Ruins And Royalty

Wielding the Weapon -Chp 4 Part 1

Sweat gleamed on the soldiers’ sun-beaten skin as they moved with precision and force, each strike a careful measure of skill. Blades caught the harsh sunlight, leaping from one edge to the next as steel clashed with ringing authority. I stood back, arms crossed, watching quietly. The crowd roared with every parry and thrust, their excitement swelling with the intensity of the fight, but I remained indifferent.

The thrill of combat didn’t stir me. What mattered were the movements, the reactions, the ability to think faster than the swing of a blade. That was where true skill hid, and that’s what I wanted to see.

“HOLD!” A voice cut through the chaos. The soldiers froze mid-motion, like statues caught in a spell. At the edge of the field, a man appeared, hand raised, commanding attention without effort.

He strode forward, deliberate and imposing. Towering, dark, his long black dreads tied back, his skin scarred from battle. A blue tunic peeked beneath a silver muscle cuirass, a leather sword baldric cinched around his waist, and a black cape hung from broad shoulders. Every step carried authority.

Stopping before the assembled young competitors, his piercing grey eyes swept over us, assessing, calculating. He sighed, a measured, heavy sound and began pacing slowly, locking his gaze on each of us as though weighing our worth. The murmurs of the crowd fell silent beneath the weight of his presence. I studied him, noting every deliberate movement, every glance, every pause. He commanded attention without a word, and yet, to me, it was all just data. Skill to observe, patience to understand.

“I am Sir Damos of Freyah,” he announced, his voice deep and unyielding, carrying across the arena. “Some of you might be wondering why I am here. After all, you royals have been trained by the finest instructors your Kingdoms could provide since the moment you could walk.”

He swept a hand toward the soldiers still locked in combat, their blades flashing in the sunlight.

“These Pandorian soldiers are an example of what you already know. Every movement, every strike, most of you could replicate without hesitation,” he said, his tone sharp, commanding attention.

The crowd fell silent, anticipation heavy in the air as Sir Damos prepared to speak again.

“But I am here to tell you to forget everything you’ve been taught.” The words cut through the arena, and uneasy murmurs rippled through the Princes and Princesses.

“What you currently know about fighting will get you killed in the Game of the Gods. You will face creatures you’ve never imagined, the undead, and situations that will test not only your skill, but your morality… every choice, every hesitation, every instinct will be a weapon or a liability.”

He began pacing, deliberate and controlled, while the crowd shifted under the weight of his words.

“Do not think for one moment that mercy will be shown. Not from the Gods, and certainly not from the person standing next to you. When the game begins, alliances will crumble faster than a lion pouncing on a lamb. You will need the cunning of a snake, precise and patient, crushing what stands in your way. Deadly as a crocodile, silent and patient, striking before you can even react.”

The words sank into the audience like knives into flesh. Panic and tension rippled through the young royals, faces tightening as the reality of the Game of the Gods pressed down. I swallowed hard, my gaze flicking to those beside me, imagining what it would mean to face them in a fight where only one could survive.

One winner. Hundreds of contenders. The thought was staggering, but I felt no fear. My path was clear, my resolve solid.

“Now, the real question: are you ready?” Sir Damos asked, stopping in front of a random royal.

“When at sea, and your ship is surrounded by sirens, what do you do?”

“Fight?” the royal answered hesitantly.

“No.” His voice thundered. “You strike drums or any nearby objects to make loud, jarring noise. Sirens are drawn to harmony, to beauty. They cannot resist chaos, and it will drive them away.”

He moved methodically down the line, eventually stopping in front of the youngest Prince of Yarrow. I stayed frozen, my focus sharp, ears straining.

“If you encounter an army of the dead, what do you do?”

“You hide until daylight,” Prince Zander answered, his tone calm, precise. Sir Damos’ eyes narrowed in surprise at the response, and for the first time, I caught a flicker of respect in the man’s expression.

“That is correct, my Prince,” Sir Damos said, moving past the other participants. “It is not always necessary to fight. You must think, choose when to confront a situation, and when to avoid it. Sometimes it is wiser to conserve your strength for a far deadlier opponent.”

I felt a faint pang of surprise at Prince Zander’s answer, though it shouldn’t have caught me off guard. He’d loved reading since he was a boy, and I had hated it. Still, he would read aloud to me, and I would listen. Back then, it had been all he could do, confined by illness. But now, even healed, the habit had remained, an edge that clearly carried over into strategy.

Sir Damos walked past me, his steps deliberate, then abruptly stopped, turning his head to fix me with a piercing stare.

“You,” he said, loud and blunt, “second son of King Goran of Emperos.”

I met his gaze evenly, expression neutral, waiting for him to continue.

“Slayer of the Chimera. The only one to have tasted the Game,” he spat, tilting his head slightly, a mixture of disdain and intrigue in his voice.

“But you’ve seen nothing yet,” he added, addressing the crowd now. “Let my words sink in. Today, you will begin to understand the reality of the Game. Make your way to your stations.”

Scattered across the circular arena were wooden stations, each laden with armor and weapons of every imaginable style. I moved without hesitation toward the blades section. While competent with all forms of combat, I preferred dual blades—fast, fluid, and lethal.

On the table lay an array of swords I didn’t immediately recognize, and I felt a childlike thrill at the unfamiliarity, fingertips brushing the fullers as I considered each one. One set, however, caught my eye. Two circular weapons (like chakrams) but with distinct differences. Ancient inscriptions ran along the outer edge, and the grip in the center curved into a faint S-shape, almost as if the blade could split into two separate pieces.

“The enchanted Chakram blades,” Sir Damos announced, approaching behind me. “Extremely dangerous, and deceptively tricky to master.”

“I’m not interested in throwing blades from horseback,” I said bluntly, scanning the table for something more fitting to my style.

“These are different, young Nightingale,” he replied, a small, knowing smile on his scarred face. He picked up one of the chakrams carefully, holding the dull edge to avoid injury, and his eyes tracked a distant rope archery target.

I watched him, patience taut, curious to see how he intended to demonstrate them. The tension in the air was electric, and I felt my pulse quicken, not from fear, but from the thrill of observing something I might one day wield myself.

Sir Damos pulled his arm back, coiling it like a spring, and without a moment’s hesitation, launched the circular weapon across the arena. It spun through the air with deadly precision, striking the distant target squarely in the center. A murmur of awe rippled through the crowd; the distance alone made the throw remarkable, and every participant in the arena paused, eyes locked on the spectacle.

I allowed myself a brief nod of acknowledgment, it was impressive, no doubt, but my mind was already calculating its limitations.

“That was flawless,” I finally said, my voice cutting through the murmurs, “but ultimately expendable.” My gaze followed the weapon as it lay inert on the far edge of the arena, useless now in the chaos of real combat.

Sir Damos’ lips curled into a faint, almost mischievous grin. It was clear he had expected, or perhaps hoped, for some criticism, maybe even doubt.

He lifted his arm again, extending the chakram toward me, body squared and eyes unblinking. He opened his mouth and pronounced a single word, sharp and deliberate:

“Akoloutho.”

And then the impossible happened.

Glowing blue sigils erupted along his forearm, crackling faintly like trapped lightning. Simultaneously, the ancient runes etched along the edge of the chakram in the target ignited with the same ethereal glow. Time seemed to compress as the weapon shuddered, lifted from the target, and spun back through the arena with uncanny speed, finding Sir Damos’ waiting hand as if drawn by some unseen force.

A shiver ran down my spine. Magic. Real, tangible, unyielding magic. And just like that, the weapon was no longer expendable.

He wrapped his fingers firmly around the center of the circular blade. The moment his grip settled, the blue glow along the runes faded, vanishing as if it had never existed. A hush fell over the arena, every eye fixed on him, my own included, struck silent by the display.

“That… solves the problem, does it not?” His voice was calm, almost casual, though the weight behind it was unmistakable. Without waiting for a response, he walked toward the table, set the chakram carefully back in its place, and strode away as if the impossible act hadn’t just left the entire arena reeling.

I stayed frozen for a moment, pulse still racing, mind turning over every detail. That wasn’t just skill… it was something else entirely. Something I had only ever read about in scrolls.