The King's Guard

Chapter 68

A younger Archon: lean, sharp, and almost forgettable, stepped into the courtyard of the Shadow Corps Academy. He wore no insignia yet, only ambition stitched into his posture. Around him, recruits sparred in the mud, blades clanging under the watch of instructors.

Velreth stood on the balcony above, arms folded. His eyes tracked the boy who didn’t flinch at the thunder.

“Name?” he called down.

“Cassian Varrow,” the boy replied, voice steady. “But they call me Archon.”

Velreth’s brow lifted slightly. “A title before you’ve earned one?”

“Something to grow into.”

The corner of Velreth’s mouth curved. “Interesting… Confidence, or arrogance?”

“Whichever builds faster,” Archon said.

Velreth motioned him forward. “Then let’s see if it survives training.”

Weeks passed.

Archon bled, fought, rose again. He was never the strongest, never the fastest, but he studied. Every motion, every command, every failure. He learned the names of officers, the politics behind medals, the quiet rivalries no one spoke of.

At dawn drills, when others groaned, Archon would already be in formation. An older cadet scoffed one morning, “You think punctuality earns favour?”

Archon didn’t look at him. “It earns predictability. Favour’s just the side effect.”

“You talk like a tactician.”

“I talk like someone who plans to live.”

By midday, he was sparring against a towering recruit named Dalen. Mud splattered, steel clashed. Dalen grinned, pressing forward. “Come on, boy, you can’t study your way out of this one!”

Archon sidestepped, letting Dalen’s momentum carry him past before striking the back of his knee. The giant crumpled into the muck. Archon’s blade stopped just short of his throat.

He murmured, “I just did.”

From the sidelines, a few cadets exchanged glances. One whispered, “He’s too calm. Creeps me out.”

Archon heard…and smiled.

That night, Velreth visited the yard, watching as Archon ran drills long after the torches burned low.

“You don’t rest,” Velreth observed.

“Rest is a luxury for those who’ve proven they’ll wake stronger,” Archon replied.

Velreth descended the stairs, circling him. “You read tactics reports from officers’ quarters. You listen to instructors even when they whisper. You think I don’t see it?”

Archon met his gaze. “Then you also see results.”

Velreth’s tone hardened. “I see ambition sharper than steel. Ambition cuts allies if not tempered.”

“Then I’ll learn to aim the edge.”

Velreth regarded him for a long moment, then nodded once. “You’re clever. But clever dies fast if it forgets discipline.”

“I don’t forget,” Archon said softly. “I collect.”

Velreth’s brow furrowed. “Collect?”

“Lessons. Weaknesses. Debts.”

Velreth’s silence lingered on.

One night, in the mess hall, another cadet shoved him hard. “You think staring at the instructors all day will get you promoted?”

Archon didn’t move. “Observation isn’t flattery.”

“Then stop acting like you’re better than the rest of us.”

“I don’t need to act.”

The punch came quick, but Archon was quicker: blade drawn, tip pressing under the other boy’s chin before he could blink.

Velreth’s voice broke the silence from the doorway. “Enough.”

The blade lowered.

Velreth’s gaze lingered on Archon. “You’ve got sharp edges, boy. But you keep them sheathed too long.”

Archon answered, “A blade that moves too early cuts air, not targets.”

Velreth smiled faintly. “You learn fast.”

Months later, Archon stood before Velreth’s office, summoned unexpectedly.

Inside, the commander gestured to a chair. “You’ve been noticed.”

Archon sat. “By whom?”

“By me.”

Velreth poured two glasses of dark wine. “You’ve read the records. You’ve seen how this Corps works. What do you think of it?”

Archon hesitated, choosing his words. “Efficient. Loyal. Predictable.”

“Predictable?”

He nodded. “That’s its flaw. Soldiers follow orders without question. Commanders guard rules instead of vision. It’s… comfortable.”

Velreth leaned forward. “And comfort breeds weakness.”

Archon’s eyes met his. “Then it should be changed.”

Velreth’s voice lowered. “Changed how?”

“From within.”

For a moment, silence stretched like a blade’s edge between them.

Then Velreth slid a sealed letter across the table. “An invitation from Lord Eryndor of House Varion. He funds half our campaigns, yet his eyes are on the throne. You’ll deliver this…and observe.”

Archon blinked. “A noble?”

“Not just any noble,” Velreth said. “He believes Veridale needs reform. I believe you might agree.”

Archon accepted the letter. “What if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll still learn what power looks like.”

The meeting took place in a candlelit chamber beneath House Varion.

Lord Eryndor was taller than Archon expected, his presence colder.

“You’re Velreth’s messenger?” he asked.

“I’m his student.”

“Then you’re here to listen.”

Archon stood quietly as Eryndor spoke — of corruption in the royal court, of weak kings propped up by councils, of soldiers dying for borders that no longer mattered.

At last, Eryndor turned to him. “You believe in the Corps?”

“I believe in structure,” Archon said. “Without it, everything collapses.”

Eryndor smiled. “Then perhaps you’ll believe in a stronger one.”

He handed Archon a ring bearing the Varion crest. “Wear this when you’re ready to stop serving and start ruling.”

Archon turned the ring in his palm. “And what will I owe in return?”

“Only loyalty and silence.”

When he returned to the Academy, Velreth waited in the courtyard.

“You met him,” Velreth said.

“I listened.”

“And?”

Archon slipped the ring into his pocket. “He speaks of order. The kind that starts with fire.”

Velreth’s eyes darkened. “Fire purifies.”

“It destroys too.”

“That depends who’s holding the torch.”

Archon said nothing. But later that night, he sat alone in his quarters, the ring glinting in the lamplight.

He placed it on the table beside his Corps insignia. Two symbols of allegiance. Only one would matter in the end.

Years passed.

Cadet became officer. Officer became commander.

Archon’s voice carried weight now. It was calm, controlled, yet persuasive. The Corps followed him because he promised stability in a world choking on politics. He never mentioned the ring, but it was always near.

Velreth once asked him, “Do you still think the Corps is predictable?”

Archon smiled faintly. “Not anymore. Not since I started writing its rules.”

Velreth poured wine again, same dark red as before. “And the King?”

Archon’s gaze was cold. “A man who listens to advisers while cities burn doesn’t deserve loyalty. He deserves replacement.”

Velreth watched him. “You’ve grown into that title after all.”

Archon nodded. “Titles mean nothing until others kneel to them.”

On the night the rebellion flared in the eastern districts, Archon stood beside Eryndor on a cliff overlooking the fires.

Eryndor said, “Every collapse begins with disobedience.”

“And every new order begins with control,” Archon replied.

“You’ll have it. But remember your promise.”

Archon looked at the city, at the smoke curling toward the stars. “I remember everything.”

Eryndor studied him. “You intend to reshape Veridale.”

Archon’s voice was low, almost reverent. “No matter the cost.”

Velreth’s words echoed faintly in his memory. Fire purifies.

But Archon no longer believed in purity. Only in permanence.

The past dissolves.

Kael awoke with a start, the Rift vision fading like a dying flame. His heart hammered, sweat cold on his neck.

“What was that about?”