With this crown upon my brow, I swear this sacred oath: to lead with honor, to rule with wisdom, and to protect this land until the end of my days, or until the gods themselves call me to my rest.
There were hardliners and elven supremacists who eagerly believed Killian would continue Emeril’s legacy, but their hopes were shattered during her first public address as queen before the Piar Ansrat, the legislative body of the elves. Her words, which spread swiftly to every corner of the high elven kingdom, left no room for doubt:
"I killed our King."
The uproar was deafening. Calls for rebellion echoed across the kingdom, but within a week, those voices were silenced. Killian had explained why.
In an open letter to her people, she laid bare the treachery of Emeril Alan, sparing no details. She wanted the truth known and for history to understand what had driven the Knight of Knights to raise her sword against her own sovereign. The Rialla, the elven people, needed to comprehend why it had been necessary to kill him.
She exposed the betrayal of their core principles, the false flag of peace under which they had been deceived, and the murder of the imperial heirs—innocent children, far removed from the wars of men. She revealed Emeril’s use of the traitor Florio, and his orders to Faralis to burn entire villages—slaughtering men, women, children, the elderly, and the infirm. No detail was spared.
With that confession came a solemn vow. Killian pledged that, under her reign, unless threatened by outside forces, her sword would never again be drawn in violence. She swore this on her name, on her bond, and on the soul of the elven people and the crown itself.
Her sword would never be raised again.
The elves would fix what led their young king to think that they needed land lost millennia ago at the expense of the lives of the humans. They would fix the shame and dishonor that Emeril Alan had visited upon their spirit, his spit fresh in the face of the god Piar, most beautiful and divine; they would fix what he had broken among them. This she pledged.
The clamors stopped. The fervor died down. Calls for rebellion were met with rebuke from the aristocracy to the humblest peasant. The elves would fix what their king had broken among them. Her sword would lay on the altar of Piar, most beautiful and divine, not to be lifted again in her reign, lest outside forces came. She prayed they didn’t. She knew, with perhaps only few exceptions she was the strongest warrior, swordswoman, knight, battler, combatant alive. She wanted no part of it anymore. The sword had brought her people to the brink of darkness, for a house built on lies and avarice was a house that could not stand.
She would not allow it in her reign. Her people deserved better. They were the Rialla, the people of the fields, forests, and lakes that stretched from border to border. The people of the first King Nibar who took disorder and made order. The people of the golden age, that survived the Wandering, the wars of slaying, the pangs of the young Raakonians, the hordes of the Val E Naa, that made the wheel, the airship, and brought civilization to the land.
Her people deserved better. Her sword would never be raised again.
When word reached her throne that Imperial City was being invaded, she was concerned, as any monarch would be that the neighboring country was at war. Concerned, but not greatly. Those were the affairs of the humans, and they had meddled in them enough for this generation and the next. While she pledged to never raise her sword again, it was not for love of the humans; while no supremacist she did recognize that the high elven people were a superior culture to the humans. She would not raise her sword again because her people deserved better.
When word reached her throne that Imperial City was being invaded by Janus, for a moment, a brief moment that she did not voice to her advisors or trusted confidants; she consider raising her sword once again. Janus was the worst of them, cut from the same cloth as Emeril Alan. Treachery, duplicitous, and malevolence wrapped into the form of man. He was a clever little snake that lived beyond his years. she cursed herself for not executing him during the war when she had the opportunity.
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But it was not her fight. Her people deserved better, and her sword would never be raised again. It was a bit bittersweet, as she learned of the events as they unfolded in Raakonia. She held no love for the humans, and she recognized that the high elven people were a superior culture to them; but she prayed for them. Every morning when she renewed her vows to her crown and people, she prayed for the Rialla, for her people; and she prayed for the humans.
The Raakonians deserved better, and she hoped those among them of worth, would raise their sword to Janus.
- ●●●
If his priests were correct, or roughly thereabout, Janus and the Ironites would be in the midst of their invasion soon. The priests had done their figures, plotted the course of the wind and checked the stars. Ironites won favor and glory in the games, but they also marauded on the seas. King Daargas Kurn felt that his priests were probably right, and it was time.
In the arena, there was no game today. The game had been won by Janus and his butcher, and the Iron God was sated. The men and women of the Iron Kingdom, on promise of coin and glory sailed under the battle of the traitor, the usurper, the White Prince. Daargas made good on his word, he bid all the stables, warriors, pirates, crooks, and thieves that if they wanted glory and coin to sail with Janus and bring destruction to the Imperials.
Personally, he was envious. He had considered tossing his Iron Crown onto the arena floor for someone to claim and going with Janus. The Ironites would burn a path through the pretty halls of Raakonia, rape what they wished, kill what they wished, and fill their gullets with Raakonian wine, and their pockets with Raakonian coin. It was a tempting proposition.
He was not a smart orc, and he had never been clever. He wasn’t a visionary king; he didn’t take the Iron Crown in the arena from some desire to lead his people to greatness. He took his crown because he was mean, brutal, and a better warrior than the rest. He took his crown because he wanted to fill his mouth with wine, lavish himself with fine things, own more slaves than the next man, and to do as he damn well pleased every day he woke. If the Iron Kingdom burned, he didn’t care.
He stayed on his throne for one reason, and one reason alone. He knew men like Janus with clever plans, and lofty ambitions. He knew what would happen to men like them when they reached too far. Life had taught Janus that he could bend the world to his will, and every time he reached, he could reach just a bit further. Eventually, he would falter. It always happened to clever men. Daargas stayed his throne because he would not be there for the fall. Men like Janus always ended in ruin. He may not be a clever king, but he knew the outcome Janus would find, one day.
In the arena, there was no game today. The game had been won by Janus and his butcher, and the Iron God was sated, but King Daargas decided to offer just a little bit more blood to the Iron God. He sat in his box, overlooking the pitch where Janus’s butcher had won his army, and where Daargas once stood and won his crown. There was no crowd today, no cheers and exuberance, just King Daargas and all the iron priests that attended his summons, a total sum of one hundred ninety, two; and equally, one hundred ninety, two chained slaves on the pitch
If his priests were correct, or roughly thereabout, Janus and the Ironites would be in the midst of their invasion soon. The priests had done their figures, plotted the course of the wind and checked the stars. Janus should be landing with the warbands of the Iron Kingdom. He raised his calloused hand, and the iron priests raised their iron knives.
“Iron God, hear me!” he roared into the vast, empty arena, his voice reverberating off the cracked and weathered stone.
“Let our warriors shed blood in foreign lands! Let their swords bite deep, and their glory fill your ears with worship!” His arms stretched wide, a smile curling on his lips as he gazed down at the priests and slaves assembled on the arena floor, the air thick with anticipation.
“And when their thirst is slaked, their pockets full, their desires sated, let them return to you, to bleed once more in this holy place!” His hand shot forward, pointing to the masses below. The slaves trembled, their fear mounting. Some began to weep, others screamed in despair.
“And if it pleases you, mighty Iron God, curse the clever little man, and let his blood feed the earth in your name!”
With that final declaration, he lowered his hand, signaling the priests. Without hesitation, they set about their grim work. One by one, the throats of the near two hundred slaves were cut, their blood spraying across the arena floor. Their agonized screams and violent death throes punctuated the king’s prayer to the Iron God, their lives offered up in a grisly sacrifice.