The white vapor of silkworm tea glazed the eyes of many who stumbled through Lamperia. Willing victims breathed deep, exhaling in chants and laughs, dancing to grandiloquent lutes and flutes which continued on repeat, over and over. Yet no one complained. Not a person thought or stopped. There was no time to waste. Every second, every minute, hour, day was spent like so, especially now that only a week remained of uninterrupted bliss. Not a person in the city sat or slept. Exploding lights lit up the dark skies with large booms and bangs. Bright-colored decorations hung from balconies and equally dressed-up necks. Red and black wooden barrels of exotic spirits lined the town like a winding wall stacked high, though many had now been taken down and opened- the liquid drowning every open mouth, as well as the road it sat on. Its sticky ichor coating the stone-paved pathway, making each step a bit more resistant.
It was to be expected. Hundreds of bodies filled the streets as most taverns had remained filled many days since. One knew better than to leave their seat at a table, for the moment they did, it was snatched up. The Saltbrick Tavern, for example, had every stool, chair, and bucket filled with customers. No standing room existed, and the parts that did were avoided due to passed-out guests and incidental piles of feces that didn't make it into the upstairs hole. Alas, if it bothered the customers, there was not one to show it. The tavern continued normally, filling each glass, emptying old ones, and repeating- and it would do so until the last person left.
A sudden splash of cold, sour ale opened King Civon's eyes. His mind slammed against the walls of his head as he realized that that eleventh tankard of taffy ale his knight warned him against had been one too many. He moaned and stood up. The smell of old sweat from unbathed bodies and an odd putrid odor now coming from the direction of his boot caused the room to spin.
He felt the grip of Sir Rowland, his knight in arms, steady him.
"I'm fine. I just need air." Civon pushed through the undisturbed crowd until the smoky morning air greeted him. If not for the mixed smell of puffed silkworm and lacegrass, the piscine sea breeze would have brought him to his knees, and he would have added to the piles of yellow and orange vomit that stained the sticky, stoned path. The look of its filth alone could twist a sober man's stomach, though there were none of those here. Not now. The Emperor's capital had not seen a moment of rest since the last full moon. For it was the celebration of Emperor Azrykis's 50th birthday. The people of Lamperia had waited for nothing else- year long. And now that it was here, the capital wasted no expense in its month-long festival, which King Civon found a bit tiring.
Though all the Kings and Queens of Vazrandin were invited, very few stayed past the first day's feast. The tables had been filled with meats, cheeses, breads, dried fruits, and sweets. A poor man's dream and, on that day- a reality. As it was known, all were welcome to the Emperor's table on the day of his birth.
Among the Kings and Queens to attend, there were three: King Regent of West Beck, King Grashit of Redbrook, and King Civon of Deep Rock.
At the end of the hall, slightly below where the Emperor sat, was a long golden-lace-dressed table set for five, but on that night, two of the chairs remained empty, leaving tension between the Kings present as the Emperor greeted them with a half-soured look. Though any were welcome, the leaders of the five kingdoms were expected at the feast. "I wish to celebrate and share in the wealth of- the land, my people, and friends." Emperor Azrykis always ended the toast with a raised chalice and a slight nod of approval to the King's table. But this year, the glass had not tipped, nor had there been a nod. His gaze had remained linear to the people, without even a glance down. It was shameful.
King Regent, who mumbled and cursed with every cup of mulberry wine, left posthaste following the end of the feast with means of visiting his neighboring brother Kingdom of Bastion, where King LanBurn ruled. In King Regent's words, "I plan to give him a piece of my mind," and to that, King Civon responded, "Please give him my regards."
King Grashit, however, made no mention of the other Kings' absence. The only words that left his mouth related to the subject of mages- his mages, to be exact- a magic family known as the Whiteflowers. It was a sensitive subject that Civon wished Grashit spoke less of. Yet it was for that reason alone that it was brought up every single time. It made Civon frustrated, and Grashit enjoyed watching him squirm. It wasn't until King Civon gracefully excused himself from the table that Grashit's mouth silenced.
If Civon had not been distracted by the several beautiful dancers that pulled him towards the crowded dance floor, he would have returned to his seat and put up with King Grashit's bragging and babbling. But after a few stiff drinks and several hours of the best sloppy footwork he knew, the time for talking had passed. When he returned, he discovered he was the only one that remained. The King's table lay empty. Of course, the only solution was to stay and enjoy the festivities. Why leave when the biggest festival of the century had just begun? But that was then, and it was now. Twenty-two days in and five remaining. It concerned Civon how little he remembered of it. A vague memory itched at his brain, like a dream forgotten the moment sleeping eyes opened. King Civon looked over to his guard, Sir Rowland. Whatever had unfolded in the past several hours was naught compared to the previous year, where he had convinced his guard to sing a ditty atop a bar table, all while dancing in undergarments because they had lost everything else in a bet.
"Nothing happened?" Curiosity overtook him.
Sir Rowland sighed.
"Thankfully, sir, nothing. You did complain about Grashit quite regularly, though."
King Civon mumbled, irritated that he let his annoyance slip through. Besides the evident trivial matters of running a kingdom, it was also a King's job to be completely opaque. As the phrase goes, "One does not show the cards that one holds." The moment one does, they lose the upper hand.
"Shall we return home?" Sir Rowland offered a towel as Civon washed off the dried hops from his three-week-old stubble.
They had no reason to go, and yet no reason to stay- besides the fact that any further drinking would surely make him bedridden for a week. Perhaps that was reason enough to leave.
"You're right. Rowland g-go prepare our thing-"
Piercing screams echoed through the town. Unlike the screeches and yells, King Civon had heard nonstop in the taverns overnight, these could bring a hungover man- even a drunkard- to their senses. For these screams echoed with pure, genuine fear. A bone-cold chill made his hair stand and ears itch. The commotion had come from the beach below. Instinctively, Civon and Sir Rowland ran toward the dock, where the sudden crowd grew ever thicker. Their hands remained tightly over their scabbards in case their reflexes should be tested.
They pushed their way through. A woman dressed in brown lacey chiffon was held tightly by a man in similar attire. She sobbed uncontrollably, eyes locked on the sandy beach below. Others nearby pointed downward with one hand- mouth covered with the other. King Civon followed their gaze until his eyes fell upon long bronze hair. A woman, bare-chested, laying still against red tainted sand. His eyes grew wide. Green and blue hues reflected across shiny round scales that covered a long broad tail, that Civon was sure, should very well be legs. It was a siren.
"Step back. Make some room!" Sir Rowland called out as Civon knelt to her. Despite her beauty, her body was covered in wounds.
"Call for the herbalist and a healer. And gather the scholars. We need every book relating to sirens." Sir Rowland obeyed, relaying the message to approaching royal guards.
Blood gushed from a gash that split across her brow, and not to mention, her caudal fin seemed to be deeply sliced. Had she been attacked? But by whom? Mermaids were said to be the fastest creatures in the sea. How had this happened? More importantly, how had they not known of their existence? As far as the Empire knew, sirens were extinct.
Civon gently tucked his arm under her, cautiously bringing her up. Her eyes slowly rolled open. Bystanders gasped and gossiped, far too curious of her rarity than her injury.
"You are ok. We are going to get you some help." He told her- as if she could understand him. Unfortunately for him, he did not know the language of Alguri. Few books taught it or even mentioned it. Their race and their history had almost been completely lost to time.
The siren lifted her hand. Civon watched it carefully as it moved up, retracting momentarily before touching his cheek. His mind opened, and she spoke to him. There was only one word.
"Eraos."
For a moment, the distant jolly music grew silent. A slow wave washed upon the shore like a quiet breeze, but it was interrupted by those who remained near. People gasped, some cried, while others stood silently in the midst. The clouds even darkened in the distance, as if reacting along.
The news would soon spread. King Civon could do nothing of it. The festivities would halt and the council would be gathered.
"Eraos."
The name was well known. It was the 9th dragon-born in Vazrandin. It had disappeared many decades ago, as they do when the land enters a time of peace.
Its arrival, however, meant only one thing.
King Civon looked over at Sir Rowland. There would be no returning to Deep Rock.
Much needed to be done and there was little time to waste. Vazrandin had to prepare for war.
~
Current Chapter Word Count: 1,729
Total Word Count: 1,729