Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 1021: A night of art(2)

The drumming ceased, and the crackle of the great pyres became the only sound in the courtyard. Alpheo sat motionless while Merelao leaned forward, his chin resting on a knuckles-white hand, his blue eyes reflecting the orange tongues of fire.

On the stage, the light of the torches seemed to dim, and a single flute began a melody so high and pure it sounded like the first breath of a new world.

"A long time ago," a voice began, which seemed to rise from the very earth beneath the wooden planks, "there was a silence that was not empty, but full of the breath of the Divine. This was the era before the first stone was hewn for a castle wall, long before the first iron was pulled from the soil to be hammered into the shape of a scream-maker.

Before men grew domeneering enough to set themselves as the ultimate rulers of all that moved in creation, and long before they found their vocation in the art of war, there was a profound and holy peace.

In those twilight centuries, the world was a garden of unmeasured grace. Princes were not masters of armies, but stewards of the spirit. They moved among the verdant fields not to claim them, but to bless them. They set themselves as leaders of men only to impart a justice as clear as mountain water, upholding laws that were not written in blood, but etched in the harmony of the stars.

In that age of dawn, no famine withered the stalk, nor did the rot of ambition fester in the minds of the many. People lived within the rhythm of the seasons, toiling with joyous sweat, and when the veil of night fell, they feasted beneath a sky of unblinking diamonds. None were so blind as to forget the source of this tranquility; they brought willing tribute to those who upheld the harmony of the law.

And it was from the house of such a prince that our history truly began.’’

The heavy cloth wall of the stage parted to reveal a figure standing beneath a canopy of shimmering silk leaves. A laurel of fresh green upon his brow, his raven hair cascading down a back of bronzed muscle. He wore nothing save a wrap of modest cloth made of leaves.

"Prince Wolf was his name," the narrator intoned, "a soul of valiant fire and steadfast grace. Never had he oppressed the humble, nor had he ever allowed the shadow of evil to pass his borders unchallenged. The people sang his name, Wolf the Good, Wolf the Brave. Yet, when the heavy mantle of the throne grew too burdensome, he sought solace not in what he had but in the communal good of creation, letting himself be ambraced by the forest of his dominion.

’How refreshing is the river’s embrace upon my skin!’ he would cry, plunging his wrists into the crystalline flow. ’How divine are the blooms that dare to paint the road!’ he would laugh, his face turned toward the light.

The forest loved him in return. The ancient oaks whispered their secrets to him; the rivers offered him their coolest havens. In return, the Prince became the forest’s gardener, planting life where the earth was bare and shielding the glades from those whose hearts had already begun to sour. For even then, the rot had started. There were those who crept in the dark to wound the bark for its resin, or to strip the foliage merely to feel the sun upon their own selfish faces. But under Wolf’s vigil, the wood remained sacred.

Yet one day, the Prince walked with a step that made the earth ache.

’O Prince Wolf, why do you tread so heavily upon my roots this beautiful day?’ an Ancient Tree whispered, its leaves shivering with concern.

’O Tree! I am weary of the duplicity of our people!’ Wolf sighed, leaning his forehead against the rough bark. ’Strangers came to my hearth begging for bread and shelter against the frost. I gave them my roof and my table. Had I known the malice they harbored, I would have cast them into the gale! Instead, they stole the sacred tributes of my people and vanished into the night like ghosts of greed.’

’O Prince! Do not let the shadow of a few poison the light of the all!’ the Tree replied. ’Bathe your spirit in the shroud of my leaves, or seek the River; she shall wash the bile from your heart.’

The Prince nodded, finding wisdom in the wood. But as he turned toward the water, a cry of singular anguish tore through the air, vibrating with a pain so sharp it stilled the birds.

’Who is it that suffers, Tree?’ Wolf cried, his noble heart already racing to answer the call.

The Tree, sensing the Prince’s virtue, shifted its branches to reveal a hidden path. There, in a clearing of dappled gold, the Prince beheld the most exquisite sight in all of creation, a beauty that made the mountain lilies look like weeds and the river’s shimmer seem dull.

’Aid! I beg for aid!’ she cried. Her hair was the color of a winter snow, her face a pale ointed in sorrow.

’Who are you?’ Wolf asked, breathless.

’My name is Luna,’ she sobbed, ’and I am caught in the teeth of the earth!Evil was set upon me, I beg you for help!’

Never had the Prince seen such a vision. Yet, though his blood stirred, he was a man of law, not of lust. He saw only her suffering. He knelt and saw her ivory leg entwined, crushed within the gnarled, iron-hard roots of his friend, the Tree. He hesitated, his heart torn between the lady’s agony and the Tree’s life.

’Do not relent, O Prince!’ the Tree groaned from above. ’She bleeds, and I have roots enough to spare. Break the wood! Save her, and do not fret for my sake!’

With the Tree’s blessing, Wolf gripped the root. With a pull that was as gentle as a kiss yet firm as a mountain’s base, he snapped the ancient wood. The Tree cried out in pain but whispered its gladness that it could serve the Prince’s mercy.

Freed, Luna rose to her feet. She stood before him, ethereal and tall, her moon-bright hair catching the torchlight of the courtyard.

’I thank you, noble Prince,’ she said, her voice like silver bells. ’How joyous it is to find that goodness still breathes in this world. For it was a cruel hand that bound me to those roots against my will. The Tree spoke true; your nobleness is a light that even the deep forest cannot dim.’

’You need not thank me, Luna,’ Wolf replied, bowing his head. ’For it is the sovereign Law of Creation that one must be a shield for the other.’

But Luna shook her head. ’It is not, my Prince. There is no law of the stars that dictates such mercy. In the wild dark, there is only the law of Life and the law of Death.’

She stepped closer, the air around her humming with a sudden power.THat nothing in creation had except her.

’The Tree was right; you are a marvel among men. I am no mere traveler, Wolf. I am a being of the Great Beyond, a creature of the High Tides of Power. For the blood you shed from your friend to save my skin, and for the purity of your intent, I shall grant you a boon. Ask of me a gift, any wish, any desire that your heart can conceive, and I shall see it carved into the world.’

At that moment, the world was his for the taking. He could have demanded mountains of gold that never diminished, a scepter that ruled every shore of the known world, or a lover whose beauty would steal the breath from the gods. But Prince Wolf’s heart was not a vessel for greed; it was a sanctuary for his people. He thought only of the wounds of the world and the hands that inflicted them.

"O Great One!" Wolf cried, his voice carrying the weight of a holy plea. "You have seen the tooth of malice with your own eyes. I have spent my life guarding the light, yet I am blind to the rot until the fruit has already fallen. Even today, I was betrayed by those I sheltered. I beg of you, help me see the shadow before it strikes. Grant me the power to find the evil in men’s hearts so that I may keep the good from harm!"

Luna looked upon him, her silver eyes softening. For all her power, she found a rare warmth in the man’s unyielding nobility.

"Very well," she declared, her voice like the chiming of a frozen lake. "I shall grant you a sense that pierces the veil. You shall feel the world that remains hidden to the eyes of others. From this breath onward, the hearts of men shall speak to you through the air you breathe. You will catch the scent of a soul’s virtue as if it were the sweetest meadow-flower, but you shall also recoil at the wretched, sulfurous stench that can only rise from a heart of malice."

She leaned forward and breathed upon his brow. A sharp, ethereal white light flared across the stage, and Wolf let out a gasping cry, clutching at his face as his went long.

He was exalted, his spirit soaring as he could feel a world that was never before him, he saw as every thing had a smell that he could not see, nor touch but feel.

With that blessing the Prince turned back toward his capital. He walked with a light step, his chest swelling with the joy of a man who believed he had finally conquered the darkness. He imagined a city where no evil could take root. 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚

Indeed the Prince returned to his towers as a conqueror of the spirit, but he did not know that the road to the deepest hell is most often paved with the finest stones, laid down by those with the best of intentions. He believed he was going home to a kingdom he could finally save, not knowing of the pain that would be wrought with his hand.’’