Meanwhile, Makara could barely contain his excitement. He was grinning ear to ear, clearly pleased with himself for winning the bet. He clapped Shawn on the back, a little too enthusiastically. "I knew you could do it, Shawn! Looks like I’m getting that premium wine after all!" But Shawn’s thoughts were elsewhere. As he stared at the broken pieces of the staff on the ground, he felt a strange sensation coursing through his body. His eyes narrowed as he noticed faint, swirling wisps of energy—his energy—lingering around the wood stick before slowly dissipating. It dawned on him: in his desperation during the final round, his latent power had instinctively channelled itself through the staff, sharpening its edge enough to cut through the girl’s stick and mask.

  The realisation was both unsettling and intriguing. He hadn't consciously tapped into his abilities, yet they had manifested on their own. He wondered how much more power lay dormant within him, waiting to be unleashed. The thought filled him with a mix of fear and anticipation.

  General Kelathor, having dismissed his trainees, approached Shawn and Makara, his expression unreadable. “In the hands of a skilled warrior, anything can be a weapon,” he said, his voice carrying a note of approval as he reached out and took the broken staff from Shawn's hands. His eyes lingered on Shawn for a moment, a hint of curiosity in his gaze, as if he sensed that there was more to Shawn than met the eye. “You fought well. Now, let’s go meet the king.”

  As he spoke, a soldier approached with a neatly folded royal tunic and handed it to General Kelathor. The General swiftly donned the garment, covering his bare chest with the formal attire of his rank. He stood tall, the regal fabric accentuating his imposing presence, and nodded toward the path leading away from the training grounds.

  Makara, not missing a beat, raised his voice, “What about my reward?”

  General Kelathor smirked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Yes, I know,” he replied, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. “You’ll be rewarded—after we meet the king. I cannot let you meet the king as drunk.”

  Makara grinned, clearly satisfied, and the three of them set off down the path, their footsteps echoing in unison.

  They walked in silence through the quieter, administrative district of Atlantis, where the grandeur of the city seemed even more imposing. The towering structures rose high above them, adorned with intricate carvings that depicted tales of old—the triumphs and tribulations of the Atlantean people. The splendour of the Citadel was always in sight, its majestic spires piercing the sky, reminding all who gazed upon it of the city’s might and heritage.

  Finally, they approached a grand, ornate gate guarded by two sentinels clad in silver armour, their spears crossed in front of the entrance. The guards, stern and vigilant, stood as symbols of unwavering loyalty. General Kelathor stepped forward, his mere presence commanding their respect and immediate attention. The guards uncrossed their spears without a word, allowing them passage into the palace.

  "You both won my trial," General Kelathor began, his voice a deep, resonant rumble, "so you have earned the right to meet the king. But remember this: any disrespect shown towards the king or the kingdom, and I will not hesitate to kill you both. And remember, never speak of what happened in the training pit." His eyes bore into them, ensuring his warning was understood. Shawn and Makara nodded, both feeling the weight of the warning settle on their shoulders.

  They moved through the gates and into the palace, where opulence dripped from every corner. The halls were lined with marble columns and draped with rich tapestries that depicted scenes from Atlantean history—battles fought and won, treaties signed, and great feasts held in the king's honour. Golden chandeliers hung overhead, casting a warm glow that reflected off the polished floors, creating a sense of both awe and intimidation.

  Their footsteps echoed softly as they walked, stopping finally at a large set of double doors guarded by two more sentries. From beyond the door, the muffled sounds of a heated conversation could be heard. Voices were raised, but the words were indistinct from this side. General Kelathor, with a nod to the guards, opened the doors and led them inside.

  The room they entered was the king's audience chamber, a vast and imposing space with high ceilings and ornate decorations. The walls were adorned with murals depicting the ocean’s depths and the city’s glorious past, while the floor was a mosaic of blues and golds that seemed to ripple like the sea itself. At the far end of the chamber, upon a raised dais, sat the king of Atlantis—a man of regal bearing with a stern expression. His silver crown, encrusted with sapphires and pearls, glimmered under the light.

  As General Kelathor entered, he immediately knelt as a sign of respect. Makara and Shawn, following his lead, quickly dropped to one knee. The conversation that had been ongoing ceased abruptly as the prince of Atlantis, standing near the throne, noticed their entry. His face was flushed with anger, and his eyes were sharp with frustration.

  "General Kelathor," the prince began, his voice taut with barely contained ire. "What is the meaning of this interruption?"

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  But before the general could respond, the king raised a hand to silence him. His voice was calm but commanding. "Enough, my son. We shall speak of this later."

  The prince clenched his jaw, clearly displeased. With a final glare at the newcomers, he turned sharply on his heel and strode past them, his regal robes sweeping the floor behind him. Shawn caught a glimpse of the prince's face as he passed—a mix of anger, frustration, and something else he couldn't quite place. The prince’s eyes briefly met his, and for a moment, there was a spark of something unspoken before the prince continued out the door, leaving the room in a tense silence.

  General Kelathor, still kneeling, spoke up, "Your Majesty, I present to you Shawn and Makara, travellers from the eastern regions who seek an audience with you." He kept his head bowed low, his tone respectful.

  The king regarded them with a penetrating gaze, his eyes, a deep ocean blue, assessing the two newcomers before him. He seemed to weigh their worth in his mind, considering what could bring these strangers to his court.

  The king's voice echoed through the chamber with authority and gravitas. "Rise," he commanded, his tone deep and resonant. "Leave us, General Kelathor."

  General Kelathor, still on one knee, nodded respectfully. Without a word, he turned and left the room, his footsteps fading into silence as the massive doors closed behind him. The air in the chamber grew tense, and Shawn could feel his pulse quicken. The king’s presence was overwhelming, a blend of wisdom and power that demanded absolute attention.

  King Atlann's piercing blue eyes settled on Shawn and Makara. "Now," he continued, "tell me why you sought an audience with me."

  Shawn and Makara slowly rose to their feet, their eyes meeting the king's. Makara took a step forward, bowing his head slightly as he spoke, "My king, ruler of Atlantis, slayer of the Kraken, and the pride ruler of your nation, I come as a humble messenger bearing a missive from the Tri-Kings of the eastern region." With a flourish, he produced a scroll, holding it out for the king to see.

  King Atlann raised an eyebrow, a hint of scepticism in his gaze. "The Tri-Kings," he muttered, almost to himself. "Those young upstarts… Very well, read the scroll, messenger."

  Makara hesitated, the confusion evident on his face. "My apologies, my king," he began cautiously, "but the message is intended for your eyes only. The Tri-Kings were very specific—" The king’s expression darkened slightly, and his tone grew more menacing. "Messenger, I despise repeating myself. Do not make me repeat myself"

  Shawn could feel the tension building in the room; the air itself seemed to grow thicker. He saw the unease in Makara's eyes and quickly intervened. "Makara, just read the scroll," he urged, his voice barely above a whisper. They exchanged a glance, a silent communication passing between them. Shawn could tell Makara was reluctant, but he couldn't understand why.

  Makara took a deep breath, clearly torn between his loyalty to his mission and his instinct for self-preservation. "As you wish, my king," he said finally, breaking the seal on the scroll. He unfolded the parchment and glanced down at it, his eyes widening in disbelief.

  Shawn leaned in, curiosity overtaking him, and what he saw shocked him to his core—the scroll was completely blank. There were no words, no markings, nothing but an expanse of empty parchment. His mind raced, trying to comprehend what this could mean. Why would the Tri-Kings send a blank scroll?

  Makara's mind flashed back to the conversation he'd had with the Tri-Kings just two days prior in their tent. He remembered the hushed tones, the flickering light of the oil lamps, and the gravity of their discussion. The Tri-Kings had been insistent on their plan. They decided to send an empty scroll deliberately, knowing that it would provoke King Atlann's curiosity or perhaps even his ire. When asked about the blank scroll, Makara was to explain that the Tri-Kings believed sending a written message without their presence would be seen as an affront to the king’s Atlann dignity. Thus, they chose to send an empty scroll, trusting that King Atlann would understand their situation and consider their plea for aid in the war.

  King Atlann’s voice broke through his thoughts like a hammer on stone. "Well, messenger?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "What does it say?"

  Makara hesitated for only a moment, his mind racing to recall the exact words he had prepared. "The scroll, my king," he began carefully, "is empty because the Tri-Kings wished to convey their respect for your greatness. They believed that any message sent without their presence would be a disrespect to you, a gesture beneath your stature. Thus, they chose to send an empty scroll, trusting that you, with your wisdom, would understand their situation and see the sincerity of their request for aid in the war against King Azure."

  A heavy silence fell over the room as the king considered Makara's explanation. Shawn could feel the sweat on his brow, his heart thudding in his chest. He glanced at Makara, trying to read his expression. Makara's face was calm, his eyes steady, but there was a tension in his stance that told Shawn he was prepared for anything.

  King Atlann's face was inscrutable, his eyes locked onto Makara with an almost palpable intensity. The room felt colder somehow, as if the very air were waiting for the king's response. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, King Atlann leaned back in his throne, a thoughtful expression crossing his features.

  "So," King Atlann said slowly, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and disdain, "they want my help, but they won't come in person. Sending an empty scroll as a gesture of respect. And you, messenger, do you agree with their decision?"

  Makara straightened his shoulders, meeting the king's intense gaze without a hint of hesitation. "I am but a humble servant, my king," he replied, his voice steady and measured. "I serve only to deliver their message. But I believe they acted with the utmost respect for your authority."

  The king’s eyes flickered with an emotion that was difficult to read, and then he chuckled—a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the grand chamber. "Very well," he said, his voice now tinged with a hint of amusement.

  Makara, ever observant, noticed the subtle change in the king’s demeanour and decided to press further. “My king,” he ventured cautiously, “so would you help the Tri-Kings in their war against King Azure?”

  King Atlann threw his head back and let out a loud, booming laugh, "No."