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The King Trials: The Sajatai Saga

The death of the High King’s only son initiates the King Trials; demanding the eldest pureblood from each Regnum. Aurora, the estranged and bastard-born daughter of Regnum Valwa, is the only female among eight other Herems. One of noble blood who lived her life in destitution, with her mother and her ill-stricken father and brother. She is blood-bound to compete in the King Trials on the bargain that if she represents Regnum Valwa, her father and brother will receive the treatment they so desperately need. In order to circumvent tragedy, she must not only participate, but she must triumph. However, this is no easy feat, she is faced against ruthless rivals, dangerous mythological beings and creatures, forced to fight in bloody duels with an onslaught of death-defying challenges that forges a woman into a warrior; a scoundrel into a soldier. A chronicle of duty and bravery, a story brimming with riveting action, an enemies-to-lovers romance with war-provoking betrayals that reveal they are all pawns in a much larger game.

Mbali_Xabela · Fantaisie
Pas assez d’évaluations
27 Chs

Chapter 1

I shoulder my carrier bag and enter the bedroom, which I share with my brother. The chords of my heart splinter at the sight of the pale-stricken, lifeless lump under a thin, tattered veil meant to keep him warm. I come to his side and lift his blanket higher. Erlin stops me, peeling his eyes open. Eyes like gentle autumn, warm and rich, with the tender gaze of a doe. He stares at me and takes my calloused hand and upturns it so his thumb can softly brush over the fresh blisters on my palm.

"You need to stop," he whispers.

"And you need to rest," I say with a curt conclusion.

With damaged delicacy, I ask, "How do you feel?"

He closes his eyes for a moment. The flame in the glass lantern flickers, reflecting firelight on his pallid skin. Our heads are both adorned with dark tresses. My hair reaches my waist, but Erlin's hair ends at his collarbone. Where we differ is our eyes. His eyes are a soft brown, deep and gentle like the earth at dusk. However, father always says that my eyes are like a meadow flecked with dew after summer rains. A crystal green.

"I feel powerless," he admits. "I've grown weary of my health waning, recovering, then relapsing once more. I don't know how father bears it with such compulsive optimism. It's not fair that you must suffer father's duties and till the land by yourself. Day by day, you risk your life in service to that bastard, all for tinctures and tonics that do not work. I cannot bear it," he utters in half-taut sentences, his eyes swimming in shame. "I don't wish to be a burden."

I come closer and plop down on the edge of his bed, placing the bag at my feet. I gently swipe a stray strand from his forehead. My finger idles down his face before I take a stern hold of his chin.

"You could never be a burden," I state, my expression gravely serious. "Never say that."

Erlin jerks his chin away, then grudgingly concedes a nod.

His eyes dart to the floor. "What's in the bag?"

"Something that will help," I say cheerfully. I lean over and open the bag to rifle through my well-earned gains. "This tincture is blended with an herb called Verbena. It helps reduce inflammation, boosts the immune system, calms the stomach, reduces fevers, and clears up congestion."

I pinch it out of the bag and hand it to him. He takes it and unplugs the cork.

 Erlin sniffs, then grimaces at the pungent vegetal smell.

"Take it like a draught of ale, up and quick."

Erlin does the opposite. He swallows only half and returns the small bottle back to me.

"Give the rest to father," he instructs. "He needs it more than I."

I scoop up the bag, standing to my feet. "At dawn, I travel. We finally have enough for two loaves."

"Two loaves?" he exclaims. "We'll be feasting like kings. Let me come with you tomorrow. If I'm—"

His words dissolve into an intense fit of phlegmy coughs that wrack his frame.

My face falls. "Rest, Erlin."

I depart from our bedroom and I cross the decrepit and creaky wooden corridor to reach our parents' bedroom. The door is ajar and from that crack I can glimpse his withering figure. He has a stack of old, time-worn books on his beside table, all Armathis literature. Father coughs into his elbow, ignoring the small smattering of blood. My jaw strains before hewing a hopeful smile from hard-worn adversity.

"You should be sleeping," I chide lightly, entering the room.

"And you should cease purchasing remedies that do no good," he retorts without looking back at me.

I gawk at him, swinging my arm behind my back to hide the bag.

"I've been toiling the fields since first light," I argue.

"And what of the night?" His eyes rise, fixing me with a flint-eyed stare. "Shall we start with the contents of that bag?"

I straighten, revealing my arm. "It's for you."

"Your earnings are better spent elsewhere," he says with a weak smile, defeat hanging over each word. "It will not aid me."

"No, but it will preserve you until I save enough—"

"It will never be enough, my dear daughter," he says with a sad smile. His eyebrows of white steel wool creased. "I understand your attempts to prolong the inevitable, but inevitable, it is. I am a dead man breathing. I have accepted my fate and I cherish whatever time I have left with my family. All I want is a better life for you and your brother. And regret has my soul, for I know I've never been able to give you two thus what you deserve most."

"You gave me everything I need. You, ma, and Erlin are everything that I need, which is why I will fight for what I cherish." A cry bubbles in my throat, misting my eyes. A sob nearly slurs my speech, trying to shake my words, but I hold steady. "And I will do whatever it takes. I will afford your treatment and I will enlist the aid of the finest physician to oversee it. I don't care what it costs me. But for now…" I trail off meaningfully and I heft the bag. "Medicine that will alleviate your symptoms. You will take them."

His dark brown eyes sparkle with mirth. "Since when does the father take orders from his child?"

I smirk back at him. "Since the child knows better."

"Says the merchman." All flairs of light-heartedness wilts from his tenor. "I know the kind of man you are beholden to, and I won't t have you complicit in his crimes. And putting yourself in peril because of your brother and I."

"You may be ready to perish, but I'm not ready to let you go. If that makes me selfish and lawless. Then so be it."

The silence that follows arms the growing tension.

He tears his gaze away from me like the sudden sight of me repulses him. "You should go." 

I nod slowly before I leave with hot tears burning behind my eyes, pressure like a hot knife. I halt abruptly when I find my mother eavesdropping outside. She holds out her hand expectantly. I close the door behind me, and I yield the bag with a careless toss. My mother catches it and smiles meekly at me with glassy eyes. She comes to me and clasps a heartened hand on my shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"I will speak with him."

We share a smile, and she adjusts the bag and enters their bedroom with it.

~

The morning sun barely peeks over the horizon, casting a pale light on the small, humble farmstead nestled in an inhospitable valley. I stand in the center of the field, gripping a rough wooden plough with calloused hands. My cloths are simple and worn, made from coarse wool, patched and mended numerous times by my mother. I never had the time to master such a futile skill.

The fabric clings to my lithe frame, soaked in sweat and dirt.

My hair is in a tangled mess, falling into my eyes as I bend my back to the arduous task of tilling the land. Each step is heavy, each movement deliberate, as I drive the ploughshare through the stubborn soil. The earth resists, clumping and clinging, but I persevere, hard muscles straining, my breath coming in harsh, labored puffs.

Around me is our farmstead that is a testament to my father's hard work but my family's meager means. The small, thatched-roof double story stands nearby, smoke curling from its chimney. The scanty livestock we own mill about lazily, adding a sense of life to the otherwise harsh landscape.

I pause for a moment, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, and I look out over the field. I know the importance of this labor; it is the lifeblood of my kin, the difference between survival and starvation. My father's judgment of me stems from his own insecurity. He thinks I resent my life, but nothing could be further from the truth. I resent the illness that has besieged both my brother and father. Unlike anyone else around me, I'm not ashamed to admit I want a better life. Who doesn't?

The reason I am a merchman is because I have no other choice.

I resume my task. The rhythmic creak of the wooden plough, the scent of freshly turned earth, and the distant birdsong create a symphony of rural life, raw and unadorned. Each furrow I carve into the ground is a flaccid promise of future harvest. As the sun climbs higher, casting a more intense light across the fields. I finish the last furrow, my body aching from the exertion. I mend myself upright, fixing my dirt-streaked hands on my waist as I survey the newly ploughed land with a sense of satisfaction. The morning's work is done, but my day is far from over.

I make my way to the small, ramshackle barn at the edge of the field. Its wooden beams are weathered and gray, creaking softly in the breeze. Inside, the scent of hay mingles with the earthy smell of the meager cattle, a pair of scrawny cows, look up at me I enter, their eyes large and expressive.

I approach them with a docile demeanor, my movements slow and deliberate to avoid startling them. I peer over to check their water trough, finding it nearly empty, and so I set out to work hauling fresh water from the nearby stream. The bucket is heavy, the journey back and forth arduous, but I handle it with practiced ease.

Once the trough is full, I turn my attention to the cows, inspecting them for any signs of illness or injury. Satisfied that they are in good health, I scatter fresh hay for them to eat, their rough tongues eagerly lapping up the dry, fibrous feed. I pat their flanks affectionately, humming quietly. I move onto to the pen where their few chickens scratch and peck at the dirt. I refill their feed and water. The chickens cluck contentedly, oblivious to the hardships of the world beyond their coop.

Finally, I approach the horse's stall. The horse, a sturdy but aging bay mare, is the pride of our small farm. She nickers softly as I enter, recognizing my scent and presence. I smile, a rare moment of lightness lifting the weight of fatigue from my harried form. I begin by brushing her coat, the rhythmic strokes of the brush calming both me and the horse. The mare stands patiently, occasionally nudging me with her nose, seeking attention. I speak to her in low tones, recounting events as if she understands every word.

"It's not fair," I rant on. "Everything I do is for him. For them both, but still, he burns me with this look of disgrace."

A distant sound alerts me of imminent company. And by the tell of the light, crippled gait it's Erlin. Eventually, he emerges into view, clean and clad in daywear.

"I envy the horse," he says with a fresh flush of colour to him. "You speak to her more than anyone else."

"Well, she doesn't end every conversation with a lecture."

A wince pinches his forehead. "That's not fair."

"That's life," I say, turning away from him to resume her grooming. "I see you are better, but you must keep it that way. Return to bed."

"No," he says defiantly. "I am coming with you today. If I spend another day in that bed, it'll only ail me further, please."

Once I'm done, I check her hooves, cleaning them thoroughly and inspecting for any signs of stones or injury. Erlin waits for my verdict with bated breath, restless where he stands. Satisfied that she is well, I fetch her feed, a mixture of oats and hay, and I fill her trough. She goes for it and eats greedily, her tail swishing.

"Aurora," he whines with an adorable pout. "Please."

"What if Rowen and his boys are there?"

"That's unavoidable," he says, deflating slightly, then he picks up his posture. "But that's why I have you."

~

Wattle and timber-sided buildings line the wide, mud-slicked streets with traders and travelers everywhere clamoring, their trestle benches edging the rims and laid out with a variety of goods. Every village in the Prime province to the corners of Armathis, and the entirety of Urium, quakes with the news of the death of the Dophan. The High King's sole scion. A swirl of rumors is about. It is said that his affliction, a long-term illness, sundered his soul from the earth. A reality I will be forced to face if nothing is done about the mercurial health of my father and brother.

Erlin's head is on a swivel. Even though he has seen markets a hundred times before, his fascination is renewed each time at the offered plethora, from local produce to exotic wares brought in by traders. Artisans and merchants plie their trades. I keep an unrelenting eye on him. He insists he is well enough to accompany me and his fever did break. He seems better. And father is stable. For now. I watch him as his eyes draw to books that entice him, literary works from other provinces. I wish I had enough to purchase at least one. We didn't have a formal education, but father taught us as best as he could, and now we are more well-read and well-spoken than most of the ruffians that roam these streets.

I am not one for reading, but Elrin adores the written word. Most nights when he can muster enough strength, he reads to me. All kinds of stories. One day, I swear on blood and bone, I will procure land to build a great manor with an even greater library filled with books from all over the realm. 

"I'm sorry we couldn't get the books you wanted."

"Please, don't return to steal them."

I can't hide my smile. "I don't understand why you all think the worst of me?"

He glances at me sideways with his brow arched. "I think you uphold an unbound standard of commitment to those you love. Even if that love prompts peril."

I free a tortured sigh. "Not this again."

"You cannot be a merchman," he says in a harsh whisper. "Not for lofty-priced herbs and mixes that work little. Did you ever stop to consider what would happen if you were apprehended or your employer considered you a liability? If something were to happen to you, something final would befall father. For I know I would not survive it."

I move the tail of my braid to expose the tattoo on the back of my neck. At the center of the tattoo is a large, stylized skull, its hollow eyes, intricately detailed, with cracks and shadows that give it a lifelike, almost haunting appearance. Coiled around the skull is the sinuous body of a Leviathan. At the bottom of the design, a banner unfurls, emblazoned with the motto, "Mare Nostrum," meaning "Our Sea." This declaration of dominance underscores the Merchant's claim over the maritime world and his fearless assertion of power. Every merchman has one and they all differ in design to showcase rank. Mine has had recent additions.

"You and I both know that I cannot renounce my oath."

"Cannot?" Elrin demands, "or will not?"

My shoulders slump heavily. His words are a heavy weight I cannot bear.

"Both," I say, looking away from him and a distant sight seizes my gaze.

A fellow employee. A flicker of rage makes me shift. I had a deal with Malachi that he would never send his henchmen to confront or beckon me around my kin. But that also tells me that if he has, that means it's urgent. Elrin tries to follow my line of sight, so I move on wordlessly and approach the baker, who has a stall to display his freshly baked produce.

"Morning there, lookin for a loaf? Ye shall have it good and cheap."

"How much for two?"

"Five shekels."

"Five?" I blurt. "The week before it was three."

"'Twas the week before," he says with a yellowy, sly smile.

"Three shekels and you keep your rotten teeth."

He huffs with a cheeky turn in his smile. "You threatin me, lass?"

"No," I say with a smile of pure venom. With a rough arch in my tone, I issue a warning. "I'm telling ya, what ye wife will do when she learns you were wicking the silversmith's daughter."

His eyes flare to the size of plates. "Three shekels it is. I'll have 'em bagged for ya."

"I'll have the same, ey."

Gav encroaches my rear and his beefy hand pounds down on the surface of the table, releasing five shekels. He lingers before he slinks back and peels away from me. I turn sharply to face him. I cast a quick glance at my baffled brother before I snatch two of Gav's shekels to gift them to Elrin.

"Go buy that book you saw."

Elrin gapes at me like a fish out of water.

"Gav here is a good friend of mine. He doesn't mind."

"Take what you fancy, lad."

Elrin looks at it like he has just borne witness to a divine miracle.

"Go," I urge. "I'll follow soon."

He nods brokenly before he hurries off. I glare back at Gav and a man I don't recognize. Both are tanned and rough from long hours spent in the sun and wind. With long and unkempt, matted hair, varying in burnt shades and tied back with fabric strips. The only difference is Gav's narrow jaw is framed by a wild beard.

"Cap'n's callin' for you, now."

"He said he wouldn't have any need for me until a fortnight."

"He ordered me to fetch ya. I ain't paid for nothin' but followin' orders. Best not keep him waitin'. Send yer precious brother home; you've got work to do."

"Are you waiting to hold my hand?" I ask sardonically. "I can make my own way."

"Well, we were bred to be proper, so we'll see ya to the port. No arguin', we insist."

I chaff at the contrived chivalry. This was worse than I thought.

"We'll give ya a moment to see off your brother," the other man offers.

"Who knows," Gav adds irksomely. "This chance might be yer last."

Anger shoves me to the brink. "What I say about that mouth of yours?"

"Want to help me shut it?"

He leans in as if going in for a kiss. I force him back with a belligerence that makes him stumble like a drunkard. His counterpart catches him swiftly, keeping him from falling flat and still Gav laughs triumphantly as if he got the exact reaction he wanted.

"There she is," he says with a serpentine smile. "The she-wolf."

I walk away, tracing my steps back to the bookstand I saw. When I reach there, my Elrin is nowhere to be found. My eyes flash to faces and panic starts to paw at me. After maneuvering through the thickening crowd, I spot Elrin afar, and a rough ring formed around him. I knew already that it wasn't Rowen and his rabble. Not after what I did to them the last time. However, these bent-backed bastards are also familiar to me, old friends of Rowen perhaps. He might have sent them to avenge the scant remains of his dignity. But I rather not find out.

This time I'm less courteous. I shove past people until they split to give me way. I can hear the young men jeering at my brother as they shove him around, making him rebound within the hostile circle. Even though they are older. I am stronger and almost as tall as his adversaries.

"What's this?"

His entourage, no more than thirty winters on their backs, glare back at me.

"Rowen sends his regards," one of them says smugly.

"Couldn't send it himself?" I ask with a barely stifled snort. "Or is he still licking at his wounds?"

The circle tightens around us.

"I wouldn't strut so proud if I were you."

"Erlin, this way."

"Neither of ye are goin' nowhere."

I whip around so fast that I come nose-to nose with him. "Who's going to stop me?"

He lifts his hand in mock surrender and pretends to retreat. I see the move coming miles away. The leader lunges first, a crude swing aimed at my head. I duck effortlessly, strolling away with a nonchalance that enrages him. He attacks again with a ferocious roar and in a lightning-quick counter, I drive my elbow into his ribs with enough force to make him gasp and fumble back. No time to rest; another scoundrel is already closing in.

With a fluid spin, I kick high, and my foot connects with his jaw in a brutal, bone-jarring snap. He drops, unconscious when he hits the ground. The next two come at me in a high-action tandem, hoping to overwhelm me with numbers. I sidestep with feline agility, grabbing one by the wrist and twisting sharply. He cries out in pain, his arm bending unnaturally as I flip him over my shoulder, slamming him into the ground.

My eyes flick up at the other man who hesitates, but I give him no chance to rethink his attack. A devastating knee to his midsection doubles him over, and I finish with an uppercut that sends him sprawling, blood spraying from his mouth.

The second last one, the smallest but no less vicious, tries to surprise me with a knife.

 I break into a humored smile.

"Try not to cut yourself, love."

He lunges and I deflect his fervent slash with a swift block, then I disarm him with a deft twist of his wrist. The blade clatters to the cobblestone. With a combination of rapid punches, each one precise and catastrophic, I leave him reeling and dazed before he drops to the ground.

The last one, I leave walking and able.

"You."

He flinches like the word stabbed him.

"Tell Rowen, next time, he'll be forced to collect corpses instead of collapsed men."

 I savor the sound of faint groans leaking from their mouths. I come to the leader, who is still trying to gather himself. I sink to my haunches to stare down at him. My blood is still burning, the heat warming me from within. "If either of you comes near my brother, whether I'm there or not," I say, slanting closer so my lips can graze the shell of his ear. "I will cut you cock to throat."

His eyes flit to mine with a fission of fear. I rise to tower over him. Elrin, awe-struck and safe, rushes to my side. Gav waltz over to applaud the spectacle with a foghorn laugh. I grip Elrin's bony bicep, and I lead him away to talk in hushed tones.

"I need you to go back to the swells, take the mare and go home."

"What of you?"

"There are affairs that need my attention."

Elrin casts a questioning look at the burly brute.

"Keep your eyes on me," I order.

He obeys.

"Get the bread and buy your book." I place a quick, loving hand on his cheek before I give his shoulder a hearty clap. "Go so tonight you can read me a story, so choose a good one."

Long chapters or short chapters? For me, it depends on how much I like the story. You?

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