From Cursed Scum to Supreme Sovereign

The Dog of Draven

The bronze bells of Eryndor sang their ancient song across cobblestone streets, each peal echoing off merchant stalls draped in crimson silk and gold thread.

Banners snapped in the morning breeze… the royal sigil of the twin suns blazing from every rooftop, every window, every corner where celebration could take root.

Children darted between the legs of adults, their laughter bright as the copper coins they clutched for honeyed tarts and spun sugar.

Vendors called out their wares in voices hoarse from joy, holding aloft pastries that gleamed like jewels in the Festival of Radiance sun.

The whole kingdom had dressed in light today. Even the gutters sparkled.

All except the mud where Kael Draven knelt.

His fingers, cracked and stained brown, worked the bristles of a worn brush against leather boots caked with horse dung and street filth. The boots belonged to merchants too proud to dirty their own hands, nobles too refined to acknowledge the boy who cleaned them.

Water from his bucket had long since turned black, but he kept scrubbing. The motion kept his mind occupied, kept the voices at bay.

“Mongrel’s at it again,” someone muttered from the crowd.

“Look at him grovel. Just like his mother.”

“Cursed scum shouldn’t even be allowed in the square.”

The mark beneath his collar seemed to burn at the words… a twisted sigil of black lines that had appeared the day of his birth, when the midwives had screamed and the High Priest had declared him touched by shadow.

Kael pulled his threadbare shirt higher, though the fabric barely covered the brand that marked him as other. As wrong.

The crowd’s attention shifted like a tide, voices rising in genuine celebration. Hoofbeats drummed against stone, measured and proud.

Kael didn’t need to look up to know what approached… the sound of destiny wrapped in golden thread and noble blood.

Aelric Draven rode through the square on a stallion white as fresh snow, his cloak cascading behind him like liquid sunlight.

Where Kael was sharp angles and hollow cheeks, Aelric was everything the poets sang about… broad shoulders, hair that caught light like spun gold, a smile that could charm demons back to the abyss.

The crowd pressed closer, reaching out to touch his boot, his stirrup, anything that might grant them a fragment of his radiance.

Rose petals fell like rain. Children called his name. Maidens sighed and pressed their hands to their hearts.

Kael’s fingers stilled on the leather. He watched his brother… half-brother, the noble blood reminded him constantly… bask in adoration that would never touch a cursed wretch.

The taste of copper filled his mouth. He’d bitten his tongue without realizing it.

Aelric’s gaze found him across the square, blue eyes bright with recognition. The golden heir’s smile widened, but something cold flickered behind it.

“Brothers and sisters of Eryndor!” Aelric’s voice carried over the celebration, trained in the art of commanding attention.

The crowd quieted, eager to hear their hero speak.

“Even on this blessed day, we must remember that shadows lurk among us.”

His horse stepped closer. Kael could smell the animal’s sweat, see the silver threads woven into its bridle. Still kneeling in the mud, he kept his eyes on his work.

One boot remained. The merchant would be angry if it weren’t clean.

“There,” Aelric pointed down at him. “The very curse that plagues our bloodline. Look how it cowers, how it crawls through filth like the wretch it is.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd… not the bright joy of celebration, but something sharper. Hungrier.

A young lord stepped forward and spat, the saliva landing on Kael’s cheek. Others followed. Soon, a circle had formed, nobles and commoners united in their disgust for the thing that dared share a name with their golden prince.

“Bow your head, dog,” Aelric commanded. “Show these good people the respect they deserve.”

Kael’s hand tightened around the brush handle. The wood bit into his palm.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and wiped the spit from his face with the back of his hand. Then he lifted his head and met his brother’s gaze.

The square fell silent.

Aelric’s perfect features twisted. “You dare…”

“I clean their boots,” Kael said. His voice came out rougher than intended, unused to speaking above a whisper. “That’s respect enough.”

The slap came from a boy barely past his fifteenth year, the son of some minor lord seeking favor. Then another struck from the side.

Soon fists joined the open hands, and Kael found himself curled on the ground as boots joined fists, as laughter joined the sound of impact against flesh.

He didn’t cry out. That would only make it last longer.

A yelp cut through the noise… high and sharp with pain.

Through the forest of legs, Kael saw the pup. It was barely more than fur and bones, coat matted with mud and worse things. Someone had aimed a kick at its ribs, and now it cowered against the side of a stall, whimpering.

Without thought, Kael rolled toward the sound. A boot caught him in the shoulder, but he pressed on until he could wrap his arms around the trembling animal.

It was warm against his chest, heartbeat rapid as a bird’s wing. He curved his body over it as the beating continued, feeling each blow through his spine, his ribs, his skull.

“Stay safe,” he whispered into fur that smelled of rain and desperation. “Just stay safe.”

The laughter grew louder. Someone cheered.

The festival bells continued their song, indifferent to the blood now mixing with the mud beneath them.

Then, silence.

The boots stepped back. The voices died. Even the pup in Kael’s arms went still, as if the very air had grown too heavy for sound.

Footsteps approached… different from the others. These moved with the weight of authority, of divine purpose.

Kael felt their presence like a shadow falling across his broken form.

“This wretch,” a voice boomed across the square, deep and resonant with the power of the faith that commanded kingdoms, “shall face the Trial of Worth.”

High Priest Malrick stood above them all, his robes pristine white despite the mud, his staff topped with a crystal that caught the festival light and threw it back in blinding fragments.

The crowd held its breath.

“If he dies,” Malrick continued, eyes like winter storms fixed on Kael’s bloodied face, “the curse ends with him. If he lives…”

The pause stretched like a blade across silk.

“Perhaps fate itself has plans for this shadow among us.”