The Crownwardens: Chapter 1
Part I: "The Greater Gift" (Chapters 1-3)
Sir Callum is dead, and Lior Drevan expects to succeed him as one of Duke Veylan’s winged champions. Instead, Veylan sends him into the desert to retrieve the Black Vulture—a former champion who should have been dead for eleven years.
Accompanied by his anxious best friend Zeke, Lior must hunt a man no weapon can pierce while deciding how much of himself he is willing to sacrifice for the power to change a failing kingdom.
The Crownwardens is an original fantasy passion project, posted chapter by chapter as it is written. It's just something fun for me to do while I query my first novel for publication. If you prefer reading on AO3, you can find this story posted there as well.
Content warnings: graphic fantasy violence and gore; major character death; suicide; body horror, corpses, and undead possession; war, massacre, and authoritarian violence (not all warnings apply to every chapter).
THIS STORY WAS NOT WRITTEN OR EDITED BY GENERATIVE-AI.
“Chapter 1: The Unworthy”
Ironcliff Keep
“Sir Callum believed I was ready to succeed him,” Lior said. “I have come to ask whether you believe the same.”
Lior was nervous about saying the words, but tried not to let it show. The embers of Sir Callum’s funeral pyre likely still held warmth, but Lior had made a promise to his old mentor. On the day Callum died, he was to spare no delay in seeking an audience with Duke Veylan Drex to ask for Bestowal.
“No,” was all Veylan said.
Lior had expected this. Sir Callum had warned him the Duke would refuse and taught him how to answer. But now that the moment had come, Lior was afraid.
Duke Veylan’s presence was overpowering. His iron wings were spread wide, their razor-like feathers shining from a recent sharpening and layer of polish. His newly refitted Ducal livery still held the scent of the cactus blooms from its laundering water. Veylan had been perfectly presented for Sir Callum’s funeral; the only thing missing was his heraldic badge of King Wendell’s Crownwarden. It was the only detail that was out of place.
But one detail was enough to remind him of something important. Despite the Veylan’s legendary deeds and title, he was still a man. And men would always make mistakes.
“What do I lack to carry my mentor’s blessing? What service would you have of me that I have failed you in?”
“None,” Veylan admitted. His voice was deep and carried a sort of haughtiness to it that Lior felt was unbecoming of a Duke. “And that is why I refuse. What need is there of Bestowal when you have been such a faithful vassal without it?”
“And what of Callum’s position, my Duke? Will it remain empty?”
“Yes.” Veylan said the word with no hesitation. “Power is not given simply because someone died.”
“No, my Duke, power is given when—”
“NO!” Veylan Drex rose from his throne and spread his wings wider and taller as his shout echoed through the long chamber and rattled the massive stained glass window behind his throne. The vibration of the panes that outlined the shape of a desert hawk made the raptor appear to tremble in fear. “Power is never given! It is taken! By those who are able.”
Sir Callum had told Lior many times to be forceful before the Duke. He had never learned how. But he also remembered the day Sir Callum had him climb the dusty mountains behind the keep to watch the hawks toss their chicks from cliffsides. He would never learn if he wasn’t forced.
So he stood and shouted back, “Then who do I take it from?”
Anger washed over Veylan’s face only for a moment before it was drowned beneath an emotion Lior had rarely seen on him: worry. Veylan settled back into his throne and looked around the chamber. Lior followed his gaze as the Duke took stock of the people in the throne room. He must have been satisfied with the present company, judging from the deep sigh of frustration and exhaustion.
“The Black Vulture,” he said.
Lior’s courage evaporated as confusion settled his nerves. Everyone knew who the Black Vulture was—Mordane was the greatest mistake Duke Veylan had ever made—but he was already dealt with eleven years ago. Veylan Drex himself had killed Mordane to make up for Bestowing him with such power in the first place.
“Am I to dig up his corpse?” Lior asked, doing his best to keep the skepticism out of his voice. But there was no dignified way to ask such strange questions.
“It seems someone already has,” Veylan said. “Did Callum ever tell you about the connection I share with my Bestowed?”
“Only in passing, my Duke,” Lior admitted. “Just that you can feel when they pass.”
Veylan sighed and folded one wing inward to absently inspect the individual blade-sharp feathers. “Yes, that’s about the extent of it. But I can tell when one of my Bestowed passes because of the absence of their connection to me. The absence that traitorous cur left has been filled once more.”
Lior understood the words and their implications, but he couldn’t believe them. “You mean to tell me that Mordane has risen from the dead?”
“I’ve no idea,” Veylan said. “Go and find out. Bring him to me, or whatever now wears his body, and I will Bestow you.”
Lior’s heart swelled with vigor. This is what he was after. Just one chance to prove himself. If he had learned anything since Veylan had made him an Ironguard, it was that a single chance was all he needed to prove himself.
“It will be done,” Lior said. “Where shall I find his grave?”
“The Umbral Tunnels,” Veylan said. “I cannot tell you which part of them. I assume throughout the years that he wandered from where I last left him.”
Dozens of questions flooded Lior’s mind. Chief among them was the wonder if Duke Veylan had lied about slaying Mordane and simply sent him into the tunnels to wander until his death. But Lior knew better than to accuse one of King Wendell’s very own Crownwarden of deception. Whatever questions he had would be answered in due time, or he would learn to live the rest of his life with the burden of unresolved curiosity.
“Yes, my Duke,” Lior said. “It will be done.”
“And take the younger one with you,” Veylan added. “Maybe he will learn to treat the court with proper respect rather than see my throne room as his parents’ bed chamber.”
Lior cocked his head. Veylan could see the confusion on his face. The Duke looked over Lior’s shoulder toward the chamber doors and raised his voice to the guards at the door. “Bring Ezekian Sim inside.”
The guards pulled the doors open and there stood Zeke.
He was barely eighteen with a child’s face he hadn’t grown out of yet. His almond-colored skin was dotted with freckles the shade of sun-baked clay. His dark brown eyes stood out underneath an unruly mop of hair that looked permanently frosted with the dust of one-too-many sandstorms. His ears were a little too big and he was frozen in panicked paralysis—he reminded Lior of a long-eared jerboa who peeked into a hovel and found a sand cat staring back.
Zeke saluted, dropped to one knee, and bowed his head as he stumbled over a hurried, “M-my Duke!” He fell too fast and lost his balance. He caught and steadied his kneel with one hand before yanking it back to lay across his chest in salute again.
Lior only closed his eyes and did his best to keep a neutral face as he quietly exhaled a deep, resigned sigh.
“Go now,” Veylan said to Lior. “Take Ezekian and do not return without the Black Vulture. Impress me, and I will Bestow you both.”
“Respectfully, my Duke,” Zeke began as he looked up from where he knelt. He spoke with genuine concern, the expression that was most often etched in his features, but the way he began his statement sent a shock of anxiety through Lior’s gut. “I was not volunteering for this mission, nor was I trying to spy on you. I was following Lior, he is—”
“Is he your Duke?” Veylan asked.
“No, but—”
“But nothing. You’re no better than a mongrel; Lior fed you scraps from his hands but one time and now you must be everywhere he is. Then so be it. You followed him here and now you shall follow him south.”
“My Duke,” Zeke said.
Lior could tell in the tone he used that it was not a declaration of acceptance, but the precursor to another complaint. He wanted nothing more than to tell Zeke to be quiet, or to apologize to Veylan on his behalf, but he knew better. It had taken only one time of seeing what Veylan had done to Callum when he spoke on Lior’s behalf for Lior to know it was a bad idea. All he could do was close his eyes and silently pray to King Wendell.
“How are our weapons to pierce his skin? And should we drag him from the tunnels, how do we keep him from flying away?”
Veylan Drex stood from his throne and took slow, solid steps down the azure carpet. He spread his wings wide to catch the light filtered through the stained glass and give them a colorful glow. He walked, quiet and stoic, until he reached Lior.
“Ezekian Sim has much to learn that he should already know,” Veylan said, his voice low enough that only Lior could hear him. “Take the boy with you and bring him back a man, or do not bring him back at all.”
“It will be done,” Lior said.
Veylan nodded and spoke loud enough for everyone in the room to hear him. “Ezekian Sim, Lior Drevan—depart at dawn tomorrow morning and return in victory. You are dismissed.”
Lior risked standing and moving as quickly as he could toward Zeke while retaining as much of the respect required for being in the presence of the Duke. He knew he made the right call when he reached Zeke right as the boy stood and opened his mouth to say something else to the Duke. When Lior reached Zeke, he discreetly threw a fist into the boy’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him and crippling the words that were about to escape his lips.
Zeke tried to double over in pain, but Lior’s fist turned to a gentle, guiding hand as he slid it around Zeke’s waist and turned him to walk away from Veylan Drex.
“It is folly to test the patience of the Duke,” Lior hissed under his breath.
Zeke tried to apologize but all that came out was a weak, strained gasp.
Lior heard the chamber doors close behind them and slowed his pace by a half-step. “I’m sorry,” he said to Zeke. “You’ve no idea how little composure the Duke had left and you were about to exile the both of us.” Zeke’s reply was only to nod as he finished remembering how to breathe. Lior sighed, the guilt eating away at him despite his warranted reaction. “Let me get you a drink. We can talk in the armory as we prepare our gear for tomorrow’s departure.”
“Colonche?” Zeke wheezed.
“For tonight?” Lior asked with a smile. He shook his head. “Something stronger, my friend.” Lior didn’t normally have the kind of scrip for what he knew Zeke wanted, but if they were to leave tomorrow with a chance of never returning, then . . .
“Tungi,” Zeke said with a smile.
And there it was. Seeing his old friend smile again so quickly after being assaulted would be worth whatever he paid. “Tungi,” Lior confirmed as he returned Zeke’s smile.
#
Zeke was supposed to be gathering at least a half-dozen of the large waterskins—the ones that held a little more than two litres—but he was still sore. From Lior’s punch, yes, but more so from the fact that Lior had done it at all. Zeke rubbed absently at his chest as his eyes glazed over the waterskins, not noticing them or remembering he needed to pack them. He could understand where Lior believed in the necessity of it, but Lior certainly could have pulled his punch a little more.
At least the Tungi would make up for it.
The door to the armory opened and Zeke turned to see Lior, already a little red-faced, carrying two stoppered clay flasks.
Zeke had always viewed Lior as a remarkably reliable man. The strength of his features was set against skin the deep, rich brown of a desert ibex. His thin smile was bordered by stubble the same color as his dense, sable crown of tightly coiled curls. His dark eyes always held a spark of courageous ambition, even when he was being chastised or made an example of. It maddened Zeke how often a casual smile from Lior made him feel at ease, especially during situations where Zeke felt his anxiety was warranted.
“Started without me?” Zeke asked, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice.
“No, not at all,” Lior said. “Well—one drink,” he corrected. At least he wasn’t wobbling or slurring his words. “I told the sutler we were leaving tomorrow to run an errand for the Duke and he gave me one for free.”
“You struck my chest once on the outside,” Zeke said. “No need to drink without me and strike it once more on the inside.”
Lior raised an eyebrow. “If that’s how you feel about it, then catch up.” He offered Zeke a flask with one of his infuriating smiles.
Zeke took the flask and opened it. The scent of loamy pears was nearly drowned out by harsh alcohol vapors. Zeke breathed it in anyway. He took a swig and tried to ignore the burn that felt like drinking the peppered heat of the desert sun. But when the fire receded, he had time to savor the best part—the sweet flesh of cactus pears. The sour warmth lingered in the back of his throat and made him shudder in satisfaction.
“Do you know how long it’s been since the last time I’ve had a decent drink?” Zeke asked.
Lior’s smile widened. “About two seconds ago.”
“It was when you came to me with news that Callum had chosen you as his successor,” Zeke said. “Why is the Duke making you do this? I thought Callum had already spoken with him about your Bestowal?”
Lior’s grin faltered. “Zeke, we can discuss the Duke all you’d like tomorrow. It would do you good to shackle your tongue while still in the keep.”
Zeke took another small sip from his flask. “You never did like it when I spoke.”
Lior pointed at him with his flask. “You almost always got yourself in trouble for it.”
“And you almost always got me out of it without striking me.”
Lior sighed, but there was no pain or regret in it. All Zeke heard was annoyance. “Is that what this is about? I’m sorry I hit you, Zeke.”
“It’s not just that you struck me. It’s that you became the kind of person who say it as a reasonable reaction to—”
“To the Duke threatening to kill you,” Lior spat. “Well, not in so many words. But mind you, he told me to bring you back a man or not at all.”
“And?” Zeke asked. “The Duke has been this way as long as we’ve known him. He’s made empty threats since the Age of the Crownwarden’s Watch began.”
“The histories are not always recorded correctly,” Lior began.
Zeke didn’t let him. In a mockery of Lior’s gentle tone of self-sure leadership, he said, “‘It would do you good to shackle your tongue while still in the keep.’”
“You must want me to strike you again,” Lior mumbled as he sipped from his own flask.
Zeke had enough. He stood and held his arms wide. “What have I done to you to deserve this? I’ve done nothing but be loyal to you since the desert drill you saved me from.”
“And I have done everything I can to be loyal to the Duke,” Lior said. “And yet when it finally comes time to Bestow me, he offers you the same Bestowal for merely coming along.”
Oh.
Zeke sat down. His mind swam with words he wanted to shout at Lior. “That’s all this is about?” and “I don’t even want Bestowal!” and “Since when have you become so petty?” begged to be spoken, but Zeke took Lior’s advice and kept the words to himself. Instead, he chose something more true to the embarrassments the Dukes had become since the King departed and left Leseron to them.
“The Iron Hawk hasn’t shared his power with anyone since Mordane’s massacre during the Trade War. You weren’t even old enough to serve yet, and I wasn’t even ten. Do you truly believe he would share iron skin and the gift of flight to the very same person he said that you may have to dispose of?”
Lior’s response was a whisper. “If Veylan Drex is no longer a man of his word . . .”
There was a long moment of silence between them, punctuated only with a satisfied breath after Lior finished the last of his flask. Zeke knew better than to finish Lior’s thoughts right now. The Tungi had taken its toll. It was time to save their words for the journey.
Zeke waved at the storeroom’s contents. “We should pack.”
Lior nodded, and the two began to collect the things they would need for their journey south.
#
Lior had been given two camels for his trek across the desert, one for him and one for his supplies, which was why the saddle felt so awkward this time. Zeke was on the back half of the riding beast, and their pace had been slowed by the doubled supplies on the pack camel. Lior knew why they weren’t given three camels for two travelers, but it made him already feel weary from the journey despite only being on its first day.
The Sunspire Dunes, shimmering in the heat waves, stretched out as far as the eye could see. It would take them the whole day, if not a little longer, to reach the only outpost (if it could be called that) between the keep and civilization.
Titan’s Tusks only held a small garrison of Ironguard, but there would be shelter, water, food, and familiar faces. The last one was what Lior looked forward to the most. He knew it wouldn’t take long for him to tire of only having Zeke for company.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, he felt guilty for it. Was Zeke right? Was he changing? Or had he already changed? He could remember a time before Callum’s tutelage when he would sabotage his own chances at promotion just to spend more time with Zeke. And now, out on an adventure of sorts with him, Lior wished he had been sent alone.
“Lior?” Zeke said. He didn’t continue.
Lior knew Zeke was waiting for permission to speak. Lior considered staying quiet. He didn’t want to discourage Zeke because the boy was too young—Lior was only barely five years older than Zeke—but rather, he knew what the question would be and how complicated the answer was. But now that they were far from Ironcliff Keep, he had no excuse other than avoidance or pettiness. Or . . . was it embarrassment?
“You want to know why I pursue Bestowal so doggedly,” Lior said.
It wasn’t a question, but Zeke still said, “Yes.”
“I want to make a difference, Zeke,” Lior said with a sigh. “If I am Bestowed, maybe the Duke will pay my words more heed, as he did for Callum.”
“Callum’s words about your succession don’t seem to have been heeded at all.”
Zeke’s voice was quiet, as if he were scared to say the words. Had Lior really cowed him that hard yesterday? He felt a twinge of pain in his gut.
“I know, but I must try.”
Lior couldn’t see Zeke behind him, but he felt the motion and heard the creak of leather as Zeke nodded. “They say things were so different before.”
There were many things Zeke could have been talking about. Before Callum, before Mordane, before the Trade War . . . but when those among Leseron’s people old enough to remember back sixty-odd years spoke of ‘before,’ it was always about the same thing: before King Wendell’s ascension to the stars and beyond. Before he left the kingdom in the care of his Crownwardens to seek answers from the gods. Before the Crownwardens grew complacent.
Or worse, weary.
“I wouldn’t know,” Lior said, giving the camel a gentle hiya and a tug on the reins to pull its distracted attention from a nearby cactus. “But I think they can be different again. If only someone the Duke trusted could have his ear once more. Someone like Callum, but who hadn’t grown calloused from the tragedies of the Trade War.”
“Our callouses will come from a different war,” Zeke said.
Lior didn’t ask which one. There was no war brewing on the horizons of the future. Yet. But as long as there were people, there would be wars. It was even rumored the Crowardens had been considering a war for the throne. Lior, like so many other people of Leseron, hoped that King Wendell would return before then. He hoped that he could help keep the peace until then.
“The Duke only respects power,” Lior said. “Even if he is the one to give it to me.”
“You still talk as if you expect him to honor his word,” Zeke said.
There it was again—the caution in his voice.
“You can speak freely,” Lior said. “The keep is far behind us, now. If the Iron Hawk can hear us from this far, then he deserves to know what you think of him.”
“What we think of him,” Zeke corrected.
But Lior wasn’t sure if that was something he had in common with his best friend anymore. He took a long, quiet moment to think about it. Zeke didn’t interrupt. And so, by the time Lior had finished pondering the thought, Titan’s Tusks were already rising in the distance.
He decided his concerns were petty in the grand scheme of things. At least, they were today. He spurred the camel forward, and Zeke changed the subject to pondering how they were to apprehend a man who could fly and whose skin could be pierced by no weapons. Lior hoped Zeke’s willingness to let go of their previous conversation wasn’t a sign of a growing distance between them.
But deep inside, in a place he refused to give any attention, he already knew the answer.
