AS the heirsen sun rose and set every day, several days had gradually turned into many moons, and many moons into a few tides.
This was since Arstol escaped from his haters’ net and hadn’t been caught still.
But Xandur Prince of Olde Glassfield wasn’t giving up. At the start of that unending chase, at least.
So in the course of the passing moons, the Glassfield prince had sent spies over to the city of Highland North to mark Arstol’s ways and all.
Getting into Highland North was a piece of cake for Xandur – since the city was reckoned for her open arms to immigrants.
Xandur took advantage of that fact; so he planted spies in the city around Prince Arstol.
So there he was in Arstol’s city – as secret eyes to see for him and several ears to hear for him.
OUT 1ST NOVEMBER!
However, there was nothing tangible that Xandur’s spies could find to report, as the days rolled by.
Everything about Arstol’s were steadfastness and truth, so much the reports only saddened his desperate chasers.
But it wasn’t Arstol’s uprightness that Xandur sent his moles up North to spy out for him.
No, it wasn’t anything praiseworthy Xandur was so desperate to hear.
Indeed, Prince Xandur wasn’t interested in nothing of Arstol’s princely acts or his nobility. He wanted to know the heirsen called Arstol.
His faults, his failings, and all his frailties.
Xandur wanted to know the heirsen in the noble prince.
Indeed, only then could the desperate prince of Olde Glassfield hack down the North prince with a single hit.
For it would be a fatal strike where it mattered most.
And so Xandur became frustrated for lack of substantial news as the days turned into moons, and moons gradually into a tide or two.
Even when the Glassfield prince pressured his spies, there was nothing at all to report other than Arstol’s good deeds.
But Prince Celson of West Stongate wasn’t tired like the Glassfield noble. In the plotters’ chase after the North prince.
Celson had made a life in ruining noble heirsens. The young prince joined the Great League as early as a child.
And ever since the noble had been grafted into that league of fallen fighters, he’d made a passion of destroying steadfast heirsens.
And Arstol of Highland North was just one of those heirsens Celson planned to destroy.
Prince Celson was ready to wait for Arstol’s eggshell to weaken and crack – no matter how long he’d have to wait.
‘I’m sure that that egg will crack someday,’ Celson had told Xandur. ‘And it doesn’t matter how long it will take to wait…
‘It doesn’t matter how much time I’ll spend waiting, I have vowed that I will keep hoping till I can bring it to rot!’
Seated now in his work chamber, Celson fumbled nervously with a writing quill as he anticipated a special visit.
A visit that could make scheming only sweeter, he thought.
For indeed scheming was like sword fighting to the Prince of West Stongate. It was like new wine, too – one that he couldn’t get enough of.
Yet Xandur of Olde Glassfield used to be an unbeatable opponent. An adversary Prince Celson couldn’t pull down, no matter how hard he’d tried.
Celson had always hated the Breather of Fire. He’d wanted to bargain his flaming tongue for a long time.
Yet Xandur cracked all by himself. So he gave entry to his desperate adversaries waiting already at the door.
Thus Prince Celson, together with Prince Dalleon of Waterfort, had his way into a cracked Xandur and altogether into his fortified city.
But even so Prince Celson knew his schemes were always useless if his target never opened the door. If they never opened from the inside.
Yes, Celson knew he didn’t call the shot every time he caught a prey. He knew it was all in his target’s hand if that target would stand or crash.
The Great League had always chased after Noble Xandur for several tides; but there was no way they could get a hold on the steadfast Protector of Olde Glassfield.
And never at any time could the League snare the noble prince, until Xandur defiantly expanded his golden painting over a cracked shoulder…
And expanded and extended the painted patch to cover his two crystal shoulders, and then his entire breastplate.
It was arrogance and defiance to the Father-of-All.
It was utter rebellion to the Father and King
So then the real crack began. A slender crack on the shoulder began to deepen so rapidly; then it widened below the skin surface into a widespread cavity within.
In no time, Xandur’s hard shell caved open on its own. And he let in the rottenness of the world of darkness and evil.
Again Celson admitted they didn’t call the shot in that castle of darkness.
He admitted they had to hope for Xandur and others to open up by themselves.
Celson admitted it wasn’t in their hands, but in heirsens themselves.
But that was one thing the young prince wished he could have.
He wished he could be able to bring down anyone just because he wanted to.
He wished he wouldn’t need a heirsen cracking up on their own before he could do anything.
Celson wished so hard to be a lord who can decide a heirsen’s fate.
But no, the fate of all heirsens were in their own hands. And in the Father’s benevolent care.
Nevertheless, Celson found both the quest and the waiting entertaining.
But the wait seemed over now, as there was a knock on the door.
It was the guest with the special news coming in. It was Prince Xandur of Olde Glassfield.
For now, there was something huge happening at Highland North.
And Celson was ready to find out.
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© July 2021 Kayode & Tola Olla