Ahead loomed Seraxa’s Wall, immense and beautiful—a deep red firestorm trapped in stone. Enchanted by the legendary Love Queen, its magic captured the attention and rioted the emotions of would-be invaders. Alfread couldn’t stay calm no matter how many of his mother’s soothing techniques he utilized. This wall set his soul ablaze, seizing his attention away from fellow travelers and the final stretch of land before the largest city in the land.
The last several miles had led him past a finally ending stretch of golden fields where wheat, oats, and barley were high and near ready for the summer harvest. They’d made him think of home, hoping that his absence didn’t leave his parents struggling. Each time, he pushed the thought away knowing this was what his mother wanted for him, that his father had practically shoved him out the door on his way to live his own story, that Melissa and Marigold would help.
Even more, good distractions were found in piecing together the story of this land. The vast pastures of livestock prevalent in the preceding miles no longer existed this close to the wall where their minds would be assailed by the tension of its horrifying visage. Instead, roadside inns, granaries, and farmhands working with their backs to the wall and headbands shading the fierce red glow populated the landscape.
Alfread’s mind filled with stories of the wall that had never been breached. Every threat that had ever made it within Rubinia had come from the Dusk Sea. Every usurpation had come from within the Ruby family. Over a millennium since its construction during a time of peace and foresight, Seraxa’s Wall stood strong, the one who never wavered in protecting her people even when war waged within.
While the wall offered nonpareil protection to the city of Rubinia, it was not a friend to the travelers and tradesfolk who attempted to enter the city. All around Alfread, horses bucked in fear and disobeyed the commands of their owners. Wiser and more seasoned travelers covered their horses’ eyes with some sort of blue diaphanous fabric that Alfread couldn’t afford. These creatures moved forward far more agreeably than Workhorse, who needed to be led on foot and dragged his feet like only he could when tasked with that which he didn’t want to do. Though he did move more willingly when Alfread called him a coward. For a few moments.
Looking ahead at the wall of fire, some of the city rising over the colossus, Alfread thought he’d finally stop looking back. The road between Mirrevar and Rubinia had been fraught with challenges, though like Rubinia itself, they had all come from within.
A hundred times each day he thought of how he left Asa. About a third of the time he thought of turning back and begging for her forgiveness, of fleeing the exciting and horrifying future that awaited him within this firestorm. Another third he recalled the hurt of her pushing him away, of his lips landing on cheek, and he marched forward with an angry heart. The final third he spent angry too, though only with himself. He knew better than anyone that each story had two sides, that if he’d only chose to listen to Asa’s, he’d know that he should never have left. This final trail hurt the most for what kind of a man was he to leave his life’s mate behind when she needed him the most?
Alfread had made his choice at the crossroads of life. Whether right or wrong, he kept going, hoping that it was the road he was meant to walk and that it would lead him back to her. Yet, staring ahead at that flames, he couldn’t stop thinking of his nightmares. Separated by a wall of fire, unable to reach her. Even if it felt too on the nose for dream foretelling, Alfread marched each step, dragging his obstinate ass, knowing that once he crossed that wall, there might never be any going back. Was it courage or cowardice that kept him from straying?
Unfortunately, he’d have plenty of time to ponder, to regret, to second-guess, for a queue a quarter-mile long greeted him at the gates to Rubinia. Travelers, merchant caravans, laden with belongings were inspected by the Rubyguard stationed at Seraxa’s Wall. The talk of the long line was enough to let him know that this was an unusual circumstance. Yesterday was Princess Sebreena’s eighteenth birthday and today was Princess Serapheena’s eighteenth. Twice the princesses, twice the travelers, pilgrims, and merchants, all hoping to celebrate or capitalize on the celebrations of the Ruby Kingdom’s two most beloved jewels.
Alas, Alfread was adept at sending his mind faraway. For an angle, the queue moved in jerks where long stalls were answered with rapid jumps forward. He pondered the questions he might be asked to earn admittance to Leverian University. Immersing himself into stories of Leveria, stories of his own life and all he’d learned, Alfread knew he’d need to impress the masters in order to earn meritorious funding. His family couldn’t afford a span’s tuition with their yearly earnings, even if he was working the field and helping his mother with the clinic. His admission test needed to be above what tutored lordlings could achieve and he’d need to convince at least one master during the interview that he was worth sponsoring. The threat, and the reality, that he might be rejected loomed over him more menacingly than Seraxa’s Wall.
Alfread was thirteenth in line when a horn blew, interrupting his recital of the LaGrett of Vidacas and the major historical events of the family that ruled south of Mirrevar along the Owl River.
The Rubyguard ceased their inspections, commanding the line to part. Alfread stood aside, arms crossed, scowling as the massive wheelhouse cut through the queue. The carriage was large enough to comfortably host twenty, pulled by a team of eight massive bartweiss horses with their chestnut-brown hair, white faces, and black manes. The powerful mounts moved forward unhindered by wall or peasants, their eyes covered by blue fabric.
Gold-trimmed windows. A fine chimney, though no smoke rose from it today. Elaborately carved and freshly polished mahogany. Wheels inlaid with stone. A ruby serving as a door handle. The shaft connecting wheelhouse to horses was made of solid gold. Each sign of opulence aggravated Alfread further, stoking the flames of hatred he felt toward these people who had disowned his mother, people who traveled in bigger spaces than families lived in their entire lives. Families that actually worked while these do-nothings lived in easy luxury, traveling from celebration to celebration, on the backs of those they thought beneath them.
The wheelhouse flew the banner of Von Gaelrich, a black pickaxe on a field of gold. Flanked by Golden Blade cavalry donning the black pickaxe on their gilded breastplates. Alfread stood aside, seeing in clear detail how the world was carved by oppression and it’s reciprocal, privilege, as the Von Gaelrich retinue passed through the gate without any inspection.
Like flint striking steel, the opulence and the entitlement were reminders of who he was and who he was not. People like Heinrich von Gaelrich were the reason his mother lost her family. They would rather disown their wonderful daughter than accept that she loved a man who didn’t have a last name. They treated people like Alfread like they were subhuman. He was an animal to be pushed aside, used for entertainment, worked to death, and butchered in their wars. Alfread wished he could rip apart this gaudy wheelhouse and the laws that created this system of oppression. Imagine a world where a person’s worth was measured by more than their last name.
As the inspections continued, the Rubyguard making sure that the impoverished couldn’t smuggle anything into the city, Alfread couldn’t stop dwelling on the injustice. A lordling in that wheelhouse could receive private lessons all their life, pay them little or no attention, and waltz into Leverian University and be a part of the crowd regardless of their merit. People like Alfread spent their childhoods working fields, with little or no access to education, and had to be perfect to ever have a chance of being accepted to Leverian University. Even then, he knew he would never be a part of the crowd no matter how talented he was. Any mistake he made would be traced to lacking a last name, proof in the eyes of the high and mighty that folks like him were inferior.
When Alfread’s turn at the head of the queue came another angle later, he played the game. He spread his arms, opened his saddlebags, and bore the oppression with a friendly smile. He could accept that this was the world he lived in, that these were the rules he had to play by, and he’d never approve of the world as it was. This wasn’t the world that people like him deserved. It was the only world they had.
Alfread grit his teeth, promising to himself that he’d prove them wrong. A man didn’t need a last name to be wise or worthwhile. He dreamt that if he could even change a few minds, the trail for future generations would be easier. If he could climb the wall, scraping at it with his nails and scrambling for any purchase his feet could find, he could rise higher than anyone before him. Then, he would toss the rope down and help pull up those who followed so that they could climb higher and higher, moving the world closer to where it belonged until the distances that separated people were made smaller and the climb became a mounted ladder rather than a frayed rope that the lordlings held a knife to.
Fear replaced anger as Alfread entered the gateway. The ceiling of the tunnel roared like an inferno, the flames seeming to be approach him. Even proud Workhorse let out a frightened whinny. Both young man and mule dashed through the hundred-foot space toward salvation from the flames as Rubyguard sentries heckled them from the entrance.
Alfread’s heart pounded like he’d just emerged from a burning building when he dashed through the open gate at the far end of the tunnel. Looking over his shoulder, he noted that the magical enchantments that made the wall look like it was aflame were not active within the city. A dull red with various historical figures sculpted into the stone set the background, several hundred feet high, but it didn’t demand his attention as much as the city itself.
Rubinia made Urzport look like a city constructed by a child with wooden blocks. The residential buildings were all at least three stories high while the inns and tavern houses on each corner were four or five levels up. The great dome of the Temple of the Twelve and One in the center of the city stood above the other buildings like a mythical giant, a massive marble structure that depicted stories of the Divine Thirteen on beautiful inlaid stone. The visage of Meladon stood atop the dome, cupping a great sphere in his hands. But he could see them all: Robed Yadeen holding his scroll, massive Gidi with his greatsword, cunning Ovidon with hammer and coin, petite Norali with her ray of light, busty Celegana carrying a basket of food, sleek Dalis with water in her hands, brawny Seraxa wreathed in flames, perfect Qoryxa sheathed in ice, chaotic Zafrir blowing wind from his mouth, grinning Balbaraq hiding a lightning bolt behind his back, smiling Leverith and her flower, and last, but far from least, cloaked Zamael and the divinedamned scythe. Seeing the thirteen mounted high above the rest of the buildings was awe-inspiring, even if Alfread had his concerns with the Temple’s beliefs.
His eyes continued to memorize the city’s grandeur, tracing the Ruby Road that he walked all the way from Mirrevar up to the top of Rubinia’s highest hill. Ruby Castle was walled, but those high walls didn’t conceal the thirteen redstone towers of the greatest citadel in the west. The towers ringed the castle’s atrium building where King Adameon Ruby’s throne ruled over half of a continent. Among the thirteen towers, one stood higher than the rest. The fabled Ruby Tower, thirteenth of thirteen towers, rising thirteen stories, was a great red cylinder that blazed like an eternal flame. It was said that as long as the Ruby Tower burned red, Rubinia could not fall. Bollocks, Alfread thought, equating the lives of over a hundred thousand who lived outside of the tower to the lives of one family.
It wasn’t just the buildings that differentiated Rubinia from Urzport. In Urzport—much like Bear’s Crossing—folks worked the long day to reach the evening where they could unwind after a hard day. As Alfread ventured up the Ruby Road, he gawked at the festivity and levity in the late morning. Musicians, puppet shows, jugglers, and fire breathers assailed his senses from every corner. At the front of one inn, actors were performing Kaidaxus and Duilahir, with several actors piecing themselves together to play the role of the mighty ice dragon while an athletic young woman donned a blue wig to portray the Dragon Knight of Volqor turned Ruby Queen and grandmother to King Adameon. Alfread struggled to imagine the fabled dragon flying the skies above Rubinia, far from its roost on Monzqora, the frozen peak of southern Volqor.
Alfread counted a dozen different street peddlers that had shouted their wares with personal endorsement by either Princess Sebreena or Serapheena and reminders that this celebration warranted giving oneself a special treat. Beautiful tavern maids wearing red wigs, painted-on freckles, and little more than wooden swords called for the patrons to drink to Princess Serapheena and to engage in games of wit and war within their taverns to honor the wise warrior princess. Alfread eyed the maids, failing to conceal his interest. He couldn’t deny that the flaming red hair, false though it oft was, appealed to his senses.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Alfread averted his eyes when one such red-wigged maid, wearing naught but a sword belt over her considerable chest endowment and that blue diaphanous fabric at her hips, caught him staring. He watched her from his peripherals as she moved through the crowd toward him. He felt transported to Old Iron Inn, dodging Dinah’s persistent advances.
Alfread waded through the throngs of people on the streets, as if moving through a muddy swamp, failing to guide Workhorse through the dense crowd. The maid moved deftly, chastising one man who had taken a handful of her, and poking him playfully in his gut with her toy rapier. She called after Alfread, her lowborn voice attempting, with moderate success, to speak with sophistication fit for the king’s court, “My handsome prince, I call to ye and yet you flee. My handsome prince, choose me, together we will be free.”
A handsome prince of a man—an auburn-haired Rubyguard of high rank—ceased his banter with a group of tavern maids on the other corner and called attention to Alfread’s uncomfortable situation. Upon his masterful stage direction, traffic stalled and a circle formed around the intersection. Alfread felt like he was centerstage in a street performance as the majority of people at the intersection between four taverns watched him and the Princess Serapheena impersonator.
Sighing, he adopted his best smile, playing the charade out with his mother’s best courtesy. “My fiery princess, I have not fame, neither coin nor second name. My fiery princess, daring dame, my love would bring thee shame.”
The Serapheena took his free hand, holding it gingerly before kissing it as delicate as a flower. Her blue eyes gazed into his. He saw her smile for the truth she felt for her words. “The only shame, my prince, would be to never fuel our flame.”
Alfread tried to still his fluttering heart or its command to send much needed blood away from his head. This beautiful woman roused him, inspiring no small quantity of guilt. Each glance at another woman, each stray thought, any modicum of engorgement made him feel faithless in his devotion to Asa.
He placed a hand on a cheek covered by painted-on freckles. The storyteller within him felt the need to deliver for his assembled audience, even if he couldn’t commit himself to this actress. “My princess, you set aflame the fire in my soul. I shall forever be the key to your keyhole.”
Led by the handsome Rubyguard orchestrator, the onlookers released a collective whoop. Their enjoyment pushed Alfread on, letting him meld into the moment, drawing on his dramatic flair. He’d gotten them to laugh, now it was time to tug at the heartstrings, to play them like Vara Spearman strumming her harp.
He brushed her cheek, his hand combing through her hair as if this was the greatest love of his life. He clenched her hand more tightly, pressed his forehead to hers, moving his mouth right up to hers. Unsurprisingly, it had a powerful whiskey scent to it, but that was a detail not needed in stories like this.
“My beloved Firemaiden, my beating heart. I will be your freedom. None shall make us part. Let the world know, the heat of our glow. Let them see with their own eyes, how high our love flies. Let them change their minds, and remove all the binds.” Alfread intertwined her fingers with his, noting how her cheeks gained color at his declarations, how the audience went still and silent. His voice was a crescendo, climbing toward the climax. “Together we soar. I am yours. Forevermore!”
Alfread took her in his arms, pressing her tight against his body. He dipped her backwards, planting his lips on hers, keeping his mouth sealed. He held himself there for several turns as the gathered crowd applauded and hooted. After he pulled up, the throng surrounded them, hands tapping his back. The Serapheena bit her lip as she caressed his leg. Slipping into her common tongue, speaking in a soft, sultry voice only for him, she said, “Take me to bed, my prince. Make my birthday dreams come true.”
Notwithstanding the lack of rhyme, Alfread’s treacherous mind contemplated the transgressions it proposed against his heart. He envisioned himself in her bed, building credit with Leverith. His body seemed pleased with the idea, the heart itself involved in diverting blood toward betrayal. The Serapheena imposter was aware, pressing herself tighter against him as people thanked them both for the performance.
In the end, his heart reclaimed his mind, keeping him on the path he’d decided many years ago when Melody of Mirrevar helped him see past the Temple’s definition of Leverith and her tribute. Alfread reaffirmed his vow to never give part of himself to one he didn’t intend to give all of himself. “I must not. I have somewhere I must go.”
Her blue eyes betrayed genuine hurt before she turned away from him, bowing to the crowd.
Alfread exhaled as he threaded through the crowd toward his mule. He was used to the tavern maids of Bear’s Crossing or the medicans in Mirrevar not relenting so swiftly and gracefully. As always, he dreaded turning them down, never knowing how they’d react, doing everything he could to heal the wounds before they got infected and burst in his face. At least she’d taken it well.
“My prince!” she shrieked. “My prince is so quick to forget me! I curse thee, Prince No-Last-Name. May you find no love where you go!”
Eyes forward, heart thumping, Alfread led Workhorse up the road, deeper into the city, with haste to escape the jeers of a crowd that turned on him faster than an archlord on his aging mistress.
“What kind of prince turns down his chance for the heart of a princess?”
Alfread startled, twisting toward the eloquent voice to find the handsome Rubyguard riding an excellently bred and maintained Lunarron steed with gorgeous midnight blue hair, a slender body, and long legs. The high-jumping, rapid-accelerating mount was well-suited for city streets, surpassed only by the Cheval horses that chose their riders, and rarely selected those who wanted them, in the Roaring Plains near Meridian.
He studied the well-to-do guard. His breastplate carried the Ruby sigil and a golden sword to signify his rank as captain in the King’s Rubyguard. For all that rank, he couldn’t have been much older than Alfread, screaming of nepotism. Despite that, Alfread found himself returning the handsome man’s easy smile. With eyes of burgundy, as if unsure whether to be ruby red or the extremely rare Leverian purple, Alfread was reminded of Melody and the man’s well-manicured red beard and auburn hair reminded him of Zander. He felt incapable of hating him, thinking of Percival Brighton from Urzport who’d proven that not every lordling was insufferable. But once lordlings opened their mouth, they often made the job of disliking them easier.
“The type of prince who was raised on a farm in Bear’s Crossing,” Alfread answered.
The captain jerked his head as if Alfread had just slapped him. The smile that returned seemed, if anything, even more earnest though. “Does it matter from whence the prince came…” he elongated his last word, extending his hand toward Alfread.
Alfread wanted to turn it down, to hesitate, but found himself reaching across the space between them as if crossing a bridge between worlds. “Alfread son of Evan.”
“Jaseon, son of Mallory.”
Captain Jaseon was a firm shaker but Alfread didn’t let him dominate him nor did Alfread try to make Jaseon feel dominated. You didn’t try to dominate someone fifth in line to the throne. Adameon. Adamo. Sebreena. Serapheena. Jonothor. Jaseon.
They continued shaking hands, long after it was socially acceptable, thanks to the king’s nephew. The captain grinned as though he were playing a friendly trick. Alfread tried to decipher it, feeling like he was missing some critical context.
“Have you ever wondered, son of Evan, why we must introduce ourselves as the son of the father? Does not the mother deserve some credit too for her efforts?”
“Tis true, Mallory’s son. I am as much Mirielda’s son as Evan’s. In many ways, more.”
Alfread tensed, alert to the possibility that his mother still had a scandalous reputation seventeen years later as it was likely rare that lordling daughters were disowned. True enough, he saw Jaseon’s eyes widen in recognition, his shake growing more strained, as Mirielda’s name was a warning to folks like him, especially women with compassionate hearts, to stay in their lane.
He resolved to avoid this extra layer of scrutiny, and the possibility that it would result in nepotism on his own behalf.
Jaseon Ruby liberated their hands, gesturing to the sigil on Alfread’s leather brigandine. “Are you here on Bearbreaker business, Mirielda’s son?”
“No. I am here to seek admittance to Leverian University.” Alfread eyed the reddish beard and burgundy eyes. “You are a Ruby?” he asked with feigned uncertainty.
Jaseon made dramatic flourish, bowing to the side while sweeping his arms in front of him all while the Lunarron rode forth. “Aren’t we all?”
Alfread chuckled. “I suppose there is validity to that. In that case I am a Leverian too.”
“I knew it! My cousin can spot a prince when she sees one. I reckon it twas unwise to scorn her, Alfread.” He wagged his index finger, much in the same way that his own mother would call him out when he was foolish. “Sera can hand any man his arse. I am not too proud to admit I select other sparring partners when I can.”
“I have always wondered what it would feel like to have my arse handed to me. I hypothesize that it must be excruciatingly painful from a certain physiological standpoint.”
Jaseon grimaced. “Well, I shan’t ever be using that expression again. Thanks.”
Alfread made his best effort at a sitting bow. “My pleasure.”
Jaseon flicked a coin into the air, catching it with smooth reflexes. He rolled the coin over his fingers, then flung it into Alfread’s open saddlebag. When Alfread gave him a puzzled look he explained, “I offer no fancy words. This is my party trick.”
Alfread offered the coin back, a silver lord bearing the LaGrett howler, and Jaseon gestured for him to keep it. “A token to commemorate our meeting.” Jaseon’s eyes went alight. “It was my pleasure, have a treasure.”
“Fancy words!”
Jaseon closed his fists together over his head, shaking them back and forth as though he’d been declared champion at a tourney.
Alfread spent his life despising men like Jaseon from afar. Yet, up close, he felt himself unable to hate. This was the type of person who castaway his mother. The other lordlings he met fit into this picture he painted. Wayn Bearbreaker was an anger-prone, albeit good-hearted, buffoon. Whelan was cold and haughty. Werner was freezing cold and miserable. Varon von Gaelrich was more pampered than a princess’s prized pet and even less useful. Percival Brighton was the only lordling he met that hadn’t irked him, and Percival was still a boy with many opportunities to grow into his high horse.
Jaseon Ruby was different. He could see Jaseon sitting at his table with Zander and Kenneth in the Old Iron Inn. Alfread envisioned the possibilities of friendship, reminding himself that it was no better to lump all folk with two names into one hated group than it was to consider all folk with but one name unworthy.
A bell rang from the Temple of the Twelve and One, announcing the arrival of midday. True enough, Norali’s bright sun shone at the sky’s apex as Alfread arrived at another crossroads. After a span of travel, it was time for him to leave the Ruby Road and venture into this next act.
“If my cousin scares you away or the university does not suit you, come find me,” Jaseon said. “I gladly welcome those with good sense and grand stature in the Rubyguard.”
A ranking member of the Rubyguard could be a life for Evan’s son. Alas, he was also Mirielda’s son. He would walk the path of the scholar and use his knowledge of stories to help Leveria write a happier ending to this chapter in its history. “I shall remember that, Captain Jaseon Ruby.”
They shook hands again, thankfully for a more acceptable time frame. Jaseon sighed as he eyed the citadel at the end of the road. “My mother will hand me my arse if I am not ready for the ball.” He shot Alfread a mischievous grin. “Or at least yank my ear until I beg for a second chance.” He paused. “Until next time, Alfread son of Evan and Mirielda.”
Alfread returned the same sincerity, no contemplation needed. In another life, in one where he was born into Jaseon’s world, he could envision a reality where these words would have been uttered long ago and more than once. “Until next time, Jaseon son of Jonothor and Mallory.”
Jaseon inclined his head, then continued toward the Ruby Castle. Alfread soon lost him in the crowds of people.
Sighing, Alfread turned toward his own destiny. The Coward’s voice grew more powerful with each step, making him, for once, grateful for Workhorse because he didn’t know if his own legs could bear him toward fate. A series of highborn masters would judge his worth, weighing him on a scale that he wasn’t supposed to be on. He could do everything right and still not be good enough for them.
Not even the magical architecture of Leverian University could quell the storm within him. He envisioned the infinite ways he could discover knowledge and shape his story here. The place was a dream, or likely, a mirage. The cowardly voice within his mind wouldn’t go quiet into the lordling’s den. He couldn’t stop feeling like he didn’t belong, that he wouldn’t be able to live up to the scrutiny, that this wasn’t a place for Evan’s son.
It was then, when he needed her most, that Alfread found his mother, and remembered that he was her son too. He dove into memory, waging war against the Coward…
