He felt so small. He felt likejust a boy...
And now he didn’t know if he liked it.
His father’s next words seemed to catch on to that realization.
“If you werejust a boy,Arawn,you’d have a hard time earning it. But a Sacred King?” A smile lit up his father’s face, as rare as the sun, just for a moment before he reigned his emotions back in. As any good Sacred should. “A Sacred King is raised the way you are, bored and wantingmore...so that someday, when his magic is finally unleashed, the Five will bless himtenfoldfor it.”
He dropped Arawn’s hand, leaving him cold.
“You will stay here until nightfall as your penance for doubting. You will help the soldiers load up the carts with their dead. And by darkness, you will send off the living when they head off to fight. Have I made myself clear?”
His stomach churned. But Arawn inclined his head. “Yes, Father.”
“King,”Draybor growled. “Never see me, nor yourself, as anything but.”
“Yes...King,” Arawn said back.
And the king left him alone.
All day, he helped thenomageslift their dead onto carts.He helped write their names on worn scrolls, so that they could be passed on to the Ravenminders in their towers, so that their loved ones would find out, soon enough...that they had died fighting in a war they could not yet win.
When the day ended, and the soldiers formed a line and began to march, solemnly, into another night of war...
Arawn counted them all. He prayed for each of them, one by one.
How many,he wondered,will be loaded onto carts tomorrow?
How many will be dead?
His crown still felt like a burden, even as he marched the long staircase back north. Even as the shadow of the Citadel fell upon him, and he found himself standing safe and sound before the ancient tree. He stared at all the swords as the snow danced upon his head, and the war rumbled on the other side of the wards.
But he felt it like it was inside of him.
He felt the boom and roar of the Acolyte’s awful magic...
And he hated it.
Someday,Arawn thought, looking down at the dried blood on his boots and his hands.Someday...I will be a great Sacred king...and nobody will ever have to die by darksouls again.
He would keep his promise.
He would keep it, even if it broke him.
3
He was nine when he first paid true penance.
He’d been dismissed early from his afternoon training, for he’d defeatedallthe other younglings in under five minutes.
He felt strangely light,happy,for he rarely had time on his hands to do as he pleased.
But by the time he marched up the spiraling stone stairwell and out into the main walkway of the Citadel, his heart sank. His father’s servant was there waiting for him, a boy in brown robes that was most certainly here to lead Arawn off to yetanotherstep in his training regimen.
“Prince!”
The boy stood from the marble bench he’d been seated on, a scroll in his hands. But he paused, unable to cross the hall for how many Sacred already filled it. Knights and Scribes marched about in various shades of white and brown and grey, preparing for another night of war.
“Prince!” the servant shouted, but he kept pausing and bowing his head as each Sacred passed. “The King wishes to?—"
