The King Trials 2: Beyond.

~The Ice Erus~

Summoned by the military tribunal.

The Herems and I are on route to the place of assembly. Once again without Duce Merian present or even our guard, only those belonging to Aelvebore. I do not think a day goes by where I do not need to remind myself unremittingly; one foot after the other. Preserve a calm exterior, an impression of equanimity, maintaining a front of absolute self-possession, pretending not to be overawed by internal upheaval.

But I find it difficult when my own body fights against me. In the eye of a hurricane of thoughts, bashing my mind. Emotions simmering, threatening to erupt. My heart clenched in a tight fist.

It has been nearly an entire cycle since we left the Pantheon, and the voyage of the King Trials began. So much has happened. I have not had the time to mentally digest the outpour of reckonings and revelations. I had to deal with what was ahead of me, and what is in front of me. And right now, that is a floor-to-ceiling, double doors, massive twin slabs of acacia wood. The posted guards open them both, gradually. As we enter, the rest of them remain behind.

The chamber is enormous with four sets of colonnades in this opulent expanse. One that we stand in, a row of engraved columns that flank our path. The other succession comes from ahead of us, the right and from the left as they all converge to the round centre of the chamber; an expansive space where a round table sits occupied by its members.

The Herems and I stride to them. My eyes glide up the monstrous columns etched with liner calligraphy. I have to crane my neck to locate the vaulted ceiling above, ornate with convoluted, historical murals painted on the surface with a dismal colour palette of dark browns, black and silver. In due course we reach the centre. The military officials of Nivalis are seated at the round table, and they appear much more intimidating than the Adons.

The Adons bear a cold, aloof aggression.

The officials glower at us with deadly hostility, a silent loathing.

Their faces are marred with perpetual scowls, their broad-shouldered frames shrouded with furs that looked like they were newly skinned off a wolf. Others with furry capes that belonged to the skin of some bear-like beast. Most of their warrior-like hairstyles are a pattern of braids. Hair shaved off at the sides and rear, the rest of the tresses plaited in intricate, long coils adorned with silver beads or bands.

One of them directs us to spread ourselves out. We comply and move to stand behind an official's seat, in between them, in an arc shape.

"I am Okoshere," the same one says. Heavy accent, smashing words together. But it resonates with influence, a voice that commands submission. "I must understand one thing, purebloods. Your High King send you, privileged nobles to discuss matters of great importance. An alliance, the Ulris and war. What would pampered nobles like you know about war besides seeking refuge from it?"

I rein in a grimace. I know Brennon is bound to—

"I presume I do not need to tell military leaders like yourself that it is a perilous thing to underestimate someone," Brennon says with sheer smugness. "With all due respect." A belligerent shift in his tone. "You know nothing of us and nothing of what we have been through."

Okoshere exchanges a few, undecipherable looks with his fellow officials. Unexpectedly, they burst into rumbling chuckles—even their laughs sound threatening.

"Because of what you faced in King Trials?" Another asks, sneering at him with his tenor fashioned from scorn. "That is nothing. You struggle for a moment; others struggle for a lifetime. You know nothing about true hardship, true pain. Everything in life given to you. Reskue Elma tus neves la pa."