Tales of Eldoria - The Alliance Forged

 The Arrival 

The small border post would never have been located where it was if the road and river hadn't both carved their way through the valley like an ancient scar. Makrus leaned on the old, weathered stone of the watchtower, gazing out at the desolate landscape. It had been mind-numbingly boring here during his six-month posting – endless hours of patrol, watch standing, cleaning, and cooking. That last part wasn't so bad, as if he cooked it meant Gavon wasn't, and that guy could mess up a sandwich. He shivered; the wind was biting today, blowing from the Northern Wastes and carrying the unmistakable scent of coming snow, a bleak harbinger of winter. Makrus turned, rubbing his hands together at the brazier standing nearby, its coals glowing a weak orange against the encroaching chill.

His eyes were drawn back to the winding road as he saw a pair of riders approaching. He corrected himself as he focused on them: not just riders, but clearly cavalrymen, their lances held high, blue and silver pennants snapping from them in the cold wind. The stylized 'R' symbol—the mark of the House of Rahl—was emblazoned on each. They approached slowly, their horses’ hooves making soft thuds on the packed earth. As they drew nearer, they reached up and raised their visors, revealing stern, sun-weathered faces, coming to a halt a few feet from the border post.

Makrus, who had descended from the watchtower and collected his two fellow guards, Spuris and Gavon, hailed the riders. "Welcome, travellers You approach Eldoria, may I ask your intentions?"

One of the riders, a man with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that missed nothing, looked down and offered a small, disarming smile. "Hail, brave guardians of Eldoria. We have been sent ahead to inform you that our glorious leader, Lord Rahl, is approaching your post on his travels to Cimmura, to sign the Treaty of Alliance with your esteemed Queen Lyra."

Makrus nodded, a flicker of professional pride showing on his face. His post had received the message from Cimmura two days ago that the Lord Rahl might pass this way. "Of course. The Lord Rahl is most welcome. All of Cimmura is expecting them, and the Queen looks forward to their arrival.”

For the next forty minutes, they talked quietly about their various duties and the state of the border. Makrus found himself subtly assessing the D'Haran guards' equipment, noting the meticulous care given to their saddles and tack. Their conversation only stopped when the first of the D’Haran escort troops entered the D’Haran side of the valley.

Makrus, a lifelong soldier who had seen skirmishes and endured arduous campaigns, unconsciously began to assess the approaching troops. He felt a cold knot form in his stomach. These are not ordinary soldiers, he thought. Their armour was clean and shined, but not for show; it was practical, devoid of unnecessary ornamentation. Their chainmail was clean and polished, swords and shields showed obvious care and a well-maintained edge. But it was the eyes of the soldiers that truly unnerved him. They were the cold, hard eyes of veterans, long-time soldiers who had seen combat, felt its brutal touch, and walked out. They moved as one, a disciplined, unyielding force. Behind the phalanx of infantry came a unit of cavalry, their horses powerful and perfectly in step.

Then, his jaw quite literally hit the floor.

A splendid chestnut horse, its coat gleaming, carried a vision of beauty. A young blonde-haired woman with striking green eyes and a full-lipped smile rode side-saddle with an effortless grace. Her curvy body was covered in a stunning white dress that appeared to be silk, clinging in all the right places, its elegance somehow both modest and utterly captivating. Her shoulders were covered by a cloak of what looked like expensive velvet, trimmed with what Makrus knew had to be real fur.

Next to her rode a large, well-built man, radiating an almost palpable aura of authority. He wore black pants and black boots with subtle gold trim. His dark blue velvet top bore a large silver and gold 'R' symbol in the centre clearly identifying him. Gold and silver bracers adorned his wrists, and a magnificent golden cape spilled from his shoulders, catching the light. Behind his right shoulder, the intricate gold and silver hilt of a sword was visible, strapped to his back. His ice-blue eyes—eyes that seemed to pierce through Makrus and judge his very soul for a fleeting moment—locked onto him.

Then, the intensity in the man's gaze softened, and an easy, genuine smile grew on Lord Rahl's face. He inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgment before he passed, his imposing presence receding as more cavalry, archers, and disciplined soldiers flowed past.

Makrus stood speechless, feeling a mixture of awe and profound respect. This was a day he would never forget. The new Alliance was here, and with it, a power he had only heard whispered in legends.

Royal Preparations and Unexpected Glitter

Back in the opulent quiet of the royal suite, Queen Lyra lay propped against a mountain of pillows, a silken blanket draped over her burgeoning belly. She felt undeniably unwell, the persistent nausea of her advanced pregnancy making her utterly incapable of facing the bustling city. Still, her mind was sharp, orchestrating the whirlwind of preparations for Lord Rahl's imminent arrival.

Meanwhile, Prince Sparhawk, with a surprisingly enthusiastic Princess Anya in tow, had taken on the monumental task of readying the city and the palace. The day had been a blur of activity. Sparhawk, usually found strategizing with generals or debating policy, had been overseeing the hanging of vibrant Eldorian banners from every palace balcony, while Anya, fuelled by excitement, had appointed herself chief "glitter-sprinkler" for the interior decorations.

As the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the palace courtyards, Sparhawk finally steered his daughter back towards the royal suite, both of them pleasantly exhausted but with a sense of accomplishment. He pushed open the door to Lyra’s chambers, anticipating a quiet report of their progress.

What Lyra saw a moment later, made the Queen burst into a peel of genuinely delighted laughter.

“Sparhawk!” Lyra gasped between giggles, pushing herself further up on her pillows. “What in the Seven Hells have you done to our daughter?”

Princess Anya stood there, a vision of childish exuberance and utter disarray. Her usually neat blonde hair was now a shimmering halo, generously dusted with fine, gold glitter. A long streamer of crimson silk bunting was draped over one shoulder, haphazardly glued to the back of her tunic, while her tiny hands were sticky with residual paste. One cheek bore a smear of iridescent blue, and her nose twinkled with a stray fleck of silver.

Sparhawk, looking down at his creation, simply shrugged, a wide, easy grin spreading across his face. “She was helping, my love. Very, very enthusiastically.” He too had a few rogue glitter particles on his dark blue tunic, a silent testament to Anya’s industriousness.

Anya, oblivious to her glittering state, beamed up at her mother. “Papa let me put the sparkly bits on everything, Mama! The Grand Hall looks like a dragon’s hoard!”

Lyra, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye, shook her head. “It certainly appears you raided one, my little dragon. You, young lady, are going straight to the baths. Sparhawk, perhaps next time we delegate the glitter distribution to a less… literal assistant.”

Anya giggled as her nursemaid, a patient woman named Elara, appeared as if on cue. “Come along, Princess. Let’s see if we can turn you back into a human being.”

As Elara gently led a still-giggling Anya away, Sparhawk approached Lyra’s lounger, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “You seem to be in better spirits, my Queen.”

“How could I not be, after such a sight?” Lyra chuckled, though a faint hint of weariness returned to her eyes. “But thank you, my love. The city is alive with anticipation, and you managed it all without further scandalous incidents, I trust?” She raised an eyebrow playfully.

Sparhawk rolled his eyes. “My most thrilling encounter was with a stubborn banner pole. Rest assured, your consort remained entirely focused on his duties.”

An hour later, a freshly scrubbed Anya, now smelling of lavender soap and looking far more princess-like in a clean, simple gown, sat at a small table in the royal suite for dinner. Sparhawk and Lyra joined her, a quiet, domestic scene for the royal family.

“Are the D’Harans going to be very loud, Papa?” Anya asked, carefully spearing a pea with her fork. “Will they have sparkly horses?”

Sparhawk stifled a chuckle. “They are certainly very… impressive, my dear. And I’m sure their horses are very well-groomed, if not quite as sparkly as your grand hall.” He glanced at Lyra. “We expect them to arrive tomorrow morning, my love. All is in readiness. The welcome feast is prepared, the guest chambers are aired, and the diplomats are ready to begin their delicate dance.”

Lyra nodded, a slight frown creasing her brow. “I still wish I could meet them at the city gates, but my condition… It is frustrating to feel so confined.”

“You command the welcome from your throne, Lyra,” Sparhawk reminded her gently. “Your authority is undiminished, no matter where you sit.”

They were just finishing their simple meal, Anya regaling them with a breathless account of her day decorating with Gareth’s daughter, Elspeth, when a crisp knock sounded at the door. A moment later, a breathless young messenger, still dusting off the road grime, entered, bowing deeply.

“Your Majesties! A dispatch from the northern border post, relayed by swift horse! Lord Rahl’s contingent… they are not far from the city. They have made excellent time and are expected to arrive… before sunrise.”

Sparhawk and Lyra exchanged a look, their relaxed evening suddenly dissolving into renewed purpose. The alliance was truly upon them.