The marketplace was a living tapestry of commerce and cunning, a cacophony of bartering voices that rose and fell like the tides of the sea. Each stall was a trove of treasures, where gilded trinkets and exotic spices vied for the attention of the throng. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meats and freshly baked bread, tantalizing the senses and promising satisfaction for a few coins more.
Merchants, draped in vibrant robes, extolled the virtues of their wares with the fervor of preachers, their hands weaving tales of distant lands from whence their goods came. Here, a silken scarf from the farthest reaches of the Orient; there, a carved ivory figurine, whispering secrets of the savannah.
Amidst this bazaar of the bizarre, I found myself drawn to a simple fruit vendor's cart. It was a modest affair, yet it boasted an array of fruits so vivid they seemed plucked from the very Garden of Eden. My hand reached out, almost of its own accord, and plucked a sanguine apple from the pile. Its skin was smooth and taut, a perfect orb of temptation.
As I bit into the apple, its flesh yielded a sweetness that spoke of sun-drenched orchards and the tender care of unseen hands. The juice ran down my chin, a scarlet rivulet that caught the light and sparkled like a jewel. For a moment, I was lost in the sheer delight of the taste, the world around me fading to a mere backdrop.
Yet, even as I savored the fruit's ambrosia, a thought struck me with the chill of a winter's breeze. This apple, so innocent in appearance, held within it the power to bring about one's demise. A single bite, if laced with the venom of malice, could send a soul spiraling into the abyss. It was a sobering reflection, one that lingered even as the sweetness danced upon my tongue.
I was roused from my reverie by the sharp bark of the fruit vendor, a matron of diminutive stature but formidable presence. Her eyes, sharp as flint, bore into me with an intensity that belied her years. "For the apple, madam," she said, her voice a curious blend of demand and inquiry.
With a nonchalant flick of my wrist, I tossed a coin into her outstretched palm. It was a trivial sum, but it was the currency of survival in this place. I turned away, the apple's core now nothing but a memory, and stepped back into the river of humanity that flowed through the streets.
The crowd had swelled since my arrival, a mass of bodies moving with singular purpose yet chaotic in their individual pursuits. I moved among them, a specter in their midst, my cloak a shield against their prying eyes. They knew not who walked among them, nor the burden that weighed upon my shoulders.
For I was not merely a patron of the market, but a player in a game far greater. My name whispered in hushed tones in the halls of power, my reputation a thing of legend and fear. I was the Cavalier of Ethraden, the King's own blade, a weapon wielded in the defense of the realm.
And now, as I made my way through the throng, I could feel the weight of destiny upon me. The King had called, and I would answer, not as a servant, but as a protector. For the safety of the kingdom was at stake, and I would stand as its bulwark against the coming storm.
The journey to the palace was a solitary one, my thoughts my only companions. The city gave way to countryside, and the clamor of the market was replaced by the gentle whisper of the wind through the trees. The road stretched before me, a ribbon of possibility that led to the heart of the kingdom.
As the palace gates came into view, a sense of resolve settled over me. I was home, yet I was also entering the lion's den. The court was a place of intrigue and danger, where every smile hid a dagger and every word a trap. But I was no stranger to such games, and I would play my part to the end.
For the kingdom needed its champion, and I would not falter. I would face whatever trials awaited within those walls with the courage of my convictions and the strength of my arm. And when the history of these days is written, let it be said that the Cavalier of Ethraden stood firm in the face of adversity, a beacon of hope in the darkest of times.
******
A vexation most dire hath arisen, and neither the Sovereign nor his Council canst maintain dominion over this quandary. Thus, their sole recourse is to summon the cavalier, though it be against their very desires. For naught else remains but the safety of the realm at stake.
"Mine liege, 'would be prudent to bolster our numbers within these walls for safeguarding, lest unforeseen events transpire. For verily, the Cavalier thine own sire didst appoint poses a menace to thy diadem, and vigilance must be our constant companion," so counseled one amongst the King's assembly. He is Lord Ambrose Lockwood, the sexton in the succession to the crown.
"In concord with Lord Lockwood, I stand, my liege," affirmed the Viscount of Alstech, lending his support to the noble's proposition, which garnered an assent from the King. For he too harbored trepidations 'gainst the might the Cavalier wields. And lo, this shall mark the inaugural encounter with the notorious cavalier who hath brought all to bended knee.
As the chalice graced his lips, the monarch's thoughts were tumultuous, fraught with the peril the cavalier represents. A figure both ruthless and formidable upon the field of honor. "Anon, we shall witness thine prowess within these halls," he mused as they awaited the arrival of the cavalier.
******
Nigh unto the legion, his frame did stiffen and tense. I merely shook mine head in wonderment, doth mine own presence wield such power to root them to their place as I draw nigh?
"Cavalier of Ethraden, thou art summoned to the Palace by His Majesty, the King. We must away with haste, for matters of import await thy counsel upon thine arrival." With that, he turned his back forthwith, averting his gaze from the lady before him.
With a shake of her head and a shrug of disbelief, she heeded not and trailed the guard to a wooden carriage. "Why this carriage?" she queried herself, eyeing the conveyance, for never had the palace dispatched such for her. Always had it been a steed to bear her to the palace gates. "Ah, that crafty knave," she muttered under her breath.
The carriage door swung open, beckoning her entry, yet she strode past to a horse. Mounting with grace, she urged the beast forward. Onlookers gazed in bemusement, their attention piqued only when she ascended the mount, revealing her red auburn locks—a rare sight in their land, absent even in the royal bloodline.
Feeling the weight of their stares, I paused, "Shall we proceed, good sir?" I inquired of the coachman in a flat tone, who swallowed his apprehension. The guard hastened to follow as the coachman signaled the horse onward.
The journey to the palace was oft silent, save for the horses' breath and the river's song. A cool breeze caressed her, and with eyes closed, she savored it as if it were the essence of liberty itself. "Freedom, oh freedom, when shall thou truly be mine?" she pondered, watching birds soar unbound above.
Yet, as the palace walls loomed into view, reality struck her.
A pledge, an oath, and a service bound by blood. The crown before self, the realm before loved ones. A chain of destiny inescapable, no matter how far she fled. But she knew freedom lingered just beyond reach, like the calm that follows the storm, promising her the chance to flee for her own sake.
Upon alighting from my steed, a sprightly lad did hasten to escort the noble creature to the confines of the stable. Yonder, a figure stood, the very image of propriety, by the grand double oak doors. I surmised him to be the butler, his posture as rigid as the towering doors themselves. With a countenance of dignity, I advanced, and he, in turn, bowed deeply, the doors parting under his touch to admit me into the hallowed halls, his presence a silent shadow upon my heels.
"His Majesty, along with the esteemed members of his council, resides within his private chambers concerning the matter at hand, milady," he intoned, his voice devoid of inflection, guiding me through corridors once familiar. Above, chandeliers of exquisite craft dangled, their crystals catching the sun's rays, casting prisms across the opulent space. Fresh blooms adorned each nook, their fragrance a silent testament to the ceaseless cycle of life within these walls. Everywhere, the glint of gold and the sheen of silver proclaimed the kingdom's splendor and the royal family's unassailable dominion.
In a prominent alcove, a portrait of regal bearing commanded attention. The family, arrayed in finery, jewels, and crowns, were the very embodiment of power and sovereignty. Yet, within the depths of their cerulean gaze, one could discern a tempestuous sea, the undercurrents of malice scarcely veiled by their noble men.
"Milady... this way, if you please," the voice roused me from my contemplation of the painted visage.
Before me stood a portal, its very essence foretelling the gravity of what lay beyond. The door creaked its protest as the butler ushered me through, the dim glow within serving as a beacon to the chamber of discourse.
As I traversed the threshold, the air grew dense with the weight of anticipation. The chamber, a sanctum of strategy and statecraft, was steeped in the hush of gravitas. The council, a constellation of the realm's brightest minds, were assembled, their countenances etched with the burden of their office. At the room's heart, the King, a sovereign of both wisdom and woe, presided over the assembly with an air of solemnity.
The discourse that ensued was fraught with the tension of a kingdom teetering on the brink of tumult. Each word spoken, each counsel given, was a thread in the tapestry of our nation's fate. And I, the Cavalier of Ethraden, stood amidst this conclave, my will aligned with the crown, my blade at the service of the land I hold dear.
For in this hour, as the shadows lengthen and the light of day wanes, the kingdom calls upon its champions. And I shall answer, not as a harbinger of doom, but as a beacon of hope in the encroaching darkness.
*********
In a chamber fraught with tension, the assembly awaited the arrival of one whose very footsteps did quake the spine—a harbinger of the peril that lay in crossing her path. Each soul present had once quailed before her dread presence, vowing never to endure such terror anew. All save for the newly anointed sovereign, coddled and cloistered by his progenitors.
Raised in the lap of luxury, he was the epitome of haughtiness, brimming with conceit. A libertine of the highest order, he took to his bed those women who caught his fancy, be they courtesan, noblewoman, or palace maid, all to satiate his insatiable lust.
Now, his anticipation grew to meet the notorious cavalier of Ethraden, a figure cloaked in infamy, feared by one and all—even his own council trembled at her mention. Yet, would she succumb to his charms as others had before? Would she, too, fall prey to his seductive prowess?
"The Cavalier of Ethraden hath arrived, Your Majesty and Lords," announced a voice, resonant and commanding, echoing off the lofty walls of the chamber, sending tremors through the very stone.
And so she appeared, enshrouded in a sable coat that concealed her visage from the king's eager eyes. His curiosity piqued, he watched her every move as she settled into a seat, within his sight yet beyond the council's immediate reach.
"Shall we commence, My Liege?" inquired his second-in-command, drawing the king's attention from the enigmatic lady now regarding him with a steely gaze. A formidable spirit, he noted.
With a nod, the king sanctioned the start of the proceedings, her presence casting a shadow over the ensuing chaos. The lords voiced their opinions, clamoring for royal favor, yet the king remained silent, his gaze steadfast upon the woman who had ensnared his attention.
Her features obscured, she intrigued him all the more—a desire to unveil the mystery before him. Had she bewitched me at first glance? He thought inside his head.
"Lord Lockwood, your fears are misplaced," countered Sir Alister Fortescue with fervor. "The southern demesne stands vulnerable, a siren's call to our adversaries. We must shore up its defenses, lest we invite ruin upon our fair Ethraden."
To neglect such a peril was to dance with calamity itself. The enemy, ever watchful, would seize upon any lapse with voracious intent. The council's deliberations were fraught with the gravity of their charge, for the safeguarding of the realm and the sanctity of the crown teetered precariously in the balance.
Yet, in the cavalier's presence, a bastion of fortitude and fealty, the assembly found solace. Her devotion to Ethraden's throne was a beacon of constancy in an ever-shifting sea.
The king, amidst the din, raised his hand, a silent edict for peace. His eyes lingered upon the cavalier, her essence still shrouded in mystery.
"Why not heed the wisdom of the Cavalier?" he proposed, his voice slicing through the stillness. "Rumor speaks of her mind, sharp as the blade she wields. Is this not so, milady?"
"But, my King—allow the lady her voice," Baron Asristoque interjected, his impatience palpable. Yet, her silence was her reply, stirring within him a tempest of frustration. He longed to bend her will to his own, to be the singular soul to whom she might yield. But such was the folly of dreams, for she was not one to be tamed.
The cavalier, keenly aware of the king's designs, would not be ensnared. She was no fleeting fancy to be discarded at the whim of royal caprice. Her honor would not be sullied by his licentious game.
The silence that followed her refusal was a tangible thing, heavy with the weight of expectation. A woman of her stature, the pride of a nation, should not stand in defiance of her king.
Yet, it was she who broke the stillness, her voice a melody laced with frost, "The decision rests with you, my King." And with those words, the chamber stilled, every eye drawn to the woman who had dared to challenge the crown with her gaze.
The king, struck by her audacity, felt a grudging respect take root. Her defiance was not born of insolence but of strength, a quality he found himself admiring, albeit reluctantly. The council members exchanged wary glances, their whispers fading into a hushed silence.
"Very well," the King finally spoke, his voice resonating with newfound determination. "We shall fortify the southern border with haste. Let it be known that Ethraden shall not fall prey to the vultures circling our lands."
The cavalier's lips curled into a subtle smile, her silence more eloquent than words. She had swayed the King without uttering a single plea, her mere presence a testament to her influence.
Gripping his goblet of wine tightly, he let out a sly smirk, like as if what the woman says amused him, " Ah! Yes, yes, the lady is right, council. I ,myself, shall make the decision, since it is my Kingdom's safety and my crown that is being discussed. Well then, this meeting is dismissed. Everybody out, except you, Mi lady."
With one swift movement, everyone was already out from the chamber leaving the two in silence. Deep breathing and heartbeat can only be heard, no one talked nor initiated a talk. They just simply stare into each other's eye, contesting who will submit first.
" Submit, to your King." Anger laced through the King's voice as he forcefully make her submit but what he only receive is a mocking chuckle.
"My, my King, you have such a temper. You are nothing a like with your father. Are you truly perhaps his son?", it was a trap for him to fall. It was the secret of the Kingdom, he was a bastard, an illegitimate son, and never the heir to the throne and crown of Ethraden.
The late King, who has a mistress, a maid from another Kingdom, precisely bore him a son, which upset and angered the Queen who was currently pregnant with their heir. But with the news came though her, she lost it and it affected the baby and her. Losing their own lives. Without an heir and a Queen, the King accepts his bastard son to be his solely heir and his mother, not as the Queen but only as a Princess to this nation.
Everyone has questioned where he has come from either he is a bastard or a legitimate son from marriage. He has grown with such rumor around him, and that made him more arrogant and a bastard. Causing a scandal in and out of the palace wall.
" I am my father's son," he said in anger.
Shrugging, she stands from her seat. And wore the cloak that had covered her.
" As you say, my King. Now, if you have nothing more else to say I shall now leave for I must check the Southern border on my own." Her steps echoed faintly and only the door shut made the King throw his own sword towards the seat of the woman. Eyes bloodshot in anger and eagerness to kill, as he couldn't believe that a woman like him had mocked and slapped him into something he never wanted to hear again.