The First Portion of the Ravenglass Throne - Chapter I: Irmin's Beginning
A rider named Irmin tightened her grip on her mount's reins, the aged leather fusing with her rough palms. The Imperial courtyard buzzed with nobles, their glittering jewels twinkling amid a sea of emerald and jade.
Beneath her, Berthold heaved, his muscles tensing as his scarred wings spread wide, the black scales along the edges blazing with ember-like red hues. The bond between them pulsed with anticipation, mirroring the quickening thump of her heart.
"Steady," she muttered, more for herself than the mount. The weight of tradition bore down upon her, every bit as heavy as her ceremonial armor. Over fifty years since her father's birth, and today's naming day celebration would exhibit the Ostreich Kingdom's power to all in attendance, including potential enemies.
"Squadron's in position, Commander," came Sergeant Wulfram's voice, a wyvern's bronze scales sparkling in the sun.
Irmin nodded, studying the formation with a discerning eye. Five pairs of riders and mounts hung in perfect harmony, not a detail out of place. "Begin the display. Standard sequence."
Within her mind, she shared the pattern-an elaborate dance of spirals, loops, and dives. Berthold's mind echoed with approval as the first notes of the Imperial anthem sounded from below.
The sun glinted off her etched vambrace, a token from her father upon earning her command.
At her command, the squadron dove.
Wind whipped against her face as Berthold led the formation into a tight spiral. The courtyard ground blurred below amid a mix of air and the steady beat of wings.
They pulled up sharply, ascending until the thin air bit at their lungs.
At the apex, Berthold tucked his wings and rolled, the rest of the squadron mirroring the movement seamlessly. The series of maneuvers would appear as a flower opening from below.
As she spied the Imperial dais, her father, clad in the Ravenglass Throne, remained stationary, his form a picture of monarchy even after three decades of rule.
They approached the grand finale, yet the most perilous segment of the routine.
"Squadron, prepare for cross-formation," Irmin barked, her voice carrying through the bond network linking each rider and mount.
The squadron split and angled in opposite directions, set to collide at high speeds, mere wing-tips separating them. One miscalculation could lead to destruction.
Berthold glowed with excitement through their bond, hungry for the razor-edge balance between control and chaos they had spent their lives mastering.
The formations converged.
"Three...two...one..."
A deafening crack echoed overhead. Irmin assumed it was from the fireworks, but that assumption crumbled when she saw bodies crumpled on the courtyard stones below.
Crossbow bolts flew through the air, the screams of the panicking crowd drowning out the anthem.
"Protect the civilians!" Irmin thundered, the squadron promptly assuming their circle of protection overhead.
Down below, figures dressed as servants scrambled towards the dais. Weapons shimmered in their hands, Imperial guards rushing to intervene but outnumbered from the start.
"Berthold!" They plummeted as one, Berthold charging forward, his roar scattering the terrified spectators below.
Halfway down, Irmin discarded her vambrace, revealing her ravenglass sword clasped tightly in her hand.
Suddenly serene, she leapt from Berthold's back, her momentum carrying her towards one of the attackers lunging at her father-the sword already raised to strike.
A blur of bodies pushed between them, blocking her progress.
Every effort seemed like wading through mud.
Each heartbeat stretched through eternity.
The assassin's blade pierced her father's side.
Irmin's mind shattered.
The King showed more surprise than pain, meeting her gaze with questioning eyes. His lips moved without sound.
Then he collapsed.
Berthold's roar shook the courtyard, his massive form pinning one of the escaping assassins beneath his claws. The ichor trickled between his talons, a sea of betrayal coursing through their shared thoughts.
"This wasn't random," he growled. "The stench of treachery is heavy."
Irmin snatched a fallen dagger from the ground, examining the intricate sigil that adorned its hilt. The mark of House Darius and a telling clue that revealed the assassination was not a simple power grab, but the beginning of a civil war.
"Wulfram," she called out, "we must find the others."
War had come to the Kingdom, not from invading forces, but from within.
Speculative fiction set in a post-apocalyptic world would involve war-and-conflicts, politics, and crime-and-justice as major themes. In this Ostreich Kingdom, a civil war has erupted, evident by the crossbow bolts in the Imperial courtyard and the assassination attempt on the King. General news of the kingdom's internal struggle would spread quickly, possibly echoing the rapid flight of the escaping assassins. The attack on the King, carried out during a naming day celebration, underscores the complex interplay between power, tradition, and conflict in this speculative setting.
