Oathbound

The Gentle Heir (The Test Begins)

📖 The Gentle Heir

Chapter 4: The Test Begins

At dawn, the banners of Vanyria fluttered over the barracks of the royal guard.

Two standards stood side by side above the courtyard — one bearing Elian’s sigil, a silver stag crowned with laurel, and the other bearing Darius’s, a black wolf with bared fangs.

It was a crisp morning, the air sharp with the smell of steel and leather as soldiers assembled in neat rows.

Elian stood on the steps of the barracks, adjusting his cloak. The men and women before him looked tired, wary — but there was a spark of hope in their eyes when they looked at him. Many of them already knew his reputation. The prince who came to the markets. The prince who helped bandage wounded soldiers himself when they returned from skirmishes on the border.

Darius, standing at the opposite end of the courtyard, was already barking orders, his voice booming.

“Line up! Straighten your backs, you dogs! When you serve under me, you serve Vanyria — and you serve fearlessly!”

His half of the guard scrambled to obey, some flinching under his sharp tone. Darius sneered when he caught one soldier slouching.

“You! If I ever see you slack again, I’ll have you cleaning latrines for a month!”

Elian watched quietly, his lips pressed thin. Then he stepped forward to address his own troops.

“You know who I am,” he began, his voice calm, even. “But I want you to know what I believe.”

The soldiers leaned in, curious.

“I believe that strength is not cruelty,” Elian continued. “That loyalty cannot be forced by fear alone. You will serve this kingdom because it deserves to be served — and because it is worth protecting. And I will not ask you to do anything I would not do myself.”

There was silence for a moment, then a ripple of quiet nods and murmured assent.

The king, watching from a balcony above, narrowed his eyes.

Harun saw the difference immediately. Darius commanded obedience like a whip cracking over a dog. Elian inspired it — softly, dangerously.

And though he would never admit it aloud, something about the way the soldiers stood taller under Elian’s words unsettled him.

For weeks, the two princes worked side by side, overseeing drills, patrolling the streets, organizing the city watch. But their opposing styles clashed constantly.

One evening, a group of thieves was caught robbing a merchant’s warehouse.

Darius ordered them to be flogged publicly.

“Let the streets see what happens to cowards and liars,” he growled.

Elian intervened, his voice firm but quiet.

“They stole because their families were starving,” he said. “Flogging them won’t feed their children — but assigning them to rebuild the burned warehouses and pay back the merchant will teach them the same lesson, and keep their families from ruin.”

The guards looked uncertain, torn between the brothers.

Darius laughed bitterly.

“You’re soft as ever, brother. Keep coddling the rats, and one day they’ll bite you.”

Elian held his ground.

“And if you keep beating them down, one day they’ll rise against you.”

The tensions grew. Not just between Elian and Darius, but among the soldiers as well. Some preferred Darius’s iron-fisted approach, claiming it kept order. Others gravitated to Elian’s fairness, saying it won loyalty.

In the taverns of Vanyria, debates flared.

“The younger prince has a spine,” one old soldier barked over his ale. “He’ll make a king we can fear — like his father.”

“Aye,” another shot back, “but it’s the elder who walks our streets and hears our troubles. You think the people will bleed for someone who spits on them?”

In the quiet of his chambers, Elian wrote letters by candlelight, pouring his doubts onto the page.

How can I lead when my father sees only weakness? How can I protect the people when my brother turns them against me?

But in the back of his mind, another thought whispered:

And how far will I go to prove them wrong?

One night, there was an emergency in the outer district — a fire had broken out, threatening to engulf half the slums.

Elian was already pulling on his boots when his captain burst into the room.

“Your brother says it’s no concern of ours, my prince. He says let it burn — teach the vermin a lesson.”

Elian froze for just a heartbeat — then his jaw set.

“Ready the men. My half of the guard will follow me.”

By the time Elian and his soldiers arrived, the flames were roaring high into the night sky. Families were fleeing with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Children cried in the streets.

Elian waded into the chaos, bellowing orders.

“Buckets, now! Form a line from the river! Get them out of the houses — you there, help that old man to safety!”

His cloak was soon scorched and soaked, his hands blistered and blackened, but he did not stop until the fire was out and every soul was accounted for.

When it was over, he stood amid the wreckage, panting, his chest heaving.

And he looked up to see hundreds of weary, smoke-streaked faces staring at him — not with fear, not with obedience, but with something deeper.

Gratitude.

The next morning, he was summoned before his father.

The king’s expression was like ice when Elian entered the throne room, his singed cloak still draped around his shoulders.

“You disobeyed your brother’s command,” Harun said coldly.

“I obeyed my conscience,” Elian replied.

Darius lounged at his father’s side, smirking.

“Father, you see now? He undermines me at every turn. The people need discipline, not… sympathy.”

Elian looked his father square in the eye.

“They need a king who sees them as more than pawns.”

For a long, heavy moment, Harun said nothing.

Then he leaned back in his throne, his fingers steepled.

“This test,” he murmured, “is far from over.”

And in that moment, Elian knew — no matter how much good he did, his father’s approval would remain out of reach.

But as he walked out of the throne room, the memory of the people’s tearful thanks in the smoldering streets steeled him.

He did not need Harun’s approval.

He already had theirs.

That night, in the barracks, a young soldier approached him hesitantly.

“My prince,” the boy said, awkwardly bowing. “I just… wanted to say thank you. My family lives in the outer district. You… you saved them.”

Elian looked at the boy and smiled faintly.

“No thanks are needed,” he said. “It’s what any king should do.”

The boy straightened, his eyes shining.

“Then I hope you’re our king, my prince. One day.”

As the boy left, Elian stared out the window at the city below, glowing faintly under the moonlight.

And for the first time, he let himself believe it was possible.