He stood tall and proud before his command tent, bathed in the light of the setting sun, certain that he could be seen by all in his gleaming armor despite the gathering clouds. The torches that surrounded him glowed in the light mist that was starting to fall. Overhead, his banner, red with the rampant gold wyvern, snapped in the breeze.
What a glorious day. What an image to burn into the hearts of his warriors.
Xyrath held his pose, hands on his hips, chest lifted proudly, and watched as Lord Marshal Tarwain walked toward him, covered in gore and dirt, his beard thick with filth. The man’s white teeth practically glowed as he grinned in triumph. In his hands was the crown of Xy, gleaming despite the mud and weeds that clung to it. Tarwain wiped at the metal with his bare hands as he drew closer, throwing clumps of muck to the ground.
Xyrath doffed his helmet and shook out his blond hair as the men around him cheered. Tarwain went to one knee before him and offered up the crown. “All hail King Xyrath, Son of the Blood, King of Xy!” Tarwain boomed.
Cheers rose as Xyrath took the crown, careful not to grimace at the feel of the chilly mess still clinging to the gold. He lifted the circlet high before placing it on his own glorious blond head. The cheers rang out again and continued as he pulled Tarwain to his feet. Xyrath put one hand on Tarwain’s neck and pulled his head close, as if in fond embrace. “Wellan?” he asked under his breath.
“Dead,” Tarwain said. “I pulled the crown from his head myself.”
“And the Ring?” Xyrath asked.
Tarwain shook his head. He drew from his belt the traditional red leather gloves also smeared with gore and mud, and dropped them at Xyrath’s feet. “Lost. I pulled these off his hands myself. The Ring wasn’t on him,” he murmured. Tarwain straightened up as he took a step back and took off his own helmet, running a hand through his dark, sweat-soaked hair. “Hail to King Xyrath,” he shouted.
Cheers washed over Xyrath, even as a wave of rage passed through him at the loss of the Ring. But he kept his face stern and solemn. There would be time for that later. He raised a hand for silence.
The bloodied and exhausted men around him all went to one knee, bowing their heads. Tarwain waited a breath, then he too knelt.
“My friends, my faithful brothers,” Xyrath half-shouted, “we have won this day. I give thanks to the Lord of the Sun for his aid and strength in ending this civil war. Once more, the Crown has been claimed by the Blood. Let us march upon the gates of Edenrich and restore the Throne of Xy!”
Cheers followed his words, but they seemed to be a bit less enthusiastic than moments before. Lord Marshal Tarwain rose to his feet stiffly, his armor rattling. “My King, perhaps you mean to march upon the morrow? I’ve a report on our losses and we must see to the wounded.”
Xyrath frowned at the man. “We must present ourselves to our people, Lord Marshal.”
“Aye,” Tarwain said, hesitating. “But Your Majesty needs to—”
“Wait,” finished a feminine voice.
The flap of the command tent opened as Xyrath turned to see Satia emerge, looking calm and cool in blood-red robes, her beautiful heart-shaped face bearing a slight smile. Her golden brown skin glowed in the torch light, her long black hair gathered in a single thick braid.
Two of her bondmaidens followed. Surprisingly, they were not dressed in their usual, matching finery. Satia had armed and armored them, so they stood in black leather and chainmail, swords and daggers at their sides. The pair framed Satia, in her lovely red dress, her dark eyes warm and filled with admiration for him.
Every inch his lovely queen.
She was going to stop him, he could tell, just as she had restricted him from the battlefield. A necessary precaution, but it had still stung.
Her alluring dark eyes focused on Xyrath as if she knew his thoughts. “His majesty needs to wait before his triumphal entry to Edenrich. The time is not yet right. There are tasks that need doing.”
Xyrath returned her smile, hiding a twinge of annoyance. She was right, and she had good reasons, but he disliked being denied. Still, there were tasks that only he could do. He held out his hand.
Satia stepped lightly to his side and took it.
“Warriors of Xy,” Tarwain bellowed. “Behold her Majesty, Satia, Queen of Xy.”
Cheers rose again. Xyrath was pleased they were not as loud ashishad been.
Satia smiled asshe emerged from the tent, focused on her glorious golden god of a man, now king. King.
Finally.
But even as she stepped forward and took his hand, turning her gaze on the cheering warriors gathered before them, she knew this wasn’t the end, it was just the beginning. They had seized the crown, now they had to secure it.
“My King,” she said placing extra emphasis on the title. “We must needs see to our injured and our honored dead.” She tilted her head to the northern sky and lowering clouds. “The winds will bring rain this night. A sorry sight to stagger into the city, bedraggled and muddy.” He flinched at muddy, as she knew he would. She pressed her point. “We will make a glorious procession of victory in the bright light of the morning, with all the fanfare you can imagine, if the people are given time to prepare.”
Xyrath hesitated ever-so-slightly, then smiled and nodded. “You are right, my fair Queen,” he said. “In the morning light, I’ll ride at the head of my warriors with the trumpets sounding, banners flying, and all the people cheering.”
“Besides,” Satia leaned into him to whisper, making sure that he caught the scent of her perfume as her breath tickled his ear. “All know that a warrior is most potent after a battle.” She half-closed her eyes, letting her dark lashes mask them. “We must celebrate, you and I. After you have seen to the…business. Upon your return.”
