“Come on,” Bromir urged, waiting for Drevon Jar to catch up. He grabbed the young man’s shoulder, guided him past, and gently nudged him forward. They walked down a corridor Bromir could navigate with his eyes closed. He had grown up in the palace, and even the darkness couldn’t disorient him. The corridor was on the second floor, above the entrance to the kingdom’s great hall. After that, they descended the stairs. Moonlight streamed faintly through the small windows, allowing him to see each step. Drevon, however, began to tread more cautiously, watching every step.

  “Is there much further to go?” Drevon asked.

  Bromir didn’t answer, instead overtaking Drevon and leading the way through the long, dark passages. The air grew damp, and sometimes a drop of water would land on his face. The two guards at the entrance were leaning against the wall. Bromir could have sworn they had learned to sleep standing up. They didn’t react as he passed by. One of them stirred, raising his gaze. He seemed ready to speak but, upon recognizing Bromir, merely nodded and stepped back in silence. The other guard was less responsive until a firmer nudge woke him.

  Bromir glanced back to ensure that Uther Jar’s youngest son was still following. Instead of exiting through the door the guards had opened, they turned right into a small doorway, leading to a staircase that wound further down. Behind them, the door clanged shut, and Bromir could hear the muffled voices of the guards, though he couldn’t make out the words.

  “The steps are a bit higher here, Jar,” Bromir warned. “Step carefully. Your father has enough sons that he wouldn’t cry too much over you, but let’s not have you break your neck.”

  “Just call me Drevon, Prince.”

  “That does sound better,” Bromir admitted. “Your sister will soon change her surname to Vuk. It’s more prestigious than Jar, even if it still has only three letters. Too bad for the woman who takes yours.”

  “My father hopes it will be Sophia or Lilit.”

  “Not a chance. Pick one of the peasants from your lands instead.”

  Bromir relished exerting pressure on those like Drevon. He rarely felt anyone in the kingdoms was his superior, perhaps only his father, King Severin. But even that would change after the wedding. Bromir had plans for the kingdom and Jar’s lands. Sir Uther was pleasant but too soft. Bromir intended his first marital journey to be to those lands, to see what he would one day rule. And Drevon could help with that.

  The stairs down weren’t many, and soon they entered another corridor, this one more illuminated but far damper. Moss clung to the walls, growing downwards. Bromir hadn’t been here in quite some time. He took in the surroundings, noting the candles spaced every few paces, casting light on every corner. The dampness coated the stones, and here and there, water trickled down the walls, forming small puddles.

  They turned right and arrived at a carved-out section of the wall, blocked by two more guards standing in front of metal bars.

  “Name?” one guard demanded.

  “Bromir, you idiots.”

  The guards exchanged glances.

  “What brings you here, sir? Who let you in?”

  Bromir rolled his eyes, glaring at them.

  “My father sent me. Now step aside.”

  He felt utterly humiliated that these guards dared question him, making him look foolish in front of Drevon.

  “King Severin didn’t inform us that you would be coming, sir,” the guard replied.

  “If the king finds out you’re stopping me, you’ll have more than just problems. Now, move.”

  But they didn’t budge. Instead, they drew their swords, their expressions unchanged. A weapon flashed in Bromir’s hand, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he would do with it. The sight of the two guards standing their ground infuriated him. He wasn’t concerned about Drevon, but his pride was at stake. And he wouldn’t let lowly guards, whom he could easily overpower, diminish him in any way.

  But they remained unmoved. Worse, their faces showed no hesitation.

  “With you, Prince!” Drevon unsheathed a small blade, more akin to a toy than a weapon. The sight was almost comical, making the situation even more absurd.

  “Fools! You dare draw weapons on the prince? What scum are you?” a voice boomed from behind the guards, startling them. The guards turned to see a flickering torchlight and the gleaming bald head of Tiberis.

  “This is King Severin’s son. You draw swords against him? Idiots. Shameful,” Tiberis scolded as both guards immediately dropped their weapons, which clattered to the ground.

  Tiberis, holding the torch, pushed the metal bars aside with both hands.

  “Your names!” he demanded.

  The guards exchanged nervous glances before one stammered, “Ethan.”

  “Liv,” the other added.

  Tiberis kicked their swords away.

  “Idiots. Tomorrow morning, you’ll face Tristan in the arena. Get ready.”

  “But, commander…” one guard began.

  “Prince Bromir, I apologize,” Tiberis interrupted. “Rest assured, both will receive their due punishment.”

  “I hope this doesn’t happen again, Tiberis.”

  “I’ll make sure your father hears of this. How was the dinner?”

  “My father is still upstairs with Sir Uther. He’s too lenient with punishments. I hope you have something more fitting in mind.”

  As Bromir passed the guards, he saw fear in one’s eyes. It pleased him.

  “I have some interesting ideas for them,” Tiberis said as the guards knelt on one knee, heads bowed in shame.

  “And what brings you here, Prince?” Tiberis asked.

  Bromir glanced at Drevon.

  “The son of Lord Jar is interested in weapons. I thought it might be good for him to see what we have. I heard they don’t have much where they’re from. Maybe he’ll find something he likes.”

  “Not much? Well, that’s normal. Ishold takes good care of their needs. And I hear they provide a secure passage to the Middle Sea. But anyway… You may enter.”

  From the outside, the room looked like a dungeon, but once inside, it seemed brighter. The entrance to the armory was low, forcing them to duck, but the space inside was vast. Bromir had been here before, but so long ago that he had forgotten its size.

  He entered first, followed by Drevon, while Tiberis remained at the entrance. The room was steeped in history, the air thick with the scent of old iron, the stone floor bearing the marks of countless boots. Bromir had loved this place as a child, especially the smell of metal. Now, as he entered, he took a deep breath, trying to recapture the past, if only for a moment. Memories flashed through his mind, one of them with his grandfather Oberon, who had first brought him here. Now Oberon lay buried deep within the same underground complex.

  They first stopped at the rows of long swords, carefully displayed on the walls. Each sword was beautiful in its own right, reflecting the light from the many fires burning in the hall. The finest swords were adorned with jewels and crafted by master smiths. The more practical, frequently used swords were piled in wooden crates below. In the center of the room, a sword stood out, much larger and more magnificent than the others.

  “Valrak,” Bromir whispered, touching the hilt with his finger and running it down the blade. Drevon moved to do the same, but Bromir blocked his hand.

  “No. Once placed here, it’s not to be touched again. This place is like a temple for swords. Just as you wouldn’t disturb the grave of a loved one, you shouldn’t disturb the memory of steel.”

  “It’s a fine sword,” Drevon said, standing before the most beautiful weapon.

  “It’s a replica of the Curse, my father’s sword.”

  “Valrak? The famous warrior?”

  “Famous? How famous could he be? He didn’t win the throne of Shilan for my grandfather or my father. A warrior’s victories don’t matter if he loses his last battle. That’s what sends him into exile. How many do you think will remember Valrak in fifty or a hundred years?”

  Drevon didn’t respond.

  “Lose a battle, and history forgets you. That’s all there is to it. No one remembers the losers.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “And the other two?”

  Drevon knew that Valrak had three swords. He was one of the few who quickly learned the technique to wield all three.

  “The other two, or what was left of them, were melted down by the kingdom and made into many others, which we gave to the guards.”

  “So, in a way, they continued to live on.”

  “The ancients believed in the soul of swords. They thought the blacksmith imparted not only life to the metal but also a soul. Once, choosing a blacksmith was more important than choosing a king. It’s not like that now. And I’m glad. A blacksmith should focus on making as many swords and weapons as possible, not just one. One isn’t enough, even if it holds the soul of a god. Valrak’s swords were as big as his hand. From the other two, they made about ten new ones.”

  Drevon seemed to have stopped listening. He had moved ahead, like a child mesmerized by the hammers, which, though dirtier and more worn, were still neatly arranged further into the hall.

  “And none of these are used anymore?” Drevon asked.

  “No,” Bromir replied, walking slowly behind him with his hands clasped behind his back. “This is their final resting place. I would give them all to the blacksmith. I don’t think more than these, the most important ones, belong here. But my father disagrees. It’s some tradition of the kingdom to mourn old iron.”

  “I don’t see the sense in letting so many weapons go to waste. You clearly have more than enough.”

  It hadn’t been long since the last battle in which his father had led the kingdom’s armies, with Tiberis at the helm. All that effort for skirmishes with wild tribes, a pointless endeavor that satisfied only the king’s ego and brought dirty swords to rest in this place. Bromir thought of the day when he would take the throne. He imagined himself there, where his father now sat. He even envisioned himself in Shilan. But no, he hated that kingdom. He preferred to remain here, in Volkar, and still rule over all. But that wasn’t something Drevon needed to know.

  Drevon was already at the shields, many of them almost identical. Some were cracked, others broken, a few bloodstained. There were plenty that remained intact, all bearing the kingdom’s emblem—the two wolves.

  “Some of these could still serve a purpose. Excuse me, Prince, but only these could protect lands like mine, where my father rules. And you just keep them locked away? It’s really strange.”

  “When I become king, I’ll give them all to you. I’m telling you, I don’t need them.”

  A narrow passageway between the shields and armor led further in. Bromir noticed Drevon glancing at him several times but hesitated to ask. So he preempted the question that was sure to come soon:

  “There’s a statue down there. If you see the two lights in the distance, those are the eyes of Kassian.”

  “Who is Kassian?”

  “Don’t they teach the History of the Kingdoms on the Sunlit Rocks?”

  “They read us various tales, but I don’t pay much attention to them. I know it’s not fitting for a ruler’s son to say this, but I hope it stays between us. I find history boring. I prefer looking forward.”

  “Kassian was one of the signatories of the Pact.”

  “The Pact? You mean… the Agreement of the Five?”

  “Yes. In the year 1111, five kings, including Kassian, sat at a round table near Shilan and signed the treaty. Or the contract, or the pact—call it what you will.”

  “Everyone knows that story. I just didn’t realize this monument...”

  “You don’t need to,” Bromir waved dismissively. “I don’t consider any of them peacemakers. To me, Kassian was a traitor. Volkar had the most people. We controlled all the armies of the Western Coasts. The others had almost nothing. The Pact they signed left us with almost nothing. Some of our lands were given to Blackval, which had been just a barbarian settlement until then. And with part of our territory, they created the kingdom of Shilan, where the ruler of those lands now resides. In short, Volkar suffered the most.”

  “Shilan was your capital?”

  “Not a capital, but it was in our lands. After the Pact, which this traitor not only signed but proposed,” Bromir pointed to Kassian’s statue, “everything got worse for us.”

  “It’s best not to enter. The eyes belong to Kassian, but inside, you’ll find nothing but a two-hundred-year-old statue.”

  “And why here? Hidden from everyone?”

  “Kassian guards the weapons. There’s a symbolism in having the statue of the man who helped disarm us now guarding the arms. Another one of my father’s whims. I would destroy it.”

  “Prince, it’s time to go. Your father will start to worry. I think you’ve seen enough,” Tiberis interrupted.

  Bromir nodded. The guards at the door were gone, but their swords still lay on the ground. Tiberis remained behind as they left.

  When they reached the stairs they needed to climb back up, they stopped. Bromir glanced back to check where Tiberis was, and seeing he wasn’t there, he continued down the corridor, bypassing the stairs instead of ascending them. Drevon hurried to keep pace. Bromir ensured Drevon was following and pressed on.

  At the end of the corridor was an entrance, not barred with iron but with a simple wooden door. Bromir stood by it, pulling out a short iron tool from his pocket, its handle ending in the shape of a crescent moon and its tip featuring three differently shaped teeth. He inserted it into the lock, and the door clicked open. It was dark inside, but they were not alone.

  Bromir lit three of the candles, and the room brightened. In the center was a table as large as the one in his father’s throne room. At the far end of the table sat his advisor, Garvin, leaning back in his chair with his sword laid out before him.

  “How did you get in here?” Bromir asked first.

  “I’m not Yorick, Bromir. I know more about this kingdom than you might think.”

  “I’d heard there were secret passages in my father’s kingdom, but I didn’t know you knew them.”

  “The kingdom isn’t your father’s, with all due respect to him. The kingdom belongs to all of us. And soon, it will belong to you alone.”

  Garvin knew how to speak to please Bromir with every word. Garvin rose from the head of the table and gestured for Bromir to sit. Bromir moved to the seat and settled in. Drevon sat on the other side without asking questions, which Bromir appreciated. Perhaps Drevon already knew why they were there.

  “When did you learn about the Scarlet Order?” Bromir asked without delay.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Drevon insisted. Bromir glanced at Garvin, who made a face that reminded Bromir of the court jesters when they hinted at their next trick.

  “I saw the mark, Drevon. The red cross on your hand. Or are you going to tell me now that it’s a birthmark and you were born with it?”

  Drevon glanced at his wrist, then instinctively covered it with his sleeve.

  “When did you notice?”

  “Not me. But Garvin saw it when you entered the kingdom. It’s a wonder no one else noticed. Pretty careless of you, don’t you think?”

  “Few people know about the Order. And in our lands, I assure you, no one even suspects it. My father doesn’t meddle in the affairs of the kingdoms or their enemies.”

  “Your father may not suspect, but a lot of people pass through your lands.”

  “I don’t know many people with this mark. In our kingdom, I know only two. One of them gave me the mark.”

  “And who are they?”

  Drevon hesitated, his gaze wandering.

  “Fine, you don’t have to say. But if even you know of two, yet didn’t suspect me, you can imagine how many of us there are. But I’m more interested in why you joined. Who are you, and what’s your goal?”

  “I’m the fifth son of Uther Jar. What choice do I have? My sister, my father’s only daughter, is fortunate to be marrying you. Even if we find good wives from decent families for my brothers, what will be left for me? The peasant girls from the Sunlit Rocks, whom everyone’s already been with.”

  Bromir chuckled at his final comment, not expecting such an ending to his complaint.

  “The boy is right, Bromir,” Garvin interjected. “He’s not from a noble family, even though his line holds power. And he’s the fifth son. That’s bad luck. It’s more logical for him to be in the Order than you. But I’m curious about something else,” Garvin leaned forward as if to ensure no one else would hear his question, though they were alone. “Who brought you into the Order?”

  Bromir also leaned in. Drevon looked from Garvin to Bromir.

  “I don’t want to say.”

  “In the Order, we are one. If you don’t tell us, we’ll find out another way. And in the end, you’ll be the one we can’t trust.”

  Drevon lowered his head. The boy wasn’t particularly strong-willed, making him easy to control. Bromir liked people like that.

  “At first, I thought it was a game,” Drevon finally said.

  “A game?” Bromir nearly jumped. “Getting your hand branded was a game? And they didn’t tell you why?”

  “We were drunk. In one of the taverns between the Eagle Bridge and our lands.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “The princes of Ishold often take Ulrich, their warrior, there. They let him fight foreigners to train.”

  “How does he fare?”

  “Ulrich is… I haven’t seen your Tristan, but Ulrich is something else. He’s fast and smart. His hands are quicker than a bird, striking in all directions. At the end of each hand is an axe so sharp it can cut through paper.”

  “Interesting. And the sons of Hakon?”

  “All of them. All of Hakon’s sons are in the Order.”

  “Imagine that,” Bromir glanced at Garvin and saw his approval. “And old Hakon?”

  “I don’t know about him.”

  “It’s strange, but Ishold has become more isolated in recent years,” Drevon continued. “They have other problems in the North that they can’t resolve. They keep talking about some invasion from there, which we don’t understand. And from the South, where all the other kingdoms are, they’re ignored. The winter that grips them protects them not only from invaders but also from friends. And over the years, they’ve lost more friends than they’ve gained.”

  “You know a lot,” Garvin interrupted, “especially for someone who didn’t grow up in Ishold.”

  “As I said, their path passes through the Sunlit Rocks. Even the king himself has passed through more than once. And you? When did you join the Order?”

  Bromir looked at Garvin and smiled.

  Bromir remained silent. He had been in the Order for over a year now. Back then, he knew only Garvin and a singer who often visited from the South.

  “Look, that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that now we all have the same goal.”

  “Forgive me, Bromir,” Drevon interrupted, “but I truly don’t know the Order’s goal. I’m just in it.”

  Garvin laughed heartily and poured wine from the reserves in the dungeon.

  “You must have been very drunk, huh? What if I told you that the Order is something your father would hate?”

  “My father? What does he have to do with this? And can one leave the Order?” Drevon looked even more worried.

  “Leave? Come on, Drevon. We’re just getting started. Trust me, great things await us together.”

  Drevon’s gaze began to wander again.

  “I’m starting to dislike this. At first, I thought it was a game, then someone told me I was in an Order. That’s it. I didn’t understand more, but I hid the mark because my father is against such barbarian drawings.”

  “Barbarian? This is not barbarian.”

  “I mean the tattooing itself. It’s not his thing. None of my brothers do it.”

  “Well, the important thing is that they haven’t found out. And make sure they don’t, either. Our Order is secret, and almost no one knows about it. But one day, everyone will.”

  “And then?”

  “Then it will be too late for them, and it will be our time.”

  “Our time?”

  “Yes. Ours. Yours and mine.”