2412, Xavem 06, Reshpe

Kennen has had enough of sneaking in and out of places. Maybe it's time for him to try the more...direct approach. He's not the Crown Prince for nothing. That's what went on in his head on his way to the armory on the Grand Marshal's floor.

Soldiers clad in their ice-blue armor glanced at him then among themselves when they passed each other by on the corridors. Whispers clouded most of the noises of bustle in Kennen's surroundings, most of them about him and his presence. Maybe he's on his way to pay a visit to his mother, and they could care less about that.

If only Kennen hasn't built an image around himself as the pacifist prince, patterned after the no-violence principle of his father. The Grand Marshal's methods were...harsher, as evidenced by how the Capital Marshals dealt with every problem thrown into their jurisdiction. Kennen's presence in this floor could send an unwanted message that there was something wrong in the Chieftain's office and that only the Grand Marshal's often destructive methods were the solution to it.

That's politics for amateurs.

He should have snuck his way in, long after the lights have gone low. He did it once. What's to stop him from doing it again?

His sanity and anxiety, maybe. Ever since he took an impromptu trip around the island and encountered how dangerous being clueless on the surface was, he developed this irrational fear of the dark. Because the dark represented the culmination of the things one would never know. It's uncertainty, at its finest. And at its worst? It's one's doom.

That's why he risked going to the Marshal armory in the middle of the day, when he was certain there'd be someone who would hear him when he got locked behind a door. Well...he needed approval inside the armory first, hence the visit to his mother's office.

When the door gave way to it, a quaint room greeted him. Like his father's office, shelves, tables, and chairs lay in an artful clutter on the space, giving him a cozy sort of vibe. The stately desk sitting at the opposite end of the room looked out of place, as well as the stern woman behind it.

"Kennen," the Grand Marshal said, tearing her attention from the espionage logs provided by the appropriate division. "What brings you here?"

That question again. Was everyone so busy that the only reason to talk to each other was when they needed something? Kennen shook the negativity away, careful of letting it leak into his expression. A small smile plastered on his face as he stalked closer to his mother's desk.

"I need your approval for my access to the armory," he replied, tucking his hands inside his wide sleeves. It's a habit he couldn't erase from his system, one he observed from his elders and most of his peers. Then again, he only did that when he's anxious, and he wouldn't put it past his mother to notice that.

The Grand Marshal leveled her dark eyes at Kennen. "Why go there?" she asked. "What do you need a weapon for? I'll have the Marshals fetch it for you."

"I'd hate for you to trouble more people at work," Kennen stepped forward with a shake of his head. "I didn't want to barge into your office either, but without clearance, I doubt the guards will let me inside the armory."

He scratched the back of his neck, his eyes landing on the ceiling as his mind thought about how to get himself out of the grave he dug. "I just...need to verify something," he said. "And I've been dying for a new knife recently. Something to protect myself with. You know that, right? The spies who have been trying to infiltrate the Capital have numbered more than a hundred now."

We don't want a repeat of last time, he wanted to add, but didn't. He bit back the words in fear of the Grand Marshal overreacting and issuing a Capital-wide lockdown. His mother was prone to letting emotions cloud her judgment, especially when it came to him. Annoying, but he could live with it.

The Grand Marshal narrowed her eyes in thought. "And you need to do this personally because...?"

"A soldier's weapon should answer them in both spirit and form," Kennen popped a finger in the air, similar to how Lydin did whenever she delivered the well-known spritean proverbs. "Marshal Draswist taught me that."

In reality, he overheard it spoken too much in the soldier rings whenever they thought it's better to mock the stern general behind her back. It's not like Kennen wanted to be acquainted with the scary woman. Just one look from her, and she could freeze a sprite's entire form despite not doing any kind of magic. Geradine Draswist was just unnerving that way.

His mother sighed, a sound that flooded Kennen's system with enough relief to last him a lifetime. "I'll have one of the guards go with you," she said. "Don't linger inside, and don't touch things you have no intention of getting."

Kennen ducked his head at the Grand Marshal. "I thank you profusely," he said, making sure to tamp down the triumphant smile creeping into his lips. "May Gadpier reward your generosity with more."

"I'm your mother, for Emeria's sake," the Grand Marshal said when he straightened. "You don't need to be so formal."

"It's the training, Mother," Kennen replied with a smile on his way out of her office.

His legs brought him in front of the armory's doors, flanked, as expected, by two armored guards. Their spears crossed at the tip upon sensing his approach. He greeted them with another bow. He didn't linger though, since he outranked them by notches. "I bear the Grand Marshal's approval," he said. "One of you may join me inside."

The guards exchanged a look, and one of them shrugged. It's hard to see their faces underneath the spiked helmet they wore, so Kennen could only refer to them by their occupation. The left one jerked their chin at him before peeling from their post and opening the doors they're guarding. With a quiet hiss, the entirety of the Grand Marshal's armory bled before him.

Light from the panels of illuminated ice made the heads of the spears glint silver and the polished sheets of metal shields, periwinkle. He and the guard trudged in an aimless wander past the racks of spears and bows and display cases of daggers, arrowheads, and tapered swords, each one more ornate and threatening than the last.

"What are we looking for, Your Highness?" the guard asked. The voice that registered into Kennen's ears sounded feminine.

"A dagger from that shelf would be nice," Kennen pointed in a vague direction, towards the tall shelves of armor parts starting from helmets before going down to the metal boots. The guard was quick to saunter past him and disappear behind the gaps of the shelves.

Kennen had another goal in mind, though. Shedding the dark cloak he wore, he tamped down the shiver rising from his spine and forced his heart beat to quiet down.

"Is this what you're looking for, Your Highness?" came the guard's question, leaning away from the shelves' corner and hefting a sheathed dagger on her hands. "It has a nice grip. I personally recommend it."

He didn't bother giving it a thought. "Find another one," he said, pausing on his way towards the golden rack standing apart from the ordinary things in the room. It's the Bloodspeaker—no doubt about it. As if he was being drawn to it by an irresistible force, he shuffled near it.

He was about to pluck it off its place when a voice speared to his ears. "Found it!" shouted the guard in victory. He turned to the next display beside the cloak, which happened to be an assembled Marshal armor notches bigger than him. "I'm sure you will like this one, Your Highness. It's made by the same smith General Draswist favors, so there's no way it's not good!"

Oh, this guard's doing her job excellently. Kennen didn't need that right now, so he rolled his shoulders. "Find me another one," he said. "I would hate to rip a General's favored product from them."

An excuse. He wasn't even looking for a blade to nick himself with. As the guard walked back to the shelves in defeat, Kennen scooted next to the golden rack where the Bloodspeaker hung without ceremony. The switch happened in a blink, and by the time the guard sauntered out of the shelves' influence once more, Kennen had slipped the special cloak on his shoulders and smiled as if his whole fate depended on it.

The guard didn't appear to notice something different in Kennen's stance when she handed him the dagger she found. "It's the best I can vouch for in the bunch," she said. "There are more shipments arriving next week, if you can wait that long."

As an answer, Kennen snatched the blade and stalked out of the armory. His steps were fast, causing the guard to start jogging just to catch up. Did he seem like he was guilty of something? Maybe. He's as straightforward as he appeared, and Dalan kept reminding him he's an amateur liar.

Nevertheless, he and the guard reached the lip of the armory without blunders. He ducked his head at the soldiers as they prepared to part ways. "Thank you for your time, officers," he said with the lightest smile he could muster through the erratic pounding of his heart on his temples and toes. He jerked his chin at the guard who retook her spot on the door's left flank. "And you've got a good eye on weaponry."

He turned away, and when a distinct thud resounded behind him, he didn't stop to check. His boots hurried across the cold floor, his breaths blowing in and out of his ears in puffs and huffs. He didn't stop brisk-walking until he climbed five floors higher and was certain no one followed him from the Grand Marshal's armory.

That's when he noticed the difference in weight of the Bloodspeaker on his shoulders. Before it became a throne, it probably was like the cloak he replaced it with in the armory—bland, dark, and ordinary. But with enough magic and reverence, the material felt soft and ethereal even through the layers of his robes. The threads shone like the midnight sky—a phenomenon he glimpsed once when he got poached aboveground.

It sank in, then.

Kennen Jarmez, the Crown Prince of the Ice Sprites, just stole his people's sacred throne.

Which, in retrospect, wasn't really punishable by law. Technically, it belonged to him, with him being next in line to the Chief's seat. But...ugh. It still felt wrong. So, so wrong.

He reached the Hall of Symbols and stepped inside without an air of respect. The Warseeker joined his palm before he could think twice about it. He retreated into the hall's nearest corner and sank into crossed legs. The Bloodspeaker rustled when he slid it off his form and laid it on his thighs.

"Okay, now what?" he asked aloud, his voice echoing along the dim lighting of the surrounding empty space. Of course, nobody answered back. He'd lose it if someone did.

He chewed on his lip, his thoughts flying in every direction—both nameable and not. The tome Remryn lent him didn't tell him anything about activating a throne's innate power and using it how he wanted. If his logic could follow, thrones also used tons of a soul's magical reserves, and Kennen doubted he'd have enough to last him more than a few minutes.

He shook his head to clear it. "Just do whatever," he muttered under his breath, aware of how close he was to being convinced he had really lost it. "Trial and error won't hurt."

The Bloodspeaker was soft under his touch when he hefted it the same level of the Warseeker, each occupying a different hand. Show me your secrets, he chanted to the smaller object the size of his palm, and to the cloak spilling from his hold, he said, Open the doors to the truth.

Then, he touched both objects together.

Since he was convinced nothing would happen, he wasn't prepared when a bolt of white-hot light sped towards him, slapping his eyeballs and swallowing the world as he knew it.

It was an unfamiliar world, but one thing was sure: he was above ground.

His boots—at least, he's convinced he wore boots—thunked against manicured cobblestones, each step emanating a stab of pain up his ankles. After gliding all his life across slick ice floors, having to slog through concrete ground seemed like a whole other endeavor. That, or he had been running for as long as the dull ache in his side told him.

Why was he running, anyway?

More importantly, where was he?

His memories told him nothing followed after the bright light he succumbed to. After combining the two thrones and stating his most fervent wish, they did their best to comply. To what, exactly? He wasn't exactly sure.

"Get back here, you thief!" a distinct and hearty gargle resounded behind him. A sudden flash of fear—which made the least sense—spiked from his gut to his throat. With constricting airways, forces conspired to tear his form away from the road and into the alleys. It seemed as if someone was orchestrating the entire thing.

Or this was a memory, and everything has already happened.

Which prompted the next uncomfortable question—whose memory was this?

He rounded another alley, and it spat him straight into a wide city square, complete with a gushing fountain. Behind him, strings of curses made up most of the gibberish bleeding into his ears. Metal clanged, and startled squawks of fowls and irritated bleats of cloud-like creatures joined the cacophony.

Swerving in and out of the way of people absorbed in their daily tasks, he stumbled closer to the fountain's rim, rounding the base to hide himself behind the tiered bowls. Several men in leather vests thrown over dusty tunics screeched in confusion from the alley he exited, looking around in search of him. After a while, they threw their hands in the air and stalked off.

A sigh peeled off his lips. He settled on the fountain's base and happened to glance at the silhouette coloring the murky waters of the reservoir. Shadowed by the bright morning sun, his eyes widened at the face the water reflected back to him.

Instead of the straight locks framing his face in luscious waves, wavy curls sat in disarray over his forehead. His robes were replaced by a tattered set of tunics, trousers, and boots—things he didn't remember owning or even seeing in his lifetime. A cloak with a rigid and sharp collar sat on his shoulders, but it couldn't mimic the comfortable weight of the Bloodspeaker.

Then, his interest shifted to another strange thing he noticed in his form. Slowly, a hand reached up to the sides of his head, shaking as they went. His fingers squeezed his ears.

They were rounded.