Praetorian Of Runa by RENE II at Inkitt

—ACT 1— THREE PIECES, TWO PLAYERS.

—THREE SIDES—1

The sound of each wooden footstep on the white stone echoed in the room before being eclipsed by almost six similar pairs in the adjoining corridor; more hurried, servants running with extreme haste, to the point that leaning against the walls was necessary before and after losing their balance, managing to avoid falling or worse mistakes with their load.

The main issues: cleaning, decorating, and preparations for the arrival of the new Praetorian. The red cloths, signifying the fall of Alba's hand, were being changed to white, a cause for joy for everyone; only the left half had been removed, and the white ones were being put up on the opposite side.

The saint felt her heart weep as she bid farewell to that memory that shared her sorrow, but she maintained a pious smile as best she could. The memory of Lasha's warning made it clear that the attacks would intensify that very night, and a new praetor was more than necessary if they were to survive, as she could gather from the urgent tone of his voice.

Descending the stairs to the prayer room, she could see how the few deacons present were teaching the speakers their final litanies for promotion; the brief glance in the even briefer step led her down to the top floor, half-darkened as always with particular light sources and many of a situational nature.

The gleaming crosses illuminated the dark areas, like the sun approaching from either side, as if a door blocked its full passage; this was a common source of wonder for those witnessing the prayers and the many moments of worship. The glow of the multicolored stained-glass windows illuminated the small platform and the surrounding areas, barely providing any light.

The light, only eclipsed by the low ceilings on the sides at the back, where the prayer or confession rooms were located, varying according to need, and at the front the area for donation of offerings, whether coins or food.

The true night made the candelabras stand out high above like the judging gaze of the Ascended; although at that moment, as they were in the process of replacing their candles, the base of each one melted, erasing the symbol of the cursed kingdom and placing it in its small frame to be reused.

The scene was so familiar to her that any attempt at emotion was more feigned than longed for, and thus the clearest response of the moment. When she reached the outskirts of the cathedral, she noticed the few steps present and the carriage waiting for her to take her to the resting place.

The sun illuminated everything: from the road, the arrival of people amidst prayers and products, the few children playing around, the changing houses, depending on their level of economic ease or complications, and the black shackles on the necks of the slaves carrying boxes and boxes of possibly food contents.

“The days are getting more and more complicated.” He sighed as he walked to the opposite side of the carriage window from where he had entered and opened the two wooden doors. “Same here,” he said wearily.

The driver didn't know whether to respond with joy or doubt and decided to remain silent; the saint's manner of speaking rarely showed apathy, especially not on a day like that, and in his mind came the possible lament of the former praetor, with whom everyone speculated that he had a relationship that went beyond mere service to Alba.

The arrival at the gate of rest was more welcome by all those who arrived, while the Orators and Deacons took their positions, along with the white guard and with it the jewel of the crown in the reception, Runa, with the white and gold clothing and her serene and regal bearing.

—Santa, it's nice to see that you are well and blessed by Alba —she greeted with well-contained joy.

The king bowed slightly, hoping his new crown would stand out enough to be a topic of conversation.

"Likewise, Seb." She offered the same show of respect almost simultaneously. "Are you in good health?" Somewhat more cheerful at seeing a familiar face, she brought her mind back to the present. "You had some trouble in the last battle, if I remember correctly."

"My condition can no longer be improved, and this event is far too important to abandon for minor injuries." He felt a pang of disappointment, which he buried deep inside, and heeded his own words, which carried a truth he had to respect. "This is the first time an heir of the House of Sol will come to Runa. It is also the third mural to be added to the cathedral." He turned his gaze back to the road with difficulty, hoping to learn more about the saint's life in the upcoming mural. "I understand you still have three empty spaces in your cathedral."

—Yes. —He feigned a gentle smile, aware that his past was once again reminding him of his current duty—. It was a life that was, to say the least, complicated to lead.

"Perhaps we'll finally see his crowning?" I hope I can discuss the matter. "I heard it's normal for the second or third mural to feature him."

"Now there are two of us, Rey." He couldn't prevent the discomfort, but he was able to quickly dismiss it. "The tie..."

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of drums atop the wall and the weapons arriving in a march that seemed heavy, or the clash of shields and swords, which soon coordinated with the few around them, and even more so when they saw how the white armor with golden edges was visible on the horizon, right at noon, as it always became clear in the procession and the hosts arriving from behind, undergarments of a red tone and white cloaks that only covered the torso and fell like tunics, multicolored metal spears and variations of other metals in axes or swords, without an order that anyone could discern.

As everyone anticipated, the mural that was arriving depicted her coronation, the figure of Runa wrapped in white blankets with golden edges and the glow behind her head, a reminder that the lands had only recently been sanctified and renamed, at least for the saint; for the rest, it was a matter of almost four generations including them.

At the base of that throne was the former name, next to a small plaque with details of the first settlers of that settlement and a threatening reminder of what the territory could become again.

[Ruin] “This land is cursed, monsters under Yami’s cloak, evils on Alba’s journey. Today my defender and a praetor have died. We are barely left…”.

Many read the first parts of the paragraph and proceeded to ignore it, focusing instead on the bright image above the crown.

Following custom, the King moved to the head of the right-hand line, allowing the blacksmiths to enter with their most ornate and elegant weapons, others with more robust but well-polished weapons, a few with blunt and rather unkempt weapons, but equally useful, and near the entrance, the daggers or unsharpened weapons. The poorest carried only metal ingots, offering to forge whatever the Praetorian Guard desired.

On the left, the Saint gave way to the deacons, then to the orators, and after that to the apprentices, and finally to the last three, humble people in even simpler clothes, in shades of brown or dull green, hoping to be chosen as squires and be able to be part of the Holy Faith; only two were there at the request of the cathedral in the absence of the usual chosen warriors.

In retrospect, they finally noticed how the road was eclipsed by the passage of all the warriors and with it the memory of the procession and an even more visible surprise: the Praetorian's armor was pearl white, it only had golden edges and nothing else, a sign of purity yes, but at the same time the lack of affiliation.

“This Praetorian will be interesting.” The saint examined him closely until he reached her and began walking beside her on the left. “His clothing is too simple.”

“Please, let him choose one of my men.” He watched the Praetorian continue walking impassively among the many weapons. “I put a lot of effort into having my blacksmiths participate; if he chooses one of them, I will be more than happy.” Sebastian’s thoughts were visible on his face, but only to his subjects. “Why hasn’t he stopped yet?”

The thoughts of both sides converged on the idea that the Praetorian was strange, and the absence of a name on the armor only heightened their unease. The nearly one hundred and seventy steps were silent on the barely damp ground, but punctuated by the distinct, unbroken march of all those entering, their pace halted only at the entrance.

The saint handed the dagger to the young girl with just a wooden shield, painted white in the center and black on the half-square metal edge and red wood; she bowed and followed the saint behind her.

For his part, the King took the ingot, somewhat less cheerful than when he first received it, but at the same time grateful that the object was not heavy.

The procession continued to the central square, where all the troops defending Runa, both the white guard and the king's warriors, stood firm with great pride.

Everyone was astonished to see the Praetorian Guard ascend the wooden steps to the platform, and even more so to see humble people standing beside such important figures as the king and the saint. An expectant silence fell over the place as they awaited the speech, the promises and oaths of protection for the holy territory, the assurance that the problems would be resolved, as so many others had sworn before.

When he began, both his companions and the public turned their gaze to the Praetorian, taking off his helmet, revealing a face that was, to say the least, endearing, a clear scar that seemed to sink into his cheek and part of his neck, clearly a feast for some lucky animal, and the absence of the upper part of his ear on the left, opposite the scar, which for a moment led everyone to doubt how things would be resolved or whether he would respect the oaths he would soon make.

"People of Runa, I am Lucius; my arrival is not welcome, and I don't expect it to be." He was well aware of the insult he was uttering, and the absence of curses was even more unsettling. "My oath: to protect the people within these walls; my duty is to the Saint and the King." He extended his hands as if to illustrate the point, indicating them from behind, as if offering a view of the landscape. "The highest authorities present here, but deep in my heart, I feel that Alba has given me the opportunity to prove myself, and also—" He didn't know when he lowered his hands, somewhat less animated, and recovered strongly, returning his gaze to his audience. "I feel that she actually sent me here with the duty of bringing peace to my people; therefore, here and in the presence of all, I want to make one thing clear." The voice, somewhat loud until the middle of the speech, became just Sebera, and in a more prophetic tone. Judge me, am I worthy to serve you? —He raised the hand opposite his helmet and made a fist.

Everyone, surprised or shocked, did not understand what was happening, but the first traces of applause from the slaves and warriors who arrived with the praetor began to liven up the atmosphere.

Like a trigger of fervor, the murmurs of genuine security gradually rose to an almost religious fervor, beginning to attract the attention of so many creatures farther from the walls that they would soon rush against the white stone, in their savage desire to devour the prey inside the white cage, while a black-scaled warrior restrained the most impatient among his own or executed them according to their lack of control, whether from hunger or bloodthirsty instinct.

The crowd's applause only served to dispel any doubt, and the few who were moved began to pray to Alba, while more and more people offered increasingly polite greetings, their fingers held as far apart as possible and both eyes covered by the opposite hand, signifying a vision dimmed by the light, and half-crouching. The plants feasted on the most innocent or smallest animals of the forest before following the larger groups back to the white stones, marveling at how the cycle repeated itself once more.

The three nobles among the crowd showed nothing but displeasure at how she seemed to be neglecting her official duties in order to win over the people, more befitting a king than a praetor, but the fervor that came in response could only be compared to the words of the saint.

Her face offered no reassurance, such a mark of shame for most who knew even a little about war; warriors must have an immaculate countenance, the scriptures said, and there were only two people in Runa who knew the source of this affliction. The first saw her bathed in light from the cathedral in the distance, yet as visible to him as if she were standing before that platform; the other, however, kept his attention fixed on the woman of light even though she had begun to applaud to incite everyone.

Both sides felt the same, sharing a bad feeling that quickly turned into repulsion, but the head of each side remained somewhere between indifferent and surprised, but the social structure did not change much; distrust had already been sown in the most intelligent among the crowd by not being able to remember the oaths of a praetor, the threatened powers of the nobility and the cathedral.

At the time of departure, both stood on opposite sides hoping to win the favor of the praetorian, but in the minds of the lower ranks, a flicker of desire to control the praetor's movements lingered, regardless of which side was chosen.

On the left, Runa on the way to the temple, waiting to escort the new praetorian to his quarters inside the cathedral; all ready and contemplating the nobility on the opposite side, while the white armor was followed by his two chosen ones, looking ahead to the wall, waiting for the praetor's order.

On the right, the King, ready to guide him to the palace with a banquet worthy of remembrance, plenty of material ready to be distributed and to better address the issue of strengthening each house; while they watched the deacons, they seemed somewhat worried and how the white and gold helmet again prevented them from seeing the face of the new praetorian.

Surprise came again to both factions, when both paths were left aside and continued towards the entrance, and both authorities, clearly overwhelmed in the few senses they had of the moment, noticed how the place was eclipsed by darkness despite the radiant brightness of midday.

The step outside the platform, full of certainty, the fall, little higher than a slave, did not make him hesitate as he took the next steps towards the audience; the other two, surprised, saw the problem and decided to go down the stairs to catch up with him.

The people were equally astonished; it was no surprise that the temple was the most chosen, and both sides began their journey back to their respective residences, aware that the new Praetorian would be a headache, but neither could give proof or sign of it; only time would tell if they were right or reproached if they decided to speak.

The blacksmith was afraid for a moment as they walked without stopping; had he known that would happen, he would have brought a previously forged weapon, however used it was; even his hammer seemed somewhat more useful to him and, for his part, he noticed the warrior beside him with the same nervousness.

—Excuse me, do you know where we're going? —With the ingot in his hand, he tried to imitate the King's walk after picking it up from the floor of that wooden platform.

—No. —He looked concerned at the dust-stained robe he was wearing.

—Troops march. — Lucius gave the signal, forgetting he had no weapon, using his hand to imitate the blade.

He opened his palm to its limit to imitate the command of the warriors who usually had some mount, keeping his impatience well contained, while the warriors continued their journey towards the white walls, which at that moment seemed gray and the darkness of the clouds began to prevail.

Only at that moment did the two stop, waiting to receive orders, especially since he was standing in front of them, being completely opposite sides.

"Kid, where's your blacksmith shop?" He gave him an examining look that wasn't noticeable because of his helmet.

"This way, my lord," he pointed, hoping not to cause too much commotion to his family.

"Excuse me, my lord." The shieldmaiden could already see her execution coming if she chose not to fight. "Why didn't you choose to go with either of the two leaders?"

—Escudera, do you have a name?

—No, my lord. —She didn't know if Alba was helping her or perhaps Yami was calling for her.

"I'll see to it that they give you one when the problem is over; for now, tell me your capabilities." She slowed her pace slightly so as not to overtake either of them, one as a guide and the other out of courtesy.

—Excuse me? —With so many interpretations, I hesitated to answer.

—Fighting style, preferred weapons. —He indicated with his fingers, without much effort to illustrate—. If you have any preferences, now is the time to clarify your new arsenal.

"I see, my specialty is the dagger and the short sword." Instinctively, I raise the dagger, which I'd even forgotten where it came from, but I quickly continue to raise the shield and place it above my chin. "I mainly use my shield for attacking or blocking arrows."

—What else? —I absorb information quickly, from working so much with the White Guard, mercenaries, and more.

"I-I'm good at stealing, my lord." She didn't know why she said it, but the regret was strong.

"What else?" he continued, puzzled but not startled, repeating the question.

—N-nothing more, my lord, my experience with Alba is very limited. —A flash of surprise made her hesitate.

—Before Yami too? —He had heard that question many times and for the first time he was using it, not quite sure what meaning people might give it.

"I-I was a slave; I mainly accompanied banquets with singing." She touched her right arm, managing to hide the disgust of those days. "I earned my freedom by saving my former owner."

—What else? —Understanding the concept a little better, he repeated just in case.

—Nothing more, my lord. —Not knowing what to think anymore, he decided to remain silent.

"If we survive, I'll start teaching you." I imagine an agile warrior, not a capable one.

The dilapidated houses finally gave way to a forge, slightly smaller than expected, but one that would be easy to remember. Behind them, the troops continued their march toward the end of the walls, and a couple of slaves remained behind as lookouts to guide them if they got lost.

"Here it is, my lord. It's a bit of a mess, so please bear with me." He removed the obstruction with the hook and opened the door fully.

—Patience is the last thing I can give you; we're in a hurry, knock so we can come in. —Lately he noticed the door opening and a piece of metal scraping against wood.

—Please come in. —Not knowing what else to say, he simply went to the counter, as he had so often seen his father do with customers.

After passing through, as the darkness seemed total, the torch was lit and with it a poor amount of weapons and shields was revealed, while they noticed how crouching was partly necessary to avoid bumping into things hanging from it, curiously well-maintained wooden handles.

"Choose any weapon you like and place it on the table." He contemplated each sword, his appreciation falling to a level even lower than the already deplorable one he had expected, and began to regret his decision.

Many needed maintenance or an edge to be considered weapons, while other wooden materials had wear and tear such as cracks or burn problems, but Lucius's curiosity led him to take a couple of dangling handles and lower them, while balancing, feeling the balanced weight.

“Undoubtedly for warhammers.” —He ended his search—. Blacksmith, how long will it take you to sharpen these rods?

"Th-those are for hammers; sharpening them would take too long." He didn't like the idea of handing over anything metal, especially since it was a job he never finished.

"I'm not asking for a dazzling edge, I'm asking for an edge, crooked or curved; the idea is that it creates cuts in the enemy's skin, nothing more." He placed both bars on the table carelessly.

"Well, not too long, maybe by nightfall," he calculated hurriedly, unsure how his family would react.

—And pick out another sword for me. —He took out the test they had suggested.

—Yes, sir. —He grabbed a loaf and ran to the oven; to his delight, it was already lit.