danger could linger now?
A herald in sapphire livery hurried forward, silk shoes skidding on the dais, and offered a narrow pedestal quill for the formal signing. Lyan’s gauntlet creaked as he removed it, fingers tingling at the sudden kiss of cool air. He flexed each joint: sore from three sleepless nights of quill work already, mapping river tariffs and emergency grain routes—duties he had accepted before ceremony because parchment, unlike arrows, could not wait.
He dipped the quill, and for an instant the ink’s mirror surface caught his reflection—smudged cheek, shadowed eyes, a faint plume of dust that still clung to the edge of his collar. A lord in name, but the ink showed a soldier.
Steel remembers the burn, the priest’s words echoed. So did skin, and sinew, and soul.