Chapter 12

◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ The elders were not about to miss a single moment, their eyes glued to Arkin without so much as a flicker. The priests who had endured Owen’s relentless taunts looked utterly helpless. Eight elders stood in a perfect semicircle, resembling nothing so much as a panel of stern judges. Each time their gaze swept across Arkin like the talons of a hawk, a wave of disgust surged through him. Yet Arkin swallowed it all, keeping his mouth shut and his voice steady. When the king and queen finally arrived, the oath-taking ceremony began in earnest. A priest brought a basin and poured the clear, icy holy water over Arkin’s head. The water fell like liquid ice, streaming over his hair, tracing down his forehead, brushing his eyelids, wetting his lips, and cascading in endless rivulets down his body. Arkin stood drenched from crown to toe, desperately hoping that every memory he had witnessed in the nightmarish darkness of the night would be washed away forever. The next rite was the walk between the sacred flames. Arkin held a bundle of sticks and pinecones in one hand and a handful of wheat in the other as he passed through the ring of blazing braziers. When the flames licked at the edges of his face, the priest chanted a blessing and scattered a mix of flour and salt across his path. Arkin had heard the explanation: the fire would burn away any falsehood hidden within him. Arkin clenched his jaw, feeling the heat nearly brushing his cheek. _Don’t worry about anything,_ he told himself. _I will trust that the gods will stand with those who strive and give their all._ Meanwhile, the king’s face bore none of the sleepless torment of the night. The crown that had previously sat crooked or rested heavily on his knees now rested straight and true. In his son’s eyes the king’s gaze was brimming with pride and faith. No one there could possibly sense the storm that had raged inside the royal chest. “Your Highness, it is time to recite the oath.” The priest guided Arkin to a scroll and placed it in his hands. Wearing only the pure white robes, Arkin stood before the altar and spoke the vow in a voice clear enough for every witness to hear, never once looking away from Owen and his followers. “Great spirit of the forest, before the gods who have protected the thousand-year kingdom of Solinar, I stand here today. On this day, Prince Arkin Seilir of Solinar swears this sacred oath.” Arkin drew in a deep breath and continued. “I, Arkin Seilir, swear that there is not a single lie in the oracle that was given to me at birth. If I have lied and deceived the people of the kingdom, O great spirit of the forest, take away all my power and strip me of my right to the throne…” The long sentence flowed without pause. Not a single person dared to interrupt. Only Arkin’s bold voice, pledging everything he had, echoed through the silent hall. “…I shall compete with all my heart in the training competition to be held on Credo Island, fighting for the honor of Solinar. The second oracle I receive there will prove my fate. And if that oracle denies my right to the throne, I will willingly step down. By the blood that runs through me, I swear it before all these witnesses.” The moment the words left his lips, the prince raised his golden dagger high. He cut his own forearm without needing the priest’s blessing, slicing cleanly with his own strength. Crimson blood dripped onto the white birch bark. The priest took the blood-stained bark with both hands and held it up for everyone to see before hurling it into the flames and declaring in solemn voice, “The spirits of the forest will accept this oath. If there is even the slightest lie within it, he will be wrapped in these flames and cursed!” *** The oath-taking, which had lasted a full day, finally concluded only after the darkness had fallen. Torchlight cast long, wavering shadows across the ground. As the elders filed out one by one, Owen was the last to turn back and fix Arkin with a glare, but he too eventually vanished into the night. While the priests and attendants quietly cleaned the temple, the king summoned Arkin. “You worked hard, my son.” Even in the dim firelight, the king’s eyes burned bright. There was a warmth in them that Arkin had never seen before. The prince lowered his head, hesitant. “Do you have something to tell me?” Arkin braced himself as if the words would topple him. The king’s hands gripped his son’s shoulders with desperate urgency, as though handing over his very life. Arkin froze. “You must become the greatest competitor in the training competition. You must prove to the world that only the house of the white birch can claim this throne. Do you understand?” No trace of alcohol remained by morning, yet the scent still clung to the king’s nose. Arkin looked up at his father’s face in confusion, but he could not tell whether the flush on the king’s cheeks came from drunkenness or from something far hotter. “If you give it everything you have, no one will be able to question your strength. Perhaps the gods themselves will forgive us. You… you can do it, Arkin.” The king’s eyes were bloodshot and unsteady. He gave Arkin’s shoulder one last rough pat before staggering off, supported by his attendants. “Mother is not coming with us?” No answer came. Arkin watched his father disappear into the distance, then hurried toward the royal carriage that still waited beneath the temple. “Mother.” “Arkin, you worked so hard. It must have been exhausting.” His mother’s voice cracked. Her lips trembled as though she wanted to say more, but she never managed the words. Instead she suddenly seized Arkin’s hand. The touch was cold. Arkin’s gaze dropped in surprise; he had almost no memory of holding his mother’s hand before. Now he stood awkwardly, unsure whether to squeeze back or let go. “My son…” The instant a hot tear fell onto the clasped hands, the queen hurriedly lowered her veil. “Forgive me, Arkin.” Her voice sounded sorrowful behind the black fabric. Those were the only words she spoke. She never explained what she was sorry for or why. The queen pressed her veil tighter and quickly called for her attendants before hurrying away. Arkin was left alone in the vast, empty temple. He knew Magnus would be waiting anxiously by the entrance, yet he wanted just a little longer to be alone. He walked slowly across the cold marble floor, letting his mind turn over the possibility that he might lose everything. Had he been foolish? What exactly had he sworn to? He had no desire to dig into the truth of what his parents had done or what had truly happened at his birth. Facing those truths would shatter his entire life. Would the gods cast him out? Would they steal his throne? Since he had learned to speak, Arkin had lived only for the sake of becoming king of Solinar. He had never once considered another path. His only, unbreakable goal was to rule Solinar. The wound on his forearm pulsed with pain. Arkin walked slowly toward the altar. The sacred fire braziers had been cleared away; there was no sacrifice. He stood motionless for a long time, lost in thought. “No.” The word slipped out before he could stop it. His shoulders slumped against the altar. “Please… give me a chance. Just a chance.” He felt wronged, robbed of his innocence. The one who had hidden the oracle was not him. Why was he the one who had to suffer? Arkin wept silently, begging the gods. He had never once lived in shame up to this moment. “Do you value the sincerity of a person’s heart? If I strive until I die, and strive even harder than I am now, will you not cast me out?” In the silent temple, where even the wind had stopped, only the sound of his weeping lingered. His fingers clutched the edge of the altar until they trembled. Blood seeped through the bandages from the strain, but the pain in his chest—raw, tearing pain—was far worse. *** “This way. We’ll reach the temple soon.” Magnus wiped the sweat from his forehead and narrowed his eyes, pointing to a fork in the path ahead. A tall pole stood on the left, its top fluttering with a yellow cloth tied to it in the breeze. “Yes, let’s go.” Seeing another identical pole farther down, Arkin realized they were on the path to the temple. Even while hurrying, he turned to gaze at the sacred site perched high on the distant rock. Six months of training. When it ended, he would receive the second oracle. He could only hope the gods would show him mercy and reveal whatever fate awaited him. Arkin’s own fate, the fate of his throne, and ultimately the fate of the royal line, all rested on that temple.