Shadows Over Arcadia Chapter 8: 8. Kings Game

Read chapter 8 of Shadows Over Arcadia by Zacheas on NovelPedia.

8. Kings Game I am Willow of the Fae, and I have lived for 5,095 years. At this fleeting moment in my vast existence, I find myself the guardian of Ren Drakemore, the second prince of Arcadia. https://shadowsoverarcadia.com/api/storage/objects/uploads/e36e5201-b5f5-4e9c-bdf0-03b5ea1f4af9 One of humanity's many peculiar traditions is the annual celebration of their birth. Perhaps they mark each year because they have so few, a stark reminder of their sprint toward oblivion. To me, it feels excessive, an incessant acknowledgment of their fragility. Still, I have observed that birthdays hold great importance to humans. These celebrations seem to shield their delicate minds, especially those of children, who require constant nurturing from parents and peers to grow mentally stable. Though their customs often appear nonsensical to me, I have made efforts to emulate them for Ren’s sake. Today marks Ren's eighth birthday, and I have crafted a detailed plan based on seven years of trial and error. The first step involves preparing an overabundance of his favorite foods. After sampling 130 distinct dishes, prepared in 1,432 different ways, I have identified Ren's top five favorites. This tradition, as I understand it, also demands an excess, far more than he or his guests could reasonably consume. For the first time, I have even arranged for guests to join the feast. The second hallmark of a human birthday is the gift: a thoughtful offering tailored to their often-fickle preferences. Ren, thus far, has struggled to appreciate the value of my past offerings. On his first birthday, I gave him a Soul Stone imbued with the essence of 100 fallen warriors. A rare and powerful artifact. To Ren, it was "just another rock." For his third birthday, I presented him with a Magnus Spider, a magnificent magical creature that, if tamed, could grow into a formidable ally and protector. Unfortunately, I discovered that Ren harbors a fear of spiders, even those as small as two feet wide. On his fifth birthday, I gifted him a Mithrilroot sapling. The wood of this tree, once fully grown, is prized for crafting the most powerful wands. However, I failed to account for the fact that it would take over two human lifetimes to mature and require constant mana infusion. Ren, regrettably, did not share my appreciation for its potential. Despite these setbacks, I am confident that this year I have found a gift he cannot help but value. There is a knock at the tower door. I open it to find Captain Gavin and the elf slave Silfy, the head servant from Lord Griswald's estate. Gavin has forgone his usual heavy armor, appearing instead in a simple blouse and trousers—an uncommon sight. Silfy wears a modest yet elegant dress, more fitting a noblewoman than a servant, though the thin, ornate fabric collar around her neck marks her as one of Griswald’s. Gavin carries two large, cloth-wrapped items, his broad grin as unrelenting as ever. "Welcome, and thank you for coming," I say, stepping aside. "Please join us upstairs." "Thank you for the invite!" booms Gavin in his typical jovial tone, his eyes scanning the room. "Where's the birthday boy?" "Up... stairs," I repeat, slower this time. Even for a human, he is an idiot. Without hesitation, Gavin bounds up the spiral staircase two steps at a time. Silfy, meanwhile, bows deeply, her demeanor stiff and formal. "Thank you, Lady Willow, for allowing me into your home. Lord Griswald regrets that he was unable to attend and has sent me in his stead." "Yes, he informed me. You are very welcome," I reply. Still bowed, Silfy continues with what sounds like a rehearsed speech. "While I am here, I will serve you as I would him, and beg your patience if I cause any trouble, M’lady." Her fear is palpable. She must worry we are like other nobles, the kind who beat their slaves for the slightest perceived mistake. It is a reasonable fear, but not in this home. "You poor child, raise your head," I say, unable to hide my frustration. "You