43Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2QMW4LRUYzCHAPTER 1
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— THE PEN —
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The dust outside Veronica's restaurant swirls in clouded arches. Kicked up by an afternoon breeze. The shuffling of villagers and wind are heard heading through the market.
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There's Traeven.
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In a sketchy alleyway, dirt, stone, and sweat.
His jaw is set, eyes burning with humiliation.
Kathryn hovers beside him like a nervous song bird. Red hair flapping wild in the wind, green flowy dress, catching the air. She smiles way too hard. Laughs quickly, and clings to Traeven's arm like she belongs there.
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She doesn't.
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On the side of the building, also stands the temple priest, staffs planted in the sand. They look bored, some annoyed, overall unimpressed with Traeven's panic.
Traeven:(snaps, harsh whisper)
"You said it would work!"
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The priest don't flinch. He stares at Traeven with that mixture of discontentment and disapproval only holy men seem to master.
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Priest:
"If a man could grow crops instantaneously, we wouldn't be in this predicament as a whole community."
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Priest2:
"It's impossible… we've done our best."
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Traeven's face twitches — desperation, cracking through his polished exterior. His career, his influence, his entire standing with the King, all of it feels like it's slipping from his grasp.
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Traeven: (sassy, sharp)
"Well — what CAN you do?"
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The priest sigh, one lifts his staff, pointing it at the tiny cucumber sprout poking out of the dirt.
A small fire ball shoots out.
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FWUMP.
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It scorches instantly.
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The priest smile. Finally satisfied.
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Priest:
"Is that better?
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Kathryn giggles, pressing herself against Traeven's arm like she's watching a comedy show instead of a horticultural execution. Traeven ignores her completely, eyes locked on the priest with pure contempt. He snatches the green emerald staff out of the priest's hands, shaking the gem staff as if he's going to force the magic out by brute force alone.
Sweat drips down his temple.
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Traeven:
"You all are good for nothing, low —"
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He stops himself.
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The priests face twist — offended, appalled, and almost curious.
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Priest: (nods)
"Go on…"
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Kathryn has her hands on her knees, teeth shining through a wide grin, trying not to burst in laughter. Traeven grunts, dragging his foot across the sand as if he were drawing the line. A dramatic dust cloud puffs up across his boot.
He storms off, disappearing into the roar of the market. Kathryn waves, excitedly, one arm in the air.
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Kathryn:
"Wait for me!"
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She gathers her dress and scampers after him, nearly tripping twice before catching up as he crosses the busy street. The lodge door groans as Traeven pushes it open, the heavy wood resisting him. The air is cooler inside, scented with pine resin and a faint metallic tang of guards amor. A stark contrast to the hot, dusty chaos outside of Veronicas establishment.
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Traeven steps in.
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The moment his boots touch the polished floor, something in him tightens — a coil of dread, ambition and calculation twisting together. His mind begins to race, faster than his breath can catch.
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Equations.
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Faces.
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Landscapes.
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Outcomes.
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Dark thoughts race behind his eyelids like runes on a spinning wheel. His jaw clenches. The King's guard at the base of the stairs doesn't move, but Traeven feels the man's gaze like a weight. The guard's armor shines faintly —He walks past without acknowledging the guard, cloak brushing past. The staircase seems to stretch. Looming ahead — carved with dark oak, below crimson carpet with gold symbols.
As Traeven ascends, the carved encryptions on oak beams seem to shift as he climbs, judging him. He blinks hard, shaking his thoughts away,
but the images keep flashing like shards of glass.
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Metro's calm demeanor. Theron's disappointment. Veronica's countenance. Kathryn's giggling face. The priest's pompous smirk. The burning cucumber sprouts.
He feels heat rising in his chest — anger, humiliation, fear — all tangled into one.
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He needs leverage.
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He needs a win.
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He won't be replaced, he can't just lose everything he's worked so hard for.
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One step above another, he passes floating lanterns near the ceiling. Their lights shine with soft pulses. At the top of the stairs, Traeven's boots click sharply on the stone tiles, echoing louder than they should. He feels exposed. Seen. Like the walls themselves are whispering about him. He reaches Theron's office door —cracks it open just enough to tempt himself.
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He leans in, peering through the gap.
Archeus's voice drifts out — calm, measured, ancient in its patience. The scribe stands in front of Theron's desk, quill and scroll in hand.
Theron sits rigid, shoulders tight, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and something darker — worry maybe, or guilt.
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Then
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"Got ya."
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Kathryn clings to Traeven's black coat like a koala bear, he swipes her away, a full arm three sixty motion.
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Traeven: (turns, sharply)
"Get out of here! I'm on business, go home…”
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She ignores, and peeks her head underneath his in the cracked door frame. Her eyes shining bright blue, with interest.
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Kathryn:
"Whatcha looking at?"
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