Epilogue


    The Will of the King


    Landryn Tredain scowled as he climbed the stairs to his father’s throneroom. Lukane was already there—alone and dressed in his white and gold military suit. His older brother had taken to the style since the announcement of the Rubanian invasion.


    Lukane stood admiring the throne on the dias. It was an ostentatious thing in Landryn’s opinion. Dozens of delicate gilded wings had been crafted on the edges of the throne by Landryn’s great-grandfather. He’d then renamed it as the Sky Throne. It would’ve been apt name without the wing decorations as the walls of the throneroom were entirely glass allowing for a full panoramic view from the highest point in the Pillar.


    “Little brother,” Lukane beamed as Landryn mounted the steps, “A fine day is it not?” He gestured out to the blue winter sky, there were scatterings of white and grey clouds. Frost covered the edges of the glass.


    “Indeed,” Landryn replied, “however I should be overseeing the deployments to Rubane.”


    “Allow Mattice to manage that,” Lukane chided, “when the King summons you, you do not grumble. Respect for the crown is paramount.”


    “Father’s not even here,” Landryn remarked.


    “When I am King,” Lukane began and Landryn felt his eyes roll, “I will expect you to show deference. Your attitude has become tiresome of late. Do not think yourself better than me.” Landryn opened his mouth to retort but then heard another following up the stairs


    “My sons,” Abhran’s voice came, “why must you bicker like children.” Their father was similarly dressed to Lukane. The black nythilium crown atop his head.


    “Father,” Lukane bowed, which Landryn matched.


    “Join me, my sons. Today is a momentous day.” The King walked confidently to the edge of the room, inches from the glass. Landryn felt his jaw tighten at his father’s friendly demeanour.


    The great height of the Pillar was usually enough to make people weak at the legs, but Abhran showed no discomfort. Landryn and Lukane joined their father next to the window, looking down at the city hundreds of feet below. There was a balcony a few levels below the window so a direct drop wouldn’t likely be fatal but the expanse of air to the city and bay beyond was usually enough to have people recoiling from the edge. Landryn could sense the billowing winds rushing past the tower at this height. His edir resonated with them, and they responded in kind.


    “Sixty warships,” Abhran said, “carrying over twenty thousand soldiers. The courageous men and women of Reldon.” The King’s gaze was locked upon the warships floating in the bay. Many were already sailing around Heraldport in the distance.


    “We are on cusp of a new age,” Abhran continued, “our legacy shall be written over the coming months. Rubane will fall beneath our might, the wildlands of Athlin brought to heel. The proud defences of Ard-Rien reduced to rubble. The glory of our ancestors will be restored, with us at the very peak of it all.”


    Landryn had heard variations of this speech many times over the years. His father’s avarice for this war had been brewing for as long as he could remember. He didn’t have time today to listen to the old man drone on and on about restoring the greatness of their ancestors. He had work to do. At this rate it would be long after midnight before he found his bed. Not that he had any desire to return to it.


    It had been three weeks since Lua Nova. Three weeks of war preparations. Three weeks since Femira had disappeared. She had vanished from his life as abruptly as she’d stepped into it. A bright spark in a dark room. He felt his face lock into a frown at the thought of her. She’d left without a goodbye—not even a note.


    When Landryn had gone to Garld to ask where she was, his mentor had insisted she was fine. That she was on assignment in Keiran. Of course Landryn had known that Garld had agents in Keiran. He also knew that Femira—as Annali Jahar—was in a unique position to be a valuable spy. But he couldn’t believe that she had left without telling him. He’d been furious with Garld for not clearing the mission with him first. Shamefully, Landryn had reverted to a teenage boy, throwing a tantrum but Garld could always calm him when the rage took over.


    “I know you two were close,” Garld had said, putting a hand on Landryn’s shoulder. “But you have a duty to this country, Landryn. As does she. We must all play our parts.” He knew Garld was right. He was always right. He was the only one whom Landryn could trust utterly.


    “The time has come, Landryn,” Abhran said, pulling Landryn back into the moment. “It is time for your brother and I to join with you and the bloodshedders. The power of the soulforged is unrivalled. And the process, as I understand it, is now perfected. You yourself have shown no signs of degradation.” Landryn felt his shoulders tighten. He’d known this day would eventually come. That didn’t mean it didn’t anger him.


    “Indeed, father. Garld suspects it is our lineage. Those with suspected soulforging in their ancestry seem to have more stable results.”


    “Elyina,” Abhran said with spite, “the great shadow and deceiver of our nation. The hypocrite! Had she not smothered all the knowledge of soulforging, Reldon could have been the greatest nation in the world.” Landryn chose not to point out that if it had not been for Elyina’s journals, they would not have pieced together the formulas for soulforging in the first place.


    “Our glory will overshadow even Elyina’s legacy,” Lukane said, pandering to their father’s ego. Landryn had little interest in standing around listening to this.


    “It might be prudent to wait a little longer,” Landryn suggested.


    “Nonsense,” Lukane dismissed, “father has announced that soulforging has been rediscovered. Already the highborn are begging us for the privilege to join the ranks. It would be an opprobrious position for the King himself to not be among the most powerful in our country.”


    “The Tredains must always exemplify the strength of Reldon,” Abhran said, “we must never show weakness in our family. To cower in fear of this power would be a weakness.”


    “We still have yet to determine how to infuse more than one runestone,” Landryn noted, “you would need to choose an affinity and be locked into this.”


    “An inconsequential price,” Abhran contended, “in the face of the power of the soulforged. Annali Jahar was a novice a year ago, and now she stands amongst our most prominent elites.”


    “We must join with soulforged,” Lukane put in, “we have suffered the stain of Daegan’s affliction on our name long enough.” Landryn felt his entire body tense at the mention of their younger brother. His stomach turned to ice water.


    “Yes, yes,” Abhran agreed, moving away from the window towards the throne. “At least in death, Daegan’s life can finally have value to us.” He said bitterly. Landryn felt a flare of rage at the comment. Lukane turned to follow after their father but Landryn kept his gaze fixed upon the warships. He couldn’t trust his restraint if he looked at them.


    “Who would’ve thought,” Lukane pondered, “that when we sent Daegan to Rubane, it would accelerate to war within a few short months. Quite convenient that… It was you yourself, Landryn, that recommended Ferath Vitares as Daegan’s bodyguard, were you not?”


    Ferath Vitares. The name sparked inside of Landryn. He could feel the tempest building inside. His fury. The chaotic winds of his edir swirled inside of him, at the very center of it was Ferath Vitares.


    “He was your man,” Lukane continued, “loyal to fault, you claimed.” Lukane was taunting him. His brother had always been a cruel bastard. He was trying to trigger Landryn’s guilt. An attempt to stir Landryn’s temper as he had done so often in the past.


    “Yes,” Landryn forced the word from his lips.


    “It was a good spin you achieved there,” Lukane continued, “convincing the noble houses of your grief… That Ferath had been turned traitor by the Dukes of Rubane.”


    “Lukane,” Abhran said with warning, “do not badger your brother so. Daegan’s death is indeed felt by all of us.” Those words stabbed into Landryn’s back like a knife. How fucking dare he. How dare his father claim that he was grieved by Daegan’s death. That he gave a single fuck about him.


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    He was so infuriated by Abhran’s statement that it had taken him a moment to process what Lukane had said before. Landryn whirled from the window.


    “What do you mean what I achieved?” Landryn said, an accusatory edge in his voice.


    “Come now, brother, there is no need to hide,” Lukane smirked, “I know that Ferath would never have betrayed you. It was quite genius… you even challenged me on the decision to send Daegan to Rubane. But it was all a tactful play to divert any suspicion, and it played out spectacularly.”


    “It’s alright, Landryn,” Abhran then spoke, his face every inch that of a doting father, “you do not have to hide from us. We commend what you’ve done. You’ve given us justification to finally take Rubane. The Houses would never have aligned on this before. To be truthful, I didn’t think you had this in you. But you have proven me wrong and for that I am glad. You have earned your place as my left hand, alongside your brother. My sons… together, we shall usher in a new era for Reldon. Our glory will be remembered across the aeons. We shall be the sword that this world shall bow to.”


    Landryn felt a pounding in his chest. It felt like a storm was raging inside of him, battering at his ribcage. They think… they think that I did this. His father and brother believed that Landryn was the orchestrator for all of this. That he had ordered Ferath to do what did. That he was the one who had ordered Daegan’s death. Daegan’s face forced his way into his mind as it so often did these days. The memories of his brother always dancing on the periphery of his mind. His teeth ground against each other in anger.


    “You should include us in these schemes in the future,” Abhran said, “I appreciate what you’ve done for us. But we are a family, Landryn. You need to trust us.”


    “Trust you…” Landryn’s voice was ice. The moment was poised on the edge of a knife. Landryn could feel the rage burying itself into the depths of his soul. His fury woven into it as intricately as the amethyst runestone that enhanced him.


    “Because we are family,” he felt the words leave him but he couldn’t hear it over the building tempest in his ears.


    The memory of Daegan trapped in a prisoner of stone spikes flashed in Landryn’s mind and he locked eyes with his father. Returning to the training room hours later to find his brother rasping for breaths, barely clinging to life. Landryn had dismissed the stones with ease and taken his brother in his arms. Landryn had felt shame. Shame that he was helping Daegan. Shame that he was nurturing his brother''s weakness. He’d been disgusted with himself and when Daegan’s hand had grasped his shirt. When he looked at the pleading in his brother''s eyes and turned his back on him, he’d believed he was doing the right thing. Landryn believed their father. Believed that Daegan was weak.


    “Daegan was your son,” Landryn growled. Resume your attack! His father’s voice roared in his memory. And Landryn had swung. And again and again as Daegan pleaded for him to stop.


    “And you always fucking hated him.”


    “Do not speak to your King like that,” Lukane snapped.


    “And you,” Landryn’s death stare landed on his older brother, “you were worse. Taunting him, berating him, making him feel like he was nothing.”


    “Enough of this Landryn!” Abhran commanded, “Do not push your guilt upon us. It was your hand that has done this. And we are proud of you for it, accept it.”


    Landryn had held the blade tip over Daegan’s face, covered in blood and tears. His eyes begged for Landryn to stop. And their father’s face was a mask of unrestrained hatred.


    Landryn''s visage cracked. His mouth twisted into a malevolent snarl. The stormstone inside of him sucked at the howling winds outside. The windows shuddered as the gales began to whirl around the top of the Pillar.


    “Do not be so melodramatic,” Abhran said in disgust, “you let your anger control you. It is a disappointing failing in you and is unbecoming a prince of the realm.”


    “Unbecoming…” Landryn seethed, “my rage is unbecoming.” Landryn''s mind was blanketed in a red fog. His thoughts weren’t forming correctly. If he’d been thinking clearly, Landryn would have called his father a hypocrite. He’d have cursed him as an abusive and cowardly man whose failings as a father and a King had twisted him into the miserable hateful wretch that he was. Instead Landryn clenched his jaw. His gaze locked on his father.


    The winds outside, whipped into a frenzy, were slamming against the windows. The clouds were spiralling around the top of the Pillar.


    “You left him to die,” Landryn hissed.


    “Easy brother,” Lukane had the awareness to realise that Landryn’s anger was building beyond which he could contain. He glanced nervously between Landryn and the growing storm outside. Landryn’s hand reached for the hilt of his sheathed sword.


    “You would dare threaten me?” Abhran asked, incredulous. Landryn tried to breathe through the growing fury. He could barely hear his fathers words. The windows reverberated, the storm winds desperately trying to force their way inside.


    “Stop this, Landryn!” Lukane shouted, he had his ceremonial blade drawn now. Landryn turned slowly to face him. He could feel all other emotion melt away, all that remained was cold and detached enmity. Lukane was weak. He couldn’t stand against Landryn. Not when he had omnipotent command of the storm.


    Lukane was a highly competent runewielder. Like Landryn he had trained from a young age. He would have stormstone on him, amongst others. But he wasn’t soulforged and he couldn’t move like Landryn could. The storm was both outside and within Landryn’s chest. Its power fuelled his body.


    In a single bound, Landryn was within range of Lukane. His sword flashed out of the scabbard. Lukane reacted quickly, bringing his own blade up to block. For the barest second, Landryn and Lukance locked eyes. Landryn’s were alight in the roiling purple and blue of stormstone. Lukane’s had an edge of panic and fear.


    “Cease this absurdity!” Abhran’s voice cut over the tension. Landryn pushed forward. His edir sucked at the tempest outside. The blast of the winds shattered the windows. Shards of glass rushed at them. Landryn knocked Lukane back. His brother staggered but kept hold of his sword. Landryn’s blade flashed again and flicked Lukane’s from his grasp. With an effortless jab, Landryn drove his steel into Lukane’s chest. Red spread out on his immaculately white suit.


    “What have you done?!” Abhran roared over the winds. Landryn could feel his father’s attempts to still the storm. The man’s pathetic edir desperately trying to repel the winds. Landryn turned to face his father. Lightning flashed outside and thunder boomed. There was no fear in Abhran’s eyes, only confusion and outrage. The winds whipped at his white and gold cloak. The ground at Landryn’s feet shuddered. He recognised it immediately and leapt to the side. Stonespears materialised in front of Abhran and shot forward. Landryn easily evaded them and closed the distance between them.


    A set of six glassblades formed around Abhran, hovering in front of him. Pathetic. Landryn gave them a strong push of wind and they were cast out of Abhran’s control. The wind pushed the King backwards. He fell back, stumbling onto his golden throne.


    Landryn took a step forward. The wind rushed in his ears. The tendrils of his edir guiding it around him, and pressing against his father. Abhran tried to push against it. He was pressed against the back of the throne. Landryn pushed more, focusing on the throne. The metal scraped against the stone floor. It edged closer and closer to the edge of the dias it sat upon. Abhran’s edir weakly tried to divert the flow but Landryn’s storm was relentless.


    The wind pushing against Abhran was too strong for him to speak but there was a desperate pleading in his eyes. It fuelled Landryn’s anger at how much his father looked like Daegan in that moment. That matching look of terror and fear.


    Landryn screamed, his palm shot forward and all the strength of a hurricane compacted and condensed into a single blow.


    Lightning cracked, striking at the Pillar.


    Deafening thunder peeled.


    And the throne and King were gone. Thrown from the throneroom. Blood pounded in Landryn’s ears. His breaths were ragged. In the distance he could see the metal throne falling, a smaller darker shape flailed through the air beyond. Landryn’s outstretched hand wavered. The storm inside wasn’t satiated. It craved for more.


    The wind carried his father until he was a mere dot, falling into obscurity.


    Landryn had killed his father. He’d killed the King. The gravity of that thought stilled him, the tempest dying down around him. Behind him, Landryn could hear the gurgling chokes of Lukane grasping to a few more moments of life.


    Landryn turned to him. His brother’s white suit was entirely red with blood. Landryn knelt down next to him.


    “B-blu-blu–st,” Lukane spat blood as he spoke, his hand reaching for something at his chest. Landryn could see it already. A silver pin with a red bloodstone inlaid.


    “You want this?” Landryn tore the pin off him. He held it up, out of Lukane''s reach. His brother''s wound was fatal, it was unlikely that bloodstone would do anything to save him now. But a dying man will grasp for any hope.


    “Who told you I ordered Daegan’s death?” Landryn demanded.


    “Lan,” Lukane gasped, his hands weakly reaching up for the pin. “Gah,” the man coughed up blood, “Gah-Gahl,” he spluttered. He was too far gone, there would be no answers from him. Not unless Landryn healed him.


    There could still be time to save him. Landryn could have called for the healers. Could have made some attempt to save his brother’s life.


    It didn’t matter anymore.


    The dead with the dead.


    Lukane’s eyes bulged. Veins popping in his forehead. Landryn’s lip curled, and he flung the bloodstone pin off into the sky. Landryn rose, turning his back on his dying brother. He looked to the empty space where Abhran’s throne had been.


    To Landryn’s surprise, his father’s crown had been caught by a broken window frame. It hung there, as casually as a hat on a rack. The smooth finish of the black metal reflected the amethyst glow of Landryn’s eyes. That same light traced along the veins of his forearms.


    The storm wanted more.


    Landryn reached out and grasped the crown.