#kingdomofvalta

With an ongoing military campaign marching westward, King Rowan was both making his kingdom rich, as well as exhausting the supplies needed to sustain his ever-growing army. He had nearly earned back the deficit caused by the construction of the White Castle, and further expansion without consolidating power would only lead to the undoing of the past nine years of work. As Rowan’s army marched toward Weloden, Father Thasius and the King agreed upon a different approach.

Weloden lay on the northwestern point of the vast peninsula that was called the Fertile Plain. Rowan could have easily decided to end his campaign at that point without risking the collapse of his army and his fragile empire, but Weloden was rich in copper mines, and for that sake - worth the gamble. Rowan presented himself in person to the King of Weloden, rather than sending yet another envoy. This time, Father Thasius had convinced him to conquer through diplomacy.

Though primarily built of wood, King Faedon‘s Keep and royal hall were larger and more impressive than others that Rowan had encountered. Obviously having so many copper mines under their control had its benefits. Unsurprisingly, Rowan and Thasius were granted an audience with Faedon, who was accompanied by his daughter and only surviving child, Princess Alva. 

The King of Weloden was a small, portly man with a nervous energy about him. His daughter, on the other hand, had a presence that seemed to tower over the entire hall. Something about her quiet confidence and intelligent eyes reminded Rowan of his dear Sinesh. 

Rowan did not bow as he slowly approached this pompous, petty “King”. Instead, he kept his gaze evenly on Faedon, doing his best not to stare at his oddly captivating daughter. Rowan could see the King shifting nervously in his seat as he tried to keep eye contact...

“Welcome to Weloden, Sir Rowan. I hope- “

“-KING Rowan! You will address me by my proper title if we are to keep things civil...”  

Faedon swallowed hard as he tried to regain his composure.

“Very well, then let us talk together, King-to-King. No doubt I have heard the stories... or shall I say folklore, about your ‘remarkable’ rise to power. From a monastic orphan, to a Hasenuk warrior, to the Barbarian King... It seems that you have been very lucky in your conquests, but if you march your army on Weloden, then they will break upon our walls like water on rock. We are not afraid of the legendary ‘Son of Chaos’ here in Weloden.” Faedon’s words were carefully chosen, but his tone gave away his fear, and Rowan could smell fear from a mile away.

“I am not here to discuss the destruction of Weloden, Sir.” Rowan purposefully omitted the King’s title. “I am here to see how two rulers might be of use another.”

Obviously this had not been what Faedon expected. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rowan pressed on.

“I will agree that Weloden has impressively tall and thick walls, built primarily of stone too! But that hasn’t prevented conflicts with the nearby ‘kingdom’ of Dhal’brae, who vie for control of your precious mines. Did you know that they are marching east toward Weloden as we speak?”

“Impossible! My scouts would keep me informed of such a-”

“-Your scouts are dead! They will be at your gates, with siege weapons come morning.”

Unable to decided weather or not Rowan was speaking the truth or simply fear-mongering, Faedon looked to his daughter for the first time.

“My dear, what do you take of these prophesies of doom?”

The Princess did not immediately respond, instead she silently stared at the Barbarian King, sizing him up. When she finally spoke, Rowan was surprised by the strength of her voice.

“I believe he speaks the truth about our enemy, Father. But for his own purposes he wants us to be afraid...” She redirected her attention to Rowan. “What are you asking of us? I take it that you are offering your army’s assistance, what do you seek in return?”

“I don’t only offer the protection of my army, I offer to destroy your enemy. I offer to give you the kingdom of Dhal’brae and the head of King Galaghan. I would give you what you cannot give yourself. I ask only for your friendship, and your daughter’s hand in marriage.” Thasius gave Rowan a surprised look at his improvisation, but Rowan pretended not to notice - he was doing best not to steal a glance at the Princess.

The moment hung briefly in the air before Faedon began to laugh. 

“...Sir- uh- King Rowan... You have both offered and asked for something that cannot be given. You cannot destroy the army of Dhal’brae, and I cannot marry my only child and heir to an upstart Barbarian warlord-” Rowan interrupted Faedon.

“WATCH WHAT YOU SAY YOU FAT LITTLE FUCK!! I grew up among the Hasenuk people, and no man endures such insults without consequences. Shall I describe what we do to those who insult a Hasenuk Warrior? First I will peel back your fingernails one by one by one by ONE!!! Your eyelids will be removed so that you must watch as I take you apart piece by piece! You have no idea, little man, what I can do: I AM THE SON OF CHAOS!!!”

Needless to say, King Faedon released a portion of his bladder onto the seat of his fine wooden throne. Surely this Barbarian was the beast who could take on the forces of Dhal’brae; and honestly, what choice did he have? Without taking a moment to consult Alva on the matter, the deal was struck.

As Rowan and Thasius rode out of the Weloden Castle enclosure, Thasius finally spoke up.

“A deal should not have been struck without asking more of King Faedon, his lands are some of the richest in the Fertile Plain! We risk everything! And while securing a wife and heir are of great importance, not at the risk of your entire kingdom!”

The power vacuum that came after the Battle of Kilbhrane was plugged by Rowan’s new regime. He had never observed his own ambitions for greatness, but now that he had brought an entire kingdom to heel, his mind obsessed over ideas of grandeur for a kingdom that was now his. The King’s first order:

“Build me a castle of stone, immune to fire and absolutely impenetrable! I want a palace that will stand for a thousand years and protect my dynasty from all who wish us ill.”

The project was absolutely impossible, of course. Father Thasius was now King Rowan’s chief advisor, however it was obvious that he only had a trial-run before the new regime disposed of him. Thasius knew that his entire survival depended on making the impossible, possible.

First dilemma: How will he fund it?! No stone castles have been built in this region since the rule of the Dratonians 350 years ago, and their architectural secrets departed with the collapse of the Empire. Though rich in many resources, this area of the Fertile Plain did not have enough rock quarries for such a massive undertaking.

The answer would have to be a military campaign, either resulting in the subjugation of riches and resources, or a hefty contract made through marriage. The King was, after all, unmarried and in need of an heir. And having been popularly declared the “Barbarian King”, Thasius did not worry about the King’s reluctance to charge into another battle.

Second dilemma: Who will build this massive stone palace? No man on this expansive island had the knowledge or experience to work with stone on this scale or in this delicate manner. 

Father Thasius resolved to employ the skills of craftsmen from his distant homeland: Dratoli (”drah - toh - lee”), originally the power base of the ancient Dratonian Empire, but now fragmented into dozens of rival city-states and principalities. Thasius came from the coastal city of Palvia, where stone castle-keeps had already been being built for the past hundred years. He would start his search overseas for the skilled manpower to take on this opus.

Strangely enough, King Rowan chose a small island, less than quarter mile into the massive Bay of Kilbhrane, to construct what was-to-be his center of power. He chose the location because of its surviving Dratonian ramparts, which would make a siege-by-sea even more impossible. Upon the advice of Father Thasius, Rowan reluctantly agreed to build a smaller stone keep in the town-proper of Kilbhrane, meant to serve as the seat of government within the actual walls of the city. 

Nine whole months after Rowan defeated the Duke of Wendalough and became the unrivaled King of Kilbhrane, ground was broken on what was to be the greatest structure for a thousand miles. 

From start to finish, the construction of his castle lasted the better part of eight years...

Rowan did not hesitate on the advice of his chief advisor, and made quick work of raising an army to launch a campaign westward; the folklore now associated with Rowan’s name made men flock to his side to fight for the legendary ‘Son of Chaos’. 

The eight long years of castle-construction went swiftly for the new King, who subjugated nearly every province that his army marched upon, increasing the size of his kingdom at an alarming rate. Father Thasius never failed to warn Rowan that such expansion simply could not be sustained in the long-run, but the King habitually turned a deaf ear.

When the final stones were laid in place for the ‘White Castle’, as common folk had come to call it, Rowan had nearly one-third of the vast Fertile Plain under his ‘complete’ control. Though the King’s regime had been impulsive and sloppy, Father Thasius quickly implemented strict order in each conquered province through a carefully selected hierarchy. The restraints on the subjugated populations were harsh, but they kept a rapidly expanding empire from descending into open rebellion. 

Another reason that the King chose this peculiar location to build his castle was a unique hot spring that he discovered bubbling up from the ground. The site was obviously revered by the Dratonians for it ‘healing’ properties, and likely a bathhouse once stood within the ancient enclosure. Father Thasius suggested that the steaming waters represented Hronna’s mercy in the dead of winter, and that surely she was the one responsible for such an anomaly. Therefore, Rowan built his castle walls around the hot spring, creating an isolated enclosure that he called “The Spring of Hronna”. This peaceful glade would provide the royal family with a religious refuge for prayer and devout contemplation, an idea which Rowan preferred over erecting yet another Keldetian temple. 

There were no banquets or balls to celebrate the completion of this grand stone palace, Rowan preferred the company of drunken Hasenuk warriors to that of frightened and groveling nobles. Of course Father Thasius advised the king to open up his court for the sake of “developing a relationship with the gentry.” But the King scoffed at the idea, saying that he hadn’t built the strongest castle in the land to invite his enemies inside its walls. Obviously, Thasius and the King had differing definitions of the word ‘enemy’.

However, getting on in years as King Rowan was, the issue of finding a Queen and securing an heir became increasingly paramount. Father Thasius was careful when pushing the issue because it often flared Rowan’s temper, who would exclaim:

“I have a wife!! I have a wife and her name is Sinesh!... At night I see her waiting for me in the Shadowlands... Everything I do, I do in her name and for her approval!”

The old Keldetian Basilica sat on a hill overlooking the town of Kilbhrane, across the river from where the castle once stood. The temple was constructed shortly after the death of Keldech, and it is said that his bones were laid to rest underneath the high altar. As the faith became increasingly more powerful over the years, many called for the construction of a far grander temple within the city walls. This, however, stood against the stark teachings of Keldech himself, who preached strongly against materialism. So the basilica remained humble while the church practiced its corruption discretely. 

As summer reached one of its final days, the temple’s bell rang nonstop all afternoon, announcing the coronation of a new King. The ceremony was attended by most of the nobles in the kingdom, though many stayed away, disturbed by the idea of crowning a “barbarian King”. Rowan conceded to deal with these absent nobles in his own time.

 After the monks’ procession, accompanied by their dissonant harmonic chants, Father Thasius led Rowan slowly down the aisle. 

He tried to keep his gaze forward, on the back of Thasius’ robes, as the nobles stared down and sized up the man that they were to call King. Rowan had nearly begged Gorran to accompany him to the ceremony, but his adopted father said that he would rather “lie in a bed of snakes” than turn in his blade and dress up in skirts. The monks continued their chants of praise from the temple’s balcony, and Rowan was powerfully reminded of his childhood in the monastery. 

Once Rowan was seated in the wooden throne below the altar, Father Thasius led a call-and-response chant with the monks, spoken all in Dratonian. Though Rowan had agreed to give up his “tribal rags”, he refused to be crowned with the Royal Crown of Kilbhrane. He was a son of the Horned God, and his crown needed to be the symbol of his new dynasty. Rowan had the goldsmiths guild his horned helmet with gold, and this was the “crown” that Father Thasius rested on his head, chanting the Dratonian phrase for “behold the King of man”.

As every man and woman in the temple bowed down to him, King Rowan felt a flush of panic that was quickly replaced by a deep gratification, knowing that he had truly won this power. He stared down at the strangers who were now his subjects and he thought savagely to himself: I will be the greatest King the world has ever seen. They will join me or they will die. 

Within a day and a half, the dead King’s uncle Sorrick arrived just outside Kilbhrane with the entirety of his army, as well as a chunk of straggling knights who remained loyal to King Olan. Rowan and his barbarian hoard were waiting for them at the edge of a large clearing, positioned up-hill from Sorrick’s army. They would need every advantage that they could get. Though the barbarians outnumbered the Duke’s army, they had far fewer mounted warriors. 

Rowan sat at the head of his army, making himself clearly visible with a horned helmet, given to him by the leader of the Siulmioch people. The symbolism was strong and inspiring to the men under his command. With drums blaring and men screaming and chanting, the barbarians were more than ready for a fight. As three captains from the Duke’s army began to gallop toward the middle of the field to discuss terms, Rowan shouted the command and the barbarian cavalry charged full force, causing the three distant figures to turn tail and gallop back toward their own line.

Stunned by the irregularity of the barbarian charge, the Duke’s army took several moments before they managed to give the command for their own, immediately followed by the unloosing of hundreds of arrows. Rowan’s horse was one of the first casualties to the arrow fire, flinging him from his mount and into the mud. He managed to retrieve his spear and shield, and began picking off enemy riders, one by one.

It was nearly impossible to know how much time had passed since the battle began, but after the secondary charge of the infantry, it seemed that the Duke’s forces were repleting much quicker than that of the barbarians. Rowan let out a scream of fury and fought on, knowing that he must either win or die. The eventual sounding of a horn, not far from where Rowan fought, signaled the death of the Duke. Within moments, the opposing army was either kneeling in surrender, or fleeing for their lives. Most fled. 

When the cacophony had settled and the submitting soldiers had either been killed or taken as prisoners, Rowan noticed a slim figure, dressed in long black robes approaching him from across the field. The man had the shaved head of a monk of Keldech, and face markings that symbolized his high ranking within the theocracy. The man stopped a few feet in front of Rowan and knelt, offering up his hands in submission. In eloquent vernacular speech, the thin man began to plead:

“Your Grace, I am Father Thasius of Palvia. I have served the past two kings of Kilbhrane with my tutelage and wisdom, and I beg thee to welcome my counsel as you take on this most noble and high seat of power.”

Rowan could see that the thin man was trembling, though his gaunt face showed no signs of trepidation. He left the moment in suspense for a while before Gorran broke the silence.

“Do not trust these monks, they say they serve the gods, but they only serve themselves...”

“You forget that I was raised from infancy by such men. They are not as you say, and this weasel just might prove useful if I am to face the ‘civilized’ world.” Rowan spoke to his adopted father in their rough mountain dialect, switching back to the vernacular as he addressed the trembling monk knelt before him. 

“I accept your counsel... Father Thasius of...”

“...of Palvia, your Grace.”

“Father Thasius of Palvia!”  

The monk let out a long sigh of relief, obviously certain of his own execution. Grabbing Rowan’s filthy hand and kissing it, Father Thasius exclaimed for all to hear:  “The King is dead, long live the King! Rowan, son of Chrumlough!”

Confirming Father Thasius’ greatest fears, the barbarians were already upon them. Rowan and a small group of warriors watched from the top of a nearby hill as Father Thasius’ distant figure disappeared down the West Road. Rowan had always heard that castles were palaces for royalty and sometimes nobles, but as he gazed upon the imposing wooden structure, he thought that it looked more like a fortress. Obviously, it must be both. Even though his barbarian hoard numbered in the thousands, Rowan had no intention of attacking the castle straight-on. Imposing as it was, the building was made of wood, and wood will burn.

As a full harvest moon rose over Kilbhrane, Rowan put his plan into action.

Earlier that day, they commandeered a fleece cart that was heading toward the castle, and they disposed of its owners. Four Valic warriors, disguised as fleece merchants arriving for tomorrow’s Fleece Fair, rolled their cart through the castle gates just before sunset. Laying low until the castle was mostly asleep, the warriors placed several tightly packed burlap bags of straw soaked in a strong liquor called Swollup around the base of the wooden tower, being sure to soak the surrounding wood with the flammable liquor as well. After nailing the door to the keep shut, they split up and ignited the bags of straw.

King Olan had just blown out his candles for bed when he smelled what he believed was smoke. Not the usual smell that came from his stone fireplace, but something stronger, more acrid. 

Little did the King know that the faint heat he felt in the wood under his feet was a raging inferno below him.

Gorran had warned Rowan to keep a further distance from the castle, but he stood not a hundred yards away, watching the fire spread up the wooden tower. Aware of the eery correlation this had to his childhood, Rowan watched and felt absolutely nothing.

As the floor grew alarmingly hot, the King sprang from his bed and swung open the door to the hallway. Smoke and flames spilled into the bed chamber, igniting the bed drapes and the King within an instant.

The fire spread so quickly, fed by the dry wood of the castle itself, that no one remained alive to come to the King’s aid, nor to hear his screams.

As autumn grew near, Father Thasius became increasingly concerned over the growing threat of a barbarian attack from the mountains. His sources confirmed that their numbers were nearing fifteen-hundred or more. This scale of unification among the mountain tribes was simply unheard of, therefore it was difficult to gauge just how real such a threat was to a fortified city, especially without any siege weapons.

King Olan and Father Thasius spoke in hushed tones, even though the great hall was filled with the noise of rambunctious knights. 

“Your Grace, the matter cannot be ignored any further. The mountain tribes have a standing army that WILL march on Kilbhrane any day now. We must send a sizable army to destroy them before they arrive at our gates!”  The King cut him off.

“Shhhhhh!! Do you want to start a riot among the knights? Thasius, if we meet them out in the wilderness then we fight on their terms. If they show up at our gates, we kill them on OUR terms...”  For once in his life, the King showed a glimmer of insight. 

“You have an excellent point, your Grace. However, their numbers are not enough to intimidate our army in the field, but they are enough to burn our villages, pillage our crops, kill your tenants... your people.”

“Exactly, MY people! The duty of my people is to fight for their King! We can have it your way, I will send fighting men to guard the less fortified villages.”

Thasius wanted to complain that he hadn’t asked for him to send men to the villages, but he decided not to contradict the King.

“Your Grace, while so many of your men are fighting our campaign in the west, why don’t we request the assistance of your uncle in Wendalough. I can ride their myself at first light. Sending me rather than a messenger will certainly secure a sizable force from him.”

“Alright, alright! Ride and beg to my uncle Sorrick if you are so eager, he’s always searching for a good fight, we’ll be doing him a favor.”

Father Thasius felt relief wash over him with the King’s begrudging consent.

“Very good your Grace, I will write up a request for you to sign and ride for Wendalough at dawn.”  The King rolled his eyes, already bored by the matter.

The Fertile Plain, to the south and south-west of the Dunlap Mountains, contained dozens of petty kingdoms and principalities, all loyal only to themselves. The largest and most powerful of these was the Kingdom of Valta, containing the large castle-town of Kilbhrane, as well as several prosperous fishing and farming villages. Power in Valta, however, never stayed in the same hands for long, as nearly every other king was violently overthrown by an ambitious upstart. 

The old wooden castle sat on an isolated bluff overlooking the town of Kilbhrane. A single wooden tower-keep rose out of wooden ramparts, surrounded by hundreds of sharpened spikes.

King Olan’s story was typical of every second generation ruler for the past century; his father had been a great warrior who has won his crown with the sword, and Olan seemed to possess none of his father’s great qualities. The King was snobby and childish, resenting his duties as well as the limitations of his power. Olan hated dealing with affairs of the state and usually refused to see anybody but his High Counselor, Father Thaseus of Palvia.

On this late summer evening, Father Thaseus was explaining the predicaments of the realm to the King in the simplest language that he could manage. One wrong shift of tone and Olan would sulk away, effectively ending business for the night. The subject was an uncomfortable one: the growing hostilities from tribal armies in the mountains, they seemed to be uniting forces at an alarming rate, compelling the crown to take the savage hordes seriously, for once. 

“I’m not saying that they are equipped with siege weapons or proper training, Your Grace, but once united, their numbers will be rather alarming.”

The King looked annoyed at being distracted from their chess game. “United?! They are savages with sharpened sticks, what could possibly unite them other than a bonfire?” Thaseus gave a gratuitous chuckle at the King’s ‘wit’.

“That is a chillingly accurate description of them, Your Grace, but my sources tell me that they seem to be uniting under a single leader. How? I don’t know, I have never heard of the mountain tribes commanding more than a hundred or so men under one rule. It would make some sense, however, given your ‘campaign’ into their territory...”

“So this is all my fault?! I cut out the vermin at the source Thaseus!”

“That you are right, Your Grace, I did not mean to suggest that you have any fault in this. We simply must take this threat from the mountains seriously. If our scouts could track the location of their growing army, we could outnumber them and cut them down before they grow into a real threat-”

“-Savages from the North are not and never will be a threat to my rule Thaseus!’

“Of course you are right, Your Grace, I will be silent for now on the matter.” However, Father Thaseus’ face bore the concern of a true threat to the realm.   “I hope you are settling in well with your... uh... beautiful new bride.”

An image of the young Queen arose in both of their minds. She was only nineteen, but they both had suspicions that her father had lied about her age to avoid paying a larger dowry. However, none of that mattered because the King refused to even share her bed as of yet. Father Thaseus would tell him:

“Just one night, one little kingly act, and she will bare you a son and it will be the end of the matter.”

King Olan protested like obstinate little boy, “But she is nothing like I thought she would be! I was told that she was pretty like my cousin Tulia, but she looks like she could be my aunt...  my great-aunt!”

“Don’t you worry, Your Grace. We will take it one day at a time. There are ways around this, especially for Kings... Now you rest and I implore that you think over what we spoke about.”

The noon sun rising over the Dunlap Mountains forced the small group to seek refuge in the scant alpine shade for the hottest hour of the day. They had managed so far to avoid any Rasonuk hunting parties, mainly by trailing the Rasonuk hunters by a day or so. However, it had been nearly three days since they had eaten anything but minimal berries and roots, and their fatigue was setting in.

Rowan wandered away in search for a stream or even a trickle of water, it had been hours since they had emptied their leather pouches. The whistle of wind funneling through a tunnel caught his attention, and he turned to see a small opening in the cliff rocks beside him. 

It could easily have been his lack of nourishment or the hope of finding water, but something beckoned Rowan from the whistling darkness in front of him. He stepped into the cave.

At first there was nothing but darkness as Rowan left the entrance of the cave behind him, step by wary step. The sight of something only a few feet in front of him almost made him scream out, but he stopped and stared in fascination as the figure came into focus. The image of his wife appeared in front of him, as she had been when he first fell in love with her. Rowan stumbled back and opened his mouth as to say her name, but no sound would come out.

Sinesh gazed upon him as she had when they were youths together, coy yet compassionate. Her clever eyes hinting to him that he had missed some finer point in their conversation. 

A strangled sob escaped Rowan, who had sunk to his knees before the image of his deceased wife: her innocent gaze showing no knowledge of the horrors that would ultimately befall her. Sinesh began to back away into the darkness and Rowan found himself crawling along the cave floor, pleading with the specter:

“N-no... please... Si-SINESH!!! Plea-please my love... come back! ... Come back...” 

He was sobbing and clawing at the stone to get closer to her, to feel her arms embrace him one more time. A sudden gust of wind howling through the chamber cut him off, and she was gone. Again.

A low, croaking and inhuman voice echoed out at him from the complete darkness. As the voice spoke to him, another silhouetted figure began to appear.

“Arise boy, and meet your fate...” 

Rowan was staring in horror at the materializing image in front of him. He had seen her before: it was the witch that Gorran had taken him to see shortly after he had been captured! However, like in his dreams, her face was slowly melting away to reveal her skull.

“Rowan... son of-”  but Rowan cut her off with a scream and covered his eyes, willing the image of the old woman to leave him at peace. Listening to his own panting echo in the silence, he waited for what seemed like an eternity before opening his eyes again.

The witch had evidently receded back into the darkness, or she was never there to begin with. Rowan let out a long trembling breath and started to help himself up to his feet when a speckle of light caught his eye. The speckle faded out like a spark, but then another appeared, accompanied by another. Before he knew it, there seemed to be a chorus of fireflies, appearing and disappearing in front of him. Thin beams of light stretched down from an unknown source and began to form an image. Not another vision!

Rowan felt his pulse increase to an extreme rate, something about what was forming in front of him filled him with some kind of holy dread. Yet, no matter how hard he willed them, he couldn’t make his legs move a single inch. This image he had also seen before, many times in his dreams. A man dressed in animal skins, with golden eyes, and horns growing out of his head. However, this was no vision... Rowan felt certain beyond his own comprehension that he was standing before a god. Chrümlough.

Once again, Rowan fell to his knees.

The light that was dancing around the deity gave off an intense, yet somehow pleasant heat. He could feel in his chest both the strongest fear as well as the purest joy. Rowan hardly even noticed the fresh tears streaming down his face. Chrümlough began to speak, and his melodious voice seemed to cradle Rowan like an infant; he knew this voice well:

“Arise, my son, and meet your fate.” Rowan did his best to lift himself off of the wet cave floor, knowing in his heart what was coming.

“Blessed was the maiden of raven hair, the red rose among women.”  Rowan saw a beautiful peasant girl with black hair greeting a hooded stranger in a field.

“Blessed was the orphan child, born under the Faeolar stars.” He saw Father Pyron cradling a newborn infant, singing to the child softly.

“Blessed is the man, the warrior, the son of chaos. Conquerer, dreamer, trickster, lover, murderer, father, commander, King!” He repeated the final word several times, and each time it rang out like the pulse of a bell.

“You are my son, and in you the world will see the King of kings.” Rowan stared on in disbelief, but in his heart he knew that he had always somehow known.