The city seemed to grow louder with each hour that passed by.

Smoke billowed through the lower Cathedral District in long gray ribbons, curling over rain-soaked shingles and awnings. Market fires crackled beneath the hanging cages of rusted iron while the howling wind ripped through the dark crowded alleys. Through the mist, merchants dragged carts through the muddy roads. Beggars gathered in clusters underneath bridges. Drunkards stumbled from tavern to tavern, still clutching their bottles from the night before.

I blend in as best I can. I kept my hood low as I worked to assimilate with the locals. The air in the lower district always maintained a steady thickness that stuck to your skin. The fog was dense, but I kept my eyes peeled and maneuvered through the steady stream of foot traffic.

The wet cobblestone roads were busier than ever. I was jostled, pushed and poked by the overwhelming swarm of bodies. I muttered apologies that were left unheard and kept my cloak tight to avoid causing too much of a disturbance.

Regar always told me it’s best to keep my head down during ceremony week. I can still hear his words echoing in the back of my mind. “The King’s Ceremony makes men foolish, kid, and foolish men with coin are dangerous.” At the same time, he’s always said soldiers were worse. “Never trust a man who smiles while wearing armor.”

I smiled a little at the thought. Regar had a saying for almost anything. But one thing he stressed to me before leaving camp was that I needed to go unnoticed, and more importantly… we needed to hit our quota. We lived an honest life. Staying hidden near the ruins, and stealing whatever trash the nobles would dump in the nearby scrap heaps.

Rain poured deep into the evening. I moved carefully, slipping past a pair of shouting merchants toward the market fires, which were slowly dying as large droplets fell on the nearby pits.

The ceremony had turned Suundralis into a madhouse. Emerald, violet, and maroon banners stretched between buildings overhead, snapping violently in the wind. As I continued to push forward, the sounds of street performers clapping, stomping, and dancing filled the cool night air. I could also hear distant drums start to echo as chants roared through the crowd.

I couldn’t explain it, but this year’s ceremony felt different than most. There was a buzz in the air that draped over the dirty roads like a murky fog. It lingered long enough for me to feel the crowd’s anticipation. They began to flock like a herd towards the center of the Cathedral District to prepare for the celebrations. I tried my best to ignore them. Crowds meant distraction. I needed to avoid distractions if I was going to get back to camp with something worth bringing home.

The northern gates sat just behind the Vexhold platform near the outer ruins, and according to Regar’s intel, guards wouldn’t be stationed there during the ceremony. Before I left camp, he made sure to tell me that Council guards are always, “too busy protecting rich people from poor people.”

Fortunately, Regar was right. Once I made my way through the main square, I was able to get my eyes on the north gate. It sat just beyond the shimmering steal posts that anchored the Vexhold platform into place. The gate was left cracked open, and, most importantly, unguarded.

Perfect. I thought to myself, Don’t move too quickly now, Kaelen. Hide your excitement. You can’t look too suspicious and waste away this opportunity.

I was halfway across the lower square when the drums started to change. The rhythm slowed just enough to signal to the locals that the festivities were about to start. The crowd was silenced, though there were distant murmurs heard echoing across the edge of the square. Up ahead, the towering doors of the Cathedral groaned. Fog slowly billowed first. Leaking out towards the crowd with a quiet hiss.

Then three black-cloaked figures followed, gliding effortlessly towards a raised stone platform. Emerald embossed armor sheathed their skin, and their faces were hidden by veined plated silver masks, scathing whatever shimmer of light remained.

Fog circled their feet. Their features were camouflaged against the dark sky so that their bodies were almost swallowed by shadows. Only the soft glow of torches along the Cathedral steps revealed their outlines. The smoky air rose and curled around their figures, as if offering itself to an unseen deity.

The Council of Shadows had arrived.

Great, I thought, an announcement like this is the last thing Regar and I need right now. Council inspectors may shut the market down. Or worse, double tax again.

The Council had ruled Suundralis for sixteen years without ever truly showing themselves to the people. Any sort of public presence typically meant a new decree was set to be announced. Shadow members governed over the ruling houses, even if nobility liked pretending otherwise.

Behind the three Council members, a large, tattered black flag flapped aimlessly in the wind. It soared high above other noble house flags, and etched to its center—neatly aligned with the Cathedral gold-plated dome—was the Council’s symbol.

The Council’s arrival held a weight of its own, heavy enough to silence the drunkards and the restless children. Any noise muttered was immediately hushed by other members of the crowd.

A herald, presumably a noble, stepped forward. He waited for a long pause before slowly lifting his hand.

“Velkaris threnn umvar. Saereth valen kor.”

His voice was low and husky as it vibrated against his silver mask. It was always customary for royal decrees to start with the dead tongue. Regar told me it means, “By shadow we are bound. By blood we endure.”

The Council continued.

“On this holy day, a day of remembrance and celebration, we not only acknowledge the fallen brothers and sisters of our ancient past, but look forward to a time of peace and prosperity.”

The crowd that had once been so quiet, permitted itself to murmur.

“This land died and was resurrected… new—reborn. The Council serves you on the backs of our ancestors and continues to thrive to this day because of its citizens. Suundralins are people of courage—people of strength and wisdom.”

The figure paused and was handed a scroll from one of the figures behind him.

“This fourth King’s Ceremony will not end in spectacle alone. This year, a champion will be crowned and rise from the ashes of our great ancestors. The Council has unanimously voted to hold the Great Wielding in the grand amphitheater upon the Cathedral steps where we stand today. The champion of our tournament will not only receive wealth beyond measure, but will also give its house the rights to claim an ancient relic long lost from before the Black Year… The Emerald Blade.”

The city erupted with shouts and gasps of disbelief. The Council paused just long enough for the crowd digest the news. To my left, a group of poor beggars talked amongst themselves.

“Did you ‘ear that?” One said with his dirtied brow scrunched.

“Well, I heard the words that came right from his mouth, Earl. But it simply can’t be true,” the other answered.

“The Emerald Blade?” Earl said, scratching his head, “Real? I fought ‘at was all a bunch of slogwash! Stories to keep us scared.”

The crowd never quieted. The indistinct chatter seemed to grow louder with each moment that passed by. I stood alone in a sea of crammed Suundralins, unable to shake a question lingering in the back of my mind. What in the world is the Emerald Blade? And why is everyone so worked up about it?

The rarity of the Council’s appearance, as well as the odd conversations I was surrounded by, had me so enraptured that I had almost forgotten my original mission. I looked back to the north gate where two guards now stood with their spears crossed. Drak, I thought, too late. I had wasted a perfect opportunity, and now I was going to have to return to camp empty handed.

I looked back to the Cathedral steps. The Council had vanished. Through the fog, a message was left illuminating through the stone:

ANY WHO BEAR THE BLOOD OF PRE-BLACK YEAR HOUSES MAY CLAIM TRIAL.

Laughter spread throughout the square almost immediately.

“Pre-Black year blood?”

“The Council’s gone mad.”

“Noble houses are all but extinct. Only three remain.”

“Not like the Council would give any of us common folk a chance anyway! All they care about are those damn aristocrats.”

I couldn’t help but smile after overhearing these conversations. I’d heard these rants, of course, on more than one occasion. Every so often Regar would drink a little too much and start to ramble about how the war changed Suundralis forever. He would always say that classes have never been more divided. Unfortunately, he was right; And to the poor commoners of the Cathedral District, the Council had one main intention following the war: keep poor people poor.

Achieving this, however, was no small feat. Countless noble houses were vanquished after the War of the Ancestors leaving a gaping pit of power. The ambitious saw the void not as a strategy, but the ultimate tool for advancement. As a result, the few ruling houses that remain now had more power than ever.

I should’ve left then. The crowd was slowly starting to become overwhelming and Regar was more than likely counting the minutes. But instead, I kept staring at the message carved in the stone. Because for the first time in my life, I wanted something more.

Wealth beyond measure

The Council’s words settled so pleasantly in my mind. Wealth meant coin. Wealth meant not hunting for scraps or hitting monthly quota. Wealth meant stable living. A room with four walls. A bed with clean sheets. Fresh meals prepared daily. I was caught imagining a life where Regar and I wouldn’t have to worry about ducking our heads every time we passed soldiers in the streets. There was no relic that mattered to me. I had never heard of the blade the Council mentioned. All that mattered to me was freedom.

My fingers curled at my sides as I wiped the sweat of my brow, and slowly, I let the thoughts exit my mind.

I crossed the muddy streets and started for camp across town.

By the time I returned to camp, the rain had become a storm.

Regar’s tent stayed low on the west side of Suundralis, right next to the ruins where old pillars jut out of the sandy dunes like gravestones. No one had ventured to the ruins since the Black Year. Regar preferred it that way. “Less thieves,” he would say. I always found it ironic, considering we made our living from stealing scrap.

Warm light spilled out underneath the tent flap. Regar was home. I ducked and stepped inside carefully. The old man was sitting right next to the fire pit with his wooden peg leg perched on a piece of stone. He had just finished taking a swig of his flask as he wiped the remaining brandy from his ashy beard.

“Well, well, well,” he said sarcastically. “There he is.”

I shut the flap of the tent behind me.

“You’re a little late,” he said, leaning back.

“The city is packed. I had no idea that it would be this crowded. Past ceremonies have never been like this before—”

“Oh no.”

He studied me and looked me up and down before shaking his head.

“Kaelen, Kaelen, Kaelen.”

“I can explain.”

“You’re empty-handed.”

“The gate was guarded. There was nothing I could do. I kept a low profile.”

He kicked his feet up and pointed his flask at me.

“You know, Kaelen, there was a time when I believed you’d make a terrifying criminal.”

“I’m touched.”

“Now look at you,” he said, “bested by two guards and a fence.”

Despite myself, I laughed.

Regar smirked.

“Something happened just now,” I said carefully, “at the Cathedral.”

“Something’s always happening at the Cathedral. It’s filled with rich people pretending they’re important.”

“The Council appeared.”

Regar’s smile faded instantly.

He lowered his flask from his lips.

“You saw them?”

“The whole city did.”

The words seemed to wound Regar. His expression slowly became distant. His eyes looked lost as he stared absently into the fire.

I noticed his hand start to tremble.

“There’s going to be a tournament,” I continued.

He mumbled something under his breath while his eyes remained fixed on the fire.

“What was that?” I asked.

“I said… that sounds like a great way to get yourself killed.”

I sat down next to him and lowered my voice.

“They’re offering coin, you know. ‘wealth beyond measure’ they called it.”

“Coin only gets a man so far in Suundralis,” he said, straightening his posture. “Rich men are often desolate—they lack courage. Every Suundralin noble has everything handed to them. They’ve worked for nothing. They sit back in their villas and raised balconies and laugh at men below. They’re proud of nothing, earned nothing, yet they demand respect.”

“Well, there’s another prize too.”

He raised his brow.

“The Council called it ‘the Emerald Blade.’” I said. “It sounded important. It got a pretty big reaction from the crowd. Have you ever heard of it?”

Regar’s eyes got cold.

“You stay away from that name.”

“You know it?”

He turned.

“No.”

“Sure sounds like you do.”

“I said no! And I don’t want to hear any more about this tournament. Besides, it’s not like you can qualify anyway.”

I squinted.

I didn’t mention the qualifications for entry, did I? I thought. He knows more than he’s willing to say.

Silence filled the tent as rainwater began pooling, making it sag low.

He lowered his head.

“The Council’s just filling your mind with stories.”

“But you know something.”

“I know enough, kid.”

“Tell me.”

His jaw tightened.

“The Black Year wasn’t just fire and ash. Yes, the Council rose to power, but it was so much more. Men have been killing each other for power for generations. Suundralin history is dark, Kaelen. Centuries of bloodshed.”

I studied him.

He wasn’t drunk anymore. At least, not fully, something about the conversation sobered him. He looked lost in some memory.

“So you’re scared?” I asked.

He scoffed.

“Of course I’m scared. Fear keeps people alive.”

“And you’re scared for me.”

He nodded.

“Why? I’m seventeen, I can handle myself.”

“Because I knew your father.”

Silence.

Regar got up from his stump to refill his flask.

“You told me he was a farmer.”

“He was.”

“He was killed in an accident. Accidents happen, Regar, that doesn’t mean you need to be overly protective of me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because you are all that I have. I can’t lose you, Kaelen.” After filling his flask, he took another long drink. “Your father was the best of us,” he said, wiping his mouth clean. “People followed him because of the values he upheld.”

Regar froze immediately after saying it.

I did too.

Silence.

The fire crackled softly between us.

“Followed him?”

Regar cursed under his breath and took another drink. “You’re hearing things,” he said.

“No I’m not,” I said, standing up. “You just said people followed him, Regar. What does that mean?”

He shrugged.

“Farmers can have… workers. That’s good work—honest living. Just because he was a farmer doesn’t mean he didn’t have a good reputation.”

I shook my head and closed my eyes. For years, my father had existed in my head in fragments. Now, those fragments were starting to crack open.

I finally built up the courage to respond.

“And what reputation are we upholding exactly? We never mention his name! How are we honoring anything while we hide out and fight for scraps every day?” I paused and looked in his eyes. “Who was he… really?”

“He was a good man.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well, it’s the only answer you need.”

“You said people followed him.”

“Kaelen, let’s not do this now—”

“No! Every time I bring up my father, you shut down. Every time I ask where we come from, you dodge the question entirely—or tell a really bad joke.”

“Hey, my jokes are incredible.”

“Not the time.”

I sighed and looked around the tent. Scraps of junk had started to pile up in random corners. Food was left around half-eaten. Our lantern was starting to die out, leaving us to trip over trash at night. This was our reputation.

“If he were just some farmer, then why are you afraid of this tournament?”

Regar didn’t answer. I didn’t really expect him to. After a moment of silence, he turned his back to me and began stoking the fire.

“You know what your problem is?” He asked, ignoring my question.

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“You’re inherently curious.” He smiled. “It’s actually quite a nice problem to have. You get it from your father.” He looked at me and sighed. “He was a good man, Kaelen. So good. Better than I’ll ever be. I don’t really talk about him too much because—if I’m being honest with myself—I haven’t recovered. I didn’t heal properly. And now I’m taking it out on you. That’s not fair. I’m sorry.”

“Can we start talking about him more?”

Silence.

“Regar?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes slowly drifted as he started to topple over in his chair.

“Drak, Regar,” I jumped across the tent in just enough time to catch him before he hit to the floor. I straightened him upright in his chair. His head flopped back as he began to snore profusely. I got up, brushed myself off, and sighed.

No amount of arguing had ever been worth it with him. He was too stuck in his ways. There were countless times I could’ve left. But I didn’t. Regar was all I had. We’d been through the worst together. I never knew how close Regar and my father actually were. All I knew was that my father had chosen him to protect me. The last few years had me questioning my father’s judgment. Regar wasn’t caring for me… I was caring for him.

I left the tent to watch the sun rise. Suundralis has always had the most beautiful mornings. The orange sun hugged the horizon as light began to spill across the vast sandy landscape.

Regar had always been right about one thing: the Council changed Suundralis forever. But for better or for worse, I always had these moments. A time for clarity. A time for solitude. The Council’s words circled my mind.

“Only pre-Black Year blood can claim trial.”

This could be my chance. This could be our chance for freedom. If Regar had been keeping this from me, and my father truly was more than a farmer. Someone who carried a legacy. Someone who was remembered. Then I had no choice but to claim trial.