Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

A great round table stretched before him, carved from a single trunk of blackened ironwood, polished to an unnatural shine. Around it sat ten armored muscular figures dressed in leather and plates of steel and gold, their armor gleaming, their gazes sharper than swords.

The Ten Blades of Velrane.

The highest rank a general could rise to under the crown.

Ergon swallowed.

At the northern arc of the table sat Hans, the eldest son, the Steel Fang of Drakmores. He didn't look at Ergon not even once. Hans stood taller than anyone else in the room, even while sitting. His beauty was cold, flawless like a marble statue, and his arms looked like they could bend metal in prayer. His armor bore no decoration.

Next to him sat Leo, the Golden Paw. A bit smaller in build, shorter than Hans by a hair, less broad but just as fearsome in his own right. His golden trim and lion-crested pauldrons gave him grace, but his eyes held no warmth. Unlike Hans, Leo did acknowledge Ergon with a glance that felt like someone scraping muck from their boot.

And behind Leo stood Bron, Ergon's younger brother.

Bron stood proud in armor richer than either of them, gaudy and polished, lined with purple and emerald. He didn't even look Ergon's way. His chin was held high, arrogant beyond reason. He mirrored Leo's stance and mimicked his movements. His loyalty to Leo was known. As Leo's second-in-command, Bron had earned his place through blood, grit, and brute will.

And there… at the head of the table… sat the storm.

Talen Drakmore.

The man who sits atop the Lion's Rock. The blade of the kingdom. The war-hammer of Velrane.

And Ergon's father.

Talen's presence was like standing in the middle of a battlefield just before the clash. His armor was dark, unadorned, his cloak long and ragged from old battles. Beside him lay his blade: Storm Edge.

Ergon's eyes landed on it and stayed there too long.

Storm Edge.

The sword that cleaved through kingdoms. The sword that had been dipped in the blood of thousands. Said to be the sharpest edge in all of the realms. Some claimed it drank souls. Others said it carried none, because Talen had left none alive to haunt it.

Ergon's throat tightened. He swallowed his spit. It tasted like copper.

The gaze of one of the generals shifted toward him, a man less buffed than the others in the room, but lean with power. His voice sliced through the air, curious but cold. "May this man be…"

He was Ergon's Uncle. Brian the Greatblade. They hadn't met for a long time. Brian showed no interested in his nephew. Nor did Ergon had the courage to face even the closest of his relatives. It never ended well for him, being ridiculed all the time. Brian's gaze used to pierce his soul sharper and harder than any shouts or screams coming from his own father.

Talen didn't even stand. His voice rolled like thunder. "Yes, brother. He is the one. My third son."

A few generals blinked in suprise. A few exchanged glances. Some were polite enough to hide it. Others were not.

Hans didn't react.

Leo gave the smallest scoff of breath and turned his eyes away.

Bron smirked.

Ergon felt the heat crawl into his face.

"I've heard the rumors," one general said, lips curled faintly. "It's… my pleasure."

But none dared say more. Not while Talen Drakmore sat among them. Mockery had limits here.

Ergon stood frozen, his heart thudding like a drum behind a pig's chest. He wasn't a fool. He knew what they all thought.

He was the stain.

They were steel. He was lard.

They were blade. He was blubber.

And worst of all… he was nevertheless a Drakmore.

So every laugh and insult behind his back, bled into the House name. Talen hated that. He always looked at Ergon like he was a nail driven into his foot.

Ergon tried not to wilt beneath it.

Talen spoke again. "We shall begin."

Wait, had they waited for him?

Ergon blinked. The smallest curl of pride bubbled in his chest. They had waited, for him.

He moved stiffly, trying not to look overeager. His head dipped. "Thank you, my l—my lord." He corrected himself quickly.

He approached the table… then stopped.

There were no empty seats.

None.

He looked around.

His eyes paused on one empty seat, placed beside Talen's right.

That seat belonged to Melisa, Talen's first wife. Ergon had never met her, only heard stories. They said she once fought beside Talen, sword in hand, blood on her face. They said her death in battle had shaken the heavens.

And then, years later, Talen married Marya, Ergon's mother, but she too had disappeared when Ergon was still a child barely able to crawl, gone with no trace to follow.

He had no memories of her. The only ones that raised Ergon afterward were the maids and servants. Ergon did not have the privilege of being raised by the motherly love.

He had solely experienced fattening years of being looked at like a miswritten line in the family's legacy.

Ergon cleared his throat. "Father, is there..."

Talen's brow rose. His tone cut cold. "Have I not taught you to use titles properly?"

Ergon flinched. "I'm sorr—sorry… my lord."

"Let us not waste time on nonsense," Talen muttered, waving the thought away.

Ergon glanced around again. Still no seat.

"So… is there a seat..."

THUD.

The table shook.

Talen's fist slammed against the wood. The sound cracked through the air like a thunderclap.

"ENOUGH OF THAT!" the voice roared. "Are you incapable of standing on those pathetic legs? Can't you stand your ground like a man!?"

Ergon froze in place, his heart pounding against his ribs like a prisoner trying to escape.

All eyes were on him now.

His knees trembled.

He didn't dare glance at the seat next to Talen. He knew better.

He moved to the far end of the table away from the warlords and generals, and stood quietly.

His legs ached as he stood trembling.

Talen turned back to the table, addressing the others. The meeting resumed with talk of numbers, borders, and recent deployments.

Noise returned.

Ergon didn't hear any of it.

To him, there was only the echo of that slam, and the heat of dozens of eyes.

As he stood there, awkward and silent, trying not to breathe too loudly, Ergon realized something.

He didn't feel good.

No… he felt bad.