“Chronicle of the Crown’s Shield”

  by Scholar Velthar Rael, Royal Archivist of Kael Sardis, 312 o.L.

  Archived in the Royal Collection, Great University of Sardia

  “Founded in 229 o.L. to curb the rising power of the duchies, the Kingsguard swore themselves to the monarch alone. Their presence in Kael Sardis is both shield and statement—a reminder that the Crown wields its own blade, and bows to none.”

  Hearthcall 2, 572 o.L.

  Leoric Ashferm

  It took a long time to dismantle camp. Even with the promise of returning home, there was a staggering amount to pack. The air was thick with smoke from smoldering cookfires, the scent of charred wood clinging to cloaks and armor. Boots sank into the churned mud where tents once stood, and every step left a soft squelch in its wake.

  When the end to hostilities had been agreed upon, they had already been here thirteen days—a full week spent waiting for siege engines to be built, or for the defenders to surrender, whichever came first.

  Now, another six days had passed. The first few were taken up with peace negotiations between the commanders of Sardia and the Duchy of Varn—a ritual of formality and veiled threats. The clamor of hammers faded as engineers dismantled their nearly finished siege works, the creak of pulleys and the snap of rope dismantling what they had previously built. The fortified camp came down piece by piece, walls of earth and timber collapsing under the same hands that had raised them.

  Today, finally, they were moving. Back to Sardia. Back to the rhythm of hearth and home. The cold wind carried with it the distant scent of pine and ash—familiar, yet hollow without the weight of duty pressing down.

  It had also been six days since Thorne, the Knight Paramount, had summoned Leoric. Had asked him to find out who was behind the ambush in the Sardian Pass.

  There’d been little to debate between him, Edric, and Garrin. They all wanted answers. Justice, if it could still be called that. Leoric had the distinct impression the Knight Paramount already knew what they would say.

  The harder question was where to begin. The army was a patchwork of three forces: the Aetherian Knights, the Kingsguard, and the levies drawn from the four duchies. The levies were dismissed quickly—untrained, half-fed, and unlikely to have known the guard rotations. That left the commanders of the levies… and the Kingsguard.

  And between the two, it was the Kingsguard that seemed the likely suspect.

  They had always been the counterweight—established not to oppose the dukes outright, but to temper their reach, especially that of the Knights. Few among them carried the blessed blood, and many of their commanders hailed from noble families that had long questioned the authority granted by it.

  They didn’t deny the blood’s power—but power didn’t mean superiority. Not to them. To the Kingsguard, nobility came from lineage, land, and loyalty to crown—not divine accidents of birth. The Knights were respected, yes, but never above scrutiny.

  Leoric had seen it in the way they carried themselves—shoulders square during Knight-led briefings, brows subtly arched, mouths set in tight, polite lines. They believed themselves better trained, more disciplined. Less entitled.

  While the generals argued in tents that stank of sweat and ink and boiled wine, Leoric and his squad kept to quieter corners. They spoke in low voices, heads bent close around flickering lanterns and damp maps. And every time they circled back to the question of who might have arranged the ambush, they returned to the same name: Balinor Dawnlior.

  House Dawnlior had long been loud in their skepticism of both ducal power and the sacred weight of blessed blood. Their influence ran deep within the Kingsguard, and they were often the first to propose limits on others, rarely on themselves.

  Leoric, Edric, and Garrin had spent the last three days watching him. Quietly. Carefully. Tracking who he spoke to, where he lingered, what papers left or entered his tent. But Balinor was too careful, or too clean. They found nothing solid—just the gnawing sense that something was wrong.

  Last night, Garrin had spotted Balinor sharing quiet words with a courier near the southern supply wagons—long after midnight. When asked about it this morning, the courier said he’d been delivering a personal letter. Garrin hadn’t seen a letter.

  This morning Leoric had even tried talking with one of the more sympathetic Kingsguard. Leoric had approached a supply officer in the Kingsguard—an older man named Rulven whom Garrin had spotted close to where Balinor and the courier had met.

  Leoric had approached Rulven cautiously, almost conversationally. But it had gone poorly.

  “Captain Dawnlior? Yes, I saw him,” Rulven had said, his tone even. “Out for a walk, far as I could tell.”

  Leoric had pressed, gently. “That late at night? With a courier?”

  Rulven had blinked once, then smiled without warmth. “The captain walks when he pleases. As do I.”

  “You didn’t think that was strange?” Leoric had asked, hoping for anything he could use.

  That had drawn the first reaction. Rulven’s eyes sharpened. “Strange? What are you insinuating, Knight?”

  “I am not insinuating anything Rulven. I am simply trying to understand—”

  “I don't appreciate you coming here interrogating me,” Rulven had interrupted. “Whatever shadows you’re chasing, you won’t find them here.”

  A younger officer in Kingsguard crimson had stepped in sharply, tone clipped. “Sergeant Ashferm, you are overstepping. My men are not yours to question. Go back to your own camp, you have no right to be here.”

  Now, with their tents nearly packed for the final night and travel gear laid out for the initiates to collect, they were discussing what to do. Once the march began, Balinor would be surrounded again. Untouchable. And if he made it back to Kael Sardis, it would be near impossible to get him alone.

  “Are you sure this is the best idea?” Edric paced near the fire, boots scuffing at the ash-rimed circle. Smoke rose in lazy spirals. His jaw worked behind gritted teeth, the uncertainty plain in his voice.

  “The trail’s already running cold,” Garrin said, arms folded tight as he watched the stir of camp beyond. “It’s been fifty-one days since the ambush—more than half a season. Once we’re on the march again, he disappears among his cronies. Now is the only time.”

  Leoric exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his temple. “Three days of watching. Three days, Edric. All we’ve got is that courier lie. But I can feel it—my blood is telling me he knows something. I agree with Garrin. We’re out of time.”

  Edric paused in his pacing, boot catching on a loose stone. “And how do you plan to get him alone?” he asked, voice low. “Corner him in the middle of the Kingsguard camp? Or shout your accusations over the mess line?” He resumed his pacing, slower now, but Leoric could sense it—Edric was wavering. One more push, and he’d be with them.

  “Didn’t you say you saw him leave camp in the evenings?” Leoric asked, the beginnings of a plan sharpening in his voice. “To spar, when the field’s quiet.”

  Edric stopped pacing. “Once or twice. Just after dusk. When most of the camp’s drunk or asleep.”

  Garrin nodded. “No patrols out there that time. Just the torches along the outer line. We could wait for him.”

  Leoric glanced toward the dimming sky, where the last sliver of light bled into deep violet. Fires were already being stoked across the camp, casting dancing shadows on tent walls. “Then that’s what we do. Tonight. No posturing, no witnesses. Just us and him.”

  Edric hesitated—then gave a curt nod. “If he shows.”

  Leoric’s gaze hardened. “He will. If he’s kept to routine after the truce, he’ll be there tonight.”

  They gathered their things quickly. All three agreed to leave their blades behind—no need to escalate things unless Balinor forced their hand.

  By the time they reached the sparring field, the sun was casting its final rays over the hills of Kael Kelhit, gilding the edges of the muddy farmland beyond. The fields surrounding the camp were filled with the remnants of unharvested grain sagging in the muck, rotting where they lay. The air smelled faintly of wet earth and decay.

  The field itself was quiet. No shouts, no clash of steel—only the wind slipping between the practice posts, and the distant creak of a loose banner overhead. From beyond the field, the sounds of camp carried clearly on the breeze: laughter, shouted wagers, the distant thud of a barrel dropped too hard. Soldiers could feel the end of the campaign now—rest was close enough to taste.

  They didn’t have to wait long. Balinor arrived alone, as expected. He walked with easy confidence, unhurried, cutting a straight path toward one of the cleared patches of hard-packed dirt, its surface kept dry with layered wood chips.

  He began moving through his forms—measured, fluid, precise. Steel glinted in the fading light as he turned through each motion with practiced ease.

  They approached him slowly. “Hey, Balinor. We’d like a word,” Leoric said, keeping his tone casual, almost friendly.

  Balinor paused mid-motion, blade still in hand, and turned to face them. His expression remained unreadable. “Now what would three Knights want with me this fine evening?”

  Despite the odds—three against one—he looked more amused than alarmed. The edge of a smile tugged at his lips, like a man confident he still held the better hand. Leoric kept his posture easy, his tone light. The wrong word, the wrong glance, and this could shift fast. But not yet. Not if he could help it.

  “Just some questions.” He nodded slightly over his shoulder. Garrin and Edric stood a few paces back, close enough to support him but not so close as to box Balinor in. Part of it was tactics—give the man space, keep him calm. The other part was Garrin. Best to limit the chances of him saying something he’d regret.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Leoric let the silence stretch a little longer before speaking. “You were near the southern supply wagons a few nights ago. Late.”

  Balinor didn’t answer right away. He sheathed his blade with a smooth, deliberate motion and turned to face them fully, folding his arms. “You know, if you’re going to shadow someone for three days, you might want to be more subtle about it.”

  He smiled faintly. “I’ve seen you. All of you. Watching from behind the medics’ tent, from the grain carts, even from the latrine line. It’s flattering, really. But unnecessary.”

  Garrin shifted his weight behind Leoric, his jaw tightening.

  Leoric forced a smile. “Observation isn’t a crime. Just wanted to understand who we were marching with.”

  “Is that what we’re calling it?” Balinor said. His voice was still easy, but his eyes had sharpened.

  Leoric tilted his head. “Just a few things we wanted clarity on. Like… who you were speaking to near the southern wagons the night before last.”

  “A courier,” Balinor replied, unbothered. “Delivering a letter. But you already knew that.”

  “No letter in his hand,” Leoric said.

  Balinor shrugged. “Not everything’s carried on parchment.”

  Leoric pressed. “Odd timing for a message, isn’t it? Middle of the night. Near the supply wagons.”

  Balinor’s smile didn’t fade. “Odd that you were there to see it.”

  Garrin shifted behind Leoric, tension crackling. Edric said nothing, but he could feel the weight of his stare.

  He hesitated—then asked, “You ever think it’s strange how that ambush back in the Sardian Pass was waiting for us? Like someone knew our exact path. Our timing. Our command structure.”

  Balinor's expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes cooled. “Ah. So that’s what this is.” He looked from Leoric to Garrin, then Edric, then back again. “You’re asking about an ambush half a season ago. One I wasn’t even near. What—do you think I gave them that information?”

  Leoric said nothing.

  Balinor stepped closer, voice quiet and sharp. “Three Knights. No blades. No proof. But just enough suspicion to come slinging ghosts at me in the dark."

  He stood inches from Leoric now, close enough that he could feel the man’s breath, warm and steady despite the tension. “Speak plainly, Ashferm. If you’re accusing me of something…”—he leaned in, just enough to let the words land like a blow—“…have the balls to say it straight.”

  Behind Leoric, Garrin shifted—barely. His fingers twitched at his sides, jaw tight, a breath caught and unspent. Leoric half-turned, ready to intervene, but he was too late.

  Garrin moved with sudden violence. His fist crashed into Balinor’s jaw with a wet crack, snapping his head sideways. The man stumbled but caught himself, eyes flashing.

  Balinor stumbled, caught himself, then retaliated—hard. A punch to the gut doubled Garrin over. Another caught his face full-on. His nose burst with blood.

  Leoric’s instincts screamed a half-second before Balinor turned on him—but Edric was already in motion. He slammed into Balinor with the force of a siege ram. The two men went down in a blur, rolling, grappling. Balinor slipped a blade from his boot—a short, curved thing—and lashed out, slicing Edric across the forearm. Blood welled. Edric cursed and drove a knee into Balinor’s ribs.

  They were making too much noise, this close to camp it would not take long for someone to come looking. Leoric tried to get them away from each other, nearly half a season of questions and pent up rage was coming to the front.

  All Leoric could do was watch as the three of them rolled on the ground. At least Edric had the sense to hold back despite his strength.

  Suddenly boots thundered against packed earth. Blackened armor shimmered in torchlight. A dozen men in formation surged forward, parting the crowd like a tide.

  At their center marched a Crown Marshal of the Kingsguard, face grim beneath a steel-lined helm, cloak lined in royal crimson. “Break it up. Now.”

  The Kingsguard moved—disciplined and swift. Two soldiers grabbed Edric by the arms, dragging him back despite his resistance. Another pulled Garrin back and held him on the ground, while a third helped Balinor to his feet.

  Leoric moved in to get Garrin free, but hands grabbed him from behind. A sharp twist. Arms wrenched up and back. He gasped, off-balance, pain blooming in his shoulders as he was hauled to a stop.

  The Crown Marshal’s eyes swept the scene, then settled on Leoric. “You’re in command of this mess.”

  Leoric said nothing.

  The Marshal’s lip curled. “I’ll be informing Knight Paramount Thorne personally. Let him decide what’s to be done with his dogs.”

  He looked to his men. “Separate them. Get Captain Dawnlior to the healers. Escort the Knights back to their camp, and ensure they don't get any bright ideas.”

  One of the Kingsguard stepped close to Balinor, speaking low and urgent. Balinor only nodded, eyes locked on Leoric as he spat some blood on the ground. “Should’ve kept this to whispers, Ashferm,” his voice low, calm, like the outcome had never been in doubt. “Subtlety’s never been the Knights’ strength. And now you’ve made yourself a spectacle.”

  Leoric’s jaw tightened, fury sparking in his gut. Balinor’s voice was too calm, too measured. Like the bastard had expected this. The hands on his arms tightened again—felt like shackles. He relaxed, recognizing the futility of struggling. He was forced to watch as Balinor their one and only lead was led away, protected and out of reach. The torches lit the back of Balinor’s cloak as he was helped into the dark between the sparring field and camp, his silhouette swallowed by the flicker and smoke.

  They pulled Garrin roughly to his feet, and started leading the three of them to the camp. Though they were no less rough. Leoric felt humiliation at being led through camp like a common prisoner, but whatever he said had no effect on the Kingsguard escorting them, or on the Marshal walking briskly at the front.

  As they reached the Aetherian Knights' camp, the watch didn't even challenge them as the Marshal walked right past, towards the Knight Paramount's tent.

  As the Kingsguard shoved them across the threshold, Leoric staggered forward a step, then straightened. Garrin muttered a curse, rubbing his jaw. Edric didn’t speak—but the way he avoided Leoric’s gaze said enough. For a moment, none of them moved.

  "Edric, get that cut seen to. Garrin, go with him, make sure you didn’t crack your jaw." Leoric didn’t relish what came next. They had failed to get any answers, and worse, had made a spectacle of it. "I don’t want a word from either of you right now."

  Garrin muttered something under his breath but obeyed. Edric lingered a moment longer, hand pressed to the blood seeping through his sleeve, before turning and walking toward the healers’ tent.

  Leoric exhaled—slow, sharp. His jaw still tight.

  He took position outside the Knight Paramount’s tent. Raised voices leaked through the heavy canvas—sharp, insistent, angry—but the words were too muffled to make out. He didn’t need to hear them. He already knew the topic.

  He didn’t have to wait long. The Marshal stormed out of the tent, pausing only to sneer at him before striding toward her brutes.

  "Leoric, get in here!" The Knight Paramount’s voice cracked like a whip. There was no mistaking the fury behind it.

  Leoric squared his shoulders and stepped inside, certain that this would be anything but pleasant. Any thoughts of excuses died the moment he stepped inside and met the Knight Paramount's gaze. He came to attention in front of the desk.

  The Knight Paramount didn’t speak. He simply watched him—amber eyes burning, unmoving. The silence dragged, sharp as a blade.

  Leoric held the gaze as long as he could. He’d stood his ground in battle, defied generals in war councils. But this was different. This was his Knight Paramount.

  When he finally cracked, the words came too quickly. “Sir, we just wanted to—”

  “I did not ask you to speak yet, Sergeant.” The words landed like a blow. Precise. Final. Leoric fell silent.

  "I’ve just spent the last few minutes being shouted at by a Crown Marshal from the Kingsguard, demanding your dismissal—and your squad’s" His voice was low, deliberate. It didn’t need to be louder.

  "Consider yourself lucky that I do not take orders from the Kingsguard, however reasonable the request is."

  Leoric didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The relief hit like a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding—but it didn’t reach his face. Not here, not yet.

  He leaned forward slightly, voice still cold. “Now enlighten me—what in Oblivion possessed the three of you to not only confront a member of the Kingsguard, but to attack him as well?”

  Leoric took a breath to steady himself. “Sir, we believe Captain Dawnlior was involved in the ambush. Garrin saw him meeting a courier in secret—well after midnight. And… my blood’s telling me he knows something.”

  The Knight Paramount didn’t blink. “So. One shadowy conversation and a twitch in your blood—and you thought the best course was to jump a Kingsguard captain in the dark?” There was no mistaking the disbelief in his tone.

  “We were running out of—” The words shriveled in his mouth.

  “Sergeant Ashferm. When I asked you to head this investigation, I knew you had no prior experience in this sort of work…” His voice was still calm. “…but I still expected common sense.”

  "Yes sir." There was nothing else to say. The cold logic laid it bare, truth stripped of pride or excuse. They had rushed in. And worst of all, Edric had been right.

  "What did Captain Dawnlior say before you attacked him?"

  “Sir?” It took Leoric a moment to realize what was being asked. “Not much, sir. But the way he acted felt off. He was too sure of himself. Every answer felt like a provocation—too calm, too rehearsed. It only fueled our frustration. Until finally… Garrin broke.”

  “You understand what a disaster this was,” the Knight Paramount said, voice ice-sharp. “I should have you dismissed.” His tone held a note of reproach—but something else, too. Something Leoric couldn’t quite place. “You are not to approach Captain Dawnlior, or anyone from the Kingsguard, without clear evidence of wrongdoing. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. We won’t.”

  His expression didn’t soften, but his voice did. Slightly. “And I have to punish you.” A beat. “But I agree—something’s not right with Captain Dawnlior. And the Crown Marshal as well. She was too insistent. Too certain of her standing—even when addressing me.”

  Leoric blinked. It wasn’t vindication—but it was something.

  “You and your squad leave for Crosshaven tonight. You’ll meet with a representative of Duke Garen, and represent the Aetherian Knights in full. His contacts are well-placed. I trust they can shed light on this… situation.”

  Leoric couldn’t keep the smile from his face. It wasn’t triumph, but it was hope. It seemed not all was lost.

  The Knight Paramount didn’t miss it. “Wipe that smile off your face, Sergeant. This is a punishment. Try to act like it.”

  "Yes sir. We'll leave as soon as Garrin and Edric are back from the medics, with all the dejectedness you expect of us." He turned around, and left the tent. Just as he reached the opening, the Knight Paramount's voice stopped him.

  “Leoric... watch yourselves. They know you’re looking into this now.”

  The words hit like a stone to the chest. He hadn’t thought of that. Not really. Not beyond tonight’s reprimand and tomorrow’s orders. But of course. Whoever was behind the ambush—they knew. And now, they’d be watching.

  He stepped out of the tent, and for once, didn’t need to fake the look of a chastened soldier. Their camp was quiet. Fires burned low. The last night before the march.

  He walked back to their tents. They were already mostly packed—only a few things still left to stow. Leoric got to work, hands steady, movements automatic. By the time Edric and Garrin returned from the medics, most of it was done.

  “I take it we’ve been asked to leave?” Garrin was subdued for once—eyes downcast, tone quieter than usual.

  “We’ve been ordered to Crosshaven." Leoric turned to face them.

  Edric stood just behind Garrin, silent. Where Garrin was hesitant, Edric was penitent—his disappointment plain. A fresh bandage wrapped his forearm, the white already tinged with red.

  “We’re still in the Order?” Garrin asked, his voice low, almost disbelieving. Relief flickered across his face, rough and unpolished. “He didn’t cast us out?”

  Leoric gave a small nod. “No. He didn’t. But we leave tonight. Help me finish packing.”

  Little else was said as they gathered what remained and carried it to the horses. The animals shifted restlessly, as if they too sensed the coming march. Their energy, once unfocused, settled as saddlebags were strapped and gear was secured.

  They were going to ride through the night, it was not ideal, but the Knight Paramount had been clear, they were to leave right away. Leoric glanced at Edric and Garrin, they too were strapping the last of their travel gear to the horses.

  "Are you two ready?" he asked as he secured the last strap.

  "Yes sir." The answer was subdued, and more formal than usual. It was clear that todays defeat, and embarrassment, had hit deep. He would have to fix that if they were to be effective. The ride to Crosshaven was 350 miles, most of it through the rough terrain of the mountains. Leoric thought that it would take eleven days, nearly a full week, to reach the city.

  Eleven days to raise spirits and formulate a plan for what to do, and do better, once they met with the Knight Paramount's and Duke Garen's contact.

  As they rode through the camp, they were silent, each consumed by their own thoughts. The camp itself was lively, the last evening before the march, before the levies could return home to their families. Leoric doubted the mood would the whole march. It was now the middle of harvest season, the second day of Hearthcall. It had been the start of the summer when the men had left home. Many fields would have been untended, lacking the labor of the many men sent away with the levies. Leoric wondered what they would find in Crosshaven.

  As they neared the western edge of camp, approaching the road that led back through the Sardian Pass and into Sardia proper, a group of men stood waiting. They did not block the path. They said nothing. But their dark armor marked them clearly as Kingsguard.

  They watched in silence as the three riders passed. No challenge, no salute. Just stillness.

  When the last firelight faded behind them, Leoric could still feel their eyes at his back—like a weight, like a warning.