For weeks, he had wrestled with a question that refused any easy answer: when had the unshakable stability of his reign—a throne he had occupied for nearly twenty years—begun to crack beneath him?
How had he reached this point, where an entire section of the Kingdom was openly rebelling and whispers questioning his competence—quiet, yet insidiously persistent—echoed through the corridors of the Capital?
It was a puzzle maddening in its elusiveness.
There was no single blunder to identify, no obvious scapegoat to bear the weight of his failures. Instead, the cracks in his rule seemed to have crept in slowly, too subtle to notice until it was far too late.
This absence of answers gnawed at him, and a self-doubt had taken root, a creeping shadow that consumed him with each passing day, undermining his confidence even as he grasped ever more tightly to his throne.
A few years ago, Rendell had heard a curious tale about a particular amphibian: if placed in a bowl of water that was heated slowly enough, the creature would remain complacent, allowing itself to be boiled alive without a single effort to escape. At the time, he’d thought it little more than a quaint piece of folk wisdom.
Yet now, that tale lingered in his mind with an uncomfortable resonance. It had become a metaphor he couldn’t shake, an image he feared might well be his own fate—sitting, seemingly secure, as the temperature around him rose imperceptibly, unaware until it was too late to leap free.
"Is anything wrong, Your Majesty?"
Rendell pointedly ignored the tall, thin man standing at his right. His Chancellor could do with a lesson in humility—lately, he’d grown far too proactive for the King’s taste, forever pushing and manoeuvring.
Rendell couldn’t quite trace the series of events that had elevated Lord Borlean to such prominence in his Court, yet he strongly suspected that a considerable part of his current predicament could be traced back to this shrewd and influential Noble.
Borlean’s presence was like a persistent darkness, subtle yet inescapable, a figure who’d quietly inserted himself into the heart of the Kingdom’s affairs, and Rendell increasingly wondered whether his counsel was leading the Kingdom astray.
No, blaming Borlean was too convenient an escape.
True, the Chancellor had wielded considerable influence in shaping some of the Kingdom’s recent decisions, his resources and networks woven deeply into the fabric of Court affairs. But Rendell refused to absolve himself so easily.
Borlean may have nudged events along, but the choices—the missteps, even—were still Rendell’s own. He would not permit himself the luxury of scapegoating, not when the truth gnawed at him so plainly: the Kingdom’s unravelling was as much his doing as any advisor’s.
From birth, the King had been granted access to a suite of Skills that left even the wealthiest Noble families in envy-stricken awe. Initially, he’d revelled in it. The effortless power reinforcing his sense of destiny and invincibility. Yet now, in this moment of doubt, he wondered if that very ease had held him back in other, more essential ways.
Had the abundance of ready-made power dulled his instincts, softened his judgment, and left him untested where it truly mattered? The thought gnawed at him, the suspicion that this wealth of Skills might have stunted his growth, leaving him unprepared for the complexities of a throne that required more than power, strength or convenience.
There had been no gradual, careful accumulation of experience for him, no steady path that might have fostered a healthy respect for his Skills and the wisdom to wield them with discretion. No, his father—the late King—had insisted his son explore the full breadth of his inherited powers as soon as possible, encouraging unbridled experimentation and, truth be told, with little oversight.
Skills are tools to be mastered and shown, he’d said, not burdens to weigh or ponder.
And so, young Rendell had plunged headfirst into his abilities, reaping the rewards without ever facing the tempered restraint that came with hard-earned knowledge.
If Rendell felt hungry, he had the mental Skill to compel a servant to bring him whatever delicacy he desired. Should he fancy a boating excursion on a particularly stormy day, he possessed the precise Skill to clear the clouds from the sky.
And if anyone dared oppose him, in even the smallest of ways, he had a range of unsettlingly creative Skills at his disposal to remove that obstacle. Each more exotic than the last.
These abilities had woven a reality around him where his whims were met before they fully formed, where resistance was an unfamiliar concept. It had seemed a marvel, once—this effortless control over his surroundings—but now he could see how it had also walled him off from the struggles that shaped others, leaving him untested where it mattered most.
Looking back, it was all too clear why his father—once he realised the colossal error in lavishing unchecked power upon his only son and heir—had been so eager to introduce him to a young man already celebrated as the Pendragon.
His father had likely hoped that exposure to someone with such discipline and raw merit might temper his son’s unchecked privilege, providing an example of strength forged through struggle rather than granted by birthright. The Pendragon had been everything Rendell was not: disciplined, driven, and honed by trials that would shape his character as much as his Skills.
Rendell could see now that his father’s desperation had come too late, a last attempt to remedy the cracks in a son moulded by indulgence. And yet, despite the good intentions, those early years had already woven complacency into the fabric of his character, creating a gulf between him and the man his father had hoped he might become.
Although it would have been difficult for Rendell to persist in his path of wanton self-indulgence while in the presence of one about whom, quite literally, even the gods spoke in hushed tones.
The Pendragon’s very existence seemed to demand restraint, his presence reminding Rendell of the substance and purpose he lacked. In such a figure’s shadow, Rendell’s indulgences felt hollow, his whims diminished, as if the very air around the Pendragon commanded a respect that Rendell’s own lineage could not demand.
Gallant Stonehand—and the King made a conscious effort to keep this memory firmly in the past, refusing to let the current, appalling predicament with that old warhound cloud his thoughts—had once referred to Eliud Vila as one of the “holy terrors of the world.”
To most in the Kingdom, however, he was known simply as the Duskstrider. The title carried its own kind of awe, whispered with a blend of reverence and trepidation. Eliud was a mythic figure, a man who tread the fine line between legend and reality, whose very name evoked the twilight spaces between light and shadow.
To Rendell, though, he had just been his friend. El.
After his father’s death, as the new King struggled to settle into his role, that extraordinary man had been the only one bold enough to call Rendell out on his excesses and missteps. And—now that he reflected on it—perhaps more importantly, he was the only one with the Strength to enforce his rebukes.
While others indulged or deferred to him, Eliud Vila alone had challenged him directly, wielding not only the authority but the unshakable power to back his words. They were sobering memories, reminders that, even as king, Rendell had once met his match in someone unafraid to hold him accountable.
"You are doing an awful lot of sighing, Your Majesty."
Rendell again gave no indication that he’d heard his Chancellor and was quietly gratified when he caught a faint snort of frustration from his right. Well, that was just as he intended. Someone had grown rather too comfortable airing the supposed infallibility of his opinions lately, and a little reminder of his place was overdue.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Let Borlean stew in silence for a while; it might do him some good to remember that his role was to advise, not presume.
Settling back into his throne, the King’s thoughts drifted back to El and to their last, rather unexpected encounter.
It had been nearly a month ago when, with complete disregard for protocol, the Duskstrider had yanked him from the safety of the Palace. Rendell could still recall the bewildering sensation of being dragged through his own bedchamber window, only to find himself in the woods just below.
There had been no warning, no chance to prepare; one moment he was within the familiar confines of his room, and the next, he was face-to-face with El under the stars, surrounded by trees that seemed almost complicit in the Duskstrider’s audacity.
This was not merely an act of reckless insanity—the punishment for breaching the Palace’s defences was, after all, instant death—it was also a startling reminder of Eliud's immense, almost boundless power. Rendell was continually astounded by the whispers of scholars who spoke of the Pendragon’s mana pool as “unlimited” and, incredibly, meant it quite literally. There were no end to the magical resources Eliud could summon at will, like a river that ran without drought or ebb.
And that limitless power had apparently extended to shattering wards that had stood unbreached for centuries, all to—according to Eliud—"have a little chat". That casual defiance, that breezy dismissal of barriers once thought inviolable, had left Rendell both awed and unsettled.
If Rendell had wielded considerable power as a Prince, it was nothing compared to the strength he commanded as King. With his father’s passing, he’d gained Skills that many at Court whispered of in hushed tones, abilities bordering on the godly. And yet, even with this arsenal of power at his fingertips, Rendell had found himself faltering in the presence of his former friend—and the unusual company that Eliud had gathered around him.
Rendell immediately recognised Josul, of course, and felt the familiar pang of sorrow within him—a sorrow sharpened by the knowledge that he’d been responsible for the deaths of the massive dog’s siblings. The regret weighed heavily on him, though Josul’s joy upon seeing him offered little chance for brooding.
The enormous hound bounded forward with unrestrained enthusiasm, his tail a blur, before leaping up to cover Rendell’s face with slobbery licks, utterly oblivious to the King's attempts to maintain any semblance of dignity.
Eliud’s other two companions—a young woman holding a bow and a kitten perched on her shoulder—were complete strangers to Rendell. His unease only deepened, though, when he could have sworn he heard the cat say, quite distinctly, “Oh, Eliud,” as the King was rather abruptly manifested into their midst.
The absurdity of it all left him momentarily speechless: an archmage friend hauling him into the woods, a towering dog greeting him like a beloved chew toy, and now a talking kitten observing his entrance with casual familiarity. The entire scene had a surreal quality that made his usual grasp on decorum feel almost laughable.
The ensuing conversation was brief, to the point, and—to the King's mind—rather instructive.
However, that was for another day.
Back in the present, Rendell noted that his dismissal of Borlean had nearly crossed into outright rudeness. To remedy this, he stood and beckoned for his Chancellor to follow. A small contingent of guards—all at least of Sentinel Class—immediately fell into step behind them, their movements swift and practiced as they exited the throne room and ascended toward the battlements. The halls echoed with the measured clank of armour, a sound that lent an air of solemnity to the procession.
If Rendell's hope was that the impromptu excursion up several flights of stone steps might tire his older companion out, he was to be disappointed. Even as he quickly refreshed his own Stamina with
The King might have felt more at ease around Borlean if he’d been able to pinpoint the source of the man’s power—or even identify the range of Skills he wielded. Yet, as with Borlean’s elusive Class, any attempts to unravel these mysteries had proven frustratingly futile. Borlean’s abilities seemed wholly cloaked, his power both pervasive and impossible to fully grasp, leaving Rendell in the disconcerting position of being unable to assess his own Chancellor’s strengths.
The ambiguity gnawed at him, a constant reminder that Borlean remained, in many ways, an enigma within his own Court.
“What do you see, Chancellor?"
Borlean blinked slowly, his gaze drifting across the vast expanse of the Capital spread out below. There was, Rendell thought with a twinge of discomfort, something reptilian in the way he did it—a languid calm, each movement of his eyes deliberate, scanning the landscape with unsettling patience.
Predatory. The word settled uncomfortably in Rendell’s mind, and he felt a sudden shock at not having noticed it sooner. It was as though the Chancellor’s true nature had been hiding in plain sight all along, masked by the practiced reserve that only now struck him as subtly menacing.
"I see a people on the precipice of greatness, Your Majesty." Borlean turned and smiled at the King. "And the man to lead them over the edge."
Before his recent conversation with Eliud, Rendell would have taken those words at face value, assuming the slight awkwardness was due to the lord's unfamiliarity with the language of his adopted home.
Now, however . . .
"Precipice? Edge? You make it sound like the Kingdom is about to fall off a cliff, Lord Borlean."
The tall man laughed humourlessly, tongue flicking out to moisten his lips as he did so. "My apologies, Your Majesty. Even after all these years, I still occasionally misspeak."
The King nodded in acceptance even as he registered that the Chancellor had triggered some sort of Skill as he spoke. Rendell could not quite identify the shape of it—it certainly was not one with which he was familiar—but it seemed to be, ever so subtly, encouraging . . . trust towards the speaker.
Now, that was interesting. If Eliud had flirted with execution by stealing the King from his rooms for an impromptu conversation, then seeking to manipulate Rendell's emotions through Skill use was just as heinous a crime.
He wondered just how long his Chancellor had been playing this subtle game—and whether he’d ever have noticed if El hadn’t planted that seed of doubt in his mind. The thought lingered as Rendell considered how easily Borlean had woven himself into the very fabric of the Court’s power.
Without El’s hint, would he have gone on dismissing these small signs, these subtle gestures, as quirks rather than calculated moves? That gnawed at him, casting his long-time advisor in a new and dangerous light.
"Do you know what I see, Chancellor?" Borlean gave a little shake of his head in response. "A people divided. A City riven by faction. I see a way of life that will not survive a civil war."
"If you are worried about the West, Your Majesty . . . "
"Of course I am worried about the West!" Rendell has not intended to lose his temper. He wondered whether Borlean's emotional manipulation was responsible for that, too.
Surreptitiously, he triggered
He had it running far more than ever since that nighttime meeting.
He was thus in control when continuing. "I have already lost a Knight of the Road, a Great General and a quarter of our military strength to that part of the world. I would not waste any more resources unless I have to."
“As I’ve advised, Your Majesty,” Borlean said, “any attempt to negotiate with the Trellecs will only ignite a frenzy in the North and East. Each faction will see it as an invitation to launch their own rebellious campaigns. To negotiate with these people is to show weakness—an indulgence we cannot afford.”
It felt like an old argument—because, in truth, it was. When word of Swinford’s defiance had first reached the Capital, Rendell had hesitated, resisting the call to send Gallant Stonehand and his mercenaries into the West. But Borlean’s voice had carried weight in the Small Council, and ultimately, his counsel had swayed the decision.
Now, however, with the fresh perspective gained from his recent conversation with El, Rendell couldn’t help but question his choice. Would he have held his ground more firmly, resisted Borlean’s insistence, had that conversation happened earlier? The thought lingered, tinged with a gnawing regret, as he realised how deeply Borlean’s influence had threaded through his reign.
“I do not see it as weakness. I fear what’s coming to the West,” Rendell said quietly.
Borlean smiled, a thin, knowing curve that, for an instant, seemed to reveal far more teeth than any human mouth should possess. The effect was fleeting—so brief that Rendell almost doubted he’d seen it—and in the next blink, the Chancellor’s face was utterly ordinary once again, an expression of polite interest and nothing more.
But that momentary glimpse lingered, unsettling and impossible to shake, like a nightmare glimpsed from the corner of the eye.
“The West is due a reckoning, Your Majesty,” Borlean replied. “I neither know nor particularly care what circumstances lured Lady Darkhelm to their cause, nor how General Souit allowed himself to be bested at the walls of Swinford. What matters is that the Blades of Ruin will cut through whatever ragtag coalition of traitors the Trellecs can muster. And the world will learn what becomes of those who defy your will.”
He leaned forward slightly.“A little pain today, Your Majesty, buys stability for a generation. Let them feel the weight of your judgment, and even the most defiant corners of the realm will remember that lesson long after the smoke clears.”
"Stability," Rendell said flatly.
He turned away from his Chancellor and looked out over the Capital, hoping that the doom he felt falling over his homeland were more in his mind than in truth.
"The gods are abroad," El had told him, and then, almost as an afterthought, asked him to find a missing child.
At the time, Rendell hadn’t seen the risk in indulging his old friend’s request and had willingly used his Skills to guide the Duskstrider toward what he sought.
It had seemed a small favour, almost trivial, to turn his sight upon a single child. But now, in hindsight, he could see the subtle danger of that simple act, the way it had woven him into a thread of something larger, something moving quietly beneath the surface.
But if the gods were truly involved in the business of the Kingdom . . .
Shaking his head, Rendell leaned out over the edge of the battlement, trying to shake free the sound of rolling dice from his mind.
With unblinking eyes, Borlean watched him.