Velorin Zadhan - the Scarred (Page 50)

While politics ran through the veins of the young princes and princesses, Artes had the blood of a warrior run through his. He had lived for the moment to become a blackmantle, and that moment neared with the final trials ahead. Several groups of blackmantle trainee’s entered the wilderness of Valyndis, among them the group of Artes, each boy with his own task - united in brotherhood and survival. Months passed as summer turned to autumn and a few individuals returned successful from their trial. Slowly, the conditions of the wilderness turned more ominous, and luckily more of the trainee’s had returned - some groups again complete, though some unlucky boys had found their end, their deaths confirmed, but no sign of any of Artes’ group. When he entered the blackmantle trials, few doubted he would emerge as one of Azuria’s greatest warriors. And yet, fate does not always bend to will alone. There are stories still whispered of that damned winter, the trial that took the lives of even the strongest among them. And at the heart of those whispers, a name - The blade of Azuria, lost to the wilderness.
When word reached the capitol, hundreds of men were sent, scouring the depths of the Valyndis mountains, following blood trails, finding shattered weapons and the torn banners of fallen aspirants, yet no sign of the young prince nor his group.
For weeks, the halls of Azuria were silent. The king did not emerge from his chambers, refusing to eat and scarcely drink.
But when he emerged, Velorin immediately rode for the blackmantle stronghold before the council could intervene. His wrath shook the halls of the blackcastle, demanding the end of the blackmantle trials. People still recall his words, ‘Barbarism paraded as discipline, "That is all your trials are, Dercks. A pitiful masquerade of power, wrapped in the pretense of honor. Tell me what you did to my son. What task was he given?".
Dercks was a man weathered by years of war. His face did not flinch at those words. “The tasks of trials are not for the ears of commoners, the noble, nor kings. But I will tell you this - he asked for the hardest of trials, a task no blackmantle before him had dared to take. A ballsy one he was, that much is true”.
It is said that Velorin turned white with fury, his knees shook from rage or absence of food, or both. “I should have your head for this. You peasant-born son of a whore, if this discipline you so desperately seek in others is even remotely in you, then prove it."
He unsheathed his blade, steel singing against the silence of the hall.
‘Duel me, stand against me and show me the need for your barbarism or fall here and let it be the end of you.’

It was said that the gods themselves watched, as if to weigh the strength of kings against the might of war itself.
It is known that Velorin stood pale and hollowed with loss before Dercks, a man built for war, broad as an iron gate. His sixty years weighed heavy upon him, though not slowing his hands. If size were the measure of a warrior, the fight would be over before it began.
Velorin looked almost fragile beside him. Cheeks gaunt, his shoulders slight, a lean frame where Dercks was a fortress. And yet, there was something in the way Velorin moved - his grief had carved him into something sharp and reckless, careless for death.
The duel was not swift. Dercks fought like a war-machine, his swings heavy, meant to break bones. Velorin’s blade was quick, precise, but each strike cost him.
It took some time, but eventually Dercks broke down Velorin’s guard, his sword shattering at the clash of Dercks’ heavier sword. The following strike found flesh, splitting Velorins’ cheeks open, the deep cut ran to his jaw. The second blow sliced his shoulder deep, nearly toppling him. But the king did not fall, he roared.
The cry shook the halls itself, as if a man possessed.
And at that moment, Dercks hesitated.
Velorin grabbed his dagger, stormed at the Warden of War, ducked his heavy blow and jumped with all his force against his chest, dagger first. Dercks staggered, blood blooming across his tunic. Velorin kept roaring, his dagger finding Dercks multiple times before his body thudded on the ground, and Velorin beside it.
For the first time in decades, the warden of war bent the knee.
It is said that the king did not kill him. Maybe his strikes did not bear the strength needed to end him, or perhaps because he had already lost too much. Instead, he exiled the machine of war from the halls he ruled for two decades, his name stripped from the ranks.
Velorin did not leave unscarred, his wounds too deep. A forever reminder of the son he had lost and the man he had beaten but could not break.
From that day forward, the kingdom knew him as Velorin the Scarred.