King of Farmonia

The countryside estate Ser Ritchard had gifted to Arthus lay quiet beneath the pale dawn. Smoke rose from the kitchen hearths, slow and steady, carrying the scent of spiced bread and burning cedar. In the courtyard below, servants moved with practiced purpose, hanging banners of red and gold embroidered with the Santorian sun, their footsteps soft against the stone.

Tomorrow, the King and Queen would arrive.

Arthus stood at the end of the hall, watching workers climb ladders to drape the last banners along the beams. He saw the care in their movements, the precision with which everything was being prepared, yet his thoughts refused to stay with the scene before him. His mind lingered elsewhere—on his son, on the weight gathering around Marvin’s name. He turned toward Ser Ritchard, who was speaking quietly with a steward near the door.

“Ser Ritchard,” Arthus said, his voice uneasy. “Tomorrow the King will be here, and I do not know what to tell him about Marvin. Your words weigh heavily on me. If he learns what the child is—if he knows the truth—what then? I cannot bear the thought of losing him.”

Ritchard stepped closer and placed a steady hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Do not fret, Arthus. King Bencort is a just ruler. Stern, yes, but fair. Whatever comes, we face it together.”

Arthus nodded, though doubt still clouded his eyes. He wanted to believe that fairness would be enough, that justice would shield a child from the hunger of prophecy. But kings ruled nations, not futures, and he knew too well how easily power bent even good intentions.

It had been two weeks since Marvin’s birth, yet the world around them already seemed to change in strange and wondrous ways. From the first cry that left the infant’s lips, the skies above Santorie had split apart. Thunder rolled across the valleys for seven nights, and lightning formed a perfect ring around the cabin—never touching it once.

At first, Arthus and Elena believed it was coincidence, the kind of storm that comes once in a generation. They clung to that explanation because it was easier, because it required nothing of them. But when the winds died, the signs did not.

Wolves, deer, even ravens that never flew together gathered outside their door. They circled the house and stayed through sun and storm alike. When Arthus stepped out with the baby in his arms, every creature bowed its head. Their eyes were calm and reverent, as though they recognized something greater than themselves.

Elena had trembled when she saw it, whispering that no child should bear such a burden. Yet when she looked into Marvin’s eyes, she swore she saw light moving beneath them—faint, alive, like stars drifting under water.

Since that night, the animals had not left. They stood guard as though nature itself had chosen its champion.

Arthus turned back to Ritchard, his voice lower now, stripped of ceremony. “Tell me,” he said quietly, “how does a man hide such a child from kings and gods alike?”

Ritchard exhaled, the breath sounding heavier than before. “By faith, my friend,” he said at last. “By faith and silence.”

Morning came wrapped in mist. From the window, Arthus saw the first glint of armor on the road—the King’s convoy emerging from the haze.

The valley stirred to life. Trumpets echoed through the hills as banners unfurled from the towers. A line of carriages stretched for miles—thirty at least—drawn by white horses draped in crimson cloth. Two hundred royal guards rode beside them, spears flashing in the light.

Arthus’s chest tightened. “So many,” he whispered. The sight did not reassure him; it pressed the truth deeper. Kings did not travel like this without reason.

“Do not worry,” Ritchard murmured, though his tone betrayed unease.

The lead carriage stopped before the gate. Its golden panels gleamed with carvings of Santorian triumphs—gods anointing kings, dragons falling to men.

When the door opened, trumpets blared again. King Bencort stepped out, tall and broad-shouldered, a red cloak fastened with diamonds. His crown glimmered with white-gold fire, his face proud but weary, like a man who carried victories as heavily as losses.

Beside him descended Queen Aromophies, radiant in a gown of white streaked with gold. Her crown shone with jewels that threw green fire into her eyes. The wind lifted her dark hair as though even the air respected her.

Behind them came Minister Barco, the royal advisor. He wore a black robe that made him look more priest than minister, and a golden chain hung around his neck bearing the royal insignia. His eyes, sharp and restless, seemed to weigh every stone and shadow, missing nothing.

“Ser Ritchard,” the King called warmly, “thank you for receiving us on such short notice.”

Ritchard bowed low. “Your Majesty honors my home beyond measure. Please, come in—the feast awaits.”

Inside, the hall glittered with candlelight. A long table ran the length of the room, covered in silver platters, roasted meats, and goblets of wine. Servants stood silent along the walls, waiting for instruction.

Arthus took his place beside Ritchard, his heart beating fast. He reminded himself to breathe, to remain still, to speak only when spoken to.

King Bencort sat at the head of the table, the Queen beside him, Minister Barco standing quietly at his right.

When the servants withdrew, the King nodded toward Arthus. “And this?” he asked with polite curiosity. “Will you not introduce your companion?”

Ritchard bowed again. “Forgive me, my lord. This is Arthus of the Northern Vale—my loyal friend and right hand. He tends the land beyond these hills.”

Arthus stepped forward and bowed deeply. “You honor us, Your Majesty.”

The King studied him for a long moment, his eyes sharp but kind. Arthus felt the weight of that gaze settle over him, searching. Then the King’s tone shifted.

“Tell me, Ser Ritchard. What is this I hear about a chosen child?”

Silence fell, sudden and complete.

Ritchard frowned. “Chosen child, my lord? I have heard no such thing.”

Bencort smiled slightly, as though he had expected the answer. “Do not be alarmed, my friend. I have not come to accuse you. Barco.”

The minister stepped forward and placed a sealed parchment in the King’s hand. The wax bore the royal crest—two intertwined suns.

“This,” said the King, letting the word settle, “is a decree written generations ago by my ancestor Arrakas the Free and the first King of Farmonia. It binds us by oath: should the Child of the Eclipse be born, the House of Santor will protect him at any cost.”

He set the scroll on the table before Ritchard, not as a threat, but as a reminder.

“The prophecy was made so men would stand together, not against one another. The child belongs to no one. He belongs to the world.”

Ritchard stared at the seal, speechless.

The King leaned back, his voice lowering. “Do not hide him, Ritchard. The world is shifting, even now.”

He turned to Arthus. “Tell me—have you heard the name Alexious?”

Arthus’s breath caught, the name striking deeper than he expected, but Ritchard answered first. “Yes, Your Majesty. He calls himself King of the Pirates. For years he’s raided our borders. Many have died.”

Bencort nodded once. “He’s gone to Rafia. My scouts say he seeks alliance with the witches.”

Ritchard rose from his chair, voice trembling despite himself. “Alexious… with the witches? That cannot be.”

The King’s gaze hardened. “It is true. If that alliance stands, the world will not survive another eclipse. The boy’s birth and Alexious’s awakening are no coincidence.”

He looked between them, his voice steady. “If the child truly lives under this roof, we must protect him before the darkness finds him first.”

Ritchard bowed. “My sword and my hall are yours, my liege.”

The Queen spoke then, her tone calm but heavy. “The signs have already begun,” she said. “Storms that circle the mountains. Birds losing their path. Rivers that rise without rain. The world is shifting, my king. The light grows restless.”

King Bencort regarded her for a moment, then nodded. “Perhaps the gods remind us that oaths are not words—they are weight.” He turned to Ritchard. “Keep the child safe until I summon you. No banners. No whispers. The fewer who know, the longer he will live.”

Ritchard bowed once more. “You have my word, sire.”

The King’s expression softened. “Then may Dayrium’s light guard your hall.”

He rose, and the Queen followed. Servants bowed low as the royal pair moved down the corridor. Their footsteps faded, leaving only the fire’s soft crackle behind.

Ritchard stood still, staring at the closed doors. Arthus remained beside him, his thoughts turning inward once more.

“He spoke kindly,” Arthus said quietly, “yet his eyes held something else. Do you think he trusts us?”

Ritchard sighed. “A king trusts no one, my friend. But he knows this—some truths are safer in quiet hands.”

Arthus nodded slowly. His thoughts drifted to the sleeping child upstairs, to the storm that had begun the night of his birth, and to the strange calm that followed. For the first time, he understood that silence was not absence—it was shelter.

Outside, thunder rolled through the hills—steady and low, like the heartbeat of the world.