O Saga: Part Three: Book of War

Chapter Three: Eladoer

CYROS

Eladoer is a titan among nations, a realm so vast and opulent that even the combined territories of the other six nations pale in comparison. Its sprawling lands are unrivaled in size, its resources inexhaustible, and its wealth staggering—a beacon of prosperity and power. Yet, Eladoer remains an enigma, shrouded in its own shadows, as internal strife and unrelenting ambition plague its gilded borders.
The name "Eladoer" originates from the ancient tongue: *Ellah*, meaning "land," and *Doere*, meaning "bountiful." This land of abundance has drawn settlers for millennia, their dreams of fortune mingling with the bloodshed of those who sought dominion over it. Civil wars and violent power struggles are etched into the nation's history, each generation inheriting the scars of the last. Though all of Eladoer's people descend from the same original settlers, centuries of division have splintered them into distinct cultures and languages, each vying for its own piece of the pie.
Positioned across the ocean from the other nations, Eladoer maintains an isolationist stance, fortified by its independence. Rich in resources, it has little need for foreign trade or alliances. This self-sufficiency breeds an air of detachment—Eladoer keeps its distance from global conflicts, and the world, knowing its might, largely returns the favor.
But Eladoer's strength has not gone untested. From time to time, a foreign upstart dares to challenge the slumbering giant, driven by hubris or desperation. Such ventures are doomed to fail, with Eladoer's forces crushing opposition swiftly and decisively. Ironically, these rare external threats are the only force capable of uniting its fractured populace. In the face of a common enemy, Eladoer's internal squabbles cease, and its people rally as one, a formidable storm of power and purpose.
Eladoer may be a land of abundance, but it is also a crucible where ambition and discord perpetually clash—a nation forever balancing on the edge of greatness and ruin.
For the past century, Eladoer has been under the iron grip of the House of Hanyryn, the ruling dynasty descended from the legendary King Hanyryn I. Their power emanates from the grand palace in Cambrya, with the royal city of Fenmoor Dur serving as the pulsating heart of governance. Within Fenmoor Dur lie the Houses of Lords and Commons, alongside the venerable Holy Temples, cementing the city as the nexus of both secular and spiritual authority.
On the throne now sits King Uldyn I, the latest in Hanyryn's line. A direct heir to the throne's founder, Uldyn commands the title of High King, though his rule is far from secure. Whispers of dissent echo in court corridors, and the shadows of rebellion stretch long across the land. Many powerful factions dream of ending his lineage, and with them, the rule of the House of Hanyryn itself.
The seeds of civil discord were sown the moment King Hanyryn united the fractured regions of Eladoer. Though open warfare has largely been replaced by the cutthroat realm of politics, the specter of succession disputes has never truly left. These conflicts, simmering just below the surface, occasionally boil over into violence, leaving blood to stain the stones of Fenmoor Dur.
One of the most potent sources of turmoil lies in the realm of marriage politics. The union of King Uldyn I and Queen Heilyn of Fleure, meant to solidify alliances, has instead fanned the flames of discord. Heilyn was once betrothed to Mylen, the Grand Duke of Gilmer, a promise unfulfilled due to the intervention of King Wytko, Uldyn's father. Wytko orchestrated the match for his son, shattering Mylen's ambitions and earning him a bitter enemy.
Mylen has not forgiven, nor has he forgotten. To strengthen his hand, he wed Vyra of Latham, forging a political bloc in the northern kingdoms. Now, Gilmer, Latham, and Meddur stand united, not in outright rebellion, but in covert opposition. Their goal is not independence but something far more insidious—to usurp the throne and supplant the House of Hanyryn.
For now, the Northern Alliance bides its time, weaving webs of intrigue and alliances. King Uldyn holds the throne, but the cracks in his kingdom widen with each passing day. In Eladoer, where power is measured in bloodlines and betrayal, the future of the realm hangs by a thread—and everyone knows it.
Cambrya and Verene stand as the twin pillars of Eladoer's wealth, their unity a historical constant amid the shifting sands of alliances and rivalries. King Uldyn I's bond with Duke Toren of Verene is more than political; it is deeply personal, forged in the innocence of childhood and tempered by years of mutual trust. Yet, even in the heart of Cambrya, the Queen herself often feels adrift.
Queen Heilyn, a native of Fleure, finds herself caught between two worlds. Her marriage to Uldyn was a calculated effort to soothe tensions between her father and King Wytko, but the fractures within her homeland have proved stubborn. Fleure continues to bristle under the policies of her husband, and Queen Heilyn frequently finds herself mediating between a region that questions her loyalty and a King who demands it.
Complicating matters further is the ambition of Grand Duke Cynfryg and his wife, Grand Duchess Taleisyn, both seen as viable contenders for the throne. Taleisyn, Heilyn's own sister, embodies a familial rivalry that adds a personal dimension to the political chaos. The Southern region of Neria has proven a thorn in King Uldyn's side, as its rulers, Count Fede and Countess Lorea, openly back Cynfryg's aspirations. Their alliance strengthens the Grand Duke's position, casting a shadow over Uldyn's reign and further emboldening the opposition.
This fragmentation of Eladoer's regions has led many to question King Uldyn's strength. To counter the growing perception of weakness, the King has increasingly relied on force to quell dissent, a strategy that risks deepening the divides. In a desperate bid to secure stability, Uldyn has opened negotiations with Cynfryg for a marriage between their heirs, hoping that such a union might bind their warring factions together.
Meanwhile, another betrothal looms on the horizon, fraught with complications of its own. Prince Arynout of Cambrya and Princess Emlyn of Fleure, direct cousins, have been destined for one another since birth—or so their families claim. The union was intended to solidify alliances, but wavering loyalties and the close blood ties between the two have made the arrangement a contentious one.
With the kingdom's fault lines deepening and its alliances hanging by threads of negotiation, Eladoer teeters on the brink of further unrest. For King Uldyn, every decision is a gamble, and every move on the chessboard risks plunging the realm into chaos.
In the royal courts of Eladoer, love is seldom a factor in marriage. Instead, these unions are cold calculations, crafted to prevent wars, preserve territorial wealth, and secure political advantage. Marriages between cousins or distant relatives are not only accepted but expected, ensuring power remains firmly entrenched within the same bloodlines. For the children of noble houses, this reality is a burden they are raised to accept. Their lives are not their own; they are pawns on a grand chessboard, their personal desires sacrificed for what is deemed the greater good of the realm.
Amid this cutthroat world of alliances and betrayals, the southern island regions of Heta, Cairbre, and Ambrus offer a stark contrast. These small, unassuming territories lack the wealth and influence to play a significant role in Eladoer's power struggles. Their neutrality has become their strength, allowing them to remain untouched by the machinations of the mainland. Free from the weight of political intrigue, the islands have become a haven for those seeking peace—whether for a brief holiday escape or a permanent retreat from the world's chaos. In the sprawling courtyard of Apawi Palace, the heart of Fenmoor Dur's Royal Palace, the clashing of steel fills the air as the three Princes engage in their daily sword practice. Overseeing them is Coswollyn Cei, the stoic and seasoned head of the Royal Guards. As their combat teacher, he is tasked with honing not only their skill but their discipline—an increasingly difficult task given the simmering tensions among the brothers.
The duel between Prince Arynout, the eldest and heir to the throne, and his younger brother Prince Joryn, is fierce and unrelenting. Arynout, favored by their mother, Queen Heilyn, moves with precision and confidence, each strike measured and calculated. Joryn, the King's favorite, counters with raw determination, his strikes heavier and fueled by an unspoken rivalry. Their clashes are more than training; they are an unspoken battle for approval, pride, and identity.
King Uldyn I's relationship with Arynout is fraught with complexity. As the King's eldest and pride, Arynout represents the future of the dynasty—but also its greatest threat. The young Prince has begun to chafe under his father's shadow, expressing a desire for lands of his own to govern. This ambition, though natural, unsettles the King, feeding a gnawing paranoia that one day his son could be turned against him. Arynout has shown no indication of supporting such a coup, but the mere possibility drives a wedge between father and son, creating an emotional distance that deepens with time.
Prince Joryn, by contrast, is unwaveringly loyal to King Uldyn. With no expectation of succession, he has carved a place of favor by being his father's trusted companion, whether on hunting expeditions or quiet strolls through the palace gardens. Yet this loyalty only sharpens the divide between the brothers, their sparring sessions frequently escalating into heated exchanges that push the limits of their training sabers. Time and again, Coswollyn Cei is forced to step in, his commanding presence the only thing preventing their practice from becoming a genuine fight.
Amid this sibling rivalry stands the youngest prince, Cyros, who at fifteen has earned the role of peacemaker. While Arynout and Joryn vie for dominance, Cyros moves between them with calm diplomacy, striving to mend the fractures that threaten not just their brotherhood, but the stability of the royal family. Even within the palace walls, his efforts extend to mediating between his often-clashing parents, attempting to bridge the gap between Queen Heilyn's quiet disapproval of King Uldyn's policies and the King's growing frustrations.
The courtyard of Apawi Palace is more than a training ground—it is a crucible where the future of Eladoer is forged. Beneath the veneer of royal discipline lies a storm of ambition, rivalry, and mistrust that could one day shake the throne to its foundations.
The sibling rivalry between Prince Arynout and Prince Joryn is not confined to court politics; it often spills into the courtyard of Apawi Palace, where their training duels grow intense and heated. With training sabers in hand, the brothers clash with a ferocity that pushes the boundaries of sport. Coswollyn Cei, the stalwart head of the Royal Guards and their combat instructor, frequently finds himself intervening to prevent their sparring from turning into something far more dangerous.
The three princes are as distinct in appearance and temperament as they are in their roles within the family.
At nineteen, Prince Arynout is towering and broad-shouldered, he exudes an air of natural authority. His bright brown eyes and dark, silky hair—reaching down to his belly button—make him the most celebrated for his looks. Arynout typically wears his hair in a single braid during training, a traditional style that signifies his unmarried status. Among young men of Eladoer, a single braid symbolizes youth and eligibility, while two braids are reserved for married men or widowers.
Seventeen-year-old Prince Joryn, in contrast, is stockier and less graceful in both build and demeanor. Lacking his brother's celebrated beauty, Joryn has developed a defensive and abrasive personality. His physical strength, however, is undeniable, and his fiery temperament often manifests in his swordplay. Unlike Arynout, Joryn is not widely liked, his sharp tongue and gruff demeanor making him a polarizing figure within the palace.
Then there is Prince Cyros, slender and bookish, yet athletic in his own quiet way. He has yet to hit his growth spurt and lacks the physical presence of his older brothers. His thick black hair is still too short to braid, marking him as the youngest in more ways than one. Cyros's intellectual curiosity often leads him to the palace library, a habit that irritates his father, who views it as a distraction from more "practical" pursuits. Joryn frequently picks on him for his bookish tendencies, prompting Arynout to step in as protector.
What truly binds the three brothers—and distinguishes them—is their connection to the *O Element*, a rare and powerful trait. This ability, part of the legacy that has allowed the House of Hanyryn to maintain its grip on power, is both a gift and a burden. Coswollyn Cei, in addition to training the princes in combat, serves as their mentor in mastering this elemental force, helping them harness it responsibly.
"Father said we can both enter the tournament," Joryn announced, his voice laced with pride as he swung his training saber in a wide arc.
Arynout, leaning casually against a wooden post, raised an eyebrow and smirked. "I thought the tournament was for the bravest warriors in Eladoer. Are you sure you qualify?"
Joryn's expression darkened, and he jabbed a finger at his brother. "You won't be laughing when I win the tournament."
"Is no one else entering, then?" Arynout quipped, his tone as sharp as his blade.
Before Joryn could retort, a smaller voice chimed in from the sidelines. "I'd like to enter the tournament," Cyros said, stepping forward with an eager gleam in his eyes.
Both older brothers turned on him at once. "Shut up, you're too young," they said in unison, their scornful tones striking Cyros like a slap.
Unfazed, Cyros crossed his arms and muttered, "We all know Coswollyn would win if he were allowed to enter."
At this, Coswollyn Cei, who had been silently observing the exchange, allowed himself the faintest of smiles but remained otherwise impassive.
"But he can't enter," Joryn said, puffing out his chest. "That's why I'm going to win."
Arynout rolled his eyes and gestured mockingly. "You'd better pray the King doesn't disqualify you for arrogance."
The tournament Joryn referred to was no ordinary competition. While many tournaments were held across Eladoer each year, only one carried the prestige that could elevate a warrior's name to legend. Held in the grand tournament yards outside Fenmoor Dur, it was the pinnacle of martial competition, drawing nobles and warriors from across the land. Even King Uldyn himself attended, lending the event an air of gravitas unmatched by any other gathering.
Victory in this tournament was not just a matter of skill but of honor and recognition. For a prince, it was an opportunity to prove their worth before the court and the realm. To enter, a warrior had to either win one of the year's smaller tournaments or be nominated as the champion of a royal house. Nobles, however, faced no such restrictions and could enter both themselves and their champions if they chose.
This loophole allowed both Prince Joryn and Prince Arynout to participate, despite being brothers. The prospect of facing each other in the tournament fueled their sibling rivalry, each determined to outshine the other.
Cyros, on the other hand, was left to watch from the sidelines, yearning for his chance to prove himself. Too young to compete and too often dismissed by his brothers, he could only dream of the day when he would step onto the field as more than just an observer. For now, though, the tournament would be another stage for his brothers' relentless competition, a clash of ambition and pride that Cyros could only hope would not tear their family further apart.
To qualify for the grand tournament, a competitor needed only to be sixteen years or older. The competition welcomed participants of any gender, but one rule was absolute: the use of the O Element was strictly forbidden. Even a whisper of suspicion could result in severe consequences. Those caught attempting to wield such powers were not only disqualified but often faced public disgrace. In the most extreme cases, executions had been carried out as a grim warning to others.
The tournament itself was a grueling test of skill and endurance, comprising five primary challenges. The champion would be determined by the best overall score across these events: free fighting, jousting, archery, fencing, and a triathlon that combined running, swimming, and horseback riding.
Though the Strongmen events—throwing and lifting competitions—were not included in the official scoring, they remained a crowd favorite. These exhibitional feats of raw strength drew boisterous cheers from the audience, offering a break from the high-stakes tension of the main events.
"Enough talking. Time to concentrate," Coswollyn Cei's voice rang out, firm and commanding, cutting through the Princes' heated banter like a blade.
The air grew heavy as Arynout and Joryn squared off in the training yard, their practice swords held in the ready stance. Arynout, tall and poised, had the advantage of experience, while Joryn's raw strength and fiery temperament made him an unpredictable opponent. The tension crackled between them, each brother determined to best the other.
Cyros stood off to the side, his hands clasped tightly as he watched with a mix of fascination and nervousness. He knew that when the duel was over, he would be the one left to pick up the pieces. Whoever lost would need consoling, and Cyros, the ever-reluctant peacemaker, would be there to mend bruised egos and wounded pride.
The courtyard seemed to hold its breath as Coswollyn stepped between the two combatants, his sharp eyes scanning their stances. "Remember," he said, his voice low but weighty, "this is about control and discipline, not brute force. Prove to me that you're ready for the tournament, or you'll embarrass yourselves before the entire realm."
With a nod, Coswollyn stepped back. "Begin!"
Arynout moved first, his strikes measured and precise, while Joryn responded with raw, aggressive swings. Cyros shifted uneasily on the sidelines, his heart pounding as the clash of swords echoed through the courtyard. This wasn't just practice—it was a preview of the battles to come, both in the tournament and in the future struggles that would define the royal brothers.
Joryn was the first to move, lunging forward with the force and confidence of someone determined to win. His wooden sword whistled through the air, but Arynout was ready. He raised his own blade just in time, the sharp crack of wood against wood echoing through the courtyard.
The rules of the duel were simple: the first to strike the padded target strapped over their opponent's midsection would win. Despite being practice weapons, the wooden swords could still bruise flesh and egos alike, especially when swung with the ferocity Joryn favored.
True to his nature, Joryn was the aggressor, pressing forward with relentless strikes. Arynout, however, had faced his brother enough times to know that patience was his greatest weapon. Joryn's attacks were powerful, but they lacked precision. Arynout focused on deflecting each blow, biding his time for the inevitable mistake.
Joryn, to his credit, surprised him with a feint, drawing Arynout's blade to one side before thrusting forward with a quick jab aimed at his midsection. It was a clever move, and for a moment, Arynout's balance faltered. But his agility saved him—he twisted just enough to avoid the strike, regaining his footing with practiced ease.
The two began to circle each other, their eyes locked in concentration. Joryn's frustration was evident in the tightness of his grip, while Arynout remained calm, his expression unreadable.
When Joryn struck again, Arynout parried with a smooth deflection and took a calculated step back. Then, in a move that caused Joryn to hesitate, Arynout switched his grip, transitioning from a right-hand dominant stance to a left-handed one.
Joryn blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. He hesitated for just a second—long enough for Arynout to make his move.
With a sudden, fluid motion, Arynout swung his blade in an arc from above his left shoulder. Joryn reacted instinctively, raising his sword to block, but the angle forced him to use a weaker backhand defense. The strain showed in his face as he barely managed to hold off the initial strike.
Arynout didn't pause. Using the momentum of his swing, he transitioned seamlessly into a forward thrust. The wooden tip of his sword struck the padded target on Joryn's midsection with a satisfying *thud*.
The duel was over.
Joryn scowled, his frustration boiling just beneath the surface as he glanced down at the mark on his padding. Arynout stepped back, lowering his weapon and giving a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment.
"When did you think of that tactic?" Coswollyn asked, his arms crossed as he regarded Arynout with a mix of curiosity and approval.
Arynout smirked, lowering his practice sword. "Something I've been working on in my own time. I figured it wouldn't hurt to strengthen my weak hand. Can't let my brother know all my tricks, now can I?"
Coswollyn nodded. "It seems to be working. Keep honing it. A versatile fighter is a dangerous one."
"That's not fair!" Joryn interjected, his face still flushed from both exertion and frustration. "I thought we were restricted by doing only what you had taught. If I'd known, I would've done the same!"
"It wasn't cheating, Joryn," Coswollyn said firmly, though his tone remained calm. "You're allowed to use whatever legitimate tactics you can within the rules. And you almost had him with that feint earlier. Don't discount your own skill."
Joryn scowled, still unconvinced, but didn't argue further.
Cyros, sensing the brewing tension, chimed in with an effort to redirect the conversation. "You know, there's more to the tournament than sword fighting. Have you been training for the triathlon?"
Joryn scoffed, shooting his younger brother a derisive glance. "No. Why would I waste my time on that? I'll leave that event to the fairies like you, Cyros."
The insult hung in the air, sharp and unkind. Cyros's face reddened, but he didn't respond, choosing instead to look down at the ground.
"That's enough," Coswollyn said abruptly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "We're done for today. Take this time to cool off—and think about how to conduct yourselves better, both on and off the field."
The Princes exchanged glances, Joryn muttering something under his breath as he turned and stalked off toward the palace. Arynout lingered for a moment, glancing at Cyros, who still seemed hurt by the comment.
"You shouldn't let him get to you," Arynout said to Cyros quietly. "He's just angry because he lost."
Cyros nodded slightly, though his expression remained guarded. "I know. But he doesn't have to be so cruel."
"Joryn has a lot to learn," Arynout replied, giving his younger brother a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "We all do."
Arynout gave Cyros a wink and a friendly pat on the shoulder before striding off, leaving Cyros alone with Coswollyn Cei.
"I want you to work on tightening up your form," Coswollyn said, his tone firm but not unkind. "Focus on precision. You've got potential, Cyros, but you need to refine it. Practice on your own."
Cyros nodded dutifully, though his enthusiasm was muted. He understood the importance of what Coswollyn was saying, but the thought of more drills didn't excite him.
There were nearly two weeks left before the grand tournament. Though Cyros wasn't old enough to compete, he was still expected to attend, observing every match and learning from the spectacle. In Eladoer, all members of the Royal family were expected to be capable fighters. It was a duty woven into the fabric of their roles—one of the many expectations that weighed on their shoulders, regardless of personal interests.
After completing his drills, Cyros wiped the sweat from his brow and made his way back to his chambers, his steps quickening with each corridor he passed. His room was his sanctuary, a place where duty couldn't intrude and where the world faded into the pages of his books.
If it weren't for his obligations, Cyros thought, he'd likely never leave his room at all. As he sat down by the window with his latest read, the distant sounds of the palace—voices, footsteps, and the occasional clatter of armor—became nothing more than background noise. For now, at least, he could escape.