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TRAS Chapter 108: A Simple Test
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 18:20:14 +0000 UTC“Ashton…” Ailn eyed the proffered handshake warily for just a moment, before accepting it. Then he stifled a shudder—something about this guy gave him the creeps. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“One hopes it was all laudatory,” Ashton said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Web of the palm and everything…” Ailn muttered, noting the quality of Ashton’s handshake before letting go. “You seem like a man with a knack for business. Fitting for the heir apparent to ark-Chelon.”
“Isn’t it?” Ashton agreed smoothly.
He was genial to a fault. Ailn couldn’t tell if that was suspicious or just annoying, reincarnator tells aside.
“Your courier gave us quite the shock, Ailn,” Ashton began, already presuming familiarity as he led Ailn up the stairs. “Even my father, who entrusts nearly all matters to me, was raring to leap out of bed so that he might see this legendary ring himself.”
Ashton tilted his head, and for a moment his warm smile seemed to cool. “You’ll forgive me if I’m less credulous than he.”
“...It’d be stranger if you accepted it without question,” Ailn said, hesitating a moment before he entered the door which Ashton held open for him. “I certainly wouldn’t.”
“Indeed,” Ashton said, giving Ailn an unwelcome pat on the shoulder as he followed him into the room. “As such, I’ve conspired to steal away Calum’s foremost artificer from his guild duties, so that he might appraise it himself.”
He gestured to a surly-looking dwarf sitting at a cherry mahogany table. “Ailn, this is Havrek, the head artificer of The Company of Deft Hands. Havrek, this is Ailn eum-Creid.”
Of all people, Ailn cared least about his title being respected. But there was something pointedly malicious in the way Ashton conspicuously ignored it.
“I am of a mind that this is a fine way to squander all our time,” Havrek grumbled, in a voice that was surprisingly smooth as he gave Ailn a polite nod. “Duke eum-Creid, if you will permit my speaking plainly, I do not call you a liar. I merely submit that a man of your station ought to set his hands to tasks considerably less fantastical.”
Ailn simply shrugged as he set the small ring box containing The Dragon’s Promise on the table. He figured he’d let the artifact speak for itself.
Sure, he wasn’t certain of its authenticity. But at this point, he was starting to think it might be more trouble than it was worth. Now that he thought about it, Noué’s perspective finder alone might be enough to resolve Varant’s potential financial issues for a while.
The moment Havrek opened the ring box, he halted, his deep skepticism wavering. Interest momentarily overcame restraint—a troubled flicker of surprise crossing his brow, a sharp yet quiet breath drawn then held in stillness.
“...The adamantine in this ring is certainly of interest,” Havrek said, holding it close to his eye.
The dwarf reached by the foot of his chair, pulling up a medium-sized leather case with a handle and setting it on the table. Aside from its more squarish shape and the lack of latches, it almost resembled a briefcase.
He twisted a dial, and the case unfolded on its own. From within, he pulled out a smaller case—presumably for fine tools—and propped it open, retrieving what looked like a scalpel.
With a light yet purposeful motion, he tested the blade against the ring. Then, seeming surprised by the result, he applied yet more force—enough to make Ashton next to him flinch.
“This gauge-knife is coated with diamond,” Havrek muttered. “...Yet it’s left nary a scratch.” He stood up from the table. “With your leave, I would see this brought to the Artificer Guild’s master workshop, and assay it with our foremost pyrelance.”
“...You’re gonna heat it up?” Ailn crossed his arms, giving the dwarf a skeptical gaze. “Is that enough to prove it’s real?”
“That this is truly the fabled artifact of the empire’s founding?” Havrek asked, unable to keep the tinge of intellectual disdain out of his voice. “Nay. What may be proven is the peerless worth of the material itself. No more, no less.”
“I’m just not sure how comfortable I am with that,” Ailn said.
He cast his gaze toward Ashton, observing that the previously inscrutable heir to ark-Chelon seemed agitated. His cool smile was starting to sweat. “I’d hate to be the guy who okayed the melting of such a precious ring.”
“What I am searching for, Duke eum-Creid, is plausibility,” Havrek sighed, as if he were speaking to a child. “We are speaking of a ring forged by divinity, in dragon’s breath. Do you follow?“
“...Go on,” Ailn said.
“Then we shall test its malleance threshold and see whether such majestic origins can be believably claimed,” Havrek said. “If it cannot endure what normal steel can, then the adamantine was dross, and I shall gladly repay you the price of the ruby centerstone.”
He began to trail off with a grimace, yet the dwarf’s eyes betrayed his fascination. “Should it be as resistant to heat as it is to scratching, however…”
“Then it’s enough for everyone to at least pretend, huh?” Ailn muttered. He closed his eyes with a wince, fiddling with his wrist.
Ashton, who had been listening in silence, seemed to relax—and his strained smile went right back to discomfiting. “I’m sure you understand well, Ailn, that legitimacy need not be legitimate.”
_____________
Many seasons had passed since she last set foot in Calum, but Camille felt no particular nostalgia for what could be called her home away from home.
Familiar with the ark-Chelon estate, she was tasked with taking the cart to the wainhouse, and stabling the horse afterward. As she unbarred the entrance, she couldn’t help but notice the smooth, lacquered finish of the wood against her fingertips.
Within were dozens of carriages, in seemingly every color—most boasting odd shapes. Their humble supply cart would be like a mouse tucked among hounds of every breed.
“Decadent as ever, I see…” Camille muttered.
She had always favored simplicity. Camille was born in Varant, and it was all she’d ever known until nearly her tenth year. Once her father felt confident she could endure a long journey without her mother, he’d summoned her to Calum.
Unfortunately, she’d resented the city at once, and her father made little effort to endear it to her thereafter.
Hence, despite bearing the last name of Gren, and having a birthright to numerous orichalcum mines within Calum’s vicinity, she belonged here no more than their supply cart.
As she considered said cart—emotionally identifying with it, despite herself—she caught the sound of rustling coming from within. Camille briefly brushed her hand against the hilt of her sword, but thought better of it.
Whatever was in there was small. Had an animal gotten in somehow?
Pulling aside the entry flaps, Camille ducked her head and stepped inside, noticing immediately that someone or something had opened the sack containing their rations of salted pork.
But where was the culprit?
Stepping around crates, sacks, and bedrolls, Camille slowly progressed to the back corner of the carriage.
There was a tarp. And it was covering something—it was perhaps the only good hiding spot on the carriage.
Bracing herself for the raccoon which might come flying at her face, Camille swiftly whisked the tarp off, only to find… nothing. The tarp had been loosely covering a couple of crates.
“Perhaps it was merely my imagination…” Camille murmured doubtfully. Then she sighed. “For a vermin to swoop in and graciously gobble up the entire crate of knights’ cake… If only we could be so lucky.”
She paused for a moment, spotting a stool sitting near the back of the cart. “Was this stool always there…?” Camille asked herself.
But she didn’t care enough to ponder it any further. So, Camille stepped out of the cart, unhitching the horse and leading it away. And once she was gone, the intruder she’d missed crawled out from the space underneath the driver’s bench, pulling out her stuffed animals one by one.
“Let’s go! C’mon!” Bea said with nervous excitement. “Before anyone finds us…” Then she pat her stomach. “I wanna find tasty food.”
She let out a little gasp, almost dropping Bent Ham in the process. “No! You can’t eat the pork, Bent Ham!”
Her face scrunched up with worry. “You’ll only be happy for a moment… Listen to Aristurtle.” Then she shuddered. “You’ll be a changed pig…”
Bea resolved to find good food before Bent Ham stepped into the moral abyss.
_____________
After Havrek had left, Ashton invited Ailn into his office so they could chat one-on-one. Both parties, it seemed, had an interest in testing the waters.
By all accounts, this was a meeting of power—Ailn, a seated duke, and Ashton, heir apparent to his own duchy. Accordingly, his office bore little difference from the ducal office back in Varant.
The one thing Ailn noticed was the orchids. Vivacious and colorful, they felt out of place in the stately office—but they seemed well cared for. Left near a window with sheer curtains, so they could soak up the indirect sunlight without getting scorched, their leaves glistening as if they’d been recently watered.
There was a near-empty pitcher sitting on Ashton’s desk.
“I was shocked, frankly, to hear that Sigurd had been bested,” Ashton said, his voice flatter than his smile as he made his way to the working side of the desk. “Tell me, Ailn. Just how did you do it?”
He gestured to the seat across. Ashton didn’t seem to have much trouble saying the quiet thing out loud.
“That’s what you wanna open up with, huh?” Ailn asked. He took a seat, hands in his pockets, thumbs hooked out like he was in no rush to move. “Are you implying I used underhanded means?”
“...By no means,” Ashton chuckled, though it seemed as if he needed a moment’s consideration. “Forgive my prodding. I merely wish to understand the character of the new duke. It matters quite a lot for the duchy ark-Chelon, you see.” He turned his palm over affably. “To say nothing of the empire.”
“I’m curious about you too, Ashton,” Ailn replied, brushing past the unanswered question. “You’ve got an interesting handshake. Says a lot about you.”
“Does it now?” Ashton asked.
“Well, says you’re confident at least,” Ailn said. He took one hand out of his pocket, and held it out. “Or someone taught you how to project it.”
Ashton was more than happy to reciprocate the handshake once more. This time, however, he clasped Ailn’s hand like a dead fish. “And I suppose this would speak to a wavering and hesitant character?”
Ailn frowned. “...So they say,” he replied.
Letting go, Ashton slowly rose from his desk and strode over to a nearby shelf where a chessboard sat, just the right size to fit on the shelving. He returned to the desk with it, taking care not to drop a piece.
“You might be surprised to know, Ailn, I had quite the timid character when I was younger,” Ashton said, as he carefully lined up the pieces on the already setup board.
“Fake it till you make it, right?” Ailn asked.
“That’s exactly right,” Ashton replied. Then he gestured to the board. “Now, I thought I might make a request of you Ailn—if you’ll indulge me. I happen to think a game of chess is a fine way to test a man’s temperament. Do you play?”
“Some,” Ailn shrugged. He noted that the white pieces were on his side—he’d been given the initial move.
He moved a pawn on the h-file two ranks up.
Ashton frowned. “That’s… certainly an interesting move,” he noted. He wasted no time in his reply, opting to develop his knight.
“Yeah, I’m only alright at chess,” Ailn said indifferently. “I hate to memorize openings, you know?” He paused a beat. “You seem like you’d know them pretty well.”
“...One isn’t a serious player if they make no attempt to do so,” Ashton replied, suddenly looking quite bored.
“Have any favorites?” Ailn asked amiably.
“Hmm…” Ashton pondered it a moment, before smirking. “Oh, the king’s gambit, I suppose.”
That was about as much confirmation as Ailn could hope for. Yet he found himself hesitating.
There were some complications here. He’d taken Dahlia and Tuckerson’s eyes against their wishes, but he did so from a place where they had no real means of striking back. Ashton, on the other hand, was high nobility—and only nominally of lower rank. The practical option here was seeking cooperation.
Still, something just bugged him about Ashton.
“...Let me ask you this, Ashton,” Ailn started, making another haphazard move. “You have any interesting memories? Say… from when you were a young kid?”
“I most certainly do,” Ashton replied, bitterly shaking his head as he smiled. “Perhaps you’re aware—I was adopted into the ark-Chelon family.”
“Really now,” Ailn replied, tone neutral. “Must have been hard to rise to the top.”
“Not particularly,” Ashton shrugged. “I suppose things just came easier to me than others.”
Ailn’s hand hovered over a knight, before coming to rest on it. To an outsider, it might have looked as if he were seriously considering his next move. “...Would you say you had anything helping you?”
“I must admit, I had a rather particular advantage over the other adopted children, all things considered,” Ashton said honestly. “Oh. Just for the record, no takebacks.”
By now, the subtext was clear to both parties.
“You know, Ailn, I’ve been told I have rather interesting eyes,” Ashton said. He met Ailn’s gaze.
Actually, it could hardly be called subtext.
Two instincts clashed in Ailn’s mind at that moment. One self-protective and distrustful, the second prudent in an entirely different matter.
Sigurd’s words before Ailn left Varant came to mind.
“See that you remain in his favor. He is our firmest ally in ark-Chelon. I am telling you for your own sake. Rein in your insecurities, and stifle your need to show off your intelligence.’
Obnoxious wording and projection aside, there wasn’t much to gain from needlessly antagonizing Ashton. On the other hand, the rest of Sigurd’s advice also rolled around in Ailn’s mind.
‘Do not speak glibly to him. Do not let him speak glibly to you.’
Ailn winced, before deciding to bite the bullet. He moved his knight.
“Check,” Ailn said, tapping his finger on the board.
Ashton remained silent, merely arching a brow as he captured the knight which had placed his king in check.
“Ashton, I’ll be as upfront as possible,” Ailn said. “What would you say if I told you I needed to take your ‘advantage’ off your hands for the greater good?”
“...I’d say that perhaps this has been a long-time coming,” Ashton sighed. “As the future duke, I’d prefer to know in my deepest of hearts that I earned my place through my own merit.” He smiled ruefully, as his eyes came to rest on the board with weary resignation. “And it’s not as if it’s always made things easy for me.”
Still tapping his finger on the board, Ailn closed his eyes and sighed. Then, opening them, he made firm eye contact with Ashton. “It might feel like a splash of cold water. Just so you know.”
He began to manifest his emerald eyes. And Ashton wordlessly stared back, fascination and surprise apparent.
He did not break eye contact.
No eyes—ruby or otherwise—manifested.
And the moment Ailn realized something was wrong, agony struck, like hammers crashing into his eyes, fractures spreading through their crystalline surfaces.
Gritting his teeth, and stifling a painful scream, Ailn’s hand flew to his eyes, genuinely unsure if they’d literally shattered. He glared at Ashton through this hand, watching fiercely despite his suffering—unsure if Ashton would attack him in his moment of vulnerability.
Ashton frowned, as if Ailn had done something mildly impolite. Then he pointed to the chessboard.
“By the way, it seems you’ve yet to notice. My last move was checkmate.”
Comments
Viktor Alexia
What a cliff
