Part One: The Zepathorum King
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CHAPTER 1—KNIGHTHOOD OF THE SILVER DEN
Mitakahn put forth little resistance in the fight against his nap. Having heard these legends countless times during his tenure at the academy, he had mastered the art of coping with the monotony of lectures. Now the nap itself was pure reflex. It was perfectly natural for a robust late riser to doze off after rushing through the chilled dawn and sitting beside a warm hearth. Who could blame him?
Whereas sometimes fate spoke through random acts, it was truly remarkable how many of Mitakahn’s major life events could be traced all the way back to an insignificant moment, like not getting enough sleep after having a bad dream. This morning''s session focused on a prehistoric kingdom of MagnaThora.
Ser Gasper continued, “Before there were kings, before there were wars, before people had reason to write events down, making them historical, the Southlands were ruled by the dragons. What do we have for empirical evidence? Mere verbal accounts and songs are all that remain of the dragon lords. Their origins are rooted so deep in the shadow it is still unclear whether they were a house that took the dragon as their sigil or actual dragons themselves!”
The old knight exhaled. He released his finger pointing in the air. One of the students yawned as the deflated teacher continued, wishing he had a session with the first-years instead. Before the legend found its natural conclusion an interruption startled the class.
“NO!” yelled Mitakahn.
His head had slipped off his hand jolting him awake, the memory of his dream instantly evading him. In that moment, he screamed loud enough to stop the lesson and garner the collective attention of the class. Mitakahn let a few moments go by, in what felt like an eternity, before excusing himself from the room and certain humiliation – temporarily.
He ran through the oldstone hallway, passing all the other lectures still in session. Mitakahn turned a corner and bolted for the exit. He knew the doors behind the Silver Den accoladium were often left unsupervised. His suspicions were confirmed after slipping out of the building.
One word followed Mitakahn into the wilderness where he hoped to find some peace and respite. One word he had wrapped his entire frame of existence around since the day he was born. The meaning of the dream may have eluded him, but one remnant chased him into the woods. Not just a word but a name– Theomitus.
Most of the students assumed the school’s isolated mountaintop location was just a form of educational retreat from the world they knew. It was, in fact, one of the oldest landmarks in all of the kingdoms. Before the kings there were gods. What could possibly be before the gods but more gods?
West of the mountains was the godsmash crater. Mitakahn loved that phrase from the history books. Surrounded by the sea on one side and the mountains on the other. The crater was the only patch of MagnaThora that has gone untouched by man since the dawn of time. This crescent moon cliff-side used to be one massive, full (moon) mountain before the first founder god came crashing down, crushing the mountain upon impact, leaving only the crescent moon cliff standing. Ever since, it has been preserved by most kingdoms, and considered sacred, forever forbidden under swift penalty.
Iron-clad laws prohibited any trespassing, but most people kept off of it out of respect. The school was built as its guardian, perched on the cliffs above. There was only one game trail that ran down to the holy lands, carved seamlessly into the cliff-face. Few knew of it, none dared to traverse it...
Mitakahn sat in the grass at the bottom of the trail warming his face in the sun, having just made the decision to also skip his afternoon session, another one of his last semester classes. The severity of his trespassing did not evade him. Instead of listening to reason, he used it as an excuse to prove his resourcefulness. Mitakahn hid in the only place no one would dare come looking for him.
In fact, not many people knew what was really down here. While Mitakahn had been descending the trail he got a better look at the Sacred Lands. That was how he knew not to venture any further. The rest of the valley appeared to be below sea level. He could tell by the over-developed marshlands. The last thing he needed was to get stuck in a bog with no one around to help him.
The rest of the day unfolded without a flaw. His friends were going to give him relentless ridicule when he returned, it was all but guaranteed. Even still, warm weather, blue skies, and puffy white clouds marked the day a victory. Mitakahn was free to daydream.
Mitakahn’s mind could wander farther than any foot could ever walk. In his reflections he found peace, and in the shade over a nice bed of wild grass he found quiet. He could not help but doze off again. Midday naps were his favorite. When almost everyone else was too busy awake and living their lives, he was dreaming. It was as if being the only one dreaming made the dreams that much more potent.
He was so content he slept the rest of the day away, which was odd because if Mitakahn was known for anything around campus it was never missing a meal. Outside of his small circle of friends, Mitakahn didn’t always get along with the rest of the students. He was not the smartest and he was not the strongest. This was uncommon for someone with such an old family name, like Arkenoir.
He was awoken by a growl that, surprisingly enough, didn’t come from his stomach. Mitakahn found a big enough stick to serve as a club for protection. Regret flooded his mind for not bringing a blade. It was already dusk and too late to climb back up the trail, to do it at all was madness, to do it at night was certain death. Mitakahn would be stuck down here for the night. It''s a good thing he was no tenderfoot, but well-trained in his five-year tenure at the knighthood. No immediate threat revealed itself after the growl, so he set a small fire before getting started on a shelter.
While finishing up his lean-to he thought he heard a slow rustle from the trees behind him. Mitakahn softly moved away from the fire, out of sight. It could be anything. He could hunt it. He could be the hunted. Crouched down low into the brush, he waited for his intruder.
There was nothing to be seen. But he still heard sounds of a threat. Mitakahn grew anxious, his nerves getting the best of him. He had to do something. With a big gulp, he started walking back out to the campfire. He gritted his teeth and used himself as bait– which was never a good idea and only a measure of desperation. Mitakahn’s self-awareness piqued suddenly exposing the fool’s errand, a true knight would have remained steadfast and waited for a better opportunity.
Beads of sweat dropped off his forehead, haunting his every step. Mitakahn barely stepped forth before regretting his decision. He dropped, and in doing so saved himself from getting mauled. The beast missed its mark, but still managed to take some flesh with it; stout claws sliced into the back of his shoulder blade.
He dropped the club in the attack and narrowly avoided falling on top of it, twisting his kneecap. The beast landed close enough to the fire for it to get spooked and scurried off. Preoccupied with identifying his foe, Mitakahn’s focus kept him from screaming and he rolled over the pain. It blended in with the trees so easily. Four legs, rough skin, no fur, uncanny agility. These traits did not add up to any local fauna.
The beast flew down from the tree branch and attacked. Mitakahn dodged the aerial assault by the grace of the gods. The winged creature was not just passing by; it was looking for its next meal. Mitakahn reached for his club, but it redirected in an instant and rushed him again. Now face to face, with the help of the firelight, he could see it was a winged lizard, known as a basilisk. Impossible. Mitakahn gave up going for the club and instead jumped out of the way of the charging reptile.
The beast’s kicking heel knocked the club into the fire. Mitakahn picked up a rock and hurled it. The basilisk dodged the rock, side-stepping it, and made another run at Mitakahn.
Sure, the lesson books showed illustrations of what a basilisk of the south looked like, but not like this. This reptile was far larger than anything Mitakahn could have expected. They grappled back and forth. Tossing, tackling, and rolling around on the ground.
The reptile’s tail wrapped around Mitakahn’s neck. He desperately scratched at the tightening coils closing off his air flow. He stopped swiping at the tail and rolled over, pinning the lizard down. He then pushed them both forward on the ground and into a small tree. In the struggle, the tree snapped near its base.
The splintered stem stuck up out of the ground like a spear. Choking halfway to death, Mitakahn found it in himself to lift them up and drop down hard. It worked! Impaling the base of the basilisk’s tail on the broken tree shard. Dismemberment was a great form of distraction. Air gushed back into his lungs as the tail released its grip, falling away from the beast as it scurried away.
Mitakahn got back to his feet and ran to the fire, ducking behind it for a chance to catch his breath. The giant reptile would give him no such opportunity. It flew haphazardly out of the brush above Mitakahn. There was a bizarre shift he had never felt before. Something he could not see, but he could feel closed in around him.
Everything slowed down.
Mitakahn looked down at his left hand, believing this would not be for the last time. He closed his eyes, and reached into the flame, searching for a grip...
Mitakahn winced, pulling the club out of the fire and swung it at the basilisk flying overhead. He knew his fingers had to be burnt, but in the heat of the fight he felt little pain. The fiery club slammed into the serpent’s ribcage and a burst of embers exploded in the darkness. The dynamic blast encapsulated the fallen adversary in a fiery celebration of splintered cinders. The reptile fell, tried to get back up and then stumbled over clawing back into the brush.
Blood and dying embers marred the brush. Mitakahn followed its trail and found the motionless beast sprawled out. It was finally dead. At the sight of it his nerves began to settle down. His body caught up while his mind slowed down. Exhaustion and pain were taking over. Even still, he wanted to get a good look at it. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
The grayish-green scales covered most of its body, from its stub of a tail to its horned brow, all save its beige underbelly. The most frightening part for Mitakahn was the thin leathery skin connecting its arms to its body. This reptile had wings. Mitakahn knew it did not fly as much as it glided, but this was still the closest thing to a dragon he had ever seen, and the implications were disturbing.
“What in the Nethers is a cold-blooded creature like you doing this far north?”
He dropped the club. His singed hand, scratched-up back, and twisted knee all sang to him. Mitakahn plopped down onto the ground drained of energy, the full impact of the fight taking inventory on his body. The smell of the dead basilisk was horrible, like fermented grass and droppings. Mitakahn wrestled with the stench briefly before passing out.
The second time Mitakahn awoke in the Sacred Lands he did so with the sun. He still had some time before First Horn and could make it up the trail in the light, but he knew there would be no hiding his physical condition. He didn''t waste any time looking back. He had enough of a reminder riddling his body with swells and pain, vowing never again to visit the Holy Lands of MagnaThora. Irony at its best.
When Mitakahn reached the top, he saw his friends on their way to class. Right before Mitakahn got to them, a member of the faculty called out from across the fields.
“Mitakahn!” yelled Ser Pulitzer, with his ill-fitting spectacles bouncing on his high-ridged nose as he ran. “You’ve been summoned by the headmaster.”
Mitakahn changed direction and started running over to the Main Hall, attempting to hide his limp. He had been caught before he even had a chance to get away with it. First Horn sounded and the entire student body proceeded to their morning sessions.
Mitakahn felt a great schism in his path. He was no longer on the same trajectory as the rest of his peers. He was no longer a student beginning his morning session. Some force was pulling him, where? He did not know... But he would not resist the current back to the wilderness; for better or for worse.
The columns of the main building were made of greenish gray oldstone. Mitakahn walked through the massive slabs lodged together to form the capital story walk-up.
The top of the stairs led up to the headmaster’s office. This was the kind of information Mitakahn thought a student should know of, but never actually see for himself. The doors to the office swung open before him as the sunlight invaded the previously dim stairwell. The quick flash of light nearly blinded him but soon receded to reveal the headmaster sitting at his desk, in all of his prestige and glory, and of course, his infamous long gray wispy beard, so pronounced and overgrown, its bottom tip wiped his desk free of any dust.
“Mitakahn, please have a seat.”
“Good morning, Master Gribbons.” Mitakahn said, as his palms began to sweat.
“You look like you had a rough night.”
Ser Pulitzer remained by the headmaster’s side, hovering carefully with his arms crossed. “The boy needs medical attention, Master.”
“I can explain-”
“To save you from further embarrassment, Mitakahn, I will inform you now that we are aware you missed all of your classes yesterday,” said Gribbons.
Mitakahn sunk in his chair. This was going to be ugly.
“We had the fourth-year scouts track you to the Sacred Lands trail, and furthermore Ser Pulitzer informs me that he witnessed you returning to camp from the trail just now.”
“Master, please if I could just ex-” Mitakahn rubbed his hands together anxiously.
“You know what we have to do, Mitakahn.”
“…Please…”
“It is one of the oldest laws of this institution…”
“This house was basically founded on it, son,” Ser Pulitzer added.
The proceedings of the room came to a sudden halt. The headmaster turned his attention towards the tenured knight and Mitakahn could not help but quietly revel in it.
“Give us the room, Ser Pulitzer.”
“As you wish, Headmaster.”
Once the door closed Headmaster Gribbons’ facial expressions almost completely changed. The unyielding stern front he was famous for faded and a burdened look stretched across the headmaster’s face. Mitakahn could read the old knight loud and clear, he was conflicted.
“Mitakahn, I have no choice.”
“If people find out I was expelled it will disgrace my father’s house.”
“You think I have not heavily weighed all the ramifications of your actions? Maybe if you were so aware of your father’s house and its societal standings within the eight kingdoms from the start you would have never crossed the forbidden threshold!”
“Headmaster, I meant no disrespect.”
“Your father is a king, Mitakahn, which makes you a-”
“Prince. But not the one that counts, right?” Mitakahn’s temper finally took hold, “My whole life I have been told I am an heir, but what’s the point? I’m the prince who will never be king. What is my purpose? The very question that brought me here. Feudal code and ancient tradition have ever been the bane of my existence. What is it about a patch like any other ground that makes it forbidden? Why does being born a couple years too late take away your chance of being king, even if you could be a better fit?”
“Mitakahn, if you fail to see the quintessential lesson of this academy after five years, then that alone in my eyes would be grounds for dismissal.”
“Master… I-”
“It is not for us to decide the way of the world. True knights of the Silver Den attune to their surroundings, they do not expect the world to attune to them.”
“Headmaster, you are right.” Mitakahn calmed himself down, “I have trained here for five years now. The lessons you and your knights have instilled upon me I will never forget. I have come to terms with the fact that life does not revolve around what I want. But sometimes it gets the best of me and getting what I want is exactly my way of standing up for myself. You say we don’t matter, I say we should. At what point does letting the world rule itself hinder our ability to do good? Your teachings are useful for developing one’s senses but are useless and outdated for practical applications in the real world.”
“Mitakahn, if you would have just brought these concerns to me in a proper forum I would have finished your training personally. But now, after what you did…”
“And if you send me packing, Headmaster, weeks before we are knighted. Zepathorum will be the laughingstock of the eight kingdoms.”
“We will not make your expulsion public.”
“How do you plan on doing that?”
“The manner is directly correlated with how we caught on to your violation in the first place.”
Mitakahn felt something he had never experienced before, like an endless pit opening up in his gut. It was a sense of, to put it in words:
How could this get any worse?
“We received word from the crimson kingdom, the great lion himself King Theomitus has called you home.”
“With just a couple of weeks left? Why?”
“No reason was provided.”
“What could possibly be more important than getting knighted?”
“Objectively speaking Mitakahn, from my experience it’s usually one of four events: a royal birth, wedding, coronation, or death.”
Mitakahn felt the impact of that last one just a little bit longer than the others. Before he sank any further in both chair and heart, Mitakahn jumped up.
“Tell me you sent correspondence of my return already, before you caught me in the Sacred Lands.”
“I’m afraid it was already decided by the council of elders that notification of your dismissal would be sent post-haste. By the time you get home your father will know that you failed your quest for knighthood.”
He had heard enough. Mitakahn politely excused himself before he completely lost his composure. The realization of helplessness settled in all too quickly. Before Mitakahn knew it he was heading across the commons. The amount of trouble he was in felt like a weight around his neck, pulling his eyes to the ground. He found himself walking, where? He did not know. All he knew was he had to get away.
“Mitakahn!”
His former classmate was standing directly in front of him, face to face. Mitakahn looked up at one of his closest friends, Bridger Callister. Mitakahn and Bridger had one thing in common that could not be said for any other member of the knighthood. They were both royalty. Bridger was a shining example of a true prince: tall, fast, strong, clever, and most of all…firstborn heir to his father’s throne. After examining Mitakahn’s disheveled state, Bridger tried hailing Mitakahn again, this time with a question. “What’s wrong?”
“I was just expelled.”
Anyone else would have taken a step back or even dropped their jaw, but not Prince Bridger. He put both of his hands firmly on Mitakahn’s shoulders. Mitakahn winced as pain shot down his wounds from the night before. Although his eyes were no longer on the ground Mitakahn still struggled to focus. That was until Bridger made direct eye contact; and with it, forced Mitakahn back to reality.
“My friend, tell me what happened to you.”
What was there to say? In one fell swoop he managed to turn his entire life upside-down. Getting knighted was the first step of his plan to achieve a significant life beneath the throne. He just tainted the well on the initial draw. He failed and that might not even be the worst of it. Some scandal awaited him, a secret so shrouded in mystery he had no choice but to track it to its source. Mitakahn saw it in Bridger’s crystal blue eyes, the clarity of the situation reflected back onto him. It was time for Mitakahn to go home…
And face the crimson.