Chapter 15 : High Noon Departure

Grim and Depressing

The air within the royal chamber had grown stale, as though sorrow itself had settled into the stone. Once radiant vermilion curtains—embroidered with golden trim that once caught the sun like fire—now hung heavy and lifeless, dulled by time and grief. The marble flooring, once polished to mirror brightness, had dimmed to a bleak, colorless sheen. Even the fine furniture, carved from heartwood and crowned with velvet cushions, had lost its noble luster. The walls of cobbled stone, proud and unyielding, seemed to weep with every passing day.

All beauty in that room was being leeched away by the withering soul who lay at its heart.

His Royal Grace, King Aragon Marchosias Dragomierre—High Sovereign of the Kingdom of Amorette, The Dragon Ruler, The descendance of the great Hero—had not risen from his bed in nearly a year. The burden of age weighed upon him, yes, but so too did a far crueler inheritance: the Wyrm Skinner—a vile affliction woven into the blood of his line since the time of myth.

It was a curse of his draconic ancestry. When a Dragomierre reached their fiftieth year, their body would begin to betray them—rapid aging, bones splintering like brittle kindling, skin reddening and hardening into scales of stone. It was said to feel like one’s flesh was being flayed from the inside, a slow devouring by some unseen parasite. No cure. No mercy. Just time… gnawing, merciless.

By his side sat his firstborn, Princess Linnete, whose composure held stronger than any steel forged in the royal smithies. She sat close, her hand wrapped tenderly around her father’s gnarled and weathered fingers, whispering prayers under her breath—not to the gods of marble statues, but to the stars themselves, that her father’s suffering might be lifted… or at the very least, brought to a kinder end.

As she drowned quietly in sorrow, the silence of the chamber was broken by a knock—measured, firm, echoing faintly against the stone walls.

"Your Grace?" came a voice from the other side—low and composed, yet unmistakably urgent.

Linette turned from her father's bedside, brushing a hand along his withered fingers one last time. Composure returned to her posture. She rose from the mourning chair with dignity, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders—ever the princess.

"You may enter," she answered.

The heavy door creaked open, admitting a figure whose presence seemed to fill the room before his voice ever did, a halfling, with a great lion for a head. Tall and broad-shouldered, clad in gleaming silver plate etched with crimson filigree, the visitor moved with the weight of duty behind every step. Upon his chestplate: the royal sigil—three red dragon heads arranged in a triangle, the mark of the Dragomierre bloodline.

Without delay, he dropped to one knee.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head low. His voice was gruff, like tempered steel, yet there was no mistaking the reverence in it.

Sir Gideon Gallagher—Commander of the Royal Crusade. One of the Seven Pillars of the Crown, knighted not only by bloodshed and battle, but by the trust of the royal family itself.

“You interrupt my noon prayer, Sir Gideon,” Linette said, her tone measured, with the calm grace of one who’d long practiced power in poise. “I trust your message warrants such a breach.”

He looked up slowly. Even a knight of his stature took pause before meeting her gaze.

“It does, Your Grace,” he said at last. “A report has arrived from the Guard Commander in Alaric City.”

Linette arched a brow—elegantly, inquisitively. “The son of Baltazar Argent, yes? I’ve heard he’s adjusting quite well to his new station.”

“He is, Your Grace. Loyal. Honest. Unshakable. Which is why I believe the report to be true.” He drew a breath, steadying himself. “They found it.”

A beat of silence passed like the tension of a drawn bowstring.

“A piece of the Fallen Star,” Gideon said, voice low. “It appeared during an incident in Rutterslide.”

Linette’s eyes widened—not with fear, but with quiet revelation. The flicker of excitement escaped the iron control of her expression for a brief, unguarded second.

“You’re certain?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

“We confirmed it after inspecting the residual animus at the site. The trace is unmistakable. The same magic described in the prophecy. The same we have searched for all these years.”

Linette’s fingers curled into her palms, unconsciously twisting within her clasped hands. Her mind was racing.

“You understand the weight of this, Sir Gideon?” she asked, her voice lower now, deliberate. “What it means to me. To House Dragomierre. To our lineage. To our future.”

“I do, Your Grace,” he said, rising to one knee. “And to His Majesty as well.”

“Then understand this too,” Linette said, stepping closer, her tone sharpening like a blade drawn in quiet fury. “I will not allow it to slip through our fingers. For we are not the only one who has been eyeing this miracle.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I grant you full authority,” she declared, her voice resolute. “You may call upon the guard, the city’s knights, and the royal treasury itself if need be. The crown stands behind you, Sir Gideon. Bring the Star to me… before it falls into hands less worthy.”

He placed a fist across his chest, bowing his head with renewed vigor. “I will not fail you, Your Grace.”

She turned back to the bedside, to her dying father, to the legacy slipping through time like sand through glass. Behind her, Sir Gideon rose in silence and departed, his footsteps already burdened with the weight of the task ahead.

As the heavy doors closed behind Sir Gideon, silence reclaimed the chamber once more.

Linette turned away from her father’s bedside and made her way toward the balcony. With each step, the solemn weight of grief gave way to something else—hope, dangerous and burning.

The balcony doors stood open, and the sunlight spilled in like liquid gold. She stepped into it, letting the warmth touch her skin. The wind met her there—cool, spirited, brushing past her face as though it too had been waiting to greet her. For a moment, she closed her eyes, allowing herself the rare luxury of stillness.

Her crimson hair caught the breeze, dancing like flame in the light. Against the backdrop of the high blue sky, her pale skin shimmered faintly, touched by both sun and the power in her blood. And her eyes—those fierce, royal eyes—glimmered with something new. Not just determination. Destiny.

“Finally,” she whispered, barely louder than the wind. “After all this time…”

Her gaze drifted across the horizon, toward a world unaware of what had begun.

“Generations of pain. Years of decay. The curse of our name…”

She pressed a hand to her heart.

“Our blood shall know clarity. At last… salvation is within reach.”

Meanwhile, in the sprawling courtyard of Albion Castle, a storm of movement had begun. Guards scrambled into formation, their armor clattering like thunder over stone as they obeyed Sir Gideon’s urgent commands. Trumpets blared in short, sharp bursts—summons not sounded since the last great war. The scale of preparation was immense, perhaps unprecedented.

Albion Castle itself loomed over the chaos with an air of ancient, indomitable pride. Its towers pierced the sky like ivory fangs, each crowned with pennants bearing the sigil of the Dragomierre line—three crimson dragon heads forming an eternal triangle. The walls, constructed of thick, gleaming bricks the color of sun-bleached bone, radiated a cold majesty. Grand archways spanned the upper courtyards, while exposed staircases curled elegantly between balconies like the ribs of some great beast. Dozens of dragon statues—stone guardians of forgotten eras—watched from parapets and alcoves, their eyes ever fixed on the horizon. Every inch of the castle whispered the same truth: this was the cradle of a dynasty born of fire and flame.

High above, in one of the spire towers, A man stood at a latticed window, watching the swarm of activity below. His gaze narrowed in curiosity, then widened in recognition. A slow, knowing grin played across his face.

“Well now,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Only one person would rattle the bones of the castle like this…”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he turned from the window. “Dear sister. Always with the grand spectacle. Subtlety has never suited you.”

Swinging his coat over his shoulder, he strode from the chamber and descended toward the Scarlet Hall.

His arrival—unannounced and entirely unscheduled—sent ripples of panic through the keepers and attendants stationed there. Scrolls tumbled to the floor. A tray of polished silver cups nearly toppled from a startled page’s grip. The guards at the hall entrance stood bolt upright, clearly unprepared.

At the center of the commotion stood Tydus, the head keeper—a man of sharp posture and weathered discipline. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his sun-bronzed skin hinting at a past lived more in the field than the palace. His light-brown hair jutted upward in untamed spikes, like bark peeling from the trunk of a restless tree. Though he wore the tunic and sash of his station, they hung with a certain disregard—crumpled at the edges, one boot slightly unlaced, his cloak draped carelessly over one shoulder. Not a slob, not quite a soldier, but something perpetually between the two.

“Prince Garland,” Tydus began, hastily stepping forward with a half-bow. “We… weren’t expecting your presence today. We assumed you’d still be—”

Garland lifted a single finger, silencing him.

“Please, Tydus. You know me well enough to understand that I seldom follow the whims of my sister. Or the queen.” He flashed that maddeningly perfect grin, the one that had gotten him in—and out—of trouble more times than anyone could count.

“I require my wyvern,” he said, turning sharply to the guards near the cell gate. “I have business elsewhere. Something that actually warrants my time.”

Tydus sighed—a long, tired exhale laced with resignation. “You do realize your mother’s going to boil the skies when she finds out you’ve ran off again.”

“For the love of flame, Tydus,” Garland muttered. “She’s never been happy with anything I’ve done. Why stop the streak now?”

Another sigh. Deeper this time. The sound of a man preparing for consequences.

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“Am I going to be in trouble for letting you leave again?” Tydus asked under his breath.

“Oh, most definitely,” Garland said, with a wink.

Tydus turned to his men, fingers already in motion. A sharp whistle cut through the air like a blade. “Goldwing and Specter—on the runway, now! Saddle them up and have them wind-bound in five minutes!”

The guards jumped into action without question. It was clear this wasn’t their first drill of this nature.

Garland blinked, caught off guard. “Wait—what?”

“I’m coming with you,” Tydus replied coolly, not even turning to look at him. “If the queen plans to unleash fury on this hall, I’d rather be halfway across the kingdom when it happens. Escorting a rogue prince sounds like a noble excuse, don’t you think?”

He finally glanced over his shoulder with a crooked grin.

Garland returned the look, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re reckless,” Tydus countered. “Let’s call it even.”

The two men stepped onto the runway—a massive terrace of stone that jutted from the side of Albion Castle like a fortress balcony, open to the sky and braced with dragon-shaped buttresses. Wind howled around them, tugging at cloaks and banners as they approached the pair of great beasts that awaited.

There, standing tall and regal, were two wyverns—monuments of scale and sinew, bred for the skies and loyal only to their chosen riders.

The first, larger in mass and muscle, exuded a quiet menace. Its hide was storm-grey, as if hewn from thunderclouds, and the sharp edge of each wing curved like a blade honed for war. Jagged spikes crowned its head and framed its face like shards of broken stone. Its eyes gleamed yellow—piercing, intelligent, and unflinching. This was Specter, the aerial companion of Tydus, a wyvern forged not just for flight, but for battle.

Beside him stood his counterpart, slightly smaller yet no less commanding. Goldwing was a creature of both majesty and danger, its scales a dull ember hue, like fading coals beneath ash. Its wings, however, were radiant gold—thin as sunlight, shimmering with every movement, casting streaks of brilliance across the landing stone. Six curved horns swept back from its head, and beneath them glinted a set of razor fangs. Its eyes were a deep ruby, alluring in their beauty, yet holding an uncanny, almost unsettling intelligence. This was no ordinary beast—this was the royal wyvern, sworn to Prince Garland.

Garland’s face lit up the moment he saw him.

“There you are, old friend,” he said warmly, approaching Goldwing with arms open. He pressed his palm gently to the beast’s snout, stroking the scales between its nostrils. “Did you miss me?”

Goldwing snorted in response, exhaling a warm gust of breath that tousled Garland’s perfectly combed hair into wild disarray.

He laughed, throwing his head back. “Hahaha… I missed you too.”

Tydus was already halfway up Specter’s saddle, adjusting the straps. “How long has it been?” he called over the wind. “Two weeks?”

“Three weeks and four days,” Garland corrected, swinging into Goldwing’s saddle with practiced ease. “And don’t pretend you haven’t missed us. You’ve probably been staring at the sky every night, longing for the thrill again. Admit it—Specter’s been brooding without me.”

“I wouldn’t call it brooding,” Tydus said as he gave Specter’s flank a firm pat. “He’s been living the high life. Prime lamb cuts three times a day, herbal baths, scale polishing, even a back massage from the stable master. If this is a prison, it’s a nobleman’s spa.”

Garland glanced down at Goldwing’s belly and raised an eyebrow. “Ah, that would explain the extra weight on him. Look at this little bulge—don’t think I didn’t notice.”

In response, Goldwing gave a soft growl, then—without warning—flicked his tail in a wide arc, smacking Garland lightly on the thigh with surprising precision.

“Ow!” Garland exclaimed, laughing through the sting. “Alright, alright! I take it back. You’re still the most majestic beast in the skies.”

Goldwing gave an indignant huff, but it was clear from the gentle swish of his tail that the offense was forgiven.

Tydus smirked, guiding Specter toward the edge. “You ready for takeoff, your reckless highness?”

Garland adjusted his grip on the reins, his crimson cloak fluttering behind him. “Always.”

And with a shared signal, the two wyverns spread their mighty wings—Goldwing’s catching the sunlight like molten banners, Specter’s slicing the air like steel.

Then, with a thunderous beat, they launched into the open sky.

Garland closed his eyes, letting the wind rush over his face. It was cold, crisp, and carried the scent of the clouds themselves—clean, untouched, and boundless. The sky wrapped around him like an old friend’s embrace, and for the first time in weeks, his heart felt light. The thunder of wings behind him faded into a hum, and the world below became little more than a patchwork of green and gold, stitched with rivers and speckled with village lights.

He leaned forward slightly, feeling the familiar rhythm of Goldwing’s powerful wingbeats through the saddle. The wyvern’s motion was smooth but forceful—each beat propelling them higher into the heavens.

“This,” he whispered to himself, “this is what it means to live.”

Then louder—laughter blooming from his chest like wildfire—he roared over the wind, “Gods, how I missed this!”

Behind him, Tydus rode Specter with slightly less romantic enthusiasm. The wind tousled his already wild hair, and his cloak flapped violently as he struggled to keep his posture upright against the wind shear.

“Yes, yes,” Tydus called out with exaggerated irritation, his brow furrowed in a squint. “The wind is freedom, the sky is a lover’s kiss, or whatever nonsense you always say. Spare me the sermon and answer the question—where exactly are we going?!”

Garland half-turned in his saddle, smirking against the wind. “Alaric City!” he shouted back.

Tydus blinked. “Alaric City? Why? Who the hell are we visiting?”

Garland’s grin widened, sharp and sly. “Oh… just a very dear friend of mine.”

The sparkle in his crimson eyes said the rest.

Tydus groaned. “Great. Cryptic royal business. Again.”

Garland gave a carefree shrug, turned forward again, and let the sky carry him—laughing as Goldwing dipped into a sweeping dive.

*****

The arrival of two great wyverns at the heart of Alaric City was nothing short of a spectacle—and an unexpected one at that. This part of the realm, busy with merchants, magistrates, and civic clerks, was far from accustomed to the thunderous descent of skybeasts. The capital’s wyvern riders typically patrolled the royal skies far to the west, not the orderly courtyards of government halls.

The beasts landed with little grace and even less courtesy. The sheer force of their wings churned the air into violent gusts, toppling market stalls, blowing scrolls from scribes’ desks, and sending the city hall's manicured flower beds into utter disarray. The impact of their clawed feet crushed the tiled walkways and sank deep into the grassed field, leaving behind scars on the landscape—and, surely, in the hearts of the landscaping crew.

From the grand archway of Alaric’s City Hall, a knight emerged in full haste. His silvered armor gleamed beneath the midday sun, a flowing vermillion cape snapping behind him like a battle standard. The look on his face wasn’t awe or reverence—it was exasperation.

“To what do I owe the honor,” he called out dryly, “of seeing the head keeper of the Scarlet Hall grace us with his presence?”

Tydus, still seated atop Specter, offered the knight a wide and friendly smile. “Oh, no honor owed, Edwyn. I’m just the chaperone.” He jerked his thumb toward the other rider. “You’ll want to direct your groaning that way.”

The other rider, already dismounting with a casual swing of the leg, beamed.

“Hello, Edwyn!” Prince Garland said with boyish delight, as if greeting an old schoolmate and not deliberately defying protocol.

At the sight of the prince, Edwyn Argent—commander of Alaric’s guard and heir to the House of Argent—groaned and ran a gloved hand down his face. He bowed, because courtesy demanded it, but his expression betrayed exactly how thrilled he was.

“Prince Garland,” he said, straightening. “What an utterly unpleasant surprise.”

“Careful now,” Garland said, his grin tightening just a touch. “Im still the highest authority in this part of the kingdom.”

Edwyn scoffed without a trace of fear. “With all due respect, my prince… Princess Linette Dragomierre currently holds sovereign command in your father’s absence, Her Grace has the highest authority in this—and every other part of the kingdom. Second to her is your mother, the Queen Regent. Which places you”—he paused with the faintest smirk—“third in the hierarchy. And even that is debated among certain records”

“Doesn’t dispute the fact, that I still out ranked you” Garland rolled his eyes. “By the stars, you’re still the same tedious stick I remember.”

“And you,” Edwyn replied coolly, “are still the same storm in silk slippers.”

The two men locked eyes—icy steel against smoldering amber—and for a moment, it seemed the tension might spark into something dramatic.

Then Garland broke into a grin and threw his arms wide.

“Come here, you handsome bastard!” he laughed, striding forward and pulling Edwyn into a firm, unreserved embrace. “Ahahaha! Look at you—all polished up in gleaming plate, draped in the Protector’s cape, marching about like the knight of legends you always pretended not to be!”

“And look at you,” Edwyn said as he pulled back, tone flat but not entirely without affection. “Still the least prince-like royal I’ve ever seen.”

Garland gave an exaggerated twirl, showcasing his ensemble—a flowing, high-collared shirt of deep obsidian silk with gold-thread embroidery dancing like flames across the chest, sleeves half-rolled and fastened with dragon-tooth clasps. His boots were glossy, his coat lazily draped over one shoulder, and his belt adorned with more rings than strictly necessary. Expensive, every inch of it—and yet, he wore it all with a breezy, untamed air that made him look more like a traveling bard than a royal.

“I like to call it casual regality,” Garland said with a wink.

Before Edwyn could respond, Tydus stepped between them, lowering his voice. “Alright, enough of the nostalgia parade. We should move—too many eyes, My Prince.”

Garland glanced around, suddenly aware of the dozens of onlookers peeking from behind city columns and market stalls. His grand entrance had drawn the attention of every gawking civilian and half the city watch.

“Right…” he muttered, letting go of Edwyn at last.

“My office?” Edwyn offered, his tone already suggesting he would regret it.

Garland lit up. “A bottle of Raamish Wyne, and I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth!”

“You’ll follow me to the office,” Edwyn said, turning on his heel.

“You do have Raamish Wyne, right?” Garland said, practically skipping behind him. “Wait—are you even allowed to drink during work hours? Is that a privilege of rank or just personal rebellion? I need to know!”

Edwyn said nothing. He didn’t even look back. But his silence spoke volumes.

Tydus followed behind them, pausing only to address the nearby guards, who were nervously eyeing the wyverns now stretching their wings and clawing lazily at the courtyard stones.

“Just… leave them be,” he advised, motioning toward the great beasts. “They’ll find a nice rooftop or cliff edge to perch on. Trust me—don’t try to guide them. Or touch them. Or even make too much eye contact. I mean it… they will… eat you”

The guards nodded, sweating visibly beneath their helms.

The trio stepped into Edwyn’s office—a spacious chamber steeped in quiet authority. The tall bookcases lining both walls were crammed with tomes, scrolls, and well-thumbed ledgers. The afternoon light spilled in through thick drapes behind a heavy wooden desk, illuminating the mountain of paperwork stacked precariously across its surface.

With a half-hearted sweep of his arm, Edwyn gestured them in. “Welcome,” he muttered. The word sounded more like a formality than an invitation.

“As you can see,” he continued, walking behind the desk and casting a weary glance over the mountain of documents, “it’s not exactly the right time for surprise visits or impromptu celebrations.”

Garland, unconcerned, was already inspecting the engraved nameplate on the desk. He snatched it up with practiced ease and read aloud with a theatrical voice, “Commander Edwyn Argent.” He smirked. “Has a noble ring to it.”

Before Edwyn could snatch it back, the door shut behind them with a quiet thud.

And just like that, the courtesy was gone from Edwyn’s voice. “Alright, enough games. What do you want, Garland?” he said sharply, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just fly into Alaric on a wyvern like it’s the training fields back at the Quarry. This is real life. There are real laws. Real rules, and very real consequences.”

“Funny,” Tydus cut in, shrugging as he leaned against the bookshelf. “I said the same thing. Guess who didn’t listen?”

Garland shot him a glare. “No one was talking to you.”

Edwyn reached across the desk and yanked the nameplate out of Garland’s hands. “Put that down. And stop deflecting. What is the real reason for this visit?”

“I’d also like to know,” Tydus added, arms crossed. “You’ve dragged us all the way here. Some clarity would be nice.”

The two men now stood opposite Garland, shoulder to shoulder, arms folded and eyes locked on the prince with mirrored expressions of suspicion and expectation.

Garland let out an exaggerated sigh, flopping down into Edwyn’s well-cushioned chair like he owned the place. He kicked his feet up onto the desk, carelessly pushing aside a small stack of reports.

“You two are no fun,” he muttered. “Fine. Serious talk it is.”

He leaned back, gaze drifting toward the ceiling as he began. “Roughly an hour ago, my sister—Her Royal Highness, Princess Linette—received a piece of classified intelligence. I don’t know what it is yet. But what ever it is… is critival enough to make her move the entire capitol guards under the command of one Sir Gideon Galagher.” His expression turned more focused now, voice lower and more controlled. “Frankly… I wanna know what it’s the reason behind this sudden big step”

Edwyn raised a brow. “And what, precisely, does this have to do with me?”

Garland sat up straighter, the princely charm in his voice now edged with quiet resolve.

“My sister commands her own loyalists. Half—or maybe the entire population of the palace reports directly to her, whether they admit it or not. Even some of my men serve her interests before mine. So I’ve decided… it’s time I assembled a unit of my own. Small. Precise. Capable. Made up of people I trust—truly trust.”

His eyes flicked between the two men before him. “So I ask you, Edwyn Lucius Argent… and you, Tydus Buchannes—would you join me? Stand beside me, not as subjects to the crown, but as comrades? Will you ride with me into the unknown, into danger, into whatever secrets lie ahead?”

For once, there was no grin. No snide remark. Just the offer, hanging heavy in the room, waiting to be answered.

Edwyn exhaled through his nose, casting a sideways glance at Tydus. “He’s not going to take no for an answer, is he?”

Tydus gave a dry chuckle, arms still folded. “As if we’ve ever had a choice to begin with”

Garland threw his head back with a laugh, the weight of politics and princely decorum long gone from his shoulders. “That’s the spirit! Now—who’s ready for a completely irresponsible, likely life-threatening adventure?”

The room was silent for a heartbeat… then Edwyn slowly rubbed a hand over his face.

“Heck let’s do it, this job is bored to death.” he muttered.

Garland only grinned wider.

The most dangerous team has formed.