Pride
Eramok could see the tension in the way Shuddul had clenched his hand into a fist at his side as they walked up to the war room of their home. Their footsteps joined the echoes of wooden swords clashing, overlapping the present with the memories of their shared childhood within the Thaurholt mansion. Hours they spent training together, to become strong enough to carry the family’s pride on their shoulders, but for a few years now, Eramok had watched Shuddul bending under that weight. His smile had become heavier, the frown on his face now a constant.
Eramok felt his own eyebrows knit together as he watched the skin over his cousin’s knuckles pale with the force he was digging his nails into his palm. It wasn’t worry that had him reach out, but an inherent refusal to accept Shuddul’s quiet surrender. He couldn’t understand that kind of obedience.
“Cousin,” he began, stopping when he saw the muscles in Shuddul’s back twitch like a warning. He wasn’t sure if he would have evaded the punch had it come flying, but it didn’t. Shuddul held himself taut, every inch of him straining with the effort to keep control. Tension radiated off him, coiled tight like a spring on the verge of snapping.
Eramok stood his ground, keeping his back straight in the face of the storm brewing in the eyes of his cousin before him. He had braced for this moment since they’d cleaned the blood from their skin after the chaos of the trials. Since he had won his freedom, though the price had been higher than anyone had imagined. He had done nothing wrong. He had challenged the crown and won, in every way that mattered to the nation’s law and its people. His honor had remained unsullied, his morals intact, his conscience clean.
That was the man their family would see in the war room, the same man standing before Shuddul now. The unwavering rebellion he carried had not changed. It never would.
Eramok watched bitter understanding flicker across his cousin’s face. With a sigh, deep and heavy with resignation, Shuddul turned back around. His hand hung at his side, lax and open.
They walked on without another word, the door to the war room groaned when it opened for them to step through. Shuddul drew another deep breath, squared his shoulders, his frame rigid like armor locking into place. Even though his posture now mirrored the confidence that strengthened Eramok’s footsteps, they both knew it was a facade waiting to crack.
The war room was organised, maintained for efficiency and long conversations. A straight red carpet led from the door to the circular table in the middle. Shelves with neatly stacked scrolls and maps stood against the walls, dusted and protected from the sunlight streaming from the large back window. Memories of long lectures within this very room ran through Eramok’s mind. Evenings that he had spent at his cousin’s side absorbing tactical formations like a sponge and endless hours of staring at maps until they were burned into the back of his eyelids. Back then it had felt like a game, another competition to prove himself to his family, to confirm that he was ready, that he was truly his father’s pride.
Similar to those days, one map had been pinned to the table top, showing the Thaurholt’s bay and most of the west of the Ascilian Empire with Naeris’ border to the south. A red string had been drawn between two pins, one on top of Nemorak, their home, the other south over Darethane, Naeris.
The low murmur of conversation died the instant Shuddul and Eramok crossed the threshold, a dozen advisors falling into abrupt silence. A few of them dared to look upon them with disdainful eyes, while others had the shame to drop their gaze to the floor. Eramok continued unfazed. It wasn’t the first time he had been the recipient of those stares.
Two imposing figures stood behind the table, one leaning over the map, his weight resting on his hands, the other standing to his right. The shadows slipped from their faces as soon as Eramok’s eyes had adjusted to the light.
“Son,” said Varkhon Thaurholt. His wide shoulders covered by a royal coat, embroidered seafaring symbols on collar and sleeves, a well-kept graying beard on his chin, his voice and his face stoic. The golden ring with the Thaurholt sigil glinted in the sunlight that fell on his back. The head of their family held no softness in his eyes, instead the glare betrayed the stoicism for the restraint anger it was supposed to mask. Eramok grounded his teeth together.
“You have caused quite the scene, Eramok.”
The orc at Varkhon’s side shifted slightly, the movement just enough to draw Eramok’s eye, even as his father continued speaking. His armor, adorned with sigils of rank, and the elegant weapon at his hip barely made a sound, but the weight of his gaze was unmistakable as it settled on Shuddul. Eramok saw his cousin pale under the eyes of Mortak Thaurholt, the admiral of the Thaurholt fleet. Then, as if he reminded himself, Shuddul snapped his chin high and held his breath like an accused waiting for their final verdict.
”The Crown Prince is dead,” Varkhon went on, each word cut clean and sharp.
“And as hard as you may try, the blame for this will ultimately be laid upon your shoulders, son. That is the way history will remember this.”
A crease deepened between Mortak’s brows, his eyelids low as he tilted his head to the side by a margin, barely noticeable. Eramok recognized the signal, the same unspoken reprimand he’d seen on Shuddul’s face right before they entered the war room. Disappointment.
At his side, Shuddul released his breath, the sound uneven, cracking at the edge.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Varkhon asked. He tapped a finger against the covered wood of the table. A steady ‘thunk, thunk, thunk’ counting down the seconds of patience still within the man.
Eramok stepped forward, his hip bumping painfully into the edge of the table as he put himself between Shuddul and the silent judgement of their elders.
“The prince attacked a child, my lord,” he said. “I would’ve never been able to forgive myself had I done nothing.”
Varkhon’s frown deepened, the muscle in his jaw twitching, but his voice did not rise. Instead, it cooled, hardened, and became something sharper.
He drew back from the table as if measuring the weight of Eramok’s words. The silence dragged heavily over the room.
When Varkhon’s voice came, it had lost all heat.
“You don’t understand, Eramok. This isn’t about righteousness. Or courage. Or honor. This is about momentum.”
Varkhon’s gaze flickered to Mortak, a barely perceptible nod passing between them.
“We are at war.”
The words fell like stones. Shuddul’s breath caught, Eramok blinked once.
“Naeris is preparing for an invasion and the Crown has called us.” Varkhon’s eyes had become steel as he stepped closer to the map. With one finger, he traced the red string down to Darethane.
“This is no simple border skirmish. This is the war Ascil has foreseen, our fathers yearned for and our sons were born into. The Thaurholt fleet will support the western front, Mortak will command from the sea.”
Mortak’s eyes landed on Shuddul, a silent word passing between them that had Shuddul’s eyes widened. Eramok understood with the next words leaving his father’s mouth.
“Shuddul will command from land.”
Shuddul blinked, his throat bobbed in silence. Eramok felt the ripple of shock going through the room, through his cousin’s shoulders, one that he shared, but masked behind a simple twitch of his fingers.
“Effective immediately you are promoted to Legatus of the 7th legion. You will sail at dawn, reinforce the blockade and make certain our enemies understand that Thaurholt steel has not dulled,” Varkhon commanded.
Shuddul inhaled sharply, lowered his eyes in a motion that wasn’t quite a bow.
“Understood, my lord.”
“This is not a reward.” Mortak’s voice cut through the room like a cold blade. Shuddul’s straightened out of pure reflex. An instinct that looked like it’d hurt.
“It is a necessity. You will earn your name back through discipline, not sentiment. We trust you to be competent this time, not a bystander.”
The words made Shuddul flinch, barely, but Eramok had seen it.
Varkhon turned his eyes on Eramok.
“Your punishment, son, is yet to be decided. We can’t afford to lose either of you. Not now. You will remain under review. You will not take command.”
A few murmurs stirred behind them, too quiet to catch. Eramok let the words simmer a second longer than necessary.
“You mean to wage a full-scale war, while the nation still whispers about regicide?” he said. His tone even, low, his question lethal.
Silence dropped into the room. Mortak’s eyes narrowed, then darkened in a waiting castigation. Varkhon’s burned, the anger resurfacing behind the political mind.
“I expect you to remember which nation you serve.”
“I remember.” Eramok glared at his father. “Do you?”
A single heartbeat of stillness. Varkhon didn’t flinch, he didn’t blink. Tension paced the room like sharks swimming in dark waters. And a droplet of blood had just broken the surface.
“Leave us,” said Varkhon then, his voice iron, the command clear to the gathered advisors. They hesitated, glancing between the head of the house and the door, but the command didn’t need to be repeated.
One by one they filed out, boots shuffling over the red carpet, the doors groaning once more as they fell closed behind them.
Silence settled where no one else dared to move. It was a stalemate, a duel of principles that had been worn to its limits by burning emotion.
“A prince is dead,” Varkhon said as he stepped around the table, his boots muffled against the carpet, but each footstep still landed with weight. “You speak as if your righteousness has weight in matters of state. His blood was royal, and yours is not!”
He stopped in front of his son, face close enough that Eramok could see the wrinkles carved deep into his skin.
“You choose justice over obedience, honor over command.” A low growl rumbled with Varkhon’s words. “That is not a choice a Thaurholt makes lightly. Nor one that comes without consequences. Even for you.”
“I stand by it,” said Eramok.
Varkhon slammed a hand on top of the table, the red string snapped loose, his voice rising into thunder.
“You think this house survives on moral absolutes? That our enemies will pause to admire your righteousness before they strike?”
Eramok didn’t move.
“We are at war, son!” Varkhon roared. “This is not one of your games, our enemies will call what happened treason, the lesser houses will whisper rebellion, others will demand blood. If we hesitate, if we show them the slightest sliver of weakness, then we are no longer feared, no longer necessary and you-”
His hand wrapped around Eramok’s shoulder in a tight grip.
“You have become a symbol. Symbols are dangerous. They live in whispers, treasonous courts, in the minds of the wrong kind of soldiers. Symbols raise legions.”
Eramok felt the grip tighten with every word, felt the pressure dig into his muscle and bone. He gritted his teeth, refusing to retreat.
“Or burn the Empire to the ground.”
Varkhon’s words hung in the air, thick and choking like smoke after a fire.
“Perhaps,” came a voice, calmly, steady despite the weight in the room, from just behind Eramok’s shoulder, “it would serve the house best if Eramok leaves the stage for a time. The empire will see our banners raised without question.”
The rigid line of Shuddul’s shoulders had wilted, his spine no longer held by pride or fear, but by duty alone. The same resignation dulled his eyes that Eramok had hated to see before.
“Let the memory of his victory fade,” Shuddul continued. “None may call him hero or traitor.”
He did not meet Eramok’s eyes. His voice, though calm, trembled at the edges, but only enough for anyone who truly knew him to hear what it cost him. Eramok heard.
Mortak’s eyes had narrowed when Shuddul spoke, not in reprimand, but calculating.
The grip around Eramok’s shoulder loosened as Varkhon said nothing at first. His eyes bore into Shuddul, searching for hesitation, for doubt. He found none. Only the quiet resolve of someone who had already counted the cost.
Silence stretched, the air smelled of old wood, wax and the ever present smell of salt.
A slow breath hissed through the older man’s nose. Then he stepped back, releasing Eramok’s shoulder, his eyes closed in thought.
“You will not leave the city,” he said then. “Until a verdict is reached. No command. No titles. No visits to the outer courts. You will remain within this mansion and wait.”
Eramok’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing.
“It’s not exile.” Varkhon opened his eyes again and looked at his son.
“But it may still feel like it. The war will decide what we are remembered for. Pray it is not this.”
Shuddul remained still besides Eramok. His shoulders had dipped, just slightly, under the new weight placed on it.
Varkhon sighed. “Dismissed.”
The word fell like the blade of a guillotine.
Shuddul bowed low this time, fists clenched at his sides so tightly that the skin over his knuckles turned white.
Eramok only nodded, then turned to leave.
As Shuddul followed, Mortak spoke once more, quietly, so that it could have been meant for no one but his own son. Eramok still heard.
“You will make sure that this family does not bleed for this stupid mistake.”
Shuddul’s step faltered.
The heavy doors groaned as they opened once more, and the two cousins stepped out into the corridor beyond the war room. Neither had spoken, their boots fell in unison on the stone floor, their shadows stretching, then merging with the ones around them as the doors closed and cut off the light.
It wasn’t until they turned a corner, they felt far enough from any ears that Eramok opened his mouth.
“I could’ve taken it,” he said, not looking at Shuddul.
Shuddul slowed. “You think I did it for you?”
That made Eramok stand still. He turned towards Shuddul, his brows knitted together. Shuddul was looking at him. His eyes still dulled, face unreadable, the same empty quiet that always came with his obedient resignation. The hands at his sides were lax.
“I did it for the house, for our name,” said Shuddul. “I’m done trying to convince myself that you belong here.”
Something flickered in his eyes, something that reminded Eramok of the child he had once known. His best friend, his brother who had longed for the freedom to choose adventure, who dreamed of wind in his hair and the sea at his feet, not of command chains and obedience.
“There’s a ship with a black sail in the port. It has a crew, rations, everything you need. No banners, no questions, just distance.” Shuddul’s voice dipped into a pleading tone.
“You’re my brother, Eramok. But right now, you’re too dangerous to be seen, so leave.”
The fracture between them tore open, the silence that followed empty, hollowed by design. This time it was Eramok who understood. This is the cost Shuddul had paid forward..
“This is the last thing I’m able to give you.” Shuddul’s voice wasn’t soft, just quiet, resigned.
Eramok didn’t answer. He simply looked at his cousin, his expression softened, the corners of his mouth turning up into a saddened smile.
“You’d set me free?”
Shuddul rolled his eyes just a moment too late to feel real. “I already said I’m not doing it for you. How many more shall bleed for you, Eramok? You’re a pain in my ass. Always have been.”
But his hands had once again curled into fists at his side.
Eramok stepped closer, his voice low, gentler as if not to spook. “Then come with me.”
Shuddul’s composure broke. His eyes closed for a second too long, his shoulders drawing in like a breath he couldn’t take.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Shuddul looked at him.
“Because I was foolish enough to learn obedience,” he said. “And I became exactly what they wanted.”
For a heartbeat, Eramok didn’t move. Then slowly, sadly, he nodded in quiet understanding. Without another word, he turned towards the door. His footsteps were quiet, but they echoed with finality.
Shuddul didn’t watch him go, he stared straight ahead, as if he’d already been left behind. Only when the door cut off the last light of the outside did he finally exhale. And when he did, it shook.