Chapter 40: Morality

The Kingdom of Valdenor

The first day of Umbryne (November) , the month of shifting winds and golden leaves, dawned with a crispness in the air. The sky, a vast expanse of pale blue, was streaked with wisps of silver clouds, the early morning light casting a soft glow over the Kingdom of Valdenor.

Sylas and Livia walked through the streets, the remnants of the previous night's grand feast still lingering in the air—whispers of music in the alleyways, the scent of fine wine and roasted meats clinging to the stones of the city. The roads were still damp from the night's cold, and the rising sun painted the rooftops with hues of amber and gold.

Valdenor was a kingdom of marvels, both ancient and modern, a realm where the past and present intertwined seamlessly. Its streets were wide and well-maintained, lined with buildings of white stone and dark timber, some adorned with banners bearing the sigil of King Eyndor—a golden scale held aloft by a silver gauntlet. The architecture bore the influence of multiple cultures, with arching bridges, domed towers, and intricate carvings etched into the walls of public halls and noble estates.

The Heart of the City

The streets were alive with activity. Merchants called out from beneath colorful awnings, their stalls overflowing with exotic spices, finely woven silks, and intricately crafted jewelry. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread from the many bakeries, mingling with the rich aroma of brewing coffee and the sharp tang of citrus fruits from the southern orchards.

Market Square, the beating heart of Valdenor, stretched out before them in all its splendor. A sprawling plaza paved with polished stones, it was surrounded by grand columns and statues, each depicting legendary figures of Valdenor's past. At the very center of the square stood the Obelisk of Kings, a towering structure made of smooth black granite, engraved with the names of every ruler who had ever sat upon Valdenor's throne.

Livia's eyes flickered toward the inscriptions. "King Eyndor's name isn't here yet."

"He's still alive," Sylas noted. "Tradition dictates that a ruler's name is only carved upon their passing. A reminder that legacies are shaped in life, but only cemented in death."

Livia tilted her head, watching as a pair of scholars examined the inscriptions, their fingers tracing the names of kings long forgotten by the common folk. "Valdenor values history."

"It values permanence." Sylas's gaze lingered on the obelisk before shifting to the surrounding structures. "Every building, every monument—it's meant to last. To endure."

The People of Valdenor

As they wandered through the bustling city, they observed the people—merchants and scholars, nobles and commoners, soldiers and artisans. Valdenor was not a kingdom of division; its people walked side by side, their roles clearly defined yet their statuses not so rigidly separated.

At one end of the plaza, a group of gold-cloaked magistrates stood beneath a shaded pavilion, listening to disputes from townsfolk and merchants alike. They bore the crest of the Justiciary, Valdenor's judicial order, their presence a reminder of the kingdom's emphasis on law and order.

Not far from them, a troupe of performers entertained a growing crowd, their vibrant costumes swirling as they danced to the lively tune of lutes and flutes. A storyteller sat upon an ornate carpet, spinning tales of old wars, forgotten gods, and lost treasures, his voice rising and falling like waves upon the shore.

Children ran between the stalls, their laughter ringing out as they played games with wooden swords, pretending to be the legendary heroes depicted in the murals that adorned the city walls. Nearby, a pair of elderly women sat outside a tea house, sipping from delicate porcelain cups as they debated politics in hushed but animated tones.

Livia turned to Sylas with an amused smile. "You're enjoying this."

Sylas's expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps even nostalgia. "It's well-governed," he admitted. "And well-maintained. Cities like this don't thrive by accident."

The Districts of Valdenor

Beyond the market, the city unfolded into various districts, each with its own unique atmosphere.

• The Scholar's Quarter, where the finest minds of Valdenor studied in great halls lined with books and scrolls. The district was marked by tall spires, observatories, and lecture halls where philosophers debated under the open sky.

• The Artisan's Ward, where blacksmiths, jewelers, and weavers worked their craft, their forges and workshops filling the streets with the sounds of hammering metal and the scent of freshly dyed fabrics.

• The Noble District, home to the opulent estates of Valdenor's elite. Grand mansions lined the wide, tree-lined avenues, their gardens blooming with rare flowers imported from distant lands.

• The River Quarter, where the great Valdenian Canal ran through the city, feeding into the ports where trade ships came and went. The waterway was lined with stone walkways and shaded terraces, where travelers from across the continent mingled with local merchants.

Livia stopped at the edge of a balcony overlooking the canal, watching as gondolas and merchant barges drifted lazily down the water. The surface shimmered in the sunlight, reflecting the towering buildings and banners that swayed in the breeze.

She turned to Sylas. "You're taking notes, aren't you?"

Sylas smirked. "Observing. Understanding."

Livia rolled her eyes but smiled. "So you can use it later?"

He met her gaze. "So I can know where the real power lies."

A Kingdom of Calculations

Valdenor was not merely a kingdom of beauty; it was a kingdom of strategy, law, and careful governance. Nothing was built without purpose. Nothing was done without intent.

King Eyndor, despite his lack of a queen, had forged a nation that did not require the presence of one—his rule was pragmatic, decisive, and calculated. He ruled through alliances, economics, and stability, ensuring that Valdenor remained strong, not through brute force, but through policy, trade, and control of knowledge.

And Sylas understood this all too well.

He had ruled before. He had built empires.

And as he walked through Valdenor's streets, drinking in its wonders and unraveling its intricacies, he couldn't help but wonder—was this kingdom destined to rise even further? Or would it one day fall, like so many before it?

Livia nudged him playfully. "You're thinking too much again."

Sylas let out a slow breath. "I'm simply… admiring the city."

Livia smirked. "And trying to figure out how to control it?"

Sylas glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "You wound me."

She laughed softly, shaking her head. "Come on. Let's explore some more. We have all the time in the world."

And with that, they walked on—through the winding streets of Valdenor, a kingdom of gold and wisdom, of law and ambition, of history and power.

As Sylas and Livia strolled through the bustling streets of Valdenor, the harmony of the city was suddenly disrupted by the sharp cries of guards in pursuit.

"Stop! Thief!"

A blur of tattered fabric and desperate movement shot past them—a homeless bandit, lean and ragged, his dark cloak fluttering behind him as he weaved through the crowd with practiced agility. His bare feet barely touched the cobblestone streets as he ducked between merchants and citizens, knocking over a crate of apples in his frantic escape. The apples scattered, rolling in every direction as vendors shouted in protest.

Behind him, three royal guards in gleaming silver armor pursued with determined strides, their hands gripping the hilts of their swords. Their crimson capes billowed in the wind, bearing the sigil of Valdenor's Justiciary.

Sylas watched with mild amusement, his hands clasped behind his back. "Bold. Running in broad daylight."

Livia, however, observed with a different expression—one of curiosity, perhaps even concern. "He looks more desperate than dangerous."

The bandit lunged toward a side alley, attempting to disappear into the maze-like streets of the River Quarter, but the guards were trained for this. One of them, a younger knight with sharp features, anticipated his movement and cut him off, drawing his sword in a swift motion.

"Enough!" the knight barked. "Drop what you stole and surrender!"

The bandit's breath was ragged, his thin frame trembling from exhaustion. His eyes darted around wildly, searching for another way out—but there was none. The citizens had cleared a space, forming an impromptu circle around the scene. The whispers of the crowd spread quickly.

Livia leaned closer to Sylas and murmured, "Should we intervene?"

Sylas arched a brow. "Why would we?"

Livia frowned slightly but said nothing.

The bandit, realizing he was cornered, slowly raised his hands. In his left hand, a single loaf of bread.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. He had stolen food.

The knight sighed heavily, as if disappointed. "You're a fool," he muttered.

A second guard approached, older and more grizzled, his gaze hard. "By decree of the Justiciary, theft—no matter how small—is punishable by imprisonment." He reached for the bandit's arm.

Before he could, the bandit dropped to his knees, his voice cracking. "Please! I have a child—she hasn't eaten in days!" His hands clenched the bread as if it were his last lifeline. "I just needed one meal—just one!"

A heavy silence followed. The people of Valdenor were not unkind, but the law was the law. And Valdenor's law was absolute.

The older guard hesitated. His jaw tightened. "That is not our concern."

Livia's lips parted slightly, something unreadable flashing in her eyes.

Sylas, however, simply observed. He had ruled before. He had seen hunger, desperation, and justice twisted into cruelty.

And more importantly—he had seen opportunities in such moments.

He stepped forward before Livia could, his voice smooth and controlled. "That won't be necessary."

The guards turned, startled. The knight's eyes flickered with recognition—this was Lord Sylas, the guest of the king.

Sylas extended a hand lazily toward the loaf of bread. "How much does it cost?"

The older guard stiffened. "That isn't the issue—"

"I didn't ask what the issue was." Sylas's voice remained calm, but there was an edge to it, subtle yet undeniable. "I asked how much it costs."

The knight hesitated, glancing between Sylas and his superior.

Livia, catching onto Sylas's tactic, pulled a small pouch from her belt and tossed a silver coin at the merchant whose bread had been stolen. The man caught it, eyes wide.

"For your trouble," she said with a gentle smile.

Sylas turned back to the guards. "The merchant has been compensated. There was no theft. So, tell me, gentlemen—what crime exactly are you punishing?"

The silence stretched.

The older guard's fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword, his pride warring with reason. But Valdenor's laws were strict, yes—but they were also logical. If no theft had occurred, no crime had been committed.

The younger knight sighed and sheathed his blade. "The law has been satisfied." He looked at the bandit. "Get out of here. Quickly."

The bandit, still clutching his bread, blinked in disbelief. Then, before anyone could change their mind, he scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the alleyways.

The crowd murmured, some nodding approvingly, others whispering about the foreign noble who had challenged the guards without consequence.

Livia turned to Sylas, an amused smile playing on her lips. "That was very… diplomatic of you."

Sylas smirked. "I simply prefer efficient solutions."

She studied him for a moment before shaking her head. "You just won favor with the people."

Sylas tilted his head. "Did I?" His gaze flickered toward the crowd, many of whom watched him with newfound respect. Some whispered his name.

Livia chuckled softly. "Oh, you know exactly what you're doing."

Sylas met her gaze, his expression unreadable—but a glint of amusement shone in his golden eyes.

"Perhaps," he admitted.

And with that, they continued their walk through the Kingdom of Valdenor—a kingdom of law, of power, and of those who knew how to bend both to their will.

King Eyndor sat upon his grand obsidian throne, draped in regal crimson and black, watching the flickering candlelight dance upon the polished marble of his war chamber. He was alone, save for the silence that had become his most familiar companion. His mind was ever-turning, a labyrinth of calculations, ethical dilemmas, and choices that only a ruler could bear.

Was an action good because of its intent, or because of its outcome?

He exhaled slowly, fingers tracing the elaborate patterns etched into his armrest. He had ruled long enough to know that morality was not a simple matter of right and wrong. The world, in its raw and unfiltered state, did not abide by such naive distinctions.

He had seen righteous men fail because they clung to ideals. He had seen monsters hailed as heroes because their cruelty had led to prosperity.

What was justice, if not the will of the victor?

A memory surfaced—one of many from his reign.

A captain, standing trial before him. A shipwreck. A family left behind. The man had fled in a lifeboat, abandoning his passengers to the mercy of the sea. Cowardice, the court had called it. Treason against his duty.

But when the captain returned, he did not come empty-handed. He came with a rescue ship, with food, with medics. He had abandoned them, yes—but only so that he could save them properly.

Eyndor had listened to the court demand his execution.

But what had been his crime? That he had acted not with courage, but with foresight? That he had made a temporary sacrifice for a greater gain?

Eyndor had pardoned him.

Not because he was a good man. But because he was a useful man.

Because in that moment, the captain had proven something that most did not understand.

Intentions were irrelevant. Morality was measured in results.

Another memory. Another dilemma.

A brilliant scholar. A physician cast out by his peers, his hands stained not with blood, but with knowledge gained through it. A homeless man had disappeared off the streets one evening, and months later, the doctor returned with a cure for a deadly plague.

The homeless man had lived. He had been restored. The world had been saved.

But the council demanded justice. They called the doctor a monster, a criminal.

Eyndor had granted him knighthood.

Because in the end, was it evil to sacrifice one if it meant saving thousands?

The gods, the priests, the sentimental fools—they preached of mercy, virtue, righteousness. But did mercy feed the starving? Did virtue cure the dying? Did righteousness build a kingdom that could endure?

No.

Strength did. Calculated sacrifice did. The will to do what others could not.

Eyndor understood this truth.

He did not see the world through the eyes of the weak, those who demanded purity of the soul and clean hands. A king's hands could never be clean. If they were, they were the hands of a king who had never bled for his people.

He leaned forward, steepling his fingers as he gazed at the large map of his empire sprawled before him.

Some called him cruel. Some called him ruthless. Some even called him evil.

But when the war came, when famine struck, when the gods turned their backs—who did they turn to?

Him.

Not the priests. Not the philosophers. Him.

Because morality was a game for those who had the luxury to debate it.

A king did not have such luxuries.

A king had a duty to survive. And to ensure his kingdom survived with him.

Even if it meant being called a monster.