A King’s Prize

  “Of all the nations of Alissia, how does one measure their worth? The six kingdoms of the Empire sprawl across nearly three-quarters of the continent. And yet, the Obsidian Empire is not alone.

  We must not forget the Crystal-Mist to the east, nor the frozen north, governed by naught but giants who care little for territory so long as their glacial dominion remains undisturbed.

  To the west lie the dunes of Daria, the bleak kingdom of Burke, the ungoverned wilds of Selwan, the painted coasts of Vania — and, of course, Cystennin.

  Ruled by the Magi-King in Shadowhome, a man so powerful even wyrms respect him.

  So who, then, sits at the pinnacle? It is a question that no one may answer.”

  — Stephan Laksher, The Sojourner: A Cartographer’s Introduction to Alissia

  A hush settled across the great ballroom as Emperor Melchan nodded once to his mage. Eros raised the tip of his staff skyward and began whispering softly, his fingers moving in swift, practiced motions through the air. A pale blue haze coiled from his hand, tracing intricate runes that lingered a few heartbeats before dissolving into the ether.

  When the incantation was complete, the staff dimmed, and Eros lowered it with solemn grace before taking his seat beside the emperor.

  Melchan stood.

  “Loyal subjects of the Obsidian Empire,” he began, his voice strong, smooth, and regal, “it is my pleasure to welcome you to this night of celebration.”

  A wave of anticipation rolled through the crowd.

  “Please, tonight I bid you enjoy yourselves. Partake in fine food and sweet drink to sate your palates. Let the music carry your spirit. Dance freely, and for a little while—forget your troubles.”

  He paused, letting his gaze sweep the room.

  “Let us join together in giving thanks—for the blessings of another prosperous year. Our empire thrives. Our granaries are full. Trade flows like the rivers of old. And our cities rise ever higher, filled with the lives and labors of good people.”

  A murmur of pride passed through the assembly.

  “Before we begin,” Melchan said, shifting tone, “it is my honor to recognize one among us.”

  He motioned to the knight seated at the royal table.

  “The victor of today’s contest of arms—Lord Biaun Greyblood.”

  Biaun rose stiffly, discomfort plain on his face despite the grace of his movement. He turned to face the assembly, jaw set, eyes forward, his posture as rigid as the blade he had wielded mere hours before.

  “Lord Greyblood,” the emperor continued, “in years past, you shed your blood—and that of your enemies—for the protection and honor of this realm. You led the Arm with both competence and compassion. And when the empire’s need was most dire, you returned to us—without summons, without reward.”

  Melchan stepped forward slightly, his gaze heavy with meaning.

  “As your emperor, I commend your bravery. I honor your sacrifice. There can be no doubt that you are both patriot and friend to this kingdom.”

  With that, the emperor turned and motioned toward a small curtain along the eastern wall. At his signal, two formally clad guards stepped forward and drew it back, revealing a narrow, dimly lit passage beyond. Faint torchlight flickered against the stone, casting long shadows that danced across the threshold.

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  From within the gloom, a figure stirred.

  He moved slowly—deliberately—each step echoing faintly through the quiet as though time itself had been asked to wait. For a moment, it seemed he might never emerge at all. But then, as he passed from the veiled shadows of the corridor into the brilliant light of the great hall, there could be no mistaking who he was.

  Kia-Aret Corbain, Magi-King of Cystennin—the curious master of Shadowhome.

  He was a strange being, an enigma wrapped in flesh and power.

  Years of arcane study had left his tall frame bowed with age, though not weakness. Twisted in structure and aura alike, his body bore the unmistakable marks of transformation, leading more than one onlooker to wonder whether he remained entirely human.

  His head was mostly bald, revealing polished ebony skin save for a long, crimson topknot trailing from the back of his scalp. His face resembled that of a bird of prey—sharp, gaunt, and dominated by a hooked, hawkish nose.

  From the depths of his arcane mastery, his eyes blazed with a pale, unnatural luminescence—glowing white orbs that saw far more than the material. Even his ears stretched into long, elegant arches—though he had no elven blood to explain them.

  His shoulders were broad, yet strangely hunched, as if weighed down by invisible burdens. In one of his long, raven-black hands, he clutched a thick, leather pouch, bound shut with knotted cord.

  He wore a sleeveless maroon robe cinched with a black sash. No crown adorned his head—none was needed. His presence alone proclaimed his authority.

  It was said, in whispers both respectful and afraid, that Kia-Aret Corbain was a power even dragonkind dared not offend.

  The large man moved steadily forward, his unsettling gaze fixed upon the knight.

  Though Biaun Greyblood was not easily unnerved, he could not deny the primal tension coiling within him now. There was no mistaking it—Kia-Aret Corbain was a being of immense and alien power. And whatever he was now, he was far more than just a man.

  As the Magi-King neared the Imperial table, Eros, the emperor’s royal wizard met him.

  All true mages of renown were required to undergo the Trials of the Tower—a sacred rite binding them not just to their craft, but to a shared moral code. Magic, history had proven again and again, was a force too dangerous to wield without constraint. Without ethics, it invited madness and destruction.

  Thus, the kingdom of Cystennin had been established—not merely a sovereign land, but a sacred institution tasked with preserving balance. In it, the world entrusted the stewardship of the arcane to those who could endure its burden.

  And Kia-Aret Corbain was its pinnacle.

  He was not just ruler of mages, but the living seal against chaos. A sentient bulwark, both guardian and enigma.

  Eros stood before his king, wide-eyed and reverent. Then, to the astonishment of many, the somber court mage dropped to one knee, his head bowing low until it rested atop his right leg.

  “Your Grace,” he whispered, his voice trembling, “it is with a joyful heart that I kneel before you once again. May your aura never be diminished.”

  Few in the grand hall had ever seen Eros—calm, measured, distant Eros—in such a vulnerable state. Yet neither mage nor Magi-King appeared to find it strange.

  “Rise, Eros,” Kia-Aret intoned, his voice low and resounding. He waited as the royal mage slowly stood, still visibly shaken.

  Their eyes met.

  Without a word, a thin stream of glowing light extended from the center of the Magi-King’s brow, striking Eros squarely between the eyes. The court gasped—some softly, others audibly.

  Eros blinked once, then again—his whole body suddenly still. For a moment he seemed lost in a trance.

  Then, as the last flicker of light vanished, he inhaled sharply and turned, his face aglow with childlike wonder. The mage who returned to the emperor’s side bore a smile that had not been seen in years.

  Even Biaun, watching from afar, could not deny the presence of something sacred in the room.

  Kia-Aret spared a solemn nod toward the Emperor and his wife before turning his gaze directly to the knight.

  “Lord Biaun Greyblood, son of Evan, grandson of Liam, you are a credit to your family name.”

  The magi-king’s voice echoed unnaturally throughout the vast ballroom, and Biaun wondered if Kia-Aret still needed to employ the same spell Eros had cast on the emperor—or if he had long since transcended such trivial magics.

  Tipping his head in gratitude, Biaun silenced his thoughts and focused on the great wizard’s words.

  “Though I was unable to attend the gladiatorial contest, I have seen your sword in action. Thus, it came as no surprise that I am presenting you with these gifts.”

  Kia-Aret’s bird-like face briefly twisted into a half-grin as he glanced at Portean. “I hear you were finally forced to reveal your true sword hand.”

  The predatory smile vanished almost as quickly as it appeared as the magi-king extended his prize toward the knight.

  “Biaun Greyblood, it is my pleasure to present you with one thousand crowns, a gift from your Emperor, and this pendant—my personal gift—granting you the right to seek my counsel in the Tower. Accept these as tokens of your Emperor’s goodwill and my own.”

  Bowing deeply once to the magi-king and once again to the emperor, Biaun’s hands reached eagerly for the pendant he had long desired.

  As he accepted the talisman with reverence, Aehyl observed the stern knight closely. He seemed to have forgotten entirely the bulging bag of gold resting in the magi-king’s other hand, his eyes drinking in the sight of the pendant as if it held some deeper meaning.

  She found herself wondering what weight the promise of audience with the Magi-King carried for the guarded warrior.

  When Kia-Aret cleared his throat softly, Biaun’s stony composure returned. Clutching the pendant in one hand, he absently accepted the bag of coins with the other and set it carefully upon the table.

  “I will find a suitable charity for the coin,” he stated simply before bowing once more and returning to his seat, his gaze never leaving the pendant.