Chapter 144

Anger Unblemished

What once was a central chamber that forked into numerous corridors and hallways of the castle was now a makeshift arena with stands framing it circularly. The usually silent walls were alight with cheers, and just outside the stands, in the room over, a massive feast was slowly being laid out onto countless tables. Soon, the first round of the tournament would end—after nearly five hours of competition, though appearing tired, the crowd was yet to fully settle. Each strong hit or a good duel would alight it all anew, and the cycle continued.

Two young men, both yet to reach twenty years of age, were currently exchanging blows in a duel that went on for nearly five minutes by now. Both were tired and sweaty and short of breath, yet the fire in their eye burned, unwillingness to lose. After all, everyone was watching—from the Prince to the young maidens they fancied. The victory meant glory and loss meant being forgotten.

One of the young men somewhat awkwardly ducked and dodged a clean sweep of the blade, retaliating by stabbing toward the other man's thigh; the latter tried to deflect it, but his weary arms betrayed him, slowing down his swipe a bit too much. The strike landed squarely and blood sprayed out. Whatever little strength the young man's legs still had at that point seemed to seep out with the blood and he crashed onto the floor, dropping the blade and lying on his back.

The crowd broke into cheers, though there was no mockery—even after tears coalesced on the lying man’s face. An arm stretched out and pulled him up, helping him stand and face the cheering crowd who was applauding his effort. A moment later, several people came onto the stage bearing an invention of the castle’s Prophet, something he called a stretcher. It was two wooden rods tied together with some rope and cloth, extremely convenient for carrying off the wounded without disturbing them too much.

Sitting on one of the decorated stands that stood out against the rest through its fenced-off appearance and the hanging banner on the front, Sylas watched the competition absentmindedly. While for others this might be a life-changing event, for him it was just… one loop and, soon enough, one that will fade into the annals of many faded histories in his mind.

On the other hand, Valen, Derrek, Ryne, and even Asha among others were extremely engaged with the general atmosphere. The young Prince would often lean to Ryne's ear and whisper along the proceedings, describing in great detail what was happening so that the young girl wouldn't feel left out. Though the image wasn't lost on anyone who glanced in their general direction, nobody spoke of it. Even Sylas knew it was neither the time nor the place for those kinds of comments. Instead, he let them—and everyone else—bleed into the atmosphere.

His mind wandered further away, southward. Though he elected to stay through the tournament and reset his mind, it didn’t mean he’d stop thinking of the future—since, for the first time in a while, he had a fixed goal beyond just an immediate want. Getting Valen south no longer meant ‘just’ completing the main quest, but it also meant getting virtually all the answers he wanted. There was no longer any ambiguity to it, unlike before.

As the crowd began to disperse and funnel into the nearby hall where the feast was to be held, he came to and woke up from his daydreaming, following after the very chatty group who was heatedly discussing potential winners of the tournament. One figure that Sylas was somewhat keen on seeing, however, wasn’t there—the young girl he briefly ‘sparred’ with in the snowed-in courtyard what felt to be many years ago. Though he was certain she introduced herself, he’d completely forgotten her name as well as her face. Even if there were several women who competed, he was certain none of them were her.

In the end, he shrugged it off; perhaps she was too shy, or not confident enough, or for a myriad of other reasons. He was merely interested since he saw some level of potential in her, but not much beyond that.

Even if the food was laid out perfectly in front of them for their consumption, nobody actually took a bite—they all patiently waited in line as Valen headed toward the central table with a throne-like chair meant for him. Silence followed as he awkwardly settled into the throne from the wheelchair, refusing help, while the room waited for him to raise his glass.

“Death comes for us so oft for it fears us,” Valen spoke in a low, commanding tone, one he used specifically when facing groups of people. He was almost unrecognizable to Sylas, who knew him as a chirpy, somewhat awkward lad. “It knows we fear it not, it knows we spit in its face. No matter the infernos that it casts down upon these walls, and no matter how many tears we shed for its cruelty, we shall never perish. Today, we have seen young men and women wield their blades with fires unmatched; and, tomorrow, we shall see them fend off the darkness fearlessly and fiercely. One day, the world will hear the roars of these halls and will recognize us. They will say, ‘here come the Lions, the stampede of heroes’. You all are my blood as am I yours; when you bleed, I bleed. When you weep, I weep. When I rise, so shall thee. We are Ethwarians, men and women of frosted resilience and unbound courage. And we shan’t be forgotten.”

"Hear, hear!!" Derrek roared right after—and then the hall roared with him. The walls and the ground shook and many a gaze burned with vigor and pride and unrelenting worship toward the young Prince. Even crippled and chairbound, the young man seemed to have wings that eclipsed the darkness. He was their shining star, and he was leading them to where they belonged.

“Damn, what a speech,” Sylas cracked a smile. “You almost moved even me.”

“Still ways to go, then,” Valen smiled sheepishly, his previous countenance of a King nowhere to be found. “If I manage to ever move you… there won’t be a soul left in the world who can resist me.”

“A bold claim,” Sylas said. “Not entirely wrong, but bold nonetheless. Why is nobody drinking?”

“Because we’re waiting for the speech from our Prophet,” Valen said with a shifty smile, causing Sylas to sigh and glance at the hall. The atmosphere was… different. The way they looked at him was… different. With Valen, though they worshiped and loved the lad, they still saw him as human—they saw him as a singular version of themselves. The way they looked at him, though, was… different. It was difficult to put into words—it was as though there was a massive wall between them and they dared not even knock against that wall. Rather than human, he was higher—stranger.

“Gods say that the limit of the man is the boundless sky above us,” Sylas spoke into the pin-leveled silence, his voice deep and commanding. “But gods are wrong,” his claim seemed to stir something strange within everyone in the room, even Valen who knew that the strange Prophet wasn’t exactly in love with the Gods. “One day, those seemingly impenetrable skies will be cracked. And the man will look down upon the world and wonder… wonder many things. Gods cursed me and framed it as a loving gift,” Asha’s lips quivered; by now, she realized, the speech was hardly about him. “In my dreams, I see the worlds end in cruel fires… and I can’t fix it. I can’t help them. I am lucky, though, that my gift led me here. And that it helped, however little. Until it didn’t. All I’m saying is if one day you have a choice,” Sylas said, raising the glass to the stunned audience. “Between obeying your gods and saving a fellow man… always choose the man. Always. Cheers,” he downed the cup, but nobody followed immediately. Instead, they still seemed to be slowly processing his words. Derrek was the first to do it after—emptying the cup while anger simmered in his eyes. Asha followed, holding back the tears. Then it was Ryne, her fingers trembling. And then it was Valen.

When the hall saw the central figures drink, they followed suit—though still uncertain. Sylas didn’t seem too bothered by the reaction; after all, what thoughts swam in his head were leagues different, built upon a completely different understanding of the world. Even if the gods’ existence in this world was a complete, infallible truth, he was still a skeptic; after all, the gods weren’t omnipotent—far from it. The more he ‘interacted’ with them and their influence, the more he realized they appeared… man-like. Greedy, envious, petty, jealous, vengeful.

The atmosphere slowly unraveled as people began to eat and drink and forget the immensely awkward speech. Well, most did, anyway.

“You really think that was a smart thing to say? What if you angered them?” Valen asked worryingly.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sylas smiled back. “I chat with them occasionally. They know they’re big pricks.”

“Huuh…” Valen sighed deeply, shaking.

“Ha ha ha, relax, relax,” he hollered. “Drink, little Prince. At least, by comparison, your speech will stay rooted in their minds forever. It will be your speech and then, puff, a complete blank—a memory lapse. They will blame it on the booze, and my little gaffe will be forgotten just like that.”

“…” Valen smiled and shook his head, but followed the advice and started drinking. He knew why Sylas was angry—and he knew that anger was varied. A whole chunk was aimed directly at himself, another chunk at the owner of that hand, and, it seemed, a good chunk at the gods themselves for not warning him. The Prince hoped that the anger, in time, would wane. For now… he was simply happy that the Prophet still seemed to hold onto his sanity, even if he slipped a bit here and there on occasion.