Chapter 12

The elders did not take their eyes off Arkin for even a single second, as if unwilling to miss a single moment, and the priests pressed by Owen looked thoroughly distressed. The sight of the eight elders standing in a semicircle made them look just like judges. Every time their gazes swept over Arkin with eagle-like sharpness, a sense of displeasure welled up within him, yet Arkin tightly suppressed it and held his tongue.

Once the king and queen arrived, Arkin’s oath ceremony finally commenced. A priest brought over a water jar and poured clear, ice-cold purification water over him. The freezing water cascaded over his head, tumbling down his forehead, brushing against his eyelids, wetting his lips, and streaming away. Soaking wet from head to toe, Arkin earnestly prayed that every memory of what he had seen and heard the previous night would be washed completely away along with it.

Next was the ritual of walking amidst the sacred flames. Arkin grasped a handful of twigs, pinecones, and wheat, and passed between the burning braziers. As he walked through the fire, a priest chanted scriptures while scattering a mixture of flour and salt. He was told it was a fire meant to burn away the falsehoods within him.

Arkin gritted his teeth as he felt the licking flames brush close against his cheeks. He braced himself, telling himself not to worry about a thing. He chose to believe that the gods would take the side of one who endeavored and strove.

Meanwhile, the king seemed to have erased all the anxiety of the previous night. He appeared wearing his golden crown straight once more, which had previously slipped crookedly or dropped disconsolately onto his knees. The gaze he cast upon his son was brimming with pride and trust, ensuring that no one would have been able to perceive the king’s prior agitation.

“Your Highness, please read your oath from here now.”

The priest guided Arkin and handed him a scroll. Clad in white garments and standing atop the altar, Arkin offered his vow in a loud voice so that all could hear. He maintained his gaze fixed toward Owen and his faction as he spoke in a clear tone.

“O great spirits of the forest, I come before the god who protects the millennial kingdom of Solinar. Here in this place today, I, Prince Arkin Seilir of Solinar, offer a sacred vow.”

Arkin drew in a deep breath and continued.

“I, Arkin Seilir, swear that there was not a single shred of falsehood in the prophecy I received at birth. If I am speaking falsely and deceiving the people of the kingdom, O spirits of the forest, strip me of all my power and divest me of my qualifications to the throne…”

As the long sentences continued without a pause, no one opened their mouth. Only the voice of Arkin echoing as he made a bold vow staking his very all resonated throughout.

“…I shall faithfully apply myself with the honor of Solinar at stake during the training tournament held on Credo Island. The second prophecy I receive there shall prove my destiny, and if that prophecy denies my qualifications, I shall gladly step down from the throne. I swear this upon my blood before the witnesses gathered here.”

The moment he finished speaking, the prince raised his golden dagger high. Without borrowing the aid of the priest, he unhesitatingly slashed open his own forearm with his own strength. Fresh blood dripping from his white forearm stained the white birch bark a vivid red.

The priest held the birch bark smeared with Arkin’s blood high with both hands to display it to everyone, then hurled it into the flames and cried out solemnly.

“The spirits of the forest shall accept this oath! If there is even a shred of falsehood in this oath, he shall be engulfed by the flames and receive a curse!”

The oath-swearing ceremony, which took the entire day, concluded only after darkness had settled.

Torches stretched the shadows of those turning away into long lines. Among the elders quietly departing one by one, Owen looked back until the very last moment and glared at Arkin. Yet in the end, he too vanished into the darkness. While the priests and attendants quietly tidied up the temple, the king summoned Arkin.

“You have worked hard, my son.”

Even in the dim light, the king’s eyes burned fiercely. They were eyes harboring a fever unlike their usual state. Arkin hesitated and bowed his head before his father.

“Is there something you wish to tell me?”

His body was pulled forward as if tipping over. The king desperately gripped Arkin’s shoulders with both hands. It was a hungry touch, as though he were entrusting his entire life to his son, leaving Arkin frozen in place.

“You must, you must… become the absolute best at the training tournament. Show them that only the Birch Clan can be the masters of this throne. Do you understand?”

He hadn’t been able to sense it by morning, but a thick scent of alcohol drifted to the tip of his nose, God knew when he had been drinking. Taken aback, Arkin looked up at his father’s face, but under the blazing firelight, his father’s flushed face made it impossible to gauge whether it was from drink or fever.

“If you pour your heart and soul into your efforts there, no one will be able to doubt your abilities. Perhaps the gods, too, will forgive us. You can… you can pull this off, Arkin.”

His father’s bloodshot eyes trembled wildly. After roughly patting Arkin’s shoulders twice, he stumbled and, supported by his attendants, departed first.

“Is Mother not coming along?”

No answer came back. Watching his father receding into the distance, Arkin noticed that the queen mother’s palanquin was still halted below the sanctuary, so he hurried over toward it.

“Mother.”

“Arkin, you have worked hard. You must be exhausted.”

His mother’s voice was cracked. Her lips trembled as if she wanted to say something more, but she could not bring herself to finish the words. Instead, she abruptly grasped Arkin’s hand. Feeling the touch of her cold hand, Arkin lowered his gaze in bewilderment. Since he had practically no memories of holding hands with his mother, he held the grasped hand awkwardly, not knowing what to do with it.

“My son, I…”

The instant a hot tear dropped heavily onto their intertwined hands, his mother hurriedly pulled down her veil.

“I am sorry, Arkin.”

His mother said in a sorrowful voice from behind the black fabric. That was the entirety of what he heard from his mother.

She conveyed nothing to the end as to what she was sorry for, or why she was sorry. Pulling her veil down deeply, his mother hurriedly summoned her maids and departed from the spot.

Arkin was left alone in the empty temple.

He knew Magnus would be waiting anxiously at the entrance of the temple, but he wanted to remain alone just a little longer. Pacing across the cold marble floor, Arkin pondered the possibility of losing everything.

Was it a foolish thing to do? For what on earth did I swear that oath?

He harbored no desire to unearth the truth of what his mother and father had committed, or what had transpired when he was born. Confronting those very facts felt as though it would cause his entire life to collapse.

Would the gods cast me out? Would they snatch away my throne?

Ever since he could speak and walk, Arkin had lived a life solely dedicated to becoming the King of Solinar. Not for a single moment had he ever contemplated another path. His one and only goal, which he could never, ever abandon, was simply to become the ruler of Solinar.

The wound on his arm slashed open by the blade throbbed. Arkin slowly stepped forward before the altar. With the brazier containing the sacred fire cleared away and no offerings present, he stood blankly for a long time in a place the gods would not visit.

“You cannot do this.”

The words slipped out of his mouth before he knew it. His shoulders slumped over the altar, shaking.

“Give me a chance, please give me a chance…”

It felt unjust and deeply aggrieved. He was not the one who had concealed the prophecy. He had known nothing of it, so why must he be the one to sacrifice? Weeping silently, Arkin prayed to the gods. He appealed that up to this very moment, looking up to the heavens, he had not lived a single moment in shame.

“Do the gods not look kindly upon a person’s sincerity? If I try until it kills me, if I strive even harder than now, will you not cast me away?”

In the quiet temple where even the wind had ceased, only the sound of his weeping echoed for a long time. The arm gripping the edge of the altar trembled violently, and blood slowly seeped out through the bandages from sustaining his body for so long. Yet more painful than that was his chest—the agony of it tearing to shreds.

“That way, it seems. A bit further and the sanctuary will appear.”

Magnus, wiping the sweat from his forehead, narrowed his eyes and pointed toward the fork in the road ahead. A long pole was planted on the left side of the path, and a yellow cloth tied to its tip fluttered limply in the breeze.

“Right, let’s go.”

Seeing poles of the same shape planted even further off, it seemed to be the direction leading to the sanctuary. While hurrying his steps, Arkin turned his head to gauge the shrine that would be sitting atop the high rocky mountain peak.

Six months of training. Once that period ended, he would receive a new prophecy.

What kind of result would he truly receive? Arkin let out a small sigh. He had no choice but to hope that the gods would look upon his sincerity and show mercy. Arkin’s destiny, his throne, and furthermore the fate of the dynasty hinged upon that very temple.