Steering Clear
The emperor of Aramia bowed slightly, a dark smile curving his lips despite the blade pressed against his throat. With unhurried grace, he stepped aside, passing through the petrified young squire without a glance. His eyes scanned the gathering crowd, his posture unbothered, as if the seething voices of the Rosmayne citizens were little more than the hum of wind through trees.
The air was thick with grief, with hate, with memories of villages turned to ashes and lives erased. For a fleeting moment, Ethelar’s gaze softened, and he inhaled deeply, as though the rancor of the masses reminded him of something from his past — a memory long buried, perhaps of the very firestorms he’d once stoked himself.
"Worry not, Your Majesty, Queen Rosalia. This warm welcome takes me back to my earlier days," Ethelar took a deep breath.
Catalina’s brow furrowed, suspicion clouding her sharp emerald eyes. She had only met Ethelar once before, yet there was an unnerving, indecipherable quality to him — a presence that seemed to gnaw at the air itself. The more she watched him, the less she understood.
" . . . Squire Jared, lay down your arms and excuse yourself. I will personally attend to our guests."
Jared, his sword still trembling in his grip, hesitated for the briefest moment. The blade still glinted ominously in the sunlight, as if aware of the venom in the air. Then, with a shaky breath, he sheathed his sword and attempted to regain his composure. He stepped back, ready to retreat — but Ethelar’s hand shot out, a steel grip settling on the squire's right shoulder, halting him in his tracks.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Every onlooker held their breath, as if the very air had become laced with danger.
"You are a good knight. You choose to stand even in my presence, and it shall not go unrewarded."
The emperor raised his hand, and his servant immediately came to him. He kneeled and presented him with a sword covered in a plain black cloth bag. Then, the emperor took it and uncovered what lies inside.
"This is my fourth favorite. Its color turns a magnificent violet after cutting a few heads. Do you know?"
It's a long sword made of pure fulvium. The blueish hue at its edge makes the bronze-colored sword famous for its indescribable and bewitching luster. The sword was taught to be lost after The Siege of Argestan, where the previous wielder, War Chief Nokzunak, was slain in battle.
"Eye of Tigrin . . . ."
"It is yours now."
The sword was a gift — and a curse. Jared’s gaze flickered to it, then to the emperor, then to the queen. In the depths of his eyes, something shifted — temptation, greed, fear — all mixed together. Ethelar had offered him something priceless, but at what cost? Could he really accept the blood-stained gift from the man whose name alone caused so many to tremble?
Jared, with trembling hands, stepped back from the emperor, his heart racing.
“Despite my unforgivable impertinence, Your Majesty," he began, voice strained but resolute, “You have honored me. Yet, I must refuse.”
The words were a declaration of courage, or perhaps of defiance, but in that moment, they felt like a fragile thread, trembling in the face of the emperor’s dark presence.
Ethelar, for a moment, was silent. The curve in his lips vanished — only a predatory stare remains.
"Why would you reject this gift, young knight?" The emperor’s voice was now louder, as though he relished the moment. "I, Ethelar Aramid am offering you a symbol of peace! Why wouldn't you allow us to leave behind the past and step toward a brighter future?! Was your queen's oath of virtue but a veiled vengeance?! A betrayal biding its time?!"
His voice rose with the weight of an oracle, sweeping through the crowd, casting his words like a spell. The people shifted uneasily, the weight of his words taking root. His presence, unholy and commanding, seemed to warp the very air.
The squire faltered, his grip on the sword still trembling, confusion gnawing at his soul. It's as this moment, ethelar’s whisper cut through his thoughts, seductive, like poison dripping into his ears:
“Feel free to kill whoever you want, be it Aramians, or even your fellow Rosmesians with this. I know your steels are restrained by your queen... but this sword? It answers only to you, and you alone.”
The weight of the decision pressed down on him, almost suffocating. The murmurs from the crowd swirled around him, the tension growing thick enough to cut. He glanced at Queen Catalina, silently seeking her approval — and she, though her face betrayed little, gave him a barely perceptible nod-
The squire bowed and silently accepted the gift of sword from the emperor.
"And here," he said, his tone now full of genuine respect, "we see the true spirit of Rosmayne. Perhaps this beautiful realm truly is committed to the peace of the world. Queen Rosalia, your people show the courage to embrace a future free of hatred. May today be a true gate of tomorrow, blessed with the lasting unity we all yearn for."
The emperor’s words echoed through the crowd, leaving a ripple of murmurs in his wake. His gaze lingered on the queen for a moment longer, as if seeking confirmation of something unspoken between them.
The murmurs in the crowd began to die down, the tension lifting ever so slightly as the emperor’s unexpected action came to an abrupt, tense end. The delegations began to proceed toward the royal palace, but the seeds of discord had already been sown. The clash of authority, the emperor's gift, and the squire's reluctant acceptance had all left a lingering impression — and the crowd's unrest was far from quelled.
As the procession moved forward, the ripples of this encounter spread quickly among the masses. There was no simple black and white to this moment — only gray. Only ambiguity. Only a growing rift that could only widen with time.
Meanwhile, Randia hurried through the winding streets of Fleurin, keeping Viena close by his side. His steps were brisk and measured, every glance calculating the safest path away from the crowd. He had never intended to bring them into the capital — he knew too well how unwise it was. Yet even in his cautious estimations, he hadn’t foreseen matters spiraling quite so disastrously.
He noticed more guardsmen patrolling than before. Their sharp eyes swept the streets, commanding travelers to lower their hoods and bare their faces. The security net was drawing tighter with every passing minute — never a good omen for those who preferred to remain unseen.
“Papa, how did you know that old man was the emperor of Aramia?” Viena asked, clinging lightly to his sleeve.
“I met him once,” Randia replied, gaze flickering forward.
“Really? In person? Have you ever been to Aramia?”
“Hm. I’ll tell you after we find a place to stay.” His pace did not slow.
By now, twilight had begun its slow descent. The last embers of daylight sank beneath the horizon, the sky darkening into velvety hues. Yet despite the earlier unrest, the spirit of Fleurin hadn’t dulled. Children still darted between market stalls with bright laughter, while adults clustered in animated circles, gossiping and debating the day's spectacle with equal fervor.
Randia and Viena finally stopped at a modest tavern tucked beneath ivy-clad beams. It had been too long since Viena had enjoyed a full glass of fresh milk. Randia, as ever, quietly insisted — knowing well how important it was for her growth, and unwilling to let the chance slip now that they roamed a metropolis.
“I know, right?! The event’s still more than seven months away and already it’s this grand!”
"Nah, you don't get it, buddy. The real cherry is yet to come."
"Pardon? What are you referring to?"
"Haha. The betting yo! The betting!"
"Ah! Yes! Now we're talking!"
As Viena sipped happily from her glass, her sharp ears pricked at the swirl of tavern chatter around her. Though noisy, she had long mastered the art of tuning her focus to a single thread at a time. With people from so many corners gathered here, she caught snippets full of unfamiliar words and curious turns of phrase.
“Papa, what’s betting?” she asked, tilting her head.
"Hm? Oh, it's a kind of game and foolery that people like to do. They are gambling, or wagering money on the outcome of a race, game, or other 'seemingly' unpredictable event."
"Gambling? Wagering?"
"Think of it like taking a guess. Which horse will win the game? Which fighter will knock out the others? If you guess it right, you will get more money and vice versa."
"Wow! That sounds fun!"
". . . It's a monkey business. Betting or gambling is only for fun. People should never gamble with the intention of doubling their money. Most venues are run by con artists, and their methods are always crafty since their life depends on that line of works."
"But it's alright to enjoy ourselves once in a while, right? So, it's fine if we do it every now and then, right?" Viena asked innocently, her deep blue eyes bright.
The tavern master, overhearing, let out a booming laugh. His broad hand reached for a fresh jug, pouring another helping of milk into Viena’s glass.
“That’s the spirit, little queen! How about we put it to the test, eh?”
“Oho! What are we betting, uncle?”
"Let's see. If you can chug down two glasses of milk empty in less than ten seconds, I'll throw in this roasted mutton skewer for free! But! If you can't do it, your pop must pay me twice the price of the milk!"
"Alright! Don't go back on your words, okay?!"
"I swear it on my pop's grave!"
He beckoned to another patron to time the contest by clinking a glass for each passing second. Then, with a flourish, he flipped a coin into the air. As it landed in his palm — the contest began. Viena seized the glass and gulped with gusto, milk slipping past her lips in hurried swallows. Excitement made her reckless; she nearly choked twice but pressed on.
"Bwah! I-I did it! That's still nine!"
“Bwah! I-I did it! That’s still nine!” she declared triumphantly.
“Eh?! No way — the tenth clink took longer than the others!”
“What?! No! You promised! Besides, you chose the timer, not me! You can’t accuse me of cheating now!”
The tavern master roared with laughter, raising his hands in surrender.
“Well I’ll be damned — that’s sharp reasoning for a sprout! That’s how wagers work, alright. Even if you win, you’ve got to know how to claim it properly! Here you go — finest grilled mutton chop, house specialty!”
“Hehehe… Thank you, Master!”
“My pleasure, little queen! See? This, too, is a wager of sorts… And you, Pop — looks like you’ve got a budding gambler on your hands!” The tavern master clapped Randia’s shoulder with hearty cheer.
“Eh… I’d rather not, really,” Randia muttered, resigned but faintly amused.
The tavern burst into warm, easy laughter. Viena quickly found herself the darling of the room — patrons shared stories with her, invited her to play with their children, and promised her discounts should she ever visit their stalls in the days to come.
Later that evening, Randia and Viena bid their farewell to the others and continued on their way.