Ruins And Royalty

A Questionable Encounter - Chapter 1 Part 3

A soft chime from a servant’s bell signaled the end of breakfast. Plates were cleared, and the formalities concluded. I rose immediately, intent on returning to my quarters to change, but a shadow intercepted my path.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Saurora’s voice was sharp, an eyebrow arched in admonishment.

“Does it matter?” I scoffed, though her expression allowed no room for defiance.

“You think Father called us here, dressed us in these robes, just for breakfast?” she pressed, stepping closer, eyes glinting with authority. “We are all to gather in the throne room. Guests are arriving.”

“Guests?” I spat, brow lifted. Curiosity piqued despite my usual indifference.

Saurora nodded, her tone precise. “Sir Damos, the first of the many skilled warriors here to train us, will be joining us today.”

I froze briefly. This was news to me. I had been drifting through the motions at the table, half-engaged in the conversation. Yet the announcement ignited a spark of interest; I had heard of Sir Damos, of course. A competitor in the last trails and tournament. A force to be reckoned with yet forfeited at the last stretch of the game.

Saurora’s eyes flicked toward me, measuring. “The Counsel will arrive shortly as well,” she added, then turned and glided away, her long black hair trailing like liquid shadow. Her purple chiton swaying as she moved eagerly.

I followed behind, a sense of anticipation stirring beneath my usual calm exterior. If the day promised both Sir Damos and the Counsel, the entire palace would be mobilized. Every corridor, every hall, every courtyard would be scrutinized for perfection. The King and Queen left nothing to chance. Their obsession with image was legendary, and impressing the Council was paramount.

As we walked, I allowed myself a moment to admire the meticulous arrangement of the palace grounds. Flowers were aligned with geometric precision, fountains caught the light in endless prisms, and polished marble gleamed as though freshly birthed from the heavens. Portrayal was everything here, and today, we would all be instruments of it.

The corridors of the palace stretched ahead like veins of beige and gold, the sunbeams through the high arches in shards of light that caught on my gold-trimmed tunic. Servants moved silently to and fro, carrying trays and polishing surfaces that already gleamed with obsessive perfection. We stepped into the vast throne room that seemed almost too large for the palace itself, a cavern of glossy finish and towering columns that reached toward a painted sky overhead. An immaculate mural peering down at us.

Already, the atmosphere was charged with expectancy. The scent of fresh flowers mingled with the faint tang of polished stone, and I could hear the quiet shuffle of attendants and the soft rustle of silk as my siblings took their places aside the King and Queen at the foot of the throne.

At the far end of the room, a figure stood waiting: Sir Damos. His armor gleamed like obsidian under the sunlit hall, etched with symbols of past victories, and the quiet weight of authority radiated from him. Even from across the room, I felt the pull of respect and caution that he inspired. Sir Damos was said to have fought in the last Games of the Gods with striking force and tactic. The stories whispered in the halls painted him as nearly untouchable in combat.

“Sir Damos,” King Goran intoned, his voice carrying through the hall as he gestured respectfully. I caught my father’s eyes, noting the flicker of satisfaction and façade.

Sir Damos inclined his head slightly, acknowledging their presence without excess ceremony. It was enough to command silence and stillness in the room, a reminder that the Games were no simple sport. They were a crucible, a proving ground, and today’s gathering was the first step in that exacting process.

Moments later, the Council arrived. They entered with the gravity of history behind them, their robes inlaid with the crest of Palisade, the Kingdom that had won the previous Games of the Gods. Each member moved with practiced grace, the aura of victory and power settling over the throne room like a tangible weight. I studied them, noting the sharp lines of their faces, the glint of jewels marking their rank, and the subtle, commanding way they measured each person in the room.

King Goran chin rose slightly as the Council took their designated place in front of the throne, the gesture formal and deliberate. My siblings and I adjusted our positions in quiet compliance. House of Nightingale presented itself to the eyes of those who had conquered before with the hope that the Kingdom of Emperos would claim the next victory.

“We are honored to gather here today for the preparation of the next Game of the Gods,” a man chimed, stepping forwards, dripped in luxury robes and jewels. He muttered on endlessly about formalities, the importance of housing the Kings and Queens of Pandora and the selective participants, safety regulations and so on.

My attentions, however, bore into the grand door of the throne room for tomorrow the Windanes would stroll through, marking the beginning of my path to glory.

***

The King and Queen sat upon their thrones, and beside them smaller rosewood chairs waited for us. I took my place among my siblings, draped in jewels and dark finery, the banners of our house hanging above like silent sentinels.

The horn’s call echoed, and the massive doors creaked open. Light spilled through, golden and blinding, framing the figures who entered.

“King Osran and Queen Evangeline of House Windane, Kingdom of Yarrow,” the herald boomed.

The King was built like a bull, crowned in silver leaves and pearls, his Queen a vision of grace with flowers braided through her pale hair. Their children followed, and my gaze swept over them until it found the one I sought. Torin.

He was no longer the boy I remembered. Tall, broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, with a jaw carved as though from stone. How he had changed. Nothing like the boy I once knew. Our eyes locked momentarily, and a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, devious as they were when we were young. It has been years, and I couldn't help but wonder if we will be able to rekindle that friendship our fathers held so dear.

Names I did not care for echoed in the vast space, but the moment was short-lived.

“Youngest son, Prince Zander Windane!”

My posture stiffened as my eyes shot towards the boy as he entered, followed by the presence of light reserved for only him. He entered as an angelic figure, slowing time as he drew near and with each step his features became clear.

The House of Windane assembled in flawless formation before the steps of our thrones, their presence commanding silence. Yet it was the young Prince of Yarrow who drew every eye, his arrival unsettling the air itself. A quiet uncertainty rippled through the hall, like a curtain of mist waiting for the sun to burn it away. Even my family, so well-trained in composure, could not mask their astonishment. The maidens and squire boys gaped openly, their wonder unrestrained.

His hair was spun gold, kissed by sunlight and fading paler at the tips, each wavy strand falling as though placed with divine intention. His face was soft, fair, and sculpted with a precision that seemed not of mortal hands but of the Gods themselves.

Then his eyes. Green as the heart of an untouched forest, vibrant and endless. They outshone the peridot jewels in his silver olive-leaf crown, alive with a brilliance that seemed to breathe.

His mouth was finely drawn, lips full and tinted like ripened berries, his cupid’s bow an elegant curve that stirred thoughts unbidden.

His beauty eclipsed even that of his sisters, becoming the very embodiment of Yarrow’s fabled grace. Standing there, radiant and unearthly, he held the room captive.

“Goran, it has been far too long, old friend.” The King of Yarrow’s voice cut through the silence, tugging me back from the trance I had fallen into. My gaze shifted quickly, though a restless thought lingered, how long had I been staring at the Prince, and worse, had he noticed?

“Indeed it has, Osran,” my father answered warmly. The two men regarded one another with the weight of years, then broke into laughter, embracing as if no time had passed at all.

Pleasantries followed, and soon we were led to the dining hall. My father and King Osran fell into conversation immediately, trading stories from the years of distance as though trying to fill the empty space time had carved between them.

My mother, however, remained silent. Queen Evangeline sat beside her, regal and expectant, her pale eyes sharp as glass, waiting for an exchange that never came. The tension between them simmered like wine left too long to breathe.

Beside the Queen sat Prince Zander, and he drew every glance in the room. The maidens, even the servants, could not hide the way their eyes lingered on him, admiration barely veiled beneath courtesy.

Kalmin, as always, gravitated toward the princesses, his words light and rehearsed, their answering smiles polite but empty, like masks that slipped the moment he turned away.

And then Torin. He sat across from me. A simple vase of wildflowers stood between us, obscuring half his face.

“I’d say it’s been far too long, but my father already stole that line,” Torin said, his lips curving into a teasing smile.

I leaned slightly to the side, peering past the vase to catch his face unobstructed. “Then perhaps we ought to share tales of our time apart?” I smirked.

He laughed, low and easy. “What have you been up to since the last time we crossed paths?” He lifted his wine and sipped, eyes fixed on me with curious intent.

“The usual,” I replied, shrugging lightly. “Training to be crowned champion.”

Torin chuckled, shaking his head. “Surely you’ve done more than that?”

“I’ll disappoint you then,” I said, exhaling a short sigh. “Most of my days belong to combat and swordplay.”

“Too bad it won’t be enough,” he replied with mock pride, his voice carrying over the clatter of plates. “I’ll be the one to claim the Games of the Gods.”

I smiled faintly at his boast but offered no retort. Confidence like his was often brittle. Men who bragged were the first to fall.

The Games were never truly games. Victory didn’t require the death of every competitor, yet death always came, sweeping away half the challengers, sometimes more. Some perished at the hands of monsters, others in the merciless traps of the world itself, but most were cut down by one another. It was a contest where trust meant nothing, and survival demanded a mind sharpened as finely as any blade. There was no yielding once you were chosen. No mercy. Only risk, and a prize sweet enough to make kingdoms bleed for it.

Torin’s grin softened. “Regardless of how it plays out, I imagine we can still be friends. For now.”

“Indeed,” I said, returning his humor with a nod.

Our exchange fractured at the sound of laughter rolling down the table. My father and King Osran spoke like men who were more like brothers. Torin shook his head and reached past the vase, tearing a piece of roasted chicken from the platter.

I reached for the jug of wine, but my hand stilled when my eyes caught on Zander. He was smiling, actually smiling, as he spoke with Aurora and Dayron across the table. The sight unsettled me. He had always been an enigma to me, and seeing him so at ease, so alive, was strange. The memories I had of him sharpened whenever our gazes met, as if the past insisted on clawing its way back into the present.

I remembered the long hours I’d spent at his side, rambling about my imaginary adventures in the palace grounds, slaying monsters no one else could see with my enchanted sword, rescuing princesses from hydras with one too many heads. Zander had always listened. Always. His eyes would light with boyish wonder, urging me to share more, as if my stories gave him breath.

I never pitied him, not like the others did. The courtiers’ eyes softened when they looked at him, their gazes steeped in sympathy, writing him off as a fragile boy destined to fade away. But to me, he wasn’t a figure of pity, he was simply Zander. With the mind of a child who dreamed himself a hero, I only ever wanted him to feel human.

And in return, he had shared his own dreams, adventures he longed for but could never have. A cruel world had given him a frail body, yet he carried the gentlest heart I had ever known.

“Medicine.”

The voice broke through my thoughts. I blinked and turned. Torin was watching me closely, amusement ghosting over his features.

“What?” I asked, caught off guard.

“That’s why you’re staring, isn’t it?” He tilted his head toward Zander. “How does a boy who was once chronically ill now sit there, the very image of perfect health?”

I arched a brow, meeting his gaze. “I doubt I’m the only one asking that.”

“You’re not,” Torin admitted easily. “Others have wondered too. But the truth is simple.” He leaned back, swirling the wine in his cup. “Our advisers sent word beyond Yarrow, calling on physicians and scholars from every willing land. And they came.”

It wasn’t surprising. Yarrow had a reputation for kindness and generosity, a kingdom beloved by its neighbors. As for Emperos… not so much. We were cunning, self-serving. Respected, perhaps, but never adored. Were it not for the old friendship between King Goran and King Osran, we might have been enemies long ago.

Torin tore a piece of bread and continued, almost mechanically, as if reciting words too often spoken. “After long study and countless attempts, they found it, a cure brewed from the yellow flower that blooms only on the tallest mountain.” He shrugged, the story ending abruptly, as though he had rehearsed the vagueness to keep curious ears at bay.

I did not pry. My interest flickered, yes, but in the end, his explanation bore no weight on my life. Let others chase the details. I was content to let it rest.