This plot focuses on an orb that allows spellcasters, or 'Wielders' to manipulate the weather. It is stolen, and a knight is dispatched to retrieve it. A member of the royal family, who are all renowned as Wielders, follows him in order to secure her fathers favor. However, she is one of the few members of the family who cannot Wield. At least, not yet.
Ser Andri Evrardin, anointed Knight of the Crown, Lord of House Evrardin, First Sword of the Stone, absolutely hated parties. Loathed them, with every fiber of his being. Perhaps more so even than Wielders, though it was a close thing.
Four times a year, he had to fit himself into terribly uncomfortable breeches that hugged his body in the most unappealing way and slip on tunics and coats that he had trouble hiding his blades in. Eventually, tired of tearing up expensive coats, he had just had one custom tailored to fit a bevvy of daggers and throwing knives in. A knight with a sword was often a fearsome sight to behold and death for anyone within five paces who didn’t already have an arrow knocked.
With his throwing knives, however, he was death at fifteen. With the massive longbow in his quarters, he had once clove a man’s helmet to his skull at over 200 paces.
It was easy to tell how he had so quickly gained the King’s Favour, a title rarely bestowed on even a Knight. The lands that had come with it had been returned to the Kings House with half promises about one day fulfilling the responsibilities that came with the title. He had already refused High Seat of his own House straight to his father's face; what made anyone think he was willing to be patriarch of a brand new House? Besides, he had just gotten good at signing his name on all the bloody paperwork; learning a new one hardly sounded appealing.
Four times a year, they celebrated the hard work of the Wielders responsible for maintaining the seasons and the ideal weather. Four times a year, they stuffed themselves full of crop and meat and remained blissfully unaware of the consequences.
There was a cost for everything. There was balance. Where there was prosperity, there would also be destitution.
A tap on his shoulder brought him from his reverie. Andri turned his head, recognizing the colors of the royal House. A servant.
“Ser. Your presence is requested at the Door,” the young boy squeaked out, awe painting his face.
“I’m busy. And I am tired of being poked and prodded by one noble or another. And what is anyone doing at the…?” Andri paused for a moment, returning his attention to the storm cloud on the horizon. It had been growing and he had been watching for it to be dispelled, contemplating what the price would be this time.
It was still there.
“Who did you say summoned me again?”
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