The King. The List. The Oath.
The palace, although desolate, was as grand up close as it was from down in the centre of town. Its towering walls stood nobly despite the slump of the outer roof with an array of untrimmed vines and deep cracks scarring the aged stone.
Amara rolled her shoulders back as she corrected her slouch. Her parents had always reprimanded her for her poor posture as a child, so she knew that was how she was supposed to stand, especially when meeting a king.
She took a confident breath and approached the guards who stood at the entrance. They each looked out of place in a Kingdom as rundown as Eldoria with their rich red gambesons adorned with shimmering golden thread. Even the old iron of their pauldrons and gauntlets was shined to perfection in a simple attempt to mask the scratches and dents. The near-perfect picture image of a well-kept guard.
"State your business," the guard to her left commanded. He wore no helmet and, unlike his armour, appeared rather rugged. His dark beard was short but unkempt and the underside of his lip seemed split from what was likely a valiant attempt at keeping the peace.
"Amara Montclair. Adventurer. I'm here to pledge my sword in search of the Princess's heart."
"Montclair?" the guard on her right asked. She could not see him properly under his helmet but from his voice alone she could tell he was older than the other guard. Perhaps old enough to remember that the name Montclair used to mean something.
She met his eyes and gestured to the sword hanging at her side. It was made by the same swordsmith commissioned by the king — Evelina Dawnbreaker — something any trained soldier would know. The Dawnbreaker family had crafted the finest swords in the kingdom for centuries, there was no one better. The sword Amara carried was her father's, one of the only things she had left of him and one of the last swords to ever be born from the Dawnbreaker forge. The last of their line died out during the first famine.
The elder guard respectfully bowed his head. "I am sorry for your loss. Your parents were good people, it was a terrible shame when they passed."
She hummed and raised her brows, waiting for them to grant her entry to the palace.
"Head on in." The rugged guard moved to open the way.
Amara nodded her appreciation and acknowledged the elder guard's condolences with a sombre smile before passing through the imposing gates into the once-majestic palace.
The throne room was large and elegantly decorated. Red and gold banners donned each column, embellishing them with the phoenix crest that signified the Eldorian royal family. Much like the armour worn by the guards outside, it seemed that the interior was kept at its best only to hide its flaws. A lavish throne room that was somehow still full of such lonesome emptiness.
Halfway into the room, sitting between two columns was a tall slab of garnished stone holding the names of numerous adventurers. It was a memorial and at its base stood a chiseller carving a new name onto the ever-growing list. A monument to those who had fallen in pursuit of the Princess's heart.
Amara approached the memorial, her eyes tracing the engraved names of the fallen. The chiseller paused from his work, acknowledging her presence with a solemn nod before returning to his task.
Each name etched forever into the stone spoke of a brave soul who had ventured into the unknown, their sacrifice memorialised in the cold embrace of the palace walls. These were all who had come before her. The countless men and women who had died for the greater good. All those who had made no difference, brought back no heart, or hope for Eldoria.
The thought that her name might soon join them brought with it a lick of fear, but she would not give up so easily. She wasn't Eugan.
Amara's footsteps echoed as she continued through the throne room and her gaze finally reached the throne itself, where an ornate seat, once occupied by royalty, now stood vacant. A steep melancholy hung in the air, a poignant reminder of the kingdom's descent into ruin.
She stood before the steps leading up to the throne, wondering how different it must have felt to stand in this room all those years ago.
"Are you here to see Father?"
The voice came so suddenly as she had not realised anyone else was there. Each word was enunciated far too crisply and completely devoid of the nuances usually carried in human speech. With it came the whirr of gears and tick of something moving.
Startled, Amara turned towards the figure and was astonished by what she saw.
The princess was unlike anything she could have imagined. She was a strikingly beautiful young woman made entirely of metal. Her eyes were two silver balls, each with a refined emerald sitting in their centre as if to mimic a human iris. On sides of her cheeks down into a sizable stretch of her jaw were copper joints and cogs, all of which twitched and turned as she stood inspecting her guest. Even her neck was made entirely of metallic framework which was also full of twisting cogs and ticking clocks.
"Your Highness," Amara curtsied, "Yes, I am here to see the king. I wish to seek your heart."
The automaton delicately raised a hand to her chin, its patterned embellishments shining in the light, and tilted her head to the side with a slight snap. It was as though she were sizing up the newest adventurer to walk through the doors to her home, but her eyes seemed void of all thought or emotion.
"Rosalind!" another voice cried out as the frantic pitter patter of feet rushed into the throne room, "Oh Rosalind, there you are! You mustn't venture off on your own like that, what if something had happened to you?"
An elderly man, cloaked in regal attire, hurried over to the princess, and checked her over. His hands rested gently on either side of her as he faffed about with her dress, brushing out any creases and making sure none of the material had gotten caught up in any of her mechanisms.
"Another has come." The cogs in her jaw twirled round with a whirr as she spoke, her mouth not quite moving as it should.
Only then did the man acknowledge Amara's presence, turning to her with a look of questioning. "You are here to search for my daughter's heart?"
The young adventurer bowed. "Yes, your grace. My name is Amara Montclair, daughter of Caelia and Bernart Montclair."
The king hummed and it seemed clear to her then that he was barely listening to her. Otherwise, he would have noticed the names she had spoken and, she would like to think, offered his condolences. It was not his fault that her family, alongside so many others, lost everything they had — but he certainly could have at least acknowledged their names. He was, she supposed, simply far too focused on his clockwork daughter to pay much mind to other matters.
"You have experience?"
"I have undertaken some smaller quests. Slain my fair share of trolls and even—"
"Yes, yes. Very well," he dismissed, "You may come take your oath and venture into Veilstorm Forest in search of my daughter's heart."
Amara stepped forward and drew her sword before kneeling at the king's feet, clasping its hilt in her hands as though holding it in prayer. "I swear to you under the maiden's watchful gaze that I will find the princess's heart and return it to her. On my blade, her curse will be broken."
She looked up to find the princess standing before her with an outstretched hand. The intricate patterns on her fingertips gleamed softly in the palace's dim light. With a mechanical grace, she gestured for Amara to stand, the unnatural whirr of gears accompanying each movement.
"You may rise, Amara Montclair," Rosalind's voice chimed, lacking the typical fluctuation of emotion you would expect a voice to convey. Her emerald eyes flickered with an artificial glint as she looked over the young woman below her, as if she were truly curious about her.
As Amara stood, the king spoke once more, "Your pledge is acknowledged, and the fate of my daughter rests in your hands. May the maiden guide your path."
Amara stood in the dimly lit stable, checking over her ageing horse as she stocked the saddlebags with what little food she could afford.
"Oh, don't give me that look. We'll be fine," she reassured, her breath visible in the chilled air as she ran her fingers through the horse's velvety mane.
The once majestic steed huffed in response, asserting his belief in her words. He had been with her for most of her life and trusted her a great deal. When her parents lost all else, they refused to depart with such a crucial member of their family and kept the steed despite their better judgement. Shadowmere was his name. Her mother had named him so for his dazzling ebony coat.
"Well," she faltered, "I'm sure we will be. We've been through thick and thin together, right? Faced vicious trolls and navigated enchanted forests. We've danced with the fae and outran a serpent so large it could have swallowed us whole. This quest won't be any different."
The horse nudged her affectionately, reassuring her in turn.
She sighed. "Sure, you're getting a bit old and none of those forests were anything like Veilstorm. And no, we weren't diving into the jaws of whatever ancient magic may lurk there but we're capable. We'll be fine."
What had started out as a simple reassurance to her steadfast companion had soon turned into a moment of reaffirming her own beliefs. When she thought of her parents, however, she was certain she was ready for whatever danger lay ahead. Bravery and adventure ran through the blood in her veins, after all.
She held her head up high and tightened the saddle straps, ensuring everything was secure, and cast her gaze onto the weathered saddlebags that held their provisions. How long she would have to brave the forest, she could not say, but she was sure she had enough to last her at least a few days.
"The fate of Eldoria rests on our shoulders. If we don't succeed, then who will?" With a final nod, she mounted Shadowmere, and the pair set out on their journey to Veilstorm Forest.
©StoryWriterKato2024 . 1771 words
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