THE CONQUER

The sky above was a canvas of brilliant blue, stitched with lazy, drifting white clouds. The air was alive with the gentle, rhythmic chorus of birdsong. Near the riverbank, a young girl, Elara, stood in quiet rapture. The moment felt like a dream, a slice of heavenly peace.

But the serenity cracked.

A subtle movement near the imposing grey rocks across the water caught her eye. Someone was there.

She watched, hidden by the high reeds. The figure was a silhouette, bent over something low to the ground. She could hear a repetitive, sharp chunking sound, like an axe striking wood, yet whatever the person was cutting remained obscured by their large frame.

Then, a cold shiver ran down her spine. Her gaze fell back to the river. The clear, silver ribbon of water was changing. A slow, creeping stain of dark red was spreading from the rocks, diluting the blue reflection of the sky. The river's collar—its very color—was swiftly turning crimson.

Elara ducked lower, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was hidden now, watching the chilling sight.

Finally, the figure straightened, gave a single, dismissive glance around the empty banks, and walked away, disappearing into the dense line of forest.

With bated breath, Elara waited until the silence felt safe again. Then, trembling, she crept out and made her way to the spot where he had been standing.

As she rounded the final rock, she saw it. The dark earth was soaked, and the stench was metallic and thick. Lying there, discarded and unmistakable, was a Kingsguard helmet—its royal crest half-buried in the mud—and the gruesome, unmistakable evidence of the man's deed.

Elara’s breath hitched in a scream that tore from her throat. It was the body of a Kingsguard, slain and left by the river.

She turned and ran, her small feet pounding the earth, leaving the river of blood behind her.

His name was Oren. And he was a former.

He knelt by the bank, letting the cool, flowing water wash over his sword. The crimson stain from the Kingsguard's blood swirled away, dissolving into the deeper currents. He worked the edge methodically, wiping the polished steel clean until it reflected the fading afternoon light, betraying no sign of the dark work it had just done. Once satisfied, he expertly sheathed the blade and secured it across his back beneath his thick cloak.

He started the journey home, the rhythm of his feet silent on the forest path. His face, etched with a severe kind of handsomeness, was utterly devoid of emotion—neither regret nor triumph. He was simply a man returning from a job done.

The sun was sinking, bathing the fields in the deep, warm gold of the evening time, when he reached the boundary of his property. He noticed his elder son, Aeron, already out on the farming land, tirelessly working the soil. Aeron was a strong boy, serious and focused, always trying to earn his place. Oren gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod and continued toward the small, sturdy farmhouse.

He opened the wooden door. The warmth and the scent of woodsmoke and baking bread immediately enveloped him.

His wife, Lyra, looked up from the hearth. She was striking—her beauty was less delicate and more vibrant, with high cheekbones and eyes that seemed to hold the sun. A soft smile touched her lips when she saw him.

"Hey, darling," she said, her voice a comforting melody. She noticed the slight slump in his shoulders, the weariness in his eyes that the long walk never caused. "I think you are so tired. Wait a few minutes; I’m going to prepare a tea for you."

"Thank you, Lyra," he replied, his voice rougher than usual. It was the only acknowledgement he needed to give.

Elara burst through the heavy oak door of the secluded cottage, her breath ragged and catching in dry sobs. "Grandfather! Grandfather, you have to listen!"

Grandfather Alaric sat by the low fire, a figure of serene stillness, his long white beard resting against his chest. He looked up, his ancient eyes—the color of faded sapphire—not surprised, but deeply expectant.

Elara collapsed at his feet, spilling the horrific tale in panicked, broken gasps: the peaceful sky, the figure by the rocks, the strange chunking sound, and the river turning dark red from the body of the slain Kingsguard.

Alaric listened without interruption. When she finished, trembling and weeping, he reached out a gnarled hand and rested it gently on her head.

"Be still, little sparrow," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating murmur that seemed to settle the chaos in the room.

He slowly closed his eyes. The cottage became absolutely silent. It was a silence so profound it felt like the world outside had paused. Then, the impossible happened. Without a sound, without a visible shift, Grandfather Alaric’s body lifted. He hovered in the air, a serene two feet above the floorboards, suspended in a state of profound meditation.

The air in the room grew thick, crackling with an unseen energy. The faint glow of the embers seemed to draw inwards. For two full minutes, only the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest proved he was alive.

Then, with the softest sigh of displaced air, his feet settled back onto the floor. He opened his eyes. The sapphire in his gaze was now sharp, alight with fierce, cold knowledge.

"Come here, Elara," he said, pulling her close.

His next words were a hammer blow to the world she knew.

"The man you saw," he stated, "the one whose hands are stained with the Kingsguard's blood... he was not a killer."

Elara blinked, confusion replacing terror.

Alaric leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "He is the rightful King of the ancient Oru Kingdom. His bloodline ruled this land before the Seven Kingdoms were ever unified, before the current dynasty rose to power—a thousand years ago, before his ancestors fell down and were scattered."

Alaric gripped her shoulders, his gaze burning with intensity. "He knows the history; he knows the truth of his heritage. He is not merely seeking power. He is attempting to be a conqueror to reclaim what he believes is wholly and rightfully his. All Seven Kingdoms were once his. And yes, Elara," he confirmed, staring deep into her eyes, "that man, Oren, carries the bloodline of the Gods."

This changes everything! Elara now knows the killer is a powerful claimant to the throne with divine backing.