Chapter 14 – The Fracturing of Honor
It was the third day of the Gauntlet Run, and the arena had become a furnace of fame and failure.
Every knight who crossed the threshold of the proving grounds now did so with eyes that betrayed calculation, not courage. The course had grown crueler, blades that once dulled on contact now drew blood, illusions that once confused now crippled the will.
The crowd no longer laughed.
Each victory was met with applause and the roars of patriotic pride.
The Gauntlet seemed to favor the unknowns, the foreigners, the fringe nobles. It wasn't said aloud, but it was felt among the highborn of Artherion.
I heard a gossip in the servant galleries, maidens whispering about the 'rigged path,' how knights of old bloodlines fell to mishaps while younger, bolder strangers triumphed. She passed two stable boys arguing over how Sir Orren of House Verelain had vanished mid-run without even triggering a single trap. Some said the path changed for him. Others swore they saw one of the mages, old and robed in strange, moss-colored sigils, wave his hand just before the knight turned a corner.
The rules were being rewritten. Not by the kings, not by the court, but by something deeper.
The high-ranking knight from House Callaros was next.
A hero of three border campaigns. Loyal to Artherion's crest. Never defeated.
He did not finish the Gauntlet.
Not because he fell. Not because he yielded.
Because the gates never opened for him.
The Herald had called his name. The crowd had cheered. The drums had rolled.
But the gate refused to rise.
The sigils on the door blinked, flickered, and died.
No explanation. No apology. The knight stood baffled. Angry. Humiliated.
And the next name was called.
A lesser noble from a forgotten province, Sir Veyran of the Northmist Cradle.
The gate rose without protest.
Sir Callaros said nothing. But his eyes, oh, they told of the knowing of the design of a present, yet unknown architect.
In the shadows above the arena, behind a veil of smoke and silk, Saevan watched through a mirrored lens embedded in his glove. A whisper flowed from him to the robed man beside him, a southern spell-binder whose eyes glowed pale like milk.
"Callaros is ready. Let the invitation be sent. Make it subtle."
The mage bowed and disappeared.
Lucien sat on the edge of a parapet overlooking the arena. The wind tugged at his hair. His eyes, unblinking, followed the failing run of Sir Veyran, who had fallen flat on his back while dodging the ember-laced pendulum. A lucky survivor, but no victor.
His knight stood silently at his back.
"Tell me," Lucien said at last, "how many spells have been inscribed into the gauntlet without my father's permission?"
"Seven," the knight answered. "Possibly more. The enchantments bear old coding. Forgotten dialects."
Lucien exhaled.
"We are no longer in control of the narrative."
"No," the knight said. "But they think we are. That buys us time."
Lucien rose. His eyes burned with frostfire.
"Then we must see who writes the next line in this story. Let the book open itself."
Elsewhere, in the tower of broken oaths, what once had been the barracks of Artherion's reserve command, men were meeting in secret.
Knights of smaller houses. Captains overlooked for promotion. Mages once scorned for practicing fringe rites. All quietly invited.
The chamber was dim, lit only by sconces whose flames burned in eerie, unnatural hues, green, violet, silver. The air was thick with incense and tension. On the table lay scrolls, sealed wax, and tokens of fealty from forgotten families.
A table. A banner. A false seal of Dravenguard, unofficial, but symbolic.
And Saevan.
He didn't speak first. He let them vent. He let them bleed words of frustration, rage, and disillusionment. They told him of missed opportunities, of cold meals after long campaigns, of wounds treated only with duty and no honor. Some recalled when their names had been wiped from the ledgers of merit, when their victories had been claimed by nobles who never lifted a sword.
They told of nights spent standing guard over walls that would never be thanked. Of sons buried without ceremony. Of oaths sworn to a crown that never called them kin.
And when they were done, he stood.
"No realm can hold every soul it births," Saevan said softly. "Not when its crown has forgotten the weight of names carved in stone. You, you were not just knights. You were shields. You bore the burden. And what did you receive? Silence. Or worse… a locked gate."
Murmurs of agreement.
He leaned in.
"But there is a kingdom where loyalty is not bartered but crowned. Where the king sees every sword not as a tool, but as a covenant. Prince Alaric awaits you, not as lords of rebellion, but as founders of legacy."
He dropped a scroll onto the table. It bore the mark of Dravenguard.
Sealed.
Inside: a promise of titles, land, command, and glory.
One knight stepped forward.
He signed.
Another followed.
And another.
Then entire legions.
Then everyone present.
The cracks in Artherion's armor had begun to split.
But Saevan's mind played far deeper than simple conversions. He seeded lies among their truths, carefully poisoning them with ideas that felt righteous, ideas that echoed in dark places: Artherion does not need kings. It needs conquerors.
Mirelleth, unaware of these quiet betrayals, sat beneath the tall shade of a marble arch, watching the last knight of the day limp away from the arena. Her thoughts were not on war, but on Lucien, on the way he had looked at the course that morning. Like a man already mourning what had not yet been lost.
The blue rose pulsed faintly by my ear, and for a second, I thought I heard it sigh.
High above, the stars waited. And Saevan smiled as the final names were drawn for the next trial.