The Roar of Andora: Book One

Chapter Thirty-Three: Lleó d'Andora

The dungeons led him through into the cellars, and then taking a flight of steep stairs, Aaron came across a door that opened to the western side of the courtyard, and then he snuck through the hidden passages to the city. The only thing on Aaron's mind was going to the training hall; he had no time to waste. He needed to sharpen his skills, become stronger, better—needed to pick up one of the training swords and beat the straw practice dummy to death.

"Prince Evershield?" One of the guards monitoring the street stopped him just right out front of his father's estate. "Shouldn't you be at your uncle's inauguration?"

"That elk meat didn't agree with my stomach."

"Oh, would you like me to accompany you to the doctor's?"

"No, please. Don't. My body is just telling me to sleep it off," Aaron said, getting rid of the guard, holding his stomach like he was in pain until he reached the gate and ran inside his house. Stripping off his formal wear, Aaron changed into his red training tunic and tights, grabbed an unmarked cloak to blend into the night, and just as he were about to exit from the window, concerned that if he were seen by one of the patrols he would get in trouble; laughing to himself that he felt like a fugitive in his own kingdom, Aaron stopped and pulled open his dresser drawer. Something came over him where he just felt the need to put on his grandfather's ring, the lleó d'Andora. Scattering through all the junk in his drawer, the collection of old notes, coins; necklaces, bracelets, and gemstones Aaron had received as gifts, he eventually uncovered the golden ring from the assortment and discovered a velvet pouch.

What could possibly be in here? he thought, sliding the golden ring on his finger, and pulled open the bag scrunched at the top by drawstring. Reaching his hand in, Aaron pulled out Eden's necklace.

Holding the leather strap, Aaron stared at the lapuz lazuli pendant as it dangled in front of his face. Assuring himself how when he first saw it, years ago, the stone was richer in its blue tones compared to the darker pigment dominating the surface. Aaron placed the necklace inside the bag, storing it back away in his dresser, and left his room out the window.

The streets of the kingdom were eerily quiet considering the hour. When he wasn't travelling through Andora formally, by horseback or chariot, Aaron always went about behind the city walls, as if he were going to the greater Vale of Catholina. But—that night, through the rarity in which most of the population was attending Jarod's inauguration ceremony, Aaron walked through the streets a commoner. Only the lower classes were not invited, and so he was inspired to take the road through their district.

The streets were unpaved and muddy due to the rapid melting of the snow, cats and dogs roamed about freely—afraid of humans—using their noses to seek out scraps in the alleys. The buildings were dirtied and unattended for. The poor district was even more rundown and neglected than Aaron recalled when he had last gone through.

It was when passing by a home before the left turn he was to make to get to the training hall that the clamour from within the house caught his attention. The disguise in which the unmarked cloak he wore offered, inspired Aaron to get closer to the house and eavesdrop. Crouching low, shuffling his feet sideways, Aaron approached the lower window and heard the sound of smacking flesh.

Peering in ever so slightly through the window, Aaron witnessed a man beating a child. The man, who Aaron assumed was the boy's father, was shirtless and held the boy by the arm and smacked his face over and over. Tears came running down the boy's face as he screamed, begging his father to stop. Blood broke from his nose with every hit.

The mother, powerless, stood off to the side as she cried into her hands. The boy wailed. Cried once more for his father to stop. But the man knew no restraint. His open palm cracked the boy's face once more before he pushed him to the ground. "Another fucking sob out of you," the man said, turning to the woman, whipping his finger at her, "And yewr nex'." Her chest palpitated as she held her hands around her mouth. The man wavered on his feet, spun around and nearly tripped, reached for the table, grabbed a bottle full of pale coloured liquor, and stumbled out of Aaron's line of vision.

Later, while slashing the straw training dummy with the practice sword, Aaron imagined the prop as that father. Envisioning the face of the drunken man on the dummy aroused an aggression that fired his strength. Not since he was a boy when flooded with hormones had Aaron been so ballistic. Slashing the dummy from every possible angle, throwing all of his force into wherever a fat pocket of straw was, he bludgeoned the prop man to scraps. His movements held no grace. Stray pieces of straw flew high into the air. And then on the slash that shattered the last remains of the prop, the practice sword struck the pole upholstering the dummy and a jarring pang shot through his arm.

Dropping the weapon, Aaron groaned aloud. Suddenly, the rage that enveloped his every strike evaporated. The madness vanished. Aaron became all too aware that he was alone in the training hall. The floor was a mess of infinitesimal straw scraps. His senses returned to him. Conscious of his heavy breathing, the cold sweat that stuck his undershirt to his back, the burning of his cheeks and the dryness of his mouth. The physical exertion caught up to his body and he allowed the exhaustion to drop him into a seat on the floor.

The shadows cast of the torches pulsated, leaving him to wonder what existential darkness lay beneath. Panting loudly, Aaron in between breaths said aloud: "I'm no better than that kid's father."

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