The title of the novel will be changed to Bald of Ash and the Rise. It was the first name I thought of, and I’ve now decided to go with it as it fits the story very well. There's also another reason: there's a novel with a name simir to The Cursed Ascended.
Please understand, and I apologize for the dey in the chapter — I'm going through difficult health conditions. I hope you'll continue the journey of this novel with me until the end.
**Chapter Eight: What the Devil Himself Could Not Imagine**
The golden rays of sunlight glittered on the towering bck walls of Kwandor Pace, unveiling its terrifying majesty and silent grandeur. The pace sprawled across a vast expanse, surrounded by smaller protective fortresses like petrified giant sentinels, while soldiers lurked in every corner like uniformed shadows.
Linder stood atop his white steed, surveying the scene before him with eyes that carried the weight of a thousand years of experience. King Nourk waited at the fully open main gate, fnked by his ministers and military commanders arranged in a precise pyramidal formation. A crimson carpet stretched from the king’s feet deep into the pace’s heart, like a river of blood beckoning its guest to drown in its depths.
With a nimble motion, Linder dismounted and handed his reins to a guard. He strode confidently toward King Nourk, his eyes capturing every detail: the guards’ hidden tension, the evaluating gnces exchanged among ministers, and the subtle gestures between the king and his prime minister. His mind whirred like a intricate machine, dissecting every gesture, gnce, and twitch.
Linder offered a precisely measured bow—neither deep enough to convey submission nor shallow enough to imply disrespect. “I greet the great King Nourk, Lord of Kwandor and Guardian of its Northern Borders,” he decred in a resonant, respectful tone. “I bring greetings from my father, King Edward, and am honored to represent him in this historic meeting.”
King Nourk’s smile widened, but his eyes remained icy and scrutinizing. A burly man draped in bck robes embroidered with gold thread, his crown of bck gemstones cast eerie shadows over his harsh features. “Welcome, Prince Linder, to Kwandor,” the king replied in a deep, commanding voice. “Though we anticipated your father’s presence, we welcome you as his emissary.”
Linder noted the faint undercurrent of disappointment in the king’s voice—a first vulnerability to exploit: thwarted expectations and wounded pride.
The prime minister, a slender man with a meticulously trimmed gray beard and hawk-like eyes, stepped forward. “Let us retreat inside,” he said smoothly, his voice masking sharp intellect. “The sun grows harsh, and discussions will be lengthy.”
They entered the pace through grand halls adorned with paintings of ancient battles and victory banners. Linder walked beside the king, his gaze flitting between architectural details and the faces around him. He observed whispered exchanges among courtiers and the prime minister’s unspoken authority—even the king gnced at him for cues.
*“The kingdom’s true mind,”* Linder mused silently. *“The man I must win to my side.”*
They reached the throne room, where Linder sat beside King Nourk, the prime minister opposite. Nobles and commanders lined the hall, servants ghosted silently, and sunlight streamed through high windows, painting golden patterns on marble floors.
Gift presentations commenced: jeweled swords, rare manuscripts, antique treasures. Linder accepted each with humble smiles and carefully crafted gratitude, earning admiration.
“You speak with eloquence beyond your years, Prince,” King Nourk remarked, studying him curiously. “How fares your father? Why could he not come?”
“My father is well, Your Majesty,” Linder replied calmly. “But affairs on our eastern border demand his attention. He deemed this an opportunity for my diplomatic education.”
The king nodded, seemingly convinced, but the prime minister narrowed his eyes, exchanging a fleeting gnce with Nourk. Suspicion lingered.
Hours passed with musical performances, vish dishes, and strategic conversations. Linder listened more than he spoke, cataloging hidden alliances, buried rivalries, and simmering ambitions—each piece a puzzle for Kwandor’s power map.
As guests departed, only the king, prime minister, and Linder remained. The king dismissed the guards. “Now,” he said, his tone transformed, “speak pinly. What truly brings you here?”
Linder smiled. “As agreed, I present a pn to secure the trade route.”
“But why aid us?” the king interjected sharply.
“In aiding you, I aid myself,” Linder countered, eyes gleaming. “I want your help to become king.”
A heavy silence fell. The prime minister watched like a hawk anticipating this move.
“Become king?” Nourk echoed. “How?”
“Once crowned,” Linder said, “I will grant you the entire trade route—not a fraction.”
The prime minister intervened, his calm voice veiling rapid calcutions. “How do we ensure your promise?”
Linder’s reply was ready. “To secure mutual interests, we must risk together.”
For an hour, Linder detailed his pn, fielding sharp questions and skepticism. By the end, Nourk ordered the prime minister to tour Linder through the kingdom—a chance Linder had coveted to isote the true strategist.
A day spent with the prime minister revealed philosophical and pragmatic exchanges. Linder sowed seeds of doubt and ambition, hinting at opportunities unattainable under Nourk.
At dawn, Linder returned home, a secret pact in hand. King Edward embraced him, oblivious that his son now wore a wolf’s guise.
Linder recounted selective details of his visit, omitting the covert pact. Days resumed their facade: training, city strolls, tavern visits. The only change was Ned’s inclusion in his nightly outings.
“A tavern?” Ned had protested. “Beneath us!”
“A future king must know his people,” Linder urged. Reluctantly, Ned agreed. Disguised as merchants, they mingled, Ned’s discomfort easing into curiosity.
Weeks ter, Linder engineered Ned’s solo visit. A masked Kwandorian minister approached him, seeking to renegotiate treaty terms. Ned refused but returned pensive.
On the treaty’s eve, a Kwandorian “merchant” left Ned a letter at the tavern. Linder intercepted it, his pn unfolding perfectly—until chaos erupted.
Before King Edward’s pace, a massive man in bck armor stood beside a coffin-like box. Guards pried it open to find Prince Cain’s dismembered corpse—a horror that froze all who saw it.
King Edward colpsed, clutching his son’s severed head, his wails echoing through the pace. The coffin’s contents—limbs arranged grotesquely, Cain’s face frozen in terror—were a nightmare “the devil himself could not imagine.”
As the court descended into grief, Linder returned, a sealed letter in his pocket and a shadowed smile on his lips. The chessboard was set, kings in peril, and a thousand-year-old shadow danced in his eyes.
*To be continued...*
The title of the novel will be changed to Bald of Ash and the Rise. It was the first name I thought of, and I’ve now decided to go with it as it fits the story very well. There's also another reason: there's a novel with a name simir to The Cursed Ascended.
Please understand, and I apologize for the dey in the chapter — I'm going through difficult health conditions. I hope you'll continue the journey of this novel with me until the end.
