From Arkstone XCII, an account of happenings amid the royal house Kel'Dune in Kingdom of Drothmoor
Note: While some arkstones only catalogue second hand accounts passed down through generations as captured by Kethari Sister lorists, others contain accounts directly transferred from those who lived them. A kind of light woven resonance known as Memoria.
This is one such account. It should be noted that these types of arkstones transport the holder's mind as if they were in the time and place. Though only seconds may pass, it may seem much longer. These arkstones often will need to be recharged of their inner light, since memoria accounts take far more radessence to tell. Therefore, what you will now see if but the first part of a greater tale.
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The Kingdom of Drothmoor, the year 146 R.A.
Rain envelops me like a shroud, a relentless downpour that hides me from the world.
I stand under the protection of a parasol, held aloft by my maidservant, as I stare out across the Valley of Gigan. My gaze fixes upon the obsidian tomb of my ancestors, perched atop the island’s highest hill, its spires clawing at the storm-torn sky.
Here in the royal gardens, amidst a scattering of blood-red roses that now sink into the mud, I observe the faux burial mound created for those who came to feign their grief. I've been standing in the rain for hours on this fourth day of mourning, and I can't help but think that if sorrow were measured by the ruination of garments, I'd surely claim victory in the kingdom's unspoken contest of grief.
"Ironic, isn't it?" I murmur, my voice a quiet contrast to the relentless symphony of raindrops.
Filtrude, ever by my side, turns to me, her own parasol a scant shelter for herself, and clears her throat questioningly. "My lady?"
I can't tear my eyes away from the drowning roses. "They seem to be meeting their end with more dignity than my father did."
Filtrude sighs, a soft, disappointed sound accompanied by a disapproving click of her tongue. "We should not speak of the dead thusly, especially not your father, the king."
I bristle, the sting of her rebuke forcing me to relive that awful day four weeks ago. I had found him lying in the throne room, near the royal basin. At first, I had thought him merely overindulged in mead, as was his wont. But whispers of a self-inflicted demise clashed with murmurs of treachery—a notion given all the more credence by the fact that Serpent’s Bane, the royal blade and the only key to the locked chamber, had gone missing.
What to believe? All I know for certain is the aching void where my father once stood. Despite his faults and the old ways he clung to, which many resented, he was a good man, steadfast and true.
"We need not linger unduly," I say, an unexpected twinge of guilt softening my voice for Filtrude, my oldest and most irritable guardian.
"No, my Lady. We must remain until the prescribed time has passed. It would not do for mourners to find their future queen absent," Filtrude replies, her tone harsh as she practically spits out my impending title.
I can't help but let out a feigned sigh. "Of course, we wouldn't want to miss any more of their dreary stories and crocodile tears. They're such a delight."
Suddenly, the parasol is torn from my grasp by an invisible hand of wind, and I gasp as the cold rain lashes against me, the droplets weaving rivers through the lace of my mourning dress.
"So we're both to be drenched?"
Filtrude, stepping closer with her signature stern tone, chides me. "You are to be a queen, my young lady. It is upon you that the people will rely for assurance and direction."
I can't help but retort, "They have Judge Dalius for that."
"For now. But your coronation looms at your fifteenth turning, and the duty will be yours and yours alone."
I sniff and shake my head. "I hardly think the council will heed my words, as much as they loathed father in the end."
"That is not their decision to make. You will be their Sovereign. The people's needs will be your burden to bear," she replies, her eyes unyielding as she folds the parasol.
I wipe rainwater from my face. "I suppose a shower might be the most genuine ritual of mourning I've encountered. Far more cleansing than the court's empty words of comfort."
"If the rain does not weep for your father, perhaps it weeps for Drothmoor and its need for a leader," Filtrude counters, raising an eyebrow. "Ready or not, that leader will be you."
I roll my eyes, her metaphor for the impending deluge of royal duties too apt for my taste. "Stay if you must, Filtrude. Just spare me the pretense of expecting any further mourners. The people had little love left for my father in the end."
Her gaze is all the response she gives, heavy with disapproval and as soaked as the rest of us.
I cast a final glance at the roses, now mere clumps of mud sliding down the mound, and turn away. "I would much prefer to be with my books," I whisper to myself.
The books in the royal library never demand anything of me; they simply are. In their pages, penned by philosophers and chronicled in the Archon Chronicles, I've found a cold fairness, an impartiality that threads through life itself.
As I make my way back to the palace, a sopping mess of gown and hair, the guards salute me with crossed halberds, a gesture I'm still not accustomed to. Once, I was rarely allowed beyond the palace grounds. But I never minded the restriction—it gave me time with my studies, time to lose myself in my father's study, among his many tomes, scrolls, and manuscripts.
The books stand silent and unassuming, offering up their knowledge without expectation. From the old kingdom philosophers to the tales of the Archon Chronicles, I've learned of a stark impartiality—a cold sort of fairness that seems a common thread in all existence.
But this knowledge does little to soothe the sting of loss.
Why did you have to leave me, Father?
I've kept my true feelings hidden, maintaining the royal facade, a shield against any who might perceive weakness. Even Filtrude has not seen the depth of my grief, and I have concealed it out of spite, even as she wept openly during the first days of mourning.
The restraint required to contain my sorrow feels more burdensome with each passing day. As I walk the palace halls where I once played as a child, memories flood back to me—the scarlet roses now adorning his grave once grew here, where we picnicked and laughed.
I think back to those rare moments with my mother, her face now a hazy memory, but the warmth of her embrace lingers in my dreams. She left us, vanished into the unknown, leaving only a note behind—a note my father never allowed me to read. His insistence makes me wonder if he didn't throw it into the fire himself.
A longing for warmth overtakes me, a yearning for the fireside where my father would recount tales from days of old or share lighter stories of courtly antics. Politics has never interested me, and the thought of ruling and a marriage of convenience to some distant nobleman chills me more than the rain had.
Shaking off thoughts of a future I am reluctant to embrace, I detour from the path to my chambers, eluding the watchful guards. The throne room doors loom before me, ornate and imposing, a reminder of the island's divided history and my father's recent, violent departure from this world.
A queasiness stirs in my stomach, not from hunger, but from a deep-seated dread at the thought of what transpired in that room following his death. The vision of Serpent’s Bane, the royal blade that severed my father's head—a ritual as ancient as the kingdom itself—haunts me.
No one has entered the throne room since, and none will until Judge Dalius is officially declared the kingdom's regent. It's sacred ground now, forbidden even to me.
As I pass the portraits of my forefathers, their eyes seem to bore into me with a weight that feels almost tangible. I half-expect them to whisper secrets of kingship that my father never had the chance to pass down to me. Or perhaps their gazes sharp and knowing are privy to some grim prophecy yet to unfold in the hallowed halls of Drothmoor.
Coming to the end of the gallery, I see the newly hung portrait of my father, King Kel’Dune.
"Hello, father," I whisper, unsure if the coldness of death has completely claimed him or if, in some way, he might sense my presence. "At least you will have company."
I glance back down the hall before returning my gaze to his painted image. He looks every bit the king—stern and thoughtful. But the smile I imagine for him is warm, real, unlike the distant, formal expressions of the ancestors I know only from their conquests and failings.
Father never used the study for its intended purpose. He preferred to pace the halls when he read, often mumbling to himself. I, on the other hand, relish the solitude it provides.
The study houses not only the royal histories but also a collection of mythical tales and forbidden novellas. It's a shame that many of these works, filled with harrowing stories, remain hidden from the public due to their contradiction to the Archon Church's doctrines.
As I approach the double doors of Delsonwood, their rich, dark grain contrasting against the pale stone walls of the castle, I pause, hearing an odd sound from within. Initially, I dismiss it as my imagination—no one dares enter the King's study since his passing. It's meant only for royal blood now, which means me alone.
A rumor once suggested that an ancient magi had cursed the threshold to admit only those of our line, to protect the collected knowledge of Drothmoor's royals. Having slipped away from my maidservant and the guards, I realize I have a moment to myself before they discover my absence.
A chill breeze brushed past me as I approached the door, carrying with it a whisper so faint, it was as though the castle itself was sharing its ancient secrets.
I lean in, my heartbeat quickening, and overhear the hissing sibliance of a muted but heated discussion. One voice—deep and resonant—strikes a chord of recognition within me.
"Not yet. We need to be patient," it says.
My patience, however, has frayed to its last thread.
With resolve, I push open the doors, the sound of their opening echoing like a thunderclap. The room is dimly lit, the fading light from the window casting a somber glow. The hearth's embers offer a feeble attempt at warmth, mocking the vibrant life that once filled this space.
"Who's there?" I demand, my voice cutting through the silence, only the rain tapping on the window in reply.
Surveying the room, I approach the hearth, its two velvet chairs now empty specters of past conversations. I remember the last time I saw my father here, his face etched with concern. I regret not pressing him for the truth that weighed so heavily on him.
Suddenly, I'm not alone. "Princess," a familiar voice calls from behind, and I whirl around, fire poker in hand, only to be met by the sight of Judge Dalius. His black and gold attire, accented with flourishes of white, stands out against the dimness of the room.
"My Princess. Minan’s good graces be upon you," he greets me with a bow.
"And upon you," I reply, suddenly self-conscious of my defensive stance. I lower the poker, my cheeks warming with a flush.
"Practicing your fencing, are we?" His voice carries a blend of curiosity and caution, and I feel the weight of his gaze as he steps closer, hands clasped behind him.
My cheeks burn with a sudden flush as I hastily rest the fire poker against the cool stone of the hearth. "No, I simply didn't expect..." My words trail off as he advances, a knowing look in his eyes.
I've always managed to shrug off Filtrude's strictures without a second thought, but Judge Dalius commands a different sort of respect—one born of genuine admiration my father held for him, a rare ally in a nest of schemers. He's also among the few who fervently reject the notion of my father's death as self-inflicted, advocating instead for a darker truth of murder.
Am I convinced? I wish I could be certain.
To accept that he chose to leave, to abandon me, is unbearable. Yet, his end was undoubtedly shadowed by the pain of my mother's departure, taking with her my newborn brother, a sibling I never had the chance to know.
"No sharp retort?" Dalius probes, an eyebrow raised in expectation of the repartee he's accustomed to from me. A familiar game.
A smirk tugs at my lips, and I tilt my head, considering. "I find it distasteful that I, of royal blood, am barred from seeking solace in my own family's study. Should I not arm myself with knowledge from these shelves if I'm to rule Drothmoor effectively one day? Is that the response you anticipated?"
His chuckle resonates in the stillness. Curious enough, it brings to mind the low basso whisper I'd heard in the room earlier.
"A queen's words indeed," he muses.
"I certainly hope to live up to such expectations," I reply, my nod more tentative than I'd like as I grapple with my bewilderment.
Suddenly, the guards materialize in the doorway, and Dalius greets them with a jest. "It seems you've misplaced your princess."
I inwardly scoff, knowing full well it was I who eluded them. Dalius suggests I retire, reminding me of the looming coronation preparations and the threat of war with Berathia—a conflict threatening to erupt over petty trade grievances.
Dalius' gaze lingers on mine, a silent command in his eyes. "Best be off to bed. Tomorrow begins your coronation preparation. And with the wolves of Berathia at our door, we’d do well to not delay it.”
I shudder at the thought of the very thing I'd been avoiding thinking of. "I suppose you're right.", I say, attempting to muster something like genuine agreement. In truth I'd prefer to deny the weight of the crown in perpetuity.
I muster a smile, a mere shadow of mirth, as he inclines his head, his formality an echo of the solemnity that awaits. His departure leaves me in solitude, the room suddenly too vast, the silence too loud.
The air grows colder, a draft whispering of looming battles over petty squabbles of commerce. Yet, it's not the chill of war that seeps into my bones but the specter of doubt, haunting my thoughts.
Could it have been Dalius I heard whispering to some other unseen party? It hardly seems plausible. After all Dalius entered after I barged in.
A shudder ripples through me, each step away from the study heavy with the gaze of the unseen. The portraits of my ancestors, their severed heads a grotesque tradition, seem to watch me, their gazes piercing through the veil of time.
I push the dark musings aside, crossing the threshold with a resolve to leave such grim fancies behind. The doors swing shut with a resonant thud, a somber chord that resonates with the beginning of an uneasy melody.
And there it is—the unasked question, the unvoiced fear that has lingered since the waters claimed him. What truths lay beneath the currents that took my father? Who moved the pieces in this deadly game?
Each step resonates in the empty corridor, a haunting refrain that repeats the question, a riddle echoing in the darkness of the palace halls.
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'The arkstone's light fades. This tale told in Memoria must be continued at another date.'
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