The drums call champions and killers alike. But when the decree reaches the cottage by the river, even silence must choose whether to fight.
The Drums Before the Storm
The first drumbeat shook the kingdom.
It rolled across Eryndor like thunder torn from the bones of the earth, rattling lanterns on palace walls, scattering crows from the temple spires, and freezing every hand in the marketplace.
Even the river seemed to hold its breath.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Three beats. Older than kings. The sound felt older than the city itself.
Kael and Maya were returning from the jungle with fish and herbs when the second volley struck.
“Not festival drums,” Kael said, quickening his pace.
Maya’s hair lifted in the wind. “Decree drums,” she murmured, eyes suddenly bright and serious.
By the time they reached the city edge, the square had already filled like a bowl under storm rain—farmers in mud boots, silk merchants, guards in half-polished breastplates, priests fingering thumb-worn beads, children climbing statues for a better view. Bronze horns blared from high balconies, silencing even the dogs.
A herald in crimson stepped to the rail, his voice sharp as a drawn blade.
The Decree
“By command of Lord Gorath, ruler of Eryndor and Keeper of the Eastern Gates:
The 412th Pinnacle Arena Competition shall begin at the next full moon!
All who dare may enter. There is no rank, no birthright, no chain to hold you back.
The first trial will be The Cave of Shadows.
Survive, and you may face the trials that follow.
Fall, and your names shall scatter like ash on the wind.”
Horns answered. Drums hammered the words into the city’s ribs.
The Madness of the People
The decree’s last echo hadn’t faded before Eryndor lost its mind.
In the alleys, gamblers carved odds into tavern doors with chalk-stained knives while drunkards shouted names until their throats cracked.
Merchants raised banners overnight, painting coins and crowns on them as if the Games had already made them rich.
Priests clutched sun-discs to their chests, crying omens and selling charms for ‘victory and safe return’.
Children turned streets into battlefields with sticks, smacking each other and yelling names they barely knew.
Poets climbed barrels to sing about champions who hadn’t fought yet, their verses already promising blood and thunder.
Thieves planned to rob half the city during the first trial because every guard would be too busy betting on favorites.
The Games hadn’t even begun, but the kingdom had already stopped living ordinary lives.
And above the clamor, names began to gather power.
“Talon of Harrowfen!” someone shouted, voice slicing the air. “The marsh-king who spears crocodiles longer than a man!”
“Brathon the Brute!” another roared. “He bends iron barehanded and laughs like thunder!”
“The Silent Monk of Shavak,” whispered a merchant, voice trembling. “Hears arrows in flight. Fights blindfolded.”
But then came the name that silenced even drunks.
“Rynna Windmark.” The crowd rippled as if winter itself had blown through the square. Rynna, princess of the northern kingdom of Raalmor — where wolves ran beside hunters and kings signed treaties under the auroras. They said she shot three arrows at once, and all three found hearts. They said she never smiled except before a kill.
Kael stilled. A name he’d once heard in spring wind — a promise to return when the thaw came. Spring had come. She hadn’t. The sound of her name now cut colder than the drums.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The air suddenly tasted of winter.
Around him the noise swelled again, dragging him back to the present — merchants whispering, gamblers shouting, the city already dreaming of crowns. Some swore they had seen Lord Gorath’s men carrying painted portraits north, bound for Raalmor’s court.
A few muttered of marriage treaties, of Varrick riding south one day with a crown in one hand and Rynna’s wrist in the other, to bind the north and east into one empire.
“Raalmor’s wolf-princess,” someone whispered, half in fear, half in awe.
“Varrick won’t tame her,” a fisherman spat. “Storms can be married. Wolves bite.”
But already, bookmakers were scratching her odds beneath Varrick’s on the tavern doors.
And in the noise, Maya bit into a stolen apple and said lightly, “Sometimes the crowd bets on thunder… and forgets the rain.”
Kael didn’t smile. He couldn’t. The noise was too loud, the drums too close, the air too heavy with names that smelled like blood and crowns.
Glimpses of the Champions
As the decree rode ahead on fast horses, messengers found champions where legends slept.
In the green rot of Harrowfen, Talon stood hip-deep in black water. A demon-crocodile’s skull lay split on the bank like a broken chest. “Eryndor calls?” he asked. He rinsed his spear and smiled without warmth. “Let the marsh send its storm.”
In a southern forge, Brathon the Brute knotted a red-hot bar with his bare hands while twelve men held their breath. “Games,” he rumbled. “Good. It’s been too quiet.”
High on a wind-scoured terrace, the Silent Monk sat cross-legged as a dozen archers loosed arrows at his back. Not one touched his robe. He opened his eyes at last and said softly, “I will walk where shadows test names.”
And under the northern moons, among pines locked in ice, Rynna Windmark loosed a single arrow and pinned two wolves through one heart. “A full moon?” she asked the shivering messenger. “Good. I prefer bright nights.”
Lord Gorath’s Chamber
Night rose along the palace like ink.
In the highest room, Lord Gorath dismissed his captains and stood alone among tapestries heavy with faded wars. Names slid through his thoughts like unsheathed steel:
Varrick (mine). Talon. Brathon. The Monk. Rynna (danger… or power).
He poured black wine into a gold cup and did not drink. The candle bent strangely in the corner; the shadow leaned like a listener.
“The flower stirs. The girl comes. And now the games begin.”
The reply crawled from the dark as smoke might learn to speak:
“Majestic souls choose their protectors, Gorath. If you cannot crush them before they find strength… your throne will turn to ash.”
His hand tightened until the cup’s rim warped. In the window glass, his reflection wore a crown of torchlight that looked too much like fire.
The History of the Games
When the last drum faded, silence found only one place left to stand—Eldrin’s cottage.
Eldrin spoke like a man counting ghosts.
“These Games were born,” he said, “when warlords split the land into pieces too small to feed themselves. Armies burned villages for grain. The High Council decreed the madness would end — not with treaties, but with trials. Strength would decide the rule, so the land bled less.”
His staff stirred the embers. Sparks leapt like startled birds.
“Durok the Storm-Slayer,” Eldrin murmured, “fought blind in the First Games after an enemy prince burned his eyes. Three days he battled — three days without sleep — and when he won, he left the Champion’s Crown on the altar and walked into the sea, because there was no fight left worth having. They built him a tomb so high the crows still roost there when it storms.”
Another name: “Lady Yohana of the Blades. No army. No husband. No mercy. She took the crown with two swords and forced three kings to kneel by sundown. A year later, she vanished into the western sands, and to this day they say the dunes there sing when the wind rises.”
Another: “Kaelor the Twice-Crowned. Won two years back-to-back. The second time, he wept on the altar because no man dared face him in the final arena. He said victory without challenge is only loneliness with a crown.”
Eldrin’s gaze lifted, hard as the firelight.
“And every champion since has carried one name: Protector of Eryndor. For a year, no lord dares raise a war-banner against the champion’s will. Even kings bow. For a year, one man or woman holds the power to end empires… or start them.”
Kael felt the words like iron sinking into water.
“Remember this,” Eldrin said, voice low. “Some fought for gold. Some for crowns. Some for revenge. And a few — the rare few — fought because the land itself needed them to.”
Maya leaned back on the table, grinning around a stolen apple. “And some, I hope, fought for fun.”
Eldrin didn’t smile. “Fun does not survive the first trial.”
Eldrin’s Command
Eldrin rose from the hearth slowly, staff in hand. The fire painted hard lines across his face.
“Kael,” he said. His voice carried no warmth. “You will enter the games.”
The words fell like iron on stone.
Kael froze. “You… want me to step where they stepped? Against Varrick? Against men who bend iron and spear monsters?” His throat felt tight, heavy with smoke and salt. “Master, I’ll be cut down before the torches even gutter.”
“You will enter,” Eldrin said again, voice flat and final. “Not to win. To endure. To learn what pain does to men before they become swords. You will fight because your sister breathes—and because the world does not wait for cowards.”
The fire snapped. Kael bowed his head, the pendant beneath his tunic throbbing against his chest like a second heart.
Across the room, Maya lounged on the table, biting into a stolen apple. “And he already has the best name,” she said, grinning.
Kael groaned. “Not that again—”
“Pebble,” Maya sang, pointing the apple at him like a scepter. “Wolves get hunted. Hawks get caged. But pebbles? Pebbles sink ships.”
Eldrin struck the floor with his staff. The sound shot up the rafters like a storm breaking.
“Three days,” he said. “Train until your breath is wire. Bleed if you must. Crawl if you must. But enter. For your sister. For what waits beyond shadow.”
Kael lifted his head at last. The fear did not leave, but it bent now around something harder—resolve, cold and thin as tempered steel.
“Pebble, then,” he said quietly. “I’ll endure.”
Maya’s grin was all mischief and sunlight. “That’s the spirit.”
Eldrin turned back to the fire, shoulders heavy with centuries. Outside, the city’s noise thinned to murmurs, the drums faded into memory, and the night air tasted of storm.
The games had returned.
And Eryndor held its breath.
Somewhere, storms began to gather.
And in the shadows of the arena, unseen hands were already writing Kael’s name…
on the list of the dead.
Maya’s Note, scribbled on the edge of a stolen parchment:
“You think this was wild? Just wait till the next round. New chapters drop every Wednesday and Saturday, so don’t blink—Eryndor’s only getting louder. Keep watching, share the word, and stay close to Kael— I mean… Pebble.
Remember what I said… Pebble can sink a ship. ??”