Ruins And Royalty

The Reminded Memory - Chapter 1 Part 2

The morning sun hit the corridor with almost painful brilliance, scattering across the polished marble walls. I walked briskly, each step precise, my white tunic with gold lining swaying perfectly with motion. The red half-shoulder vest and gold accessories gleamed as I moved, a single chain earring dangling opposite the gold leaf bracelet wrapped around my upper arm. Every detail of my attire spoke but one language: business incarnate.

Usually, I would have cloaked myself in combat leathers, shared a perfunctory breakfast, and disappeared into the echoing halls of the palace for training: swordplay, endurance drills, relentless routines to sharpen body and mind. But not this morning. Today demanded a ritual far more exacting, far more ceremonial.

I halted before a massive rosewood door; its surface carved with winding vines and ancient sigils.

“My prince,” a man stated in polished armor, bowing before he swung the door open. I passed through, expression unreadable, a mere shadow among the gilt walls as I ignored the guard upon entering.

Inside, the dining hall smelled of polished wood, honeyed fruits, and the faint tang of early-morning spring air. The King and Queen stood at the head of the table, statuesque and imperious, framed by the bounty laid before them. Grapes and figs, apples shining like captured glass, eggs, slices of bread cut with surgical precision, platters of cheese, jugs of wine and sparkling water. A feast fit for royalty itself.

“Aaron.” My father’s voice was a low hammer, firm and commanding, bearing the weight of age and authority. My mother followed, equally poised, her greeting as cold and deliberate as frost. I lingered, standing at the back of my chair, waiting for the silent signal to take my seat.

The procession of siblings began. Dayron, eldest, twenty-five, entered with the grace of a seasoned warrior. His dark chestnut hair pulled back, a horizontal scar marking his nose like a battle hymn etched in flesh. Pride radiated from him as though the scar itself were a medal.

Next came Saurora, twenty-three, her midnight hair straight and flawless, her dark ocean eyes sharp enough to pierce marble. She mirrored our mother’s elegance with unerring precision, a living reflection that I knew would always hold the room’s attention.

I was third in line, twenty-two, yet cared little for protocol. My entrance was deliberate, a quiet assertion of presence. Kalmin followed, seventeen, surprisingly punctual. His hazel curls bounced as he walked. Yet he’d rather spend his mornings wooing maidens at the rock pool rather than attend to his duties.

The twins, Mayrin and Markus, twelve years of age, mirrored our father to almost perfection. Mayrin’s dark hair stood in contrast against her rosy cheeks that made her appear as if kissed by sunlight itself, while Markus carried the same innocence in a slightly lighter shade.

“You may be seated,” The King commanded, voice cutting through the room like a sharpened blade. Chairs scraped, and we all settled into place with a practiced synchronicity. A servant rang a delicate bell, the sound crystalline, signalling the start of breakfast.

Our mother, Queen Nymera, spoke first, her voice slicing through the murmurs of chewing and clinking goblets. “I assume you all know why we are here, summoned by your father and dressed properly.”

We all knew. Our usual routines were paused for this very occasion. It had been nineteen years since the last Game of the Gods, and whispers of the upcoming trials hung over us like storm clouds.

“The time is near,” our father announced, not raising his eyes from the food, “Ships will dock at the harbor in the upcoming days. Kings and Queens with their participants will arrive. In less than a half a year, the land of Emperos will host the beginning of the games. Young men and women from across Pandora will train here for the next few months leading up to the Game of the Gods. I expect decorum and attention. Guests will be treated with the respect their rank demands.”

He lifted a goblet to his lips, eyes flicking to his wife, who now straightened her posture to speak.

“Where you once trained in isolation under your guides, you will now learn from the best warriors, veterans of the Game of the Gods. Training will be in groups.”

The room went still. Plates paused mid-bite. Goblets hovered at lips. The announcement was unwelcome.

My jaw tightened. I felt the familiar spark of irritation flare, but also a quiet thrill. This was a glimpse into the chaos that would shape the strongest.

My mind flickered like a blade catching sunlight. Sharing space with potential rivals, watching, learning, judging. I hated it. And yet… there was a thrill buried beneath the irritation, a dark pulse of anticipation that I could not deny. The Game of the Gods was coming, and the faintest taste of glory and victory hung in the air.

My siblings murmured quietly among themselves, some begrudging the orders, some visibly excited. I, as always, kept my expression neutral, an unreadable mask. Inside, my mind was already mapping, calculating. Alliances would form and enemies will be made. Every glance, every subtle motion will be remembered. Studies.

A low chuckle drew my attention. Dayron, seated next to me, was already scanning the hall like a general reviewing a battlefield. His scarred nose caught the light as he leaned forward, whispering just enough for me to hear. “Don’t let them outshine you, little brother.”

I smirked faintly. “As if I’d let that happen.”

If anything, Dayron should be asking me to hold back. Inside my dark and damaged mind hibernated a fury ready to release. Not only was the Game of the Gods an opportunity for me to become something greater, but it presented an opportunity for me to let loose with excessive violence.

Nothing like an iron fist drawing blood from a jaw to calm one’s mind.

The clatter of the breakfast bell faded, replaced by the murmurs of servants and the soft rustle of silk as the youngest siblings fidgeted in their chairs. My eyes drifted to Saurora, her posture perfect, hands folded like a statue carved of ice. She would follow the rules. She would excel. And she would fail to surprise the world like I would.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Kalmin attempting a mischievous glance toward the back of the hall, no doubt seeking distraction. I scoffed internally. Kalmin would surrender the moment he stepped into the arena.

Dayron, on the other hand, had his seat amongst the audience reserved. As heir to the throne and already betrothed, the eldest son was not to enter the tournament. Forbidden even.

“Is this really necessary, Mother?” Saurora asked, her voice polite but edged with restrained defiance. Her dark ocean-blue eyes, sharp as frozen glass, betrayed her desire to refuse outright. “Is it mandatory to train with the rest of the participants?”

“How will you compete against others if you do not know their strengths and weaknesses, my daughter?” Our father’s voice cut through the room, rhetorical, absolute and like a blade sliding along polished stone.

I shifted in my chair, feeling the weight of expectation settle over me like a mantle.

“Will we be able to train on our own afterward?” My voice carried a faint edge of irritation. Group training meant exposure, meant camaraderie, and I liked neither, but my father’s logic was sound.

To rise, one must first measure the terrain.

The King’s hand waved lazily toward a servant, who poured more wine into the gilded goblet. “If that is what you wish,” he said, eyes flicking briefly toward me, “but group training comes first. You will not falter in front of your peers.”

A tiny voice piped up from across the table, delicate and hesitant, almost swallowed by the piles of fruit and bread. “Will we be able to enter the Games?” The young princess, Mayrin, peeked around her twin, hope fluttering like a captive bird in her chest.

“If the Gods see you worthy,” our mother replied, her gaze fixed firmly elsewhere, dismissive yet final. My dark gaze lingered on the children for a heartbeat. At twelve, they were still far too fragile for the scrutiny of the Gods. Only the strong, the relentless, the unyielding, would ever find favor.

However, my jaw clenched for a mere moment, before I evidently leaned back into the comfort of my chair, calm and unbothered. The Queen was far too willing to throw her youngest into the devil’s pit, but I didn’t expect anything less from her.

The Games were no tale for the faint-hearted. Each kingdom maintained a golden bowl of eternal flame, burning without end, a symbol of the Gods’ unblinking gaze. Those who dared to enter would throw a token of themselves into the fire under a full moon, beneath the stars’ eternal vigil. The fire, crimson and alive, would judge them. If the fire remained unchanged, keeping its orange hues, the participant would be seen as unworthy. If it turned blue, one was worthy. So, for both Mayrin and Marcus, the flames will remain unchanged, at least for their sakes.

My mind conjured the scene in vivid color: an open temple, the midnight sky spilling silver light across pillars that clawed at the heavens. Warriors from every corner of Pandora, adorned in the colors of their houses, the sigils of their bloodlines stitched into gleaming armor and flowing silks. A festival of power, of glory, of tension so thick it could be cut with a sword. And at its center, the golden bowl sat silent, patient and eternal.

I swallowed, imagining the heat of that flame, the crackle and hiss like whispered warnings. Every competitor’s gaze would be on me. Every breath measured. Every heartbeat a declaration.

“Will the princesses of Yarrow be joining as well?” A question flew across the table, snapping me out of his thoughts like a sudden gust scattering autumn leaves. He turned my gaze to my younger brother’s mischievous grin. Predictable as ever.

Of course, it was Kalmin. Always chasing after beauty and distraction rather than the weight of his duties pressing down on him. Yet the question held weight. The Kingdom of Yarrow was renowned not just for its landscapes. Forests like oceans of green, rivers glinting like liquid stars, but for its people. Princes and princesses alike all over Pandora would arrive draped in wealth, presenting pearls, gems and gold. Laid it at their feet hoping to impress or secure political favor.

Dayron was among the few fortunate enough to be blessed. Thanks to our father’s formidable friendship with the King of Yarrow, Princess Panthea was promised to him.

“They are not here for your amusement, Kalmin. Do not get distracted,” our mother stated, her voice cutting like sharpened crystal.

Before Kalmin could protest, Dayron’s deep, resonant voice rolled across the table. “The women here are plentiful. Don’t chase our guests away with your filthy manners.” He took a deliberate bite of a crimson apple, calm and confident, like a lion beneath the midday sun, certain none would dare disturb him.

Kalmin leaned forward, eyes alight with defiance. “Have you ever even been with a woman, Dayron?” He threw daggers across the table, yet the line faltered before it even reached our eldest brother.

Dayron’s gaze met his, steady and unmoved, the tranquility of water. “Brother,” he said, low and deliberate, “I am reserved for the Princess of Yarrow, Panthea, who has been promised to me.”

Kalmin’s jaw tightened, ready to strike back, but our father’s sharp clearing of his throat silenced the room. Every head turned to him, obedience demanded by the sheer weight of his presence.

“Speaking of, the House of Windane will arrive first, as the land of Yarrow lies closest to ours, just across our waters,” our father said, his voice dark and solid as stone. “Tomorrow, we will welcome King Osran and Queen Evangeline, with their sons and daughters. Know their names, and do not embarrass me.”

A tense pause fell over the table. I leaned forward, straining to catch the names as our mother’s voice filled the silence. “You should be acquainted by now, but I’ll announce their names regardless. The eldest son, Prince Torin. The eldest daughter, Princess Panthea, second eldest daughter, Izara…”

My mind drifted, untethered. Torin. Memories rose unbidden: wooden swords clashing in olive groves, laughter bouncing off sun-warmed corridors, water spraying from our playful chases along the beach. Back then, there had been no schemes, no crowns, only friendship and joy in the simplicity of movement and camaraderie. When King Osran had visited my father, he brought along his eldest son, Prince Torin in the hopes that we would share friendship likewise to theirs. The rest of the family would visit occasionally with King Osran.

The Windane family had long been entwined with ours. Fathers who had once climbed trees and skipped stones now traded drunken tales of battles won and lost, their laughter booming like distant thunder.

“And their youngest son, Prince Zander…”

The name struck me like a winter storm, fierce and sudden.

Zander.

Memories surged unbidden: a timid boy clinging to his mother’s dress, thin, pale, dark shadows beneath his eyes, chapped lips, hands trembling as if the world itself pressed down on him.

I remembered trying to reach out to him once. Out in the courtyard, near the gnarled oak trees, Zander had drawn endless circles in the sand with a stick, quiet and persistent. A nobleman’s child had mocked him, pushing him to tears. I stepped between them, anger and protectiveness flaring like wildfire. Words were exchanged, sharp and biting, and the other boy fled. Kneeling beside Zander, I had asked gently, “Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

The reply had been a whisper: “N-no, I’m fine… thank you.” And somehow, even then, Zander had managed a faint, fragile smile.

I blinked, forcing the memory back into the shadows of my mind. And yet, that small spark, the boy I had once known, quiet yet resilient, lingered stubbornly in my thoughts. Not that any of it mattered. Gods, I am surprised after all these years, with the condition he was in, that the prince was still alive.

My gaze swept across the table, searching for any flicker of recognition in my siblings’ faces, but all remained stoic, listening politely as the conversation drifted on. The weight of memory pressed lightly against me, yet no one else seemed to carry it.