Candles shone dimly upon the rotting carcass of a man sprawled across a grand bed of gold and gaudy finery. The King lay there like a corpse awaiting burial, his breath shallow, his life ebbing away beneath the slow cruelty of disease—untreated, unrecognisable, and utterly ruinous. It was a sickness that had become the scourge of His Majesty's existence.
Yet the man wasting away was not without sin. His transgressions were many and uncountable, crimes that had once defined him long before the plague reduced him to this pitiful state. The people had named him Maershal the Cruel—a tyrant who had shattered the kingdom beneath his authoritarian reign.
When Maershal ascended the throne, he butchered his own blood like cattle. The Queen was torn limb from limb and children were slaughtered and flayed. Only one survived—the heir.
Prince Regent Vaenir now ruled in his stead. In ten years, he had undone much of the damage left behind: edicts repealed, slavery effectively abolished and the realm steadied once more. Vaenir, too, was not without sin—but his were shadows beside the abyss carved by the man dying in that bed.
Maershal had been brutal beyond measure. Of the Valkraun Royal Dynasty, none survived save the prince. The impaled corpses of his kin were left to rot in open fields until plague struck him down. He ruled through terror, holding the kingdom in check at the cost of corruption, bloodshed and the execution of just and capable nobles who dared to speak against him.
An iron fist governed all. The Royal Guard carried out every whim, every decree bound by sacred oaths. In this world, oaths were divine—especially when sworn to one who claimed the divine right of kings.
Sir Harketh honoured that oath.
He stood watch over the decaying monarch, motionless as the king continued to breathe in quiet rot. Even when a cloaked figure entered the stenching chamber, Harketh did not move.
The figure loomed over the bed.
"Poor Father," he murmured. "Rotting as you live—how symbolic. You will die as you lived: steeped in excess and decay." He paused, a smirk curling his lips. "How pathetic… and yet well deserved. Cleaning up your mess was straining, to say the least—but in ten years, I have established myself rather nicely."
Harketh remained still. His oath was to protect and obey, yet the Prince did not harm the king nor did the king command action. There was nothing for him to do.
In truth, Harketh was quietly amused.
He loathed the reigning king—hated the orders he had carried out, the blood he bore as Maershal's favoured enforcer. The Prince would be a better king by a long shot. Of that, he was certain.
Vaenir spat upon the king's face. Maershal's eyes twitched towards him in silent disapproval, but no words came—nor could they.
The Prince turned to Harketh.
"Knight. Walk with me."
—/—/—
They stood alone upon the balcony beside the king's chambers.
"How many Royal Guards remain?" Vaenir asked. "Maershal scattered them across the kingdom. I want them recalled before my coronation."
Harketh paused to consider. Moonlight glinted off his dark armour, tracing the sharp lines of his form. His white hair stirred in the night breeze. A dark elf in his thirties, handsome yet every bit of his armored features were intimidating, designed to strike fear. Tattered cloak, full plate and chain covered in black finish.
"Knight-Commander Eryn is presently in the Elven Theocracy, residing there as a guest. The purpose of his visit remains unknown to me."
"And the others?"
"I'm afraid most are dead. Sir Arthur was assassinated by a lake nymph while travelling to the Ironstone Archduchy. We were unable to recover his body." He paused before continuing. "Sir Lycan and Sir Ronald were slain by the final rebel mobs."
Vaenir's expression darkened. "Why was I never informed of this over the past decade?"
"My Prince, the affairs of the Royal Guard are held under the strictest secrecy. This exception is made only because the current king may as well be dead by tomorrow. There is little use in concealing it from you now."
"Very well," Vaenir said. "So only you of the Royal Guard remain—here in Valkraun?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
Vaenir rested a hand against his chin, weighing his next move. After a moment, an idea caused him to lit his eyes.
"Do you remember the Freeholds?"
"Mercenaries and adventurers for hire—of course. Dissolving them, strengthening the local militias, and establishing formal retinues were among the finest reforms you enacted, my Prince."
"Perhaps we should introduce an enlistment initiative for former Freehold members…"
"A tournament perhaps," Harketh said. "If you seek exceptional warriors, a tournament would serve our purpose well. The champion could be offered a place among the Royal Guard—positions which are, at present, almost vacant. We could do with 2-3 more."
Prince Vaenir placed a hand upon the knight's shoulder, smiling.
"I will consider this. Perhaps one in every town and major city with qualifications rounds. From there, we will hold the actual tournament. This is for the former Freehold members, peasants and lesser nobles. We hold another private tournament within the stationed retinues to select one among existing soldiers."
Vaenir was clearly buying into Harketh's idea.
"Excellent, Sir Harketh. Continue your watch over that decrepit king and inform me the moment he draws his final breath."
Upon arrival of the consensus by the royal council, it was decided that a tournament would be the best way to find skilled warriors, especially in this time of peace.