Elaraion left the arena and walked the lanes of the city. He knew these winding, shadowed lanes somehow, their treacherous twists and turns etched into his nascent memories. He knew, too, with a chill that ran down his spine, that a noble son of the House of Usher, especially one as recently shamed as himself, ought not to be here. This was the domain of rogues and cutthroats, where a misplaced coin or a flash of fine fabric could mean abduction or a swift, merciless end.
The shouts and jeers from the arena faded into a distant murmur, replaced by the guttural laughter of drunkards and the cries of street vendors. He pushed through a hanging curtain of mildewed canvas, hoping to find a cleaner thoroughfare. Instead, he found himself in a narrow cul-de-sac, choked with refuse.
A chorus of gruff voices erupted from the shadows, and a dozen figures emerged, blocking his path. They were a motley crew: hulking brutes with crude weapons, lean figures with quick hands, and women with hard eyes and sharper daggers. Their clothes were patched and stained, their faces etched with the grime of the streets.
"Well, well, what have we here?" A man stepped forward, his dreadlocks matted with dirt, eyes like chips of flint. He wore a patched leather tunic, and a rusty sword hung from his hip. "A stray lamb from the pens of plenty, eh? Lost thy way from the grand spectacle, little lordling?"
Elaraion's heart hammered against his ribs. He was outnumbered, outmatched. His hands clenched into fists.
"Kael, what shall we do with him?" one of the thugs grunted, hefting a club.
Kael, the dreadlocked leader, circled Elaraion slowly, his gaze dissecting him. "Speak, boy. What be thy name?"
"Elaraion," he managed, his voice steadier than he felt. "Of the House of Usher."
Kael stopped. He shook his head, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips. "The last son of the Usher line, eh? Heard tell of thy… performance in the race. A pity. Could have been useful, if thou had won." He turned to his men, a dismissive wave of his hand. "Rob him. Take what is useful. Leave him with nothing but the rags on his back."
As Kael turned to walk away, a desperate spark ignited within Elaraion. The bow. The arrows. The system's words flashed in his mind: INVISIBLE AND IMPERVIOUS TO SIGHT. USE THIS POWER TO SECURE YOUR PLACE AND YOUR SURVIVAL.
His hand moved, a blur of motion. He snatched the bow from his back.
TIME STOP ACTIVATED.
The world, which had been a blur of motion and sound, froze. The thugs, mid-stride, mid-grunt, hung suspended in the air. Kael, his back to Elaraion, became a statue.
Elaraion saw it all with impossible clarity, as though he could see everything from where he stood. The grey and golden arrows in the quiver at his waist seemed to pulse faintly. He remembered the system's instruction: THE GREY ARROWS, WHEN THEY STRIKE A SOUL, SHALL AWAKEN PURE AFFECTION AND LOYALTY.
He reached for a grey arrow. He knocked it to the bowstring, the action fluid and instinctual. He aimed at Kael. He drew the string back, the bow groaning faintly, a sound only he could hear. He released it.
The arrow flew, a silent, grey streak through the frozen air. It struck Kael precisely where Elaraion had aimed, dissolving into a faint puff of shimmering mist upon impact.
TIME RESUMED.
Kael stumbled, a surprised grunt escaping his lips. He spun around and his eyes locked onto Elaraion's. The hardness in them softened, replaced by a strange, almost pleading deference.
"Stop!" He shouted at his gang who were about to pounce on Elaraion. Then he rushed to him. "Master!" Kael bowed, a deep, surprising bow that sent a ripple of confusion through his gang. "What would my lord Elaraion have of his humble servant?"
Elaraion stared, his jaw slack. It had worked. The power was real. The sheer, mind-bending audacity of it. He could make anyone do anything. A wide, slow smile spread across his face, genuine for the first time in… well, ever.
"You and your men shall serve me," Elaraion commanded, his voice gaining a new, authoritative resonance. "You shall be my loyal servants in this city, and your lives shall be devoted to my cause."
Kael bowed again, deeper this time, his dreadlocks sweeping the grimy ground. "As my lord commands! Men! You heard the master! From this day forth, we pledge our fealty to Elaraion of the House of Usher! We shall serve him with our very lives!"
The thugs, their eyes wide with confusion, slowly began to murmur their agreement, some still clutching their weapons, others already dropping them. They looked from Kael to Elaraion, their minds struggling to comprehend the sudden shift, yet their wills, strangely, were bending. "You shall do as I say or you shall leave this gang!" Kael barked and the gang member bowed silently too.
Elaraion simply nodded. He marveled at the Bow of Affection and the Arrows of Desire. This was more than survival; this was power. Absolute, undeniable power. He saw a better life ahead, one where he was not a failure, not despised, but revered and obeyed. He could make anyone do anything he wanted.
An idea, audacious and intoxicating, flared in his mind. He was dejected in his own family, scorned by his father, and mocked by his siblings. But what if… what about the King's daughter? He vaguely recalled the "knowing" that the King had no sons, only daughters, and they were named the Heiress. The heir consort, the one who married the designated Heiress, could become King.
"I could be king," he whispered, the thought blossoming into a full-blown ambition. "With this power, I can become the most powerful man in all of Aethelgard."