(KOTG) Ch 20: The Studies Of The World!

The following morning, Thron found himself once again beneath the towering shelves of the library. The place smelled faintly of ink, dust, and parchment, a smell that felt strangely comforting despite the sheer size of the room. Books thicker than houses lined the walls, their spines glinting with golden symbols he couldn't hope to decipher.

Lysandra was already waiting for him. The silver-haired woman stood with her hands folded neatly in front of her, glasses perched low on her nose as though she'd been born with them. Her attire was impeccable—a dark, high-collared dress trimmed with silver thread—and her expression carried the sharpness of someone who had little tolerance for mediocrity.

"Sit," she instructed, gesturing toward the low wooden desk arranged just for him. Compared to the massive table she stood beside, Thron's desk looked more like a toy.

Thron eased himself down, resting his elbows as he glanced up at her. "Good morning to you too."

Lysandra's lips curved slightly, but not into a smile. "A king should not require morning pleasantries. He should be ready the moment the sun greets him."

And with that, she began.

Her voice flowed with precision, like a stream cutting through stone. She spoke of the great lands that pressed against Vorshalda borders:

Lorym, to the east—a kingdom of magic and the Arcane arts, where sorcerers are born and great tomes are created. Azyra, to the south—a land that exists high in the mountains, with floating lands that exist in the clouds, its people with great wings that fly high in the air. Eryndor, to the west—a proud and forest like kingdom, its people famed for fairy like appearance, and their hunters the best in the world a land where nature is law, and last but not least Vytharion that is in the south, west continent.

And finally, Vorshalda itself. His new home. His kingdom.

"Vorshalda," Lysandra said, her tone dipping faintly with disapproval, "has no enduring friendships with these neighbors. Many attempts have been made, treaties proposed, gifts exchanged. And yet... none have lasted. Suspicion, fear, and envy always return to the table. A king must understand this. You are not only a ruler of your people, but also the shield against those who wait for your falter."

Thron tried his best to follow. Really, he did. But the stream of names, places, and histories blended into one another, a long and rolling tide of facts that threatened to pull him under. His chin dipped, eyes half-closing. The warmth of the library didn't help.

"Thron."

His eyes shot open. Lysandra's sharp voice sliced through the haze like a blade.

"You will not sleep through the foundations of your kingdom," she said, eyes narrowing behind her glasses. "The throne demands more than half-hearted listening."

Thron rubbed his face, trying to shake himself awake. "I'm trying. I promise. I just... It's a lot to take in at once."

Lysandra crossed her arms. "Then tell me what you have remembered."

For a moment, Thron feared he had nothing. But then, slowly, he found the threads she had laid out.

"Well... I remember you saying the first king wasn't just some warrior. He was an alchemist. A mage too, right? That's how he created the women of Vorshalda."

Lysandra tilted her head, eyes narrowing, but she didn't correct him.

"And... you said the power of the king is something strange. Not fully understood. But it's real. It's something that... that I have now."

A silence stretched between them. Lysandra tapped a finger against her arm, regarding him with that same unreadable gaze. Then, to his surprise, she nodded.

"Better than I expected," she said. "Perhaps you are not as hopeless as I feared."

Thron smirked faintly. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Do so," she replied. Her voice softened just slightly as she adjusted her glasses. "Even a king requires rest between lessons. I think you have earned a break."

Before Thron could protest—or thank her—Lysandra's hand descended. Her fingers, long and pale, opened like the gates of a courtyard.

"Climb on."

Thron hesitated for a beat, then clambered onto her palm, steadying himself against the smooth curve of her thumb. The warmth of her skin radiated beneath him, and though her movements were precise, he felt the subtle tremor of muscles far larger than he could comprehend.

"Hold tight," she instructed.

He did, gripping her finger as she lifted him up with the ease of scooping a pebble. The library blurred past as Lysandra carried him out, each stride swallowing the floor beneath her. Her heels clicked softly against the marble, echoing through the high corridors.

Through the castle they went, the walls decorated with towering banners, lanterns glowing like miniature suns. Servants and attendants paused to bow as Lysandra passed, their eyes flickering curiously toward the tiny figure in her hand.

Finally, they reached the great archway that led outside. Sunlight poured in, warm and brilliant, washing over Thron's face. After hours of studying under shadowed shelves, the brightness made him squint, but the sight of the sky was a relief.

"Fresh air," Lysandra murmured, stepping out into the courtyard gardens. "The king should never be buried in books alone. Come, let the world remind you what you're meant to rule."

And with that, she carried him beneath the open sky, toward paths lined with flowers large enough to blot out whole houses, and trees whose branches brushed the heavens.

Lysanda's long stride carried Thron swiftly through the halls, the stone walls humming faintly with the echoes of her boots. From where he sat perched in her hand, the world rushed past in dizzying scale—the banners draping from vaulted ceilings, the torches burning high above, the muffled sound of voices from distant chambers. She said nothing at first, her sharp eyes set straight ahead, her silver hair swaying neatly against her shoulder. Thron clung to the edge of her finger, steadying himself.

"Uh," he called upward, craning his neck to meet her gaze, "why are we going outside? I thought we were still supposed to be in lessons."

"You'll see soon enough, Your Majesty," Lysanda replied, her voice calm, measured. "A king learns in many ways. Books are only one of them."

That didn't do much to ease his confusion, but Thron held his tongue. If there was one thing he was learning quickly, it was that nobody in this kingdom ever did anything without a reason.

The further they went, the louder the sound became. A deep, rhythmic thunder, like the heartbeats of titans colliding. Thron's brows furrowed. The ground beneath Lysanda's feet seemed to tremble in time with the noise. He leaned out a little from her palm, his stomach knotting with suspicion.

And then—

BOOOOOM!

The deafening crack hit like rolling thunder, shaking the very air. Lysanda's steps did not falter, but Thron instinctively grabbed her thumb with both arms, pressing himself flat against her hand. His ears rang.

Another BOOOOM! followed, this one sharper, like the clap of a mountain splitting in two.

"What the hell was that?!" Thron shouted, wide-eyed.

"You'll see," Lysanda said again, though this time there was the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

The hallway opened into an immense archway, light spilling in from the outside. When Lysanda stepped through, Thron blinked furiously, adjusting to the sun. And then he saw it—

A massive, open arena stretched before him, ringed by tiered seating. Hundreds of colossal women crowded the stands, their cheers roaring like crashing waves, their hands slamming together in thunderous applause. The air itself seemed alive with their energy.

And in the center of it all—

Kyvareth and Lysera.

The two warriors were locked in combat, bare fists clashing with enough force to send shockwaves through the arena. Each strike echoed like cannon fire. Each step shattered the ground beneath their feet, dust and stone spraying high into the air. Kyvareth's light brown hair whipped wildly as she drove forward, her fists a blur. Lysera, tall and strong, met her blow for blow, her black hair flashing like steel in the sunlight.

"WOOOAAAHHHHHH!"

The word tore itself out of Thron's mouth before he could stop it. His jaw hung open as he leaned dangerously over Lysanda's hand, trying to take in every detail of the impossible fight before him.

He had never seen anything like it. Not in his world. Not anywhere.

Each punch they threw looked like it could flatten a fortress. The wind alone from their movements tugged at his clothes and whipped against his face. He swore he saw cracks spiderwebbing through the stone of the arena walls just from their clash. And yet—neither of them seemed to hold anything back.

"Wow."