Chapter 16

The tour has only just begun and already I want it to be over. Exhaustion scratches at my eyes—trying to close them—forced to constantly fight its efforts. Despite Solaris beside me, I find no peace in rest, and it seems neither do the others.

Solaris and I share a cushioned bench at the end, and the other two opposite each other are occupied by the Herems. Three on the one side and four on the other. Each of them an alone, sitting upright, shoulders in a stiff set. All except Vince who nodded off hours ago and has yet to wake, his burly arms are folded, legs spread wide. The unending clatter of many hooves pound on the gravelly road. The carriage shakes intermittently, jostling us all. Something that I learnt to tolerate.

"Adalia... you should see this," Solaris says dazedly. His eyes enthralled by the view outside, straightening in his seat, leaning forward as if to focus on whatever caught his gaze.

Heeding his suggestion, I slide over to sit right beside him. I crane my neck and surprise is like an energy stimulus that revitalises me with fleeting vigour. Fascinated, I slant closer to the window hole, my chest pressed up against his back, my hand dangling off his shoulder.

We have reached the Ane of the Fallen. A momentous territory where history itself dwells, remnants of fallen kings and the ruins of old, all a relic of time itself. The carriage passes through the amorphous border of a colossal valley where ancient ruins sprawl across the land. Dawn breaks over the horizon, the orange yolk of the sun spills across in all of its brilliance, bleeding into it. Casting everything under the blood-orange sky with a spectral illusion of the past. The blood that was shed thousands of moons ago. After the Age of Sovereignty.

This was where the heart of Urium used to beat. A place said where gods and kings alike resided. My eyes venture through the derelict scenery of temples and edifices that were once glorious in sight and great in stature. That much is evident by the size of the debris and rubble. Weather-worn stone pillars surrounded by dead clumps of grass, half-crumbled buildings, cracked blocks. And stones broken up by meandering tree roots.

Dust-laden spires crushed to large fragments. Caved-in roofs weighed down by vines and other foliage, sculpted archways stained by mildew that has run rampant. Rock walls, embattlements scorched by blast marks from the scourge battles of Pavelia. Ropy vines breaking down stone and encroaching through window holes and doorways.

Symbols and primal inscriptions of any kind eroded by time's chisel, erasing the memory of what was. The desolation reverberates through the ancient valley, a deafening silence that hums with the muffled wails of the dead. Further on the reminiscent trail of history. Decrepit castle walls rise from its aged ruin. Battered grey stones clamber to reach its former glory but are left beaten by the enormous faceless stone statue that has ruptured into the walls. Its severed head is several metres away from its body.

"I assume the one borne of the Regnum of wisdom has heard the stories of the Age of Sovereignty?" Solaris says and turns his head. Our faces are inches apart.

Alarm tears through me. I return to where I was.

"Yes, a time before the realm was governed by a High King."

Before this place was named the Ane of the Fallen, it was first called. The Sanctum. Famously known as a king's haven because of the untainted magnificence that it was. The realm was once controlled by the Sanctum; the council of old that represented the twelve tribes of the people of Urium.

In concept, a world order that would ensure peace because every voice was heard and every life mattered. But their differences proved to make it difficult but not untenable. Many on the council loathed species that differed from theirs. They saw them as inferior, their ways barbaric and some believed their magic to be dangerous. The division was caused by the prejudice in beings' hearts, ignorance in their minds, hatred and gluttony that stains their nature. This is what led to Urium being fractured. The first High King rose and conquered with the aid of the Emikrol Empire. From there, kingdoms separated, and people were split up. Not only geographically but socially as well. Some beings valued more where others mattered less.

"Aurora?"

I inhale a quick breath, blinking back to reality. "Sorry." I run a flattened hand down my head. My hair pulled into a low bun that is surely dishevelled. "I was... thinking."

He nods thoughtfully. His own golden waves disturbed as he ploughs a hand through them, resting his head against a body of pillows.

"Of your family?"

To make things simple. I nod.

"What are they like?"

I give him a jaded look, and he responds with an enthusiastic grin.

"Our farmstead is in Einere, a small holding not like what I assume you have."

"The Armathis province," he notes.

"My brother and I help tend the land and cattle." The sight of Elrin's smile in my mind strums a symphony like a song in my blood. "My brother, Elrin. A sharp lad, that one. He would do better here than I with a wit to outmatch you all."

Solaris nods with polite interest. "Intriguing," he says enigmatically.

"What is?" I ask defensively.

"Nothing. Merely that..." he dawdles off. The words stuck in his throat.

My head tilts downwards, my eyebrows raising, encouraging him with an imploring look. But it yields no answer.

"It—"

A sudden bump in the road rocks the carriage. The belligerent shock even jolts Vince awake. I clutch onto the headboard of the bench.

"—you doubt any commoner could best you lot?" I scoff wryly. "The difference between ye and mine is that you were taught that fine education. My kin learned on their own, languages, history, arithmetic calculation."

Solaris looks back at me remorsefully. His mouth opens to speak, but because of the absence of words, they close back again. I do not begrudge his assumption, that kind of attitude is common amongst the nobles. They can't help it, no matter how kind one seems, so convincingly that their thinking might be superior to stereotypes that degrade those of lesser status and station.

"Don't look so contrite."

He shifts, almost angrily, so his torso can face me fully. "I cannot help but find myself deeply remorseful for even entertaining the notion that an individual of commonplace could not rival the intellect of one of noble lineage. I abhor such entitlement and superiority, to the extent that I am blind to my own prejudices. Your eloquence stands as undeniable evidence against my misguided assumptions."

I swallow a smile, looking away momentarily. "My eloquence?"

A room-grabbing smile illuminates his face. "Far more eloquent than any other commoner, despite that robust eastern tang."

"Forgive me if I am overstepping, but is it true that you have never seen Regnum Valwa?"

Cinders of old anger rekindle into a small flame.

"I only ask," he begins quickly. "Because I know Domus Valwa well. He is not as close-minded as the others, my own father included. I just do want to believe that a man I hold in high regard, that he would forsake his own child."

"He did, and he didn't," I say cryptically. "It's not that he didn't try. It's that he gave up and surrendered my pregnant, unwed mother to her fate. Something I can't forgive."

Solaris's features pull and knot his face in clear conflict of what he knows and what he's being told. "That certainly sounds like a measure of a man that does not merit admiration. Are you more cordial with your adoptive father?"

I can't help but smile. "My heart is made of love for my kin. Patches of them that stitch up my soul."

"I am envious of such profound love; the way you speak of them reveals a warmth that radiates through your very eyes." A strange look frolics on his fine features, and he gives me an impish smile. "It's the same look I see now as you stare into my eyes."

My lips dangle a smirk. "How could I not be enchanted by those heavenly blue gems?"

"So my ploy to bewitch you is working?

"Consider me bewitched."

***

My boots hit the sloshy brown ground. I nearly sink. Devoured by the clumps of the soggy mire, my legs are like liquid, incapable of sturdiness. We cut through the Ane of the Fallen to avoid passing through Bronwadia. A settlement perforated with delinquency, a cesspool of corruption. And a hotbed of anti-monarchist movements.

Now we have finally reached the grassland region of Shamburn. Ahead, there is a large tribal erection protected by a fence of wooden stakes fixed into the ground. Fortifications that consist of earth banks and a palisade with a primitive watchtower that bedecks the tall fencing. A few gatekeepers patrol the paling. A few of the pacing figures vanish, probably to report our advent.

The erection stands on the expanse of a flourishing prairie. The waning orange of the westering sun beams down on the land. Molten light winnows through every blade of grass. Far up north, the treeline of the woods borders the prairie with dense, dark, lush foliage. A chain of silver-plated mountains; a milieu silhouetted by encroaching shadows. The summons of nightfall.

The fragrance of manure and cattle dung fills my nostrils, odorous but all too familiar. I never thought I would miss rising before dawn to tend the land, whether alone or with Elrin at my side.

The Herems and I are lined up in front of the carousine. I push down a laugh once my gaze skims down the horde of Herems. Most of them pinching their wrinkled noses shut, repulsed grimaces rotting their faces. From the front and rear of the carousine, the soldiers dismount from their horses. They crowd around us as Primus Kelan marches to stand before us all. His fingerless gloved hand rests on the pommel of his sheathed sword.

"I am Primus Kelan, the Prime Commander of the squadron that will be escorting you throughout the Trials. As you may or may not have noticed, Duce Merian's absence. He is delayed by a day's ride from here, per the High King's demand. We received word that the wolvers were sited near our previous route. We had to change it at a moment's notice. That happened often during the planning of the Trials."

His gaze is sharp, scouring above us aloofly, rejecting direct eye contact.

"The wolvers are one of the many threats to the realm's already frail stability. Bandits have become bolder, nomads; more aggressive and other terror factions; more daring. Your lives will be at risk every moment on this journey, so with every location. Do not stray far from the encampment. The times that you must ensure that I or one of my soldiers accompany you."

I look at the tribal compound. The entrance lifts upward like a majestic ligneous portcullis, creaking as they rise to their zenith. As the gates reach their pinnacle, two orderly rows of ethnic warriors emerge, marching with unwavering precision. Each soldier wields a tall wooden spear, their necks adorned with intricate bindings of vibrant red feathers, swaying gently with each measured step.

"All in the realm know of the Vasilias Imperii, The King Trials, but not the mandate. Once we advance in our travels, it will become known. If you all perished. It would only fan the flames of discord. That is why many of these rebels will seek your deaths."

The corner of his lips twitches upwards in the emptiest of smiles. "Welcome to day one of the Vasilias Imperii. To the Orombuc tribe, my Herems, and a Hera," he says with a distinct note of derision in his tenor. "May only the worthy rule."

The Orombuc tribe of Shamburn. I read extensively about them back at the castle. It was documented that they are docile people. The Orombuc practise an insular and deeply spiritual culture with an emphasis on animalism. Caves in the mountains are believed to harbour spirits and are respected and even feared. Once every New Moon, they will go to the caves to perform rituals of sacrifice in order to make sure the spirits would not interfere with the community's general well-being. Their beliefs also centred on the general veneration of the moon, the stars, the seasons, and their god, Warongwe.

Primus Kelan sweeps aside so all of our attention is on the two short rows of Oromian soldiers. All of them are hairless with desert sand skin, much thicker than the average. Their faces are strikingly flat, with noses and ears that scarcely protrude. Their dark eyes, shaped like vertical ovals, gaze out with a profound depth. The only garment they wear is a lengthy swathe of ruby-red fabric, draped to cover the front and back of their legs, leaving their sides and chests exposed to the elements. This minimalist attire accentuates their physiques and the intricate tattoos that adorn their skin.

Social status and prestige are not determined by material wealth but are instead intricately inscribed on their bodies. Each group bears unique tribal markings, a complex tapestry of lines and shapes that signify their place within the tribe. These tattoos, masterfully inked, distinguish the noble from the commoner, with each design carrying profound meaning and ancestral significance. The nobility's markings are elaborate and ornate, while the peasantry's are simpler, yet no less significant. These indelible symbols serve as a living history, a testament to the tribe's enduring legacy and the individual's place within it.

The Orombuc soldiers have a sleeve of crimson tattoos on their arms, complex in the design, with some abstract shapes shaded and others left bare. They are formidable, some with outlines of bestial figures.

Suddenly, an Oromian walks out from the rear. He is adorned in an ankle-length, chasuble-styled robe. Silk-woven, bright orange with intricate designs that run down the embellished channel, a straight-line from the neckline to the hem. His arms folded in front of him, encased in the voluminous sleeves. He moves to take Primus Kelan's stead. Oromian tattoos are synonymous with face tattoos, with the head being a sacred part of the body, as they believe. His face is honoured with serpentine black markings that are symmetrical to his face, solidifying the impression of his prudent, all-knowing outlook.

He stares at us all for a long, assessing moment. Indigenous tribes throughout the realm are not accustomed to... developed provincial customs and languages. Most of them despise foreigners and their blasphemous ways. And I'm quite surprised that they agreed to host us.

"You are welcome descendants of the Decuria," he says in fluent Arkian. One of the universal languages in the realm.

I hear a scathing snort. "Oh, it speaks," Markiveus says.

"In twenty different languages and twelve dialects of your primitive tongue," he throws back.

 And even the other Herems sneak in poorly stifled snickers.

"The barbarian calls the noble, primitive?"

Deaf to Markiveus's retort. He inclines his head, and his gaze roams the line until his eyes find mine. "My name is Oam, your guide. But... I see that your own isn't present?"

"He was held back," Primus Kelan informs. "He should arrive by the noontide."

He nods back at him regally. "I hope he will not miss the great hunt tomorrow. For now, let me give you all a brief tour of Oromian society and introduce you to my people. The fire will be lit soon. I'm sure you all starved from your journey here."

He turns his back on us to face the soldiers. "Nyere ha aka ịkwụ ụgwọ ụgbọ ha," he says, rotating his head to gesture to the two coachmen that stand idle at the front of the carousine. "Nyeere ha aka ịchọta ebe ha ga-esi nweta ịnyịnya." Then his hand slips out of the sleeve to point at the horses.

The soldiers cross their spears across their chests simultaneously.

He looks at Primus Kelan. "The Chieftain's soldiers will help you dislodge your carriage and move it within the safety of the compound. Then we will make a temporary living space for your fine stallions."

Primus Kelan nods curtly in gratitude, then makes a hand gesture to the sky that has all of our guards rallying around him.

"All you candidates." Oam twists his shoulders to glance back at us. "Please, if you will, follow me."

He straightens and slides his hands back into his sleeves, strolling towards the open compound. Reluctantly, we all follow. Vince pioneers ahead with an entourage of four behind him, then Solaris and I, and the three other rabble rousers at our rear.

The area surrounding the tribal compound is a treacherous quagmire, a mire of thick mud that clings to my boots with each laborious step, producing a symphony of squelches. As we inch closer to the entrance, the ground beneath our feet begins to solidify, transforming into a firm expanse of flat, solid rock. Crossing the threshold, we are greeted by the expansive vista of the tribal village.

The pathway unfurls before us, lined with a series of round huts that flank the broad paths. These huts, with their conical foundations and peaked thatched roofs, exude a rustic charm. Their walls, crafted from plastered dry mud bricks, stand as a testament to the ingenuity and resourcefulness of the Orombuc people. Each homestead is meticulously constructed, interspersed with enclosures for livestock and modest plots reserved for agriculture.

The compound teems with life, a vibrant arras of activity and colour. The Oromian people move about with purpose, their garments a warm palette of reds, oranges, yellows, and browns, dyed with natural pigments. The males and boys, much like the soldiers we encountered earlier, wear garments that modestly cover their fronts and rears, leaving their sides and chests bare to the sun and air. This attire, both practical and symbolic, marks their identity and status within the tribe.

As we navigate through the village, the air is filled with the sounds of daily life—a harmonious blend of conversations, the bleating of goats, and the rhythmic pounding of grain being processed. Children play alongside their elders, who engage in tasks with practiced ease. The overall scene is one of a thriving, close-knit community, where every element is interwoven with cultural significance and collective heritage.

Most of the females wear floor-length skirts with dual leg slits. I narrow my eyes, and as soon as I do, they explode wide open.

The only thing to cover their breasts are layered necklaces with multicoloured beadwork that boasts creative artistry. Other than that, they are practically nude, letting it all... hang free. And the males are completely unaroused, blind to it as if they are completely clothed.

Shocking.

I think I might grow fond of this place after all," Rimnick says from behind me. Buoyed by the surrounding chuckles that inflate his ego further.