???????? Chapter iii : Where Swans Swim ????????

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  Post the grim discovery of the nurses' demise.

  Lady Guinevere deemed the palace garrison unworthy of her trust.

  Thus, she established the Cradle-Guard.

  An exclusive cohort of bereaved mothers.

  Bound solely to her, their loyalty was absolute.

  Within the castle halls, they traversed with spectral grace.

  They were not adorned in the heavy plate of palace guards, but rather, in dark Cadell leathers.

  Cadell leathers were famed for its reknowned sturdiness, harvested from the rams and antelopes of The World's Edge Mountains.

  Each Cradle-Guard bore a short-sword suited to the intimate confines of the castle or tenebrous corridor.

  "Men of this court regard a mother as a mere distraction!

  A detriment to the king's authority!" Guinvere pronounced. Her voice resonating through the cobbled halls.

  "They perceive a cradle solely as a bargaining chip. Yet, I see in you a fortress, averse to the temptations of avarice."

  She pronounced with faith placed upon them.

  She promenaded along the assembly, her gaze meeting theirs.

  These were ladies who had suffered the grievous loss of their offspring and husbands to plagues and the conflicts erupted in the kingdom.

  "You are not my chattel." Gwinyvere murmured, halting before a lady bearing a jagged scar upon her cheek.

  Her figure of statuesque proportions towering over three men, and possessed a formidable musculature.

  Her crimson curls are reminiscent of freshly spilled blood.

  She was a peasant lass who eschewed a life of constraint.

  Her visage is frequently described as bearing a cutting or cynical aspect and a murderous aptitude that flung about her.

  "Nay, you are my shadows!

  Should an intrusion occur without my decree, you shall seal it with tempered steel!

  Should a chalice be filled absent my imprimatur, you shall shatter it forthwith!

  You answer to no sovereign, no nobleman, save the supplications of the innocent!"

  In perfect accord, the women descended to their knees.

  Though devoid of the practiced elegance of courtiers.

  Their postures conveyed the grave, unspoken resolve of warriors.

  Thus, the Cradle-Guard was inaugurated.

  For the first time since that dreadful eve, Guinevere reposed in slumber, eyes sealed.

  Secure in the knowledge that a dozen hearts beat in harmonious synchronicity with her son.

  Though images of the lady bearing the jagged scar stirred within her dreams.

  Guinevere pondered upon it when she awoke.

  A hundred leagues southward from the capital, along the Upper Chalice Rivers, lies Arslan.

  The realm's very breadbasket.

  Once renowned for its terrorizing, man-eating lions that roamed the sea of grain.

  Rye, wheat, and barley. All laid across the grain sea.

  The House of Leon initiated a campaign to exterminate these beasts.

  Citing hindrance to the annual farming yields.

  Now, the remnants of these lions hang in the castle halls of Castielle.

  Where the nobles of Leon revel in their glory, proudly displaying the lion as their house crest.

  Yet, was such glory truly merited?

  The lions, after all, were merely defending their ancestral lands from the encroaching farms.

  Tonight, however, as if echoing the death throes of a thousand lions seeking reprisal.

  The fields ignite ablaze.

  Set alight by men skilled in vanishing amidst the towering grain stalks in the dead of night.

  They steered clear of the farmer's eyes.

  Their intentions are lucid: to sow discord amongst the populace.

  As dawn approached, the horizon presented a serrated silhouette of obsidian smoke.

  Twas soon the denizens of Arslan would come to realize the extent of the trespass.

  Not content with despoiling the grains. They cast livestock into the wells.

  A foul deed that would poison the waters and leave the lands cursed with drought.

  Banners of dark hue were hoisted along the mountainous corridors of Arslan, displaying the emblem of a Yellow Catfish.

  Men in ebon hair and bronze charred skin. Once possessed of fair complexions.

  Dressed in their signature fish-scaled armor and helms, they were revealed.

  The Order of Cadagon, or what remained thereof.

  Reforged with newfound zeal to reclaim dominion over the rivers.

  In eras bygone, predating both the settlement of Verdesainte along The Chalice Rivers.

  Even before the inhabitation of said rivers by the Cadagonians.

  This realm, nestled amidst mountains and veined by the aforementioned rivers, was the dominion of the Farafnirs.

  An archaic race of cyclopean vulture-men plagued with crooked backs.

  Who knew the secrets of the world and all kinds of sorcery known to the tongue.

  In contemporary lore, they are recalled for their pyramids, ziggurats, and the subterranean labyrinths they constructed across the land.

  Denominated in the ancient tongue as The Cackling Maze of Rahnema.

  These interconnected edifices served as sites of worship for the Great Old Ones, with the Farafnirs employing enslaved Cadagonians in daily blood sacrificial rites.

  The Cadagonians, in fact, trace their origins to these very labyrinths, products of countless experimentations within the Farafnirs' laboratories.

  Where they sought the secret of 'The World's Edge Theory'.

  However, their dominion met its end in a Cadagonian revolt, plunging the empire into chaos.

  Their once-majestic structures were reduced to cinders, from the interconnecting aqueducts to the grand empirical roads.

  The Empire of Rahnema crumbled within weeks, as the Cadagonians perpetrated a genocide so ferocious that the Farafnirs now exist only as mythical figures in stories

  and are rumoured to be seen about in tavern talks.

  The Cadagonians then settled along the Chalice Rivers, adopting the life of a fisherman.

  Though their technological prowess waned with each passing decade, leaving them no more or less advanced than the newer settlers.

  A conflict was ignited when Chief Barrerdass forced himself on Princess Aurelia of Leon.

  Sparking a three-decade war that would be known as The Battle for the Chalice Rivers.

  This conflict culminated in the exile of all Cadagons from Rahnema.

  Or now known in the common tongue as Verdesainte.

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  Subsequently, House Goldmane ascended to power for their victories and established the kingdom of Verdesainte.

  As the Cadagonians spent centuries roaming the unrelenting eastern deserts of Aridia.

  Through each mercantile contract, aiding the endless petty wars of the sultanates over the sanctuary oasis and lucrative trade routes.

  They gained the aptitude for warfare with each battle.

  They soon landed upon themselves the worship of Pargelock, an Aridian god who reveled in warfare and the scorching of all things as worship.

  It's edict was to cleanse the world with the purity of fire.

  They would reestablish themselves as The Order of Cadagon and launch a fiery crusade upon Verdesainte.

  The Goldmanes would rally the armies of Verdesainte at Heavenfield and clash with the Cadagonians in a massive battle of cataclysmic proportions.

  Which would be written and talked about in taverns as The Battle at Heavenfield to this day.

  However, following Goldmanes were defeated at Heavenfield.

  House Taliesion rallied the remaining houses in a counterattack against the raiding Cadagons.

  They dealt a decisive blow at the Hywell Basin when King Urwyll lured The Order of Cadagon into the Merry Maiden Lakes.

  Where many Cadagonians perished in the depths due to their heavy scaled armor.

  The remnants fled to Aridia in disgrace, while some, unbeknownst to the houses of Verdesainte.

  Concealed themselves in the mountain corridors of Arslan awaiting for this very day.

  Returning to the palace parterre.

  An assembly of barons marshaled by the venerable one-eyed Duke Gurlouen of Firewood, the head of House Glyndwrl was present.

  Though the vigor of his youth may have waned, his solitary eye retains the chronicles of countless conflicts.

  They convened within the castle grounds to observe the inaugural trial of the Cradle-Guards demanded by Gurlouen.

  For Queen Guinevere had replaced the knights once stationed in the royal castle.

  Thus these knights now stationless felt disgraced by the queen and marshaled Gurlouen for their cause of reappointment.

  Young Sir Morganough, the Duke's own progeny and a knight of merely twenty summers.

  His auburn locks dancing in the breeze, possessed of a vibrancy and a captivating aura.

  He stood regally at the ring's center, his polished silver cuirass shimmering brilliantly, enhanced by a vibrant gambeson.

  He leveled a disdainful sneer at the woman opposite: Freyja Red-Blood.

  The red-haired commander of the Cradle-Guard.

  In stark contrast to Morganough's regal bearing, she was adorned in soiled Cadell leathers and a rustic chainmail, grasping merely a short sword hilt.

  A far cry from Sir Morganough, replete with broadswords and warhammers.

  "My Lady Queen!" the one-eyed Duke Gurlouen declared, his voice carrying towards the balcony where Guinevere presided.

  "You cast aspersions upon the chivalry of this noble realm!

  To supplant the King's finest steel with...

  If I may be so frank!

  Grieving mothers?!

  For generations, my lineage has been the preeminent custodian of House Taliesion!

  Indeed, my grandmother was of your very line!

  My son shall demonstrate that a nursery has no place for a sword!" Gurlouen declared before everyone in the courtyard.

  Guinevere observed the proceedings with a firm set to her jaws.

  She was powerless to intervene.

  Indeed, such action was beyond her capability.

  She understood keenly that this triumph was essential to maintaining the fealty of her Cradle-Guards within the castle walls.

  King Arwen would be left with no recourse but to decree their removal, lest the noble houses coalesce in rebellion.

  Sir Morganough, with a most gallant stride, lunged forth, broadsword in hand.

  A swing of such potency, it would have surely shattered any shield.

  Yet, Freyja, rather than meet the force, gracefully yielded.

  Whilst the knights of renown were schooled in the art of open field warfare.

  The Cradle-Guards were tutored in the nuances of confined engagement.

  Freyja moved with the fluidity of water about Morganough.

  As seamless as a cascading waterfall.

  Indeed, her alacrity proved quite the surprise for Morganough.

  He found himself challenged to maintain pace.

  Twas further accentuated by the seeming disregard her considerable stature held.

  As she, a veritable titan thrice the size of common men.

  Morganough missed each strike with a resounding thud upon the garden's cobbled expanse and a metallic reverberation in the air.

  With each grievous blow, Gwinyvere's heart sank as Freyja narrowly evaded each assault with impeccable grace.

  The celerity of Freyja took the barons quite unaware.

  The one-eyed Duke surmised Morganough would be thoroughly outclassed ere long.

  With a short-sword, she intercepted Morganough's crossguard.

  She breached his defenses and delivered her dagger's pommel with precision into the aperture of his visor. As the knight succumbed to the agony.

  He descended to one knee with a pained exhale.

  Freyja remained steadfast.

  She then pressed the cold steel against his throat, her gaze immovably fixed upon the one-eyed Duke.

  "Your son fights for glory! My Lord!" Freyja articulated, her voice resonating across the tranquil yard.

  "I, however! Engage in combat, having already nothing left to lose!

  There exists no man within this kingdom capable of striking with greater force than a mother bereft of all else!" Freyja declared, and Morganough knelt down to the floor and steel at his throat.

  As Freyja brandished her sword in triumph towards Guinevere.

  A certain sentiment began to coalesce within her bosom.

  Whether it was the fiery tresses or the resolute carriage.

  An ardent flame was kindled within Gwinyvere's breast.

  She gazed upon Freyja, her heart throbbing fervently, and for a fleeting moment.

  She yearned to descend from the balcony, to be enveloped within Freyja's embrace and ensnared within her arms.

  Verily, Guinevere, with considerable fortitude.

  Banish these untoward and insistent fantasies.

  Lest they distract her from the duel's conclusion.

  Further, she ensured her Cradle-Guards kept diligent watch over the castle halls.

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