Zachary Scott
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Chapter 109 - Noble Intentions
🕑 Added 2025-06-30 17:56:16 +0000 UTCVitus
The throne room of King Theon smelled of raspberry jam, beer, and sweat.
I stood at attention with the other members of the Azure Guard, trying not to let my mind wander as various courtiers droned on about grain supplies and trade disputes. The tomte king sat on his throne—a massive chair carved from a single block of granite that made his three-foot frame look almost comically small. But nobody laughed. Not when King Theon's beard was braided with actual gold thread, and certainly not when his eyes held the cold calculation of someone who'd survived two centuries of underground politics.
Between royal pronouncements, he gnawed on burnt bread slathered in raspberry jam, chewing loudly enough to echo off the stone walls. Every tomte noble ate the stuff—laced with magical nectar that granted night vision, which explained why they kept their halls so damnably dark. They pretended it was natural tomte eyesight, of course, and we pretended to believe them. My mother once told me they enjoyed watching taller races stumble into pillars. “Makes them feel bigger,” she'd said with a rare smile.
“—and the western tunnels have reported three more cave-ins this month,” a nervous tomte administrator was saying, wringing his hat between stubby fingers. He was balding, but wore what hair he had long enough to braid together with his beard. “The miners claim they hear... singing. Before the collapses.”
“Singing,” King Theon repeated, his voice flat as old beer. “And what would you have me do about singing rocks, Administrator Copperfoot?”
“Perhaps... an investigation? The Seer's Guild could—”
“The Seer's Guild is full of crocks who laugh at the fools who employ them,” the king interrupted. “Next.”
I shifted my weight slightly, careful not to let my armor clink. Morning court was always like this—a parade of problems that King Theon would either dismiss or defer. The real business happened afterward, in the smaller chamber where only the truly important gathered.
My mother stood near the throne, her posture perfect despite what I knew had been a sleepless night. Caliphra Ra-Set didn't show weakness, not even to her own son. Her armor gleamed despite the underground setting, each piece polished to mirror brightness. The four platinum stars on her shoulder—each granted in honor of past victories directly from kings and empresses—caught the dim light with every breath.
Mother had me when she was nearly three hundred years old. She never speaks of my father, but I’ve heard rumors she killed him once he granted his seed. Caliphra Ra-Set is not a woman known for keeping people or things that have already served their purpose.
“Your Majesty,” a new voice called out. I recognized Lord Rathborne, Kalcus's father. The man had the same aristocratic features as his son, but with gray at his temples and the kind of gut that came from too many years of rich food and easy living. He was Silver Rank, but he’d been carried to power decades ago and likely never used his power for more than grandstanding. “I must protest the lack of action regarding the assault on my heir.”
King Theon's eyebrows—bushier than some tomte's entire beards—rose slightly. “Assault? My understanding was that young Kalcus engaged in a consensual duel. And lost,” he added with what might have even been a smile.
The Rathborne clan was not well-liked, but they were powerful.
“A duel implies honor, Your Majesty,” Lord Rathborne protested. “This was a coward's ambush by some nameless aspirant who—”
“Who defended himself when attacked, according to reports,” my mother interrupted, her voice cutting through the room like a blade through silk. “Your son started a fight in the middle of the market. He lost, bringing dishonor to the nobility in the process. Perhaps he should train harder instead of complaining louder.”
Lord Rathborne's face flushed purple. “How dare—”
“Enough.” King Theon's single word killed the brewing argument. “Lord Rathborne, if your son wishes to pursue satisfaction, he may do so in the tournament. That is, after all, what it's for. Next matter.”
The routine continued for another hour. Tax disputes. Building permits. A surprisingly heated debate about whether grommets should be allowed to dig beneath the merchant quarter. The grommet discussion was followed by a healthy debate, because soldiers were being sent regularly to find grommet tunnels, but they all collapsed as soon as they were explored.
In other words, it didn’t seem to matter if the grommet activity was sanctioned or not. It was going to continue, and King Theon suggested engineers should be sent to reinforce the foundations of the city in preparation for the grommet nuisance.
Finally, King Theon rose from his throne. “The public court is concluded. Guards, clear the chamber.”
This was my cue. The Azure Guard moved with practiced efficiency, ushering out the petitioners and minor nobles. Soon, only the inner circle remained: the king, my mother, myself and four other Azure Guard, the Minister of Coin, the Captain of the City Watch, and a handful of others I recognized but didn't know personally.
And one man I didn't recognize at all.
He stood near the back wall, so still I'd almost missed him. Tall and thin, with features that seemed both young and ancient, he wore simple scholar's robes that somehow looked more expensive than Lord Rathborne's entire outfit. His eyes were the pale blue of deep ice, and when they swept across the room, I felt... noticed. Evaluated. Catalogued.
Now that I noticed him, I could feel a kind of aura coming from him, too. It was like mother’s, but… different. I couldn’t say how.
“Now then,” King Theon said, settling back into his throne with a grunt. “Let's discuss what actually matters. General Ra-Set, your report on the rifts.”
My mother stepped forward. “We have reports of a Gold-level rift opening last month, Your Majesty. If the details are correct, it’s less than a hundred miles from Coil.”
A ripple of unease ran through the room. Even I felt my stomach tighten. Gold-level rifts were the sort of thing that shouldn’t be possible within the inner rings of Ithariel’s influence. Those were the sort of things people whispered of in the outermost frontiers. Portals to hell from which terrible creatures emerged.
“The Legion is stretched thin,” she continued. “We've lost two Gold-ranked elites dealing with the tri-rift last year. It took decades to train those two. At this rate...” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I request permission to leave Thrask and handle this rift myself.”
“Absolutely not,” King Theon said immediately. “With Ithariel arriving in twelve days? I need you here.”
“With respect, Your Majesty, if Coil falls—”
“Coil has its own defenders. And Thrask has a long memory. Did they come during the underwars? No. Did they offer aid when we were ravaged by plague and sickness during the yellow plague? No. Coil can defend itself.”
“Understood,” my mother said carefully. “But I’ve been told Lord Commander Brightblade of Coil died recently dealing with an infestation, along with several of Coil’s highest ranked elites. Their defenses may be thinner than we assume. And complex histories aside, losing the gravity wells that run through Coil would cause irreparable damage to logistics for everyone. Most of all, Thrask.”
The scholarly man with the strange aura in the back shifted slightly—the first movement I'd seen from him. “Perhaps,” he said, and his voice was like aged whiskey, smooth and burning at once, “we're approaching this problem from the wrong angle.”
Every head turned to him. King Theon's eyes narrowed. “You have thoughts on military deployment, Master Oriander?”
Oriander. The name meant nothing to me, but I noticed how my mother's hand drifted closer to her sword hilt. Interesting.
“I merely observe,” Oriander said with a slight smile, “that we're treating symptoms rather than the disease. The rifts are increasing in both frequency and severity. Rather than exhausting our defenders in reactive measures, perhaps we should be investigating why.”
“The why doesn't matter if a Gold Rank dreadbeast is eating citizens,” my mother said coldly.
“Doesn't it?” Oriander tilted his head. “What if I told you the rifts follow patterns? What if there was a way to predict—even prevent—their formation?”
“Then I'd ask why you haven't shared this knowledge sooner,” King Theon said.
Oriander's smile widened slightly. “Research takes time, Your Majesty. But I believe I'm close to a breakthrough. Of course, such work requires... resources.”
Ah. There it was. Everyone wanted something.
“We'll discuss your research… allowances later,” the king said dismissively. “For now, General Ra-Set, take whatever forces you need for the Coil situation. But I want you back before Ithariel arrives. And you will not put yourself or any of our own elites in danger.”
“Understood, Your Majesty.”
“Speaking of His Divinity's arrival,” a new voice interjected. I turned to see a dark-skinned man with intricate robes step forward. Amuntep, Divine Footman of Ithariel. He had been sent to oversee tournament preparations this year. “I have concerns about this year's competition.”
“Concerns?” King Theon leaned forward slightly.
“Irregularities,” Amuntep said carefully. “The Aspirant's Guild has a new member who's climbed from unranked to fifth place in less than three weeks. The betting houses are in an uproar. The nobility are... concerned.”
“About one aspirant?” my mother asked.
“About what he represents,” Amuntep clarified. “The tournament serves a specific purpose—reminding the masses of their place in the natural order. But this is highly irregular. It has some worried about collusion. Deception. They fear this individual was sent by somebody with an agenda, perhaps to undermine stability and social order...” He spread his hands. “And as you all know, His Divinity values stability above all else.”
Lord Rathborne, who'd somehow managed to remain in the chamber, spoke up. “I have heard the same rumors and share their concerns. In fact, the aspirant in question is the same vagrant who attacked my son! I demand—”
“You demand nothing,” King Theon said quietly. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. “But Divine Footman Amuntep raises a valid point.” I felt the king’s gaze sweep the room, landing on me. “Vitus Ra-Set.”
I snapped to attention. “Your Majesty.”
“You're familiar with the Aspirant's Guild, I assume?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Investigate this rising star. Determine if he poses a... disruption to the tournament's intended outcome. Investigate whether there is anything unusual about his circumstances that should be brought to our attention.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“If he represents a problem, we’ll arrange to have him meet his end early in the tourney to set an example,” King Theon said matter-of-factly. “Let any who think to scheme against us see just how fruitless the attempt is. With a smile, he crunched into the remains of his raspberry toast, dusted his small hands, and turned his attention to another topic.
The meeting continued, but I found my attention drifting to the mysterious Master Oriander. He'd returned to his statue-like stillness, but those pale eyes missed nothing. When our gazes met briefly, he smiled—a small, knowing expression that made my skin crawl.
What kind of research was he doing? And why did my mother actually seem wary of a simple scholar I’d never heard of?
“Dismissed,” King Theon finally announced.
As we filed out, I fell into step beside my mother. “Who is he?” I asked quietly. “Oriander?”
“Someone you will not trust,” she said simply. “Stay away from him, Vitus. He has long kept to the shadows, and there is much he doesn’t reveal about himself. You will not investigate him or speak to him under any circumstances.”
“But—”
“That's an order, Captain Ra-Set.”
I knew better than to push. I made my way through the palace corridors, exited the magical curtain of protective water that surrounded the highest point of Thrask, and descended the stairs to head for Gloomglow District. All the while, my thoughts churned, turning over what had been an unusually interesting session of court.
The streets of Thrask were busier than usual. With the tournament approaching, merchants hawked everything from “lucky” charms to “armor polish blessed by virgins.” My armor and Azure Guard cloak made travel through the busy area easy. When people saw me and recognized me for nobility, they parted like water before a ship’s prow.
It wasn’t long before I reached Gloomglow and eventually the Aspirant’s Guild itself. Its high walls were covered in the district's characteristic luminescent graffiti. Someone had painted “DEATH TO NOBLES” in letters twenty feet high, though someone else had crossed out “DEATH” and written “MILD INCONVENIENCE” above it.
I approached the main gate, noting how the guards stiffened at my approach.
“My Lord,” one stammered. “We weren't expecting—”
“I'm not here officially,” I said, which was technically true. “Just observing.”
They exchanged glances but didn't dare stop me. The perks of being nobility—and Azure Guard—meant rarely hearing the word 'no.'
The training yard was packed. Aspirants of all descriptions worked through drills, sparred, or simply tried to look impressive. The vast majority were Wood rank, with a scattered handful of Irons. They all had the same hungry look—ambition mixed with desperation.
“Seven coppers on Lyria!”
“You're mad! Marcus hasn't lost in three days!”
I followed the voices to the stasis dome, where a crowd had gathered to watch a match. Inside the shimmering barrier, two fighters circled each other. One was a burly man with a two-handed sword—Marcus, apparently. The other was a red-haired woman who looked to be in her early twenties and was admittedly beautiful. In fact, I recognized her.
I’d seen her back in Beastden, with the man who wore the helmet. The damn man who had taken up a space in my mind and hadn’t seemed to want to leave ever since. The man who had shown no damned fear of a squadron of nobility, who had casually destroyed an entire spawning room that was tying up my own forces and all of those who joined me. The man I seriously suspected had somehow managed to clear the dungeon heart chamber as well.
And if she was here…
I scanned the room, but didn’t spot him, so I turned my attention back to the fight. To “Lyria.”
She moved like a dancer, redirecting Marcus’ strikes with precise, almost pulsing patterns of air gusts. There was a rhythm to the way she fought and used her magic, a heartbeat of spells flaring into existence, which she weaved her attacks and movements between with expertise that was mesmerizing.
Marcus spun, dodging her sword thrust, but she collapsed her circular shield by some unseen mechanism, opened her palm, and blasted his leg out from under him with a jet of green air.
With a flourish, she gripped her sword in both hands and stood over him, its tip poised just above his neck.
“Yield,” Marcus growled before slapping the sword out of the way and stalking from the ring.
“Next match!” A scarred woman called out—the training coordinator, by her bearing. “Boyer versus—”
“Me.”
The voice was quiet, but it cut through the chatter. A man stepped forward, and I found myself straightening with interest.
Gods. It’s him.
He wore the same helmet. Simple iron with horns and a visor that only gave a glimpse of what looked like handsome, hard features and eyes that held unwavering intensity. His clothes were black and trimmed in silver. They looked well-made, and judging by the lack of damage, were likely self-repairing.
He was tall, too, and broad in the shoulders. When he walked, I noticed how the other aspirants parted, making room for him to pass.
Once he had entered the ring, I saw money changing hands rapidly as new bets formed. Even the training coordinator looked interested.
“Rank five challenges rank twelve,” she announced. “Standard rules. Begin when ready.”
They entered the dome. Boyer, the one I assumed was rank twelve in the guild activated some kind of strength enhancement, muscles bulging as red lines of magic crept across his skin. He punched a fist to his bare chest, then charged, kicking up dirt with the speed of his sprint.
The helmeted man sidestepped, almost casually. He didn’t even gesture or raise his hands, but a bright blue square sheet of magic glass flashed into existence. A split second later, Boyer slammed into it face-first, knocking him on his ass and leaving hairline cracks through the barrier.
The crowd laughed. Boyer snarled, embarrassed, and came at him again with a combination of strikes that actually showed decent training. Each blow of his fist was amplified by the same red magic, making booming thunder-like sounds as his muscular arms pistoned.
The helmeted man blocked each one, but... sloppily. His timing was just slightly off. His footwork seemed uncertain. When he counter-attacked with what looked like an ice dagger, he telegraphed the move so badly Boyer had time to make tea before dodging.
I frowned. Something was wrong here.
Compared to the easy shield and sidestep he’d started the fight with, this seemed almost… fake?
The fight continued, and the helmeted man barely scraped by with a victory after Boyer “accidentally” tripped over his own feet and fell onto the ice dagger.
“Winner,” the coordinator announced.
This was the man climbing the ranks at an impossible rate? He'd barely beaten an opponent seven ranks below him. If anything, it looked like Boyer should’ve won the fight, and Brynn had only shown the use of two abilities I could detect. Some kind of summoned dagger of ice and those blue sheets of magic glass.
How the hells could he have done what he did in Beastden if that was the extent of his abilities?
I pushed through the crowd as he exited the dome. “You,” I called out.
He turned, tilting his helmeted head. “Lord Ra-Set.” His voice was carefully neutral. “Long time no see.”
Others backed away or outright jogged to get away.
“Walk with me.”
Lyria came closer, her eyes hard as she stared at me. “What do you want?”
“I wasn’t making a request,” I said.
“Neither was I. What do you want?”
“It’s alright, Lyria,” Brynn said calmly. “I don’t think Vitus is here to cause trouble. I think he just wants to talk.”
There was an edge to his voice and something in his eyes I didn’t like. Was that… was the bastard threatening me?
“Frankly,” I said, jaw ticking with annoyance. “It doesn’t matter what you think I’m here for. You’re going to have a word with me.”
Brynn actually smiled at that. “Then let’s stop dancing around it and have this chat you want so badly. Lyria, do you mind telling Pordo I’ll be a few extra minutes before I meet him in the agility course?”
Lyria hesitated, looked between us, and then actually seemed to convince herself that Brynn was fine being left alone with me.
Gods. These two were either delusional, or there really was something going on here. Something dangerous.
Once Lyria walked off, Brynn followed without protest as I led him away from the crowd to a quieter corner of the training yard.
“So you remembered me,” Brynn said after a few moments. “Come to catch up?”
“I’m the one asking questions here,” I said tightly.
“I see,” Brynn said. “Then I won’t ask a question. I’ll make a statement. The tomte you told us to talk to set us up. Betrayed us. I won’t ask if you knew that was going to happen. I’ll just tell you it did, and let you draw your own conclusions about how that impacted my ability to trust you going forward.”
I hesitated. “Betrayed you in what way?”
“Tipped off Rathborne’s goons.”
I frowned. “And you’re alive? So you lost them?”
“Something like that.”
“Well,” I said, unsure how he could’ve evaded Rathborne’s people. I may not like the bastards, but they were well trained and had resources. If they sent killers after Brynn, I don’t see how he was still standing here. “I didn’t know Massian was a danger to you. If I'd known he'd turned—”
“He hasn't turned. He just chose his own life over ours. I can't entirely blame him.” He tilted his head slightly. “What do you want, Vitus?”
The casual use of my first name should have annoyed me. From anyone else, it would have. But something about this man's calm confidence made titles seem irrelevant.
“I watched your match,” I said. “You're holding back.”
Silence.
“That stumble Boyer took? You created a small barrier under the sand. It moved as soon as he stepped on it, throwing off his balance. Your 'sloppy' blocks? They redirected his force perfectly while looking amateur. You're playing a role. Pretending to be weaker than you are. And you’re still climbing the ranks at an incredible rate.”
“That's a serious accusation,” he said mildly.
“It's not an accusation. It's an observation.” I stepped closer. “What I want to know is why.”
He lifted a palm, shrugging. “I don’t know what you expect to hear, Vitus. I’m lucky. Always have been. All I can do is hope it doesn’t run out any time soon.”
“And I don’t believe you.”
Brynn took a small step, closing the distance between us. Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. “Okay. Were you planning to do something about that?”
Despite the obvious gap in our power. Despite my own upbringing and status, I had to resist the urge to step back. To flinch. To back away. “Who the fuck are you? Really,” I added before he could blow me off with another non-answer.
“Somebody who has learned to be careful with trust. In part, thanks to you.”
I felt my lips turn up at the edges. “Then let me give you some advice. Trust it if you like. Or don’t. But before long, you’ll see I was telling the truth, and maybe next time we speak, you’ll have learned you can believe me.”
“I’m listening.”
“The tournament isn't what you think. It's not about skill or determination or any of that propaganda they feed you. It's about maintaining order. The nobility wins. Always. That's the point.”
“Funny,” he said. “They always win, but it looks like they sent one of their own to check on a fast-rising aspirant. If the game is so rigged, why bother to send someone like you to investigate someone like me?”
“Don't be naive. When aspirants get too close to winning, their protections fail. Accidents happen. The game masters ensure the 'right' outcome.”
“I’ll take my chances. Those friends of mine I was trying to help? They were captured and are going to be forced to compete. So unless you want to tell me you can get them released, I’m going to be in that tournament.”
I blinked. How did he—
“I made them a promise. I intend to keep it.”
“You'll die trying. They won't let you. They’ll make sure the protections fail for you. You’ll be slaughtered.”
“If that’s the best they can do, then I’ll still be playing by the same rules I have been this whole time. There were no protections in Beastden, right?” he shrugged. “So I’ll just make sure nobody kills me.”
The casual confidence in those words sent a chill down my spine. This wasn't bravado. He meant it.
“You stubborn fool,” I snapped, reaching out to grab his collar. “Do you have any idea what you're walking into? Ithariel himself will be watching! Do you think—”
My hand stopped.
Not slowed. Not deflected. Stopped. Like hitting a wall that wasn't there a moment before.
A shimmer in the air. A barrier of pure mana, so perfectly formed I couldn't see it until my hand pressed against it.
The helmeted man hadn't moved. Hadn't gestured. Hadn't even shifted his stance.
“I can take care of myself. Thanks,” he said softly.
I pulled my hand back slowly, mind racing. I wasn’t just an ordinary Iron. I’d been trained since birth. My reflexes, speed, and strength were all top tier for my rank. It was why I was one of the highest ranked Irons in the inner rings.
And he’d been faster.
“Who the hells are you?” The question came out as barely a whisper.
“Nobody,” he said. I caught a glimpse of dark eyes through the helmet slots. “That’s what you say if anybody asks. Want me to trust you? Then you tell them exactly that. You came here to see the man they sent you to see. And you saw nobody worth notice. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
And then, as if a spell was suddenly broken, he smiled. It wasn’t a cruel smile or one of a hardened killer. It was natural and easy. “Thanks for paying me a visit, Vitus. Maybe I’ll see you in the tournament?”
He walked away before I could respond, leaving me standing alone with too many questions and a growing certainty that the tournament was about to become far more interesting than anyone anticipated.
I left the Aspirant's Guild with more questions than answers and the uncomfortable certainty that I'd just met someone who might actually be capable of upending the order we'd all taken for granted.
Comments
Andres Ceva
Thanks for the chapter! “He hasn't turned. He just chose his own life over ours. I can't entirely blame him.” --> then why is he giving him a hard time. Vitus told him about him before he got in trouble with that noble, how was he supposed to know what the captain would do. He seems to be way to antagonistic to someone that so far has always been helful and treated him with respect. Not that it made too much sense before, but how can he justify participating in the torunament now that he knows Ithariel is going to be there?
Ben Bass
TYFTC! I love how Brynn is able to pull off his charade, while some can see through it they don't realize the extent he is putting on a show. I think Vitus might be one of the few who is starting to understand the power and drive of Brynn. Now will Vitus realize that Brynn told him exactly what is needed for him not to partake in the tournament? I wonder if he and the nobles will listen and free his friends. Probably not.
Mr.Turtle
Thanks for the chapter!
James Faulkner
Tftc!
