Tales of Varestal

The iron chains bit into Varian’s wrists as the wagon jolted over uneven ground, dragging him toward his fate. His head throbbed from the blows he had taken during his capture, and dried blood crusted the side of his face. The cold night air stung his skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire burning in his chest.

They had not killed him.

They should have killed him.

Instead, the lords of Varestal had taken him alive, binding his hands and throwing him into a prison wagon like a common criminal. They still saw value in him. Perhaps they still thought they could break him.

They were wrong.

Through the iron bars of the cart, he could see the faint glow of Dravengarde in the distance. The city he had fled from only a night before now loomed before him once more.

Lysara had been right. The moment he left that council chamber, he had been marked. There had never been a future where they simply let him walk away. The only futures that existed were death, submission, or war.

And they had chosen war for him.

The wagon slowed as they approached the towering gates of the city. The guards on duty barely glanced at the captive inside before waving the convoy through. Varian let out a slow breath, calming the rage simmering beneath his skin. He could not afford to act yet. He had no weapon, no soldiers, no advantage.

But he had time.

And time was enough.

As the wagon entered the city streets, he forced himself to observe. The guards stationed along the walls wore the black and gold of the king’s forces, not the banners of any single noble house. Everard’s influence was growing. The council had not just moved against Kalandor, they had positioned themselves as the true authority of the realm.

They feared his father’s power. Now, they feared his memory.

A few streets later, the wagon came to a halt. The guards dragged Varian from the cart, shoving him forward. The familiar halls of the citadel came into view, the same ones he had walked freely only a night ago. But now, he entered them in chains.

Everard was waiting for him.

The high lord sat in one of the throne-like chairs at the head of the grand hall, the air of a man who had already won. Around him stood other nobles, the same ones who had conspired in secret against Duke Alric.

Varian forced himself to remain still, to meet Everard’s gaze with unwavering calm.

“You ran,” Everard said, tilting his head. “A foolish thing to do.”

Varian did not answer.

Everard sighed. “And yet, here you are. Do you understand now, Lord Morgrave? This is not your fight to win. Kalandor belongs to the realm, not to you.”

Varian let the silence stretch. He would not entertain the game Everard wanted to play.

The older man leaned forward slightly. “You are not your father, boy. You are young. You are not beyond reason. If you pledge yourself to the council, you will live. You will even rule. But under our guidance.”

Varian’s lips curled into something that was not a smile. “A tame duke, leashed to your throne.”

Everard’s expression did not change. “A living duke.”

Varian inhaled slowly. “And if I refuse?”

Everard studied him for a long moment before speaking. “Then you die.”

Varian’s jaw tightened, but he did not waver. He had known his answer from the moment he was dragged back to this place.

Before he could speak, the doors to the chamber opened. A new figure entered, escorted by two guards.

Varian’s breath caught in his chest.

Lysara.

Her hands were bound, her face bruised but defiant. The moment she saw him, her expression hardened.

Varian’s stomach twisted.

Everard exhaled as if disappointed. “Your friend was far less difficult to find than you.” He turned his gaze back to Varian. “And now, she too faces the consequences of your father’s greed.”

Varian forced his voice to remain steady. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Everard’s brows lifted slightly. “She came back to Dravengarde for you. She sought to negotiate your release, to reason with the council. And yet, here we are.”

Lysara shot Varian a sharp look, the kind that spoke volumes without words. Don’t you dare plead for me.

Everard leaned back in his chair. “So I will offer you one last choice, Lord Morgrave. Kneel, swear loyalty to the realm, and Lysara lives.”

Varian felt the world slow.

Everard’s tone did not change. “Or refuse, and she dies.”

Varian did not blink. He did not move.

This was the test they had designed for him.

This was the moment where they believed they would break him.

Lysara’s fate now hung in the balance of his answer.

And for the first time in his life, Varian realized that he was his father’s son.

The hall was silent.

The lords of Varestal watched from their gilded seats, their expressions carefully composed, as if they were mere spectators at some grand spectacle. Everard sat at the head of the chamber, looking down at Varian as though he were an unruly student being taught his final lesson.

And before him, Lysara knelt.

Bound, bruised, but unbroken.

Varian met her gaze, searching for something—some sign of fear, some plea for him to yield. But there was nothing. No panic, no desperation. Only acceptance.

She already knew what he would do.

Everard sighed as if he were the one suffering here, not the ones bound in chains before him. “You understand the terms, Lord Morgrave.”

Varian’s jaw tightened. He did.

If he knelt, Lysara would live.

If he refused, she would die.

It was that simple. A clean choice, an easy one. All he had to do was speak the words.

The words that would mean nothing.

The lords had already decided what Kalandor would be. If Varian knelt now, it would only delay the inevitable. They would strip him of power, place him under the king’s council, and leave him nothing more than a hollow figurehead.

A Morgrave who bowed.

And that was something he could never be.

Lysara knew that.

And so did Everard.

The old lord leaned forward, his tone softening, feigning reason. “You can still rule, Varian. You can still reclaim your home. But you must do it our way.”

Varian exhaled slowly.

He did not look at Everard.

He looked at Lysara.

Her lips parted slightly as if she wanted to say something, to him, not to them.

But in the end, she only held his gaze.

Varian felt something twist deep inside him.

And then, in a voice that did not waver, he spoke.

“No.”

A murmur rippled through the assembled lords. Everard’s expression did not shift, though a flicker of something passed through his cold eyes.

Lysara, however, let out a small breath—a breath that sounded almost like relief.

Everard sighed, then motioned toward the guards.

Varian moved before he even thought, his body straining against the chains that held him. “Wait—”

The guards stepped forward.

Lysara did not flinch.

One of them drew his sword.

For the first time, Varian saw something flicker across Lysara’s face. Not fear, but sorrow.

Not for herself.

For him.

Her eyes locked onto his one last time.

And then the sword fell.

It was a swift, clean stroke.

Lysara crumpled, her body collapsing to the cold stone floor.

Blood spread across the marble in dark rivers, creeping toward Varian’s boots.

The moment stretched endlessly.

His ears rang.

His vision blurred.

Somewhere in the distance, Everard’s voice was speaking, saying something about consequences, about lessons learned.

Varian did not hear him.

He only saw her.

His friend. His closest ally. The one person who had believed in him before he even knew what he was meant to be.

Gone.

Something in him cracked.

It did not shatter.

It did not break.

It hardened.

The pain did not consume him.

It forged him.

And as Varian lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Everard, he did not feel sorrow.

He did not feel mercy.

He only felt the cold, unwavering promise of vengeance.

The blood pooled across the marble floor, its crimson stain creeping outward, seeping into the cracks of the stone. The air was thick with silence, deep, suffocating, absolute.

Varian did not move.

His body was locked in place, the iron shackles around his wrists digging into his skin, but that was not what held him still.

It was the weight of what had just happened.

Lysara was gone.

He had seen death before, on battlefields, in courtrooms, in the quiet moments where power was enforced with a blade. He had watched his father execute traitors. He had seen men bleed out in the training yards of Kalandor.

But this was different.

This was her.

She had not begged. She had not pleaded. She had only looked at him with acceptance in her eyes.

And now she was gone.

Everard’s voice cut through the silence like a slow-moving dagger. “I hope you understand now, Lord Morgrave.”

Varian inhaled. Steady. Measured.

When he spoke, his voice was calm.

“I do.”

Everard studied him, waiting for something, grief, surrender, anger.

Varian gave him nothing.

The chamber was full of men who had conspired against his father, men who had just spilled the blood of the only person who had ever truly stood beside him.

And they thought this would break him?

Varian lifted his gaze, meeting Everard’s without hesitation. “Is there anything else?”

The older lord arched a brow. “You do not wish to say your farewell?”

Varian glanced once at Lysara’s still form, then turned his eyes back to Everard. His expression remained unchanged. “She made her choice.”

The words felt like blades in his throat.

Everard studied him for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. “I must admit, you surprise me. I thought you would resist more.”

Varian did not respond. He let the silence speak for him.

Everard leaned back in his chair. “You will be held here until we decide your fate. Perhaps you will find more reason with time.”

The guards moved toward him, hands gripping his arms, dragging him away from the chamber.

Varian did not resist.

He let them take him.

Let them believe they had won.

Let them think they had shaped him into what they wanted him to be.

But as the doors of the grand hall closed behind him, something inside him shifted.

He had lost everything.

His father. His brother. Lysara.

And in losing them, he had finally become what his father had always wanted.

A ruler who understood that mercy was weakness.

A leader who would never again allow anyone to have power over him.

A man who would ensure that the name Varian Morgrave would never be spoken without fear.

They thought they had taken everything from him.

They had only given him purpose.

And when the time came, he would burn this kingdom to the ground.

---

— E.J. Cordoue
Creator of Tales of Varestal
Where kingdoms rise, and crowns shatter.