Part IX: The Coming of the King
Chapter 1: The Return of Belgrath
Timeline: AO 299
Life was treating me well—better than well, in fact. I had just concluded a successful genetic experiment, birthing a new race of goblin-like creatures I dubbed the Vizigobs. Their creation filled me with a twisted sense of pride, and since I hadn’t released them into the world I enjoyed watching them scuttle about The Cauldron, unknowingly doomed to be my slaves. Meanwhile, my ongoing torment of Ajax and other notable humanoids had also been exceptionally satisfying, their once-proud bones now mere toys in my Necronomicon—where I communed with their souls. Better yet, the fields of Gor had yielded a particularly exquisite crop of blood-wine this season, each sip a reminder of the suffering and toil that had gone into its creation. But the true crown jewel of my success was nearing fruition. The primary pawn in my intricate plan to uncover the whereabouts of the fiendish dagger Dagaal was finally ready to deliver. Ah, if only the good times could last! But as we all know, nothing stays gold forever.
Allow me to recount what transpired next, starting with a surprise guest that showed up at Hacktor’s coronation ceremony whose appearance I witnessed (and perhaps previously orchestrated) via The Eye of Seraphiel…
The grand hall of Rhokki Pass glittered with the opulence befitting a king’s coronation. Drokka nobles mingled with elites and dignitaries from the kingdoms of the mountain and those beyond it, the air buzzing with anticipation. It was a night of celebration, the culmination of Hacktor Derkillez ascension to the throne, and the mood in the hall was a careful blend of revelry and formality. But beneath the polished surface, there simmered a web of unspoken tensions, histories buried beneath layers of propriety, and desires cloaked in duty.
Amidst this scene of regal splendor, Belgrath, the renowned bard, returned to the court. His presence was both a spectacle and a curiosity. Belgrath had been gone for years, wandering the farthest reaches of TerrVerde. He had dazzled courts in Mersia, whispered secrets in the ancient groves of the Regalis Forest, and charmed the nobility of the distant southern lands of Ramos. Each place had its allure, its stories and songs that called to him, yet none had ever truly captured his heart. For even as he roamed, a part of him remained tethered to the North, to the stony stronghold of Rhokki Pass, and to the woman who had once ignited a fire within him that even the hottest desert sun could not match.
Now, as he stepped into the opulent throne room, that fire was rekindled, but it was tainted by an unfamiliar chill. The cold that came with unfulfilled desire, with paths untaken. His entrance was marked by a ripple of recognition among the gathered nobles. Whispers filled the air as the famed bard, his dark hair now streaked with silver from his years of travel, made his way through the crowd. His presence was as magnetic as ever, and yet, there was something different about him—a sense of weariness, perhaps, or the weight of memories carried from distant lands.
Though he had left as a rising star, he returned as a legend and his return had not been by chance; it was orchestrated by Monty Redstone – the puppet of the elites – with a shrewdness that belied his seemingly benign nature. Monty, ever the strategist, had proposed to Lord Aric and his cronies that they invite Belgrath back to the Drokka court with a dual purpose in mind. On the surface, it was a gesture to bring some lightness to a court still reeling from recent tragedies—the destruction of the Siq, Baldur’s untimely death, and all the chaos that had followed. The commoners were suffering, unrest simmered beneath the surface, and the once-mighty nation was still reeling from the series of catastrophes. Monty knew that a change in tone was needed, a shift that could help the elites begin to move past the darkness that had enveloped them. Belgrath, with his magical lyre and unparalleled talent, was the perfect instrument for this purpose. If anyone could cast a spell over the royals and make them forget, even if just for a night, it was Belgrath.
While this was enough to convince the Ruks, Bomas, and their ilk, Monty had his own further designs – for the lecherous Coinmaster had long harbored suspicions about Belgrath’s past with Hecla— suspicions he intended to exploit, if only to see what ripples it might cause in the carefully maintained façade of royal unity.
For Belgrath, the invitation was a double-edged sword. He recognized the game Monty was playing, understood that his return was part of a larger scheme to soothe the tensions that gripped the court. And though Belgrath vowed to play his part with the grace and charm expected of him, he could not help but feel a deep-seated resentment toward the elites and their manipulations. He had started life as a commoner, performing in the smoky taverns of Rhokki Pass, singing for the downtrodden and the weary. His rise to fame had been fueled by his own relentless talent and the gift of his magical lyre, bestowed upon him by a mysterious benefactor from the Amorosi.
Yet, despite his success, Belgrath had never forgotten where he came from or the hardships he had faced. He had seen the stark divide between the haves and have-nots, had witnessed firsthand the suffering of the common folk while the elites played their dangerous games. And now, standing in the grand hall of the palace, he couldn’t help but feel a bitter irony in his situation. Monty had brought him here to help the royals forget their troubles, to put on a show that would make them feel good about themselves again. But Belgrath knew the truth—his music, no matter how enchanting, could not heal the wounds that ran deep within the Drokka nation.
As he made ready to play for the gathered nobility, Belgrath’s thoughts drifted back to his humble beginnings. He had come a long way from the boy who had sung for his supper, and yet, in many ways, he felt just as much an outsider now as he had back then. The court might applaud his skill, but they would never truly understand the soul of his music—the pain, the struggle, the longing for something more. His rise to fame had been hard-won, his path marked by struggle and sacrifice. The magical lyre that now hung at his side was a gift from the Amorosi, the mysterious forest dwellers, but it was his own relentless talent that had carried him to the heights of renown. And yet here he was a pawn again – even still he’d accepted the gig just the same – both for the coin it offered, and for other reasons.
Belgrath’s gaze then swept across the room, pausing on the figure of Hecla, seated beside her husband, Hacktor. Hecla was radiant in her regal attire. Her gown was a deep, royal blue, adorned with jewels that caught the light and sparkled like stars in the midnight sky. Her raven’s hair was arranged in a crown of braids, and she held herself with a dignity befitting a queen. But even as she smiled, greeting the nobles who came to pay their respects, her eyes flickered with something that belied her calm exterior—a brief, barely perceptible glance towards Belgrath.
Belgrath felt it, that fleeting connection, and his heart skipped a beat. It had been years since their last encounter, yet the memory of that night had haunted him through every song and every story he had encountered on his travels. She had been a queen in waiting even then, and now, she was on the cusp of fulfilling that destiny. But in that single glance, he could see the shadow of their past, the heat of their shared moments still flickering like embers beneath the surface.
Hacktor, resplendent in his ceremonial armor, sat in his throne tall and imposing. His presence commanded respect, and his eyes, sharp as ever, did not miss the exchange between his sister and the bard. There was no smile on his face as Belgrath approached, only a guarded expression that spoke volumes. Though he had never known the full truth of what had transpired between Belgrath and Hecla, his instincts had always warned him that the bard was more than he appeared to be. And now, with the coronation complete and his marriage to his sister sure to take place, Hacktor could not shake the unease that gnawed at the back of his mind.
All this happened in but a moment’s time, and most in the crowd never noticed it – but for players in this secret game. Yet Belgrath was a pro’s pro and he was not one to back down from a lover’s charade. He took his lute from his back, his fingers caressing the strings as if reacquainting himself with an old lover. The instrument, a gift from a forgotten age, was said to possess a magic all its own. Some whispered that it had been crafted by the ancients, imbued with the power to stir the hearts of those who heard its music. Whether the stories were true or not, Belgrath had always known how to wield its influence to his advantage. As he continued to strum his lyre, the notes echoed through the hall, commanding the attention of all present.
Belgrath’s voice, rich and powerful, filled the space as he launched into “The Coronation of Hacktor,” a song crafted to honor the new king. The melody was strong, proud, echoing the warrior spirit of the man who was now king. It was a song of victory, of battles soon to won and challenges surely to be overcome, a tribute to Hacktor’s journey from prince to ruler.
Hail to the warrior, brave and true,
In battles fierce, he stands tall,
Through trials and fire, his strength ever new,
Now he rises, the king of all.
The nobles listened in rapt attention, the power of Belgrath’s voice drawing them into the story of Hacktor’s ascent. The music swelled, a crescendo of triumph that seemed to shake the very walls of the palace.
But as the song continued, Belgrath allowed his gaze to drift to Hecla, letting his voice soften as he sang of the crown and the queen who would stand by the king’s side.
Beside him stands a royal light,
A queen of grace, both fierce and bright,
Together they shall rule the land,
With wisdom’s touch and iron hand.
Hecla’s eyes flickered, the lyrics striking a chord within her. She knew the song was for Hacktor, that it was meant to celebrate his coronation, but there was an intimacy in the way Belgrath sang those words, a familiarity that only she could truly understand. The memory of their shared past rose unbidden in her mind, a ghost that refused to be exorcized.
Hacktor, for his part, could not miss the way the bard’s attention shifted towards Hecla. The subtle tension between them was like a taut wire, ready to snap at any moment. He felt the old jealousy flare up, an irrational but undeniable sense of possessiveness. He had never been able to shake the feeling that Belgrath held some sway over Hecla, some connection that he, as her brother and now king, could not control.
Beneath the surface of the bard’s melody, there was a tension, a subtle dissonance that only a few could sense. It was as if the song itself was imbued with the very emotions that Belgrath sought to conceal—his desire for Hecla, his resentment toward the court, and his awareness of the game that Monty was playing.
As he played, Belgrath’s eyes met Hecla’s once more. There was a flicker of something between them—recognition, perhaps, of their shared past, or maybe just the echo of what had once been. Hacktor, for all his composure, seemed to sense it too. His jaw tightened as he listened, and though the song was meant to glorify him, there was now no mistaking the undercurrent of unease that ran through the hall.
Belgrath’s song came to an end, and the hall erupted in applause. But the bard’s mind was elsewhere, lost in the labyrinth of his own emotions. He could feel the weight of Hacktor’s gaze upon him, the king’s suspicions simmering just beneath the surface. Hacktor had never known the full truth of what had passed between Belgrath and Hecla years ago, but the jealousy in his eyes was unmistakable. And Hecla, though she wore the crown of a queen, could not hide the subtle tension that rippled through her posture.
As the applause faded and other musicians took their place in the hall, Belgrath withdrew to a quieter corner of the great room, eager to see what might develop as the night wore on. As the moments passed, the bard’s gaze swept over the gathered nobles, taking in the lavish scene before him. His eyes paused on a young girl playing near the edge of the hall, her golden hair cascading down her shoulders as she hovered about Hecla. The child moved with a playful grace, her laughter light and innocent, a stark contrast to the undercurrents of tension that filled the room. Belgrath’s breath caught for a moment as he realized who she must be—Livy, the once secret daughter of Hacktor and Hecla he’d heard tales about in the town’s taverns.
The realization that Hecla was now a mother stirred something unexpected within him. He watched as Hecla glanced over at Livy, her stern expression softening into something tender and protective. It was a side of her he had never seen before, a side that belonged to someone else now—a queen, a wife, a mother. And yet, despite this new role that should have placed an insurmountable barrier between them, Belgrath found that his desire for her had not waned. If anything, it had deepened, twisted by the knowledge of what could never be, what they had lost to time and circumstance.
Hecla, too, was secretly keenly aware of the shift in Belgrath’s gaze when it fell upon Livy. She could see the recognition in his eyes, the way he acknowledged the life she had built with Hacktor. And though she stood tall beside her husband, fulfilling her duties as future queen, the presence of her daughter reminded her of how far removed she now was from the carefree woman who had once shared a secret night with the bard. Livy represented everything Hecla had chosen—duty, family, the throne. And in that choice, she had locked away any lingering feelings for Belgrath, placing them in a vault she had no intention of reopening.
The sight of Livy seemed to drive the final wedge between them, a silent but palpable reminder of the lives they now led, the different paths they had taken. For Hecla, being a mother was a role that defined her, a responsibility that grounded her to the present and severed the last ties to the past. And as much as she might still feel the echo of their past connection, the presence of her daughter reinforced the chasm that now lay between them—a chasm that even Belgrath’s enchanting music could not bridge.
But in Belgrath’s heart, the chasm only fueled his longing, a bitter mix of desire and regret that simmered beneath his calm exterior. He could see in Hecla’s eyes that she, too, felt the weight of their history, even if she would never act on it. And so, as he played his songs, captivating the court with his talent, he knew that he was playing not just for the crowd, but for the woman who had once shared something with him that no crown, no child, no king could erase.
A short while later, as the final preparations for the grand feast were being prepared in the center of the room, the new king and his soon to be bride paid their respects to the bard for his earlier performance – if only to keep up appearances.
Belgrath bowed low before Hacktor and Hecla, his movements graceful and fluid, as if the years of wandering had not touched him. “My lord, my lady,” he greeted them, his voice smooth as silk. “It is an honor to be here for this most auspicious occasion.”
Hacktor nodded stiffly, his eyes narrowing as he studied the bard. “Belgrath,” he acknowledged, his tone neutral. “We are pleased to have you back in our court, though I confess, I was not aware you would be returning for the coronation.”
Belgrath straightened, a faint smile playing on his lips. “How could I resist such a momentous event? The crowning of a king is a song that writes itself, and I would not miss the chance to be part of it.”
Hecla’s voice cut through the tension like a finely honed blade. “Indeed, we are glad to have you here, Belgrath,” she said, her tone carefully measured. “Your songs have always brought joy to our court.”
But there was no joy in her eyes, only a cold distance that Belgrath had not expected. She was every inch the queen now, her emotions hidden behind a mask of regal composure. The warmth he remembered, the passion that had once driven them together, seemed to have been buried beneath layers of duty and ambition.
Meanwhile Hacktor’s hand tightened on the hilt of his grandfather’s dagger – the famous Brega’s Bane – a gesture that did not go unnoticed by the bard. “You may stay for the feast,” Hacktor said, his voice clipped. “But I trust you will be returning to your travels soon?”
Belgrath smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. “Of course, my lord. My place is on the road, where the stories of the land are waiting to be told.”
Hecla felt a the pang again as she watched Belgrath step back, blending into the crowd of courtiers who were eager to congratulate him on his performance. As he walked away Belgrath knew that the night was far from over. The grand feast was about to occur and that meant more opportunities for him to take advatage of.
Monty’s plan had set the stage, but the true drama was only just beginning. The past, it seemed, was not so easily forgotten, and the undercurrents of emotion that swirled through the hall would not be quelled by a single song. As he looked out over the gathered nobility, his mind was already turning to the next move, the next note in the symphony of desire and power that was playing out before him. The court might see him as a performer, but Belgrath knew better. He was more than that—he was a catalyst, a spark that could ignite the flames of passion and jealousy, setting the stage for a new chapter in the story of the Drokka nation.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 