A Blossom of Emotion Prologue (Will redo later)

        “Lord Anonymous, the carriage is ready.”

 

        “Thank you, servant,” you say. You don your coat and grab your sword. “You are dismissed.” Taking one last look in the mirror, you grab your invitation and adjust your apparel before walking out the door. Gazing upon the scenery outside, you sigh. The Mous Estate was a beautiful piece of property. The landscape was graced by lush pastures and deep green valleys; vibrant colored flowers and birds filled the scenery.

 

        “Sir?” a voice calls out, shaking you of your stupor. You turn to see the coach driver standing beside the carriage with the door open.

 

        “Just a moment,” you reply. Admiring the scenery as if it were your last, you climb inside the carriage. “Let us be off.”

 

        The driver nods and climbs into his seat. With a flick of his wrist, the horses begin to trot down the cobblestone road. You watch the scenery change as the carriage passes. The once beautiful landscape was slowly replaced by a dense forest.

 

        The peaceful forest was disrupted as the carriage travelled by, the soft thuds of hooves striking dirt accompanied by the rattling of the carriage filling the air.

 

        Twenty miles ahead was your destination. The Spring Gala was the largest gathering of nobles each year. Out of all the noble families, only the elite few were invited to attend. Many powerful alliances and partnerships were born there. Rumor had it that royalty would be attending this year. Security would be increased as a precaution, of course. When your mind slows down, you spend your time admiring the scenery once more.

 

        “Lord Anonymous! We arrive in five minutes,” the driver shouts.

 

        You reply by rapping the door beside you twice, straightening your coat, and smiling. This was the first time you will be attending. After your father passed, you became the head of the Mous family at age seventeen. Your family partnerships and alliances were forged by him. Contracts needed to be renewed, after all. It is one of the main reasons you were invited this year.

 

        You look outside the window to see the driver pulling into a large path paved from stone. Ahead was one of the largest mansions in the land. The Regalis Estate covered fifteen square miles of land, forest, rivers, and lakes. In comparison, this place puts your own estate to shame.

 

        The ride finally comes to an end and the door opens. You step out of your carriage and look around. Other nobles in their carriages approach the entrance to the estate. You walk to the grand ingress, invitation in one hand and the other resting on the pommel of your sword.

 

        As you wait for the guests ahead of you to enter, you listen for anything that could be of use. After a few minutes of listening, the only things you have heard are small talk about negotiations, businesses, and making more connections.

 

        “Invitation, sir?” a valet asks. You turn to him and see a small contubernium standing at attention.

 

        “Right here,” you say, handing him the piece of parchment. “Lord Anonymous, head of the Mous family.”

 

        A few small murmurs fill the air and the valet raises an eyebrow. He checks the invitation and hands it back to you. “Welcome to the Spring Gala, Lord Anonymous.”

 

        Entering the main foyer, you marvel at its beauty. The ceiling stands taller than a castle spire, with a large crystal chandelier laced with gold and embroidered with diamonds dangling from it. A large dual staircase runs along the side of the foyer with gold trimmed, red velvet carpet. Black marble tiles layer the ground, covered in brilliant cut diamonds and pearls. The heart of each tile comprises of a pitch-black agate circle festooned with diamonds and a pearl flower petal pattern that glows outwards from the centre.

 

        A commanding voice cuts your admiration short. “Lord Anonymous, son of Mous.” You turn to see a man dressed in ceremonial attire approaching. It takes a second of thinking to realize who he is.

 

        “Lord Watson, commander of the twenty-fifth legion,” you greet. “It has been a while since I last laid eyes on you.”

 

        He chuckles for a moment before regaining his composure. “Quite,” he replies. “Four years since I last trained you with a blade. Your father would be proud of the man you have become.”

 

        You smile at his words. He wasn’t one for encomium, but rather lambaste. “So, what brings a commander to the Spring Gala?” you ask as you shake hands with him.

 

        “Onus to the king,” he replies. “The twenty-fifth legion is in command of security this year.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I never liked designating the security. Too much work and too little action involved.”

 

        You chuckle. That was the commander you knew; strong and wise yet not patient with menial tasks. “So is there anything special I should know about the Gala this year?” you inquire.

 

        “The Gala will be the same as always, save for the royalty this year. Prince John will be attending. T’is the reason I was put on duty this time,” he smirks. “At least there will be no signing of documents tonight.”

 

        “If a day off is a relief, I cannot comprehend how terrible paperwork must be,” you joke. “Will you be staying, or are there other matters to attend to?”

 

        “Sadly, there are. I must return to overseeing perambulation. I bid you adieu,” he says, giving a curt nod. You nod back and walk through the halls to what you believe is the banquet hall. Its extraordinary prominence dwarfs the foyer. You are greeted by other nobles as you look around and before long; a loud blare fills the estate.

 

        “Introducing his highness, Prince John!” The chatter and commotion dispels as everyone gathers to observe the foyer entrance, where a large group of fully armored knights trail behind a short man dressed in an attire of magnificent hues.

 

        “Greetings, dear nobles!” he declares. “The Ga–”

 

        Time seems to slow down as a large explosion cuts him off, sending shrapnel of wood, stone, and steel in all directions. You are knocked off your feet as the shockwave hits, sending you to the floor. Screams fill the air as the spot where the prince once stood was reduced to ash. In your shell shocked state, you can barely understand what happened next.

 

        “Lock the gates! Seal all entrances! No one leaves until we find the perpetrator!” Your blurred vision soon clears and the ringing in your ears dissipates. A knight runs to you and helps you to your feet.

 

        “The commander says you are good with a blade and trustworthy. Watch the back gates. You have permission to restrain anyone that tries to escape. Should anyone oppose you, dispatch them. No murderer of the prince should live after tonight,” he says, pushing past you and running off, calling to the other guards.

 

        You sigh and jog through the massive hallways reaching the back of the estate. The dimly lit corridors near the end were somewhat ominous, to say the least. You draw your sword and grab a torch from the wall. The blade gleams in the new-found light. As you turn the corner, you come across a large door. Opening it, you are greeted by a large ballroom brightly lit by the chandeliers above. Having no time to admire the scenery, you walk to the center stage of the room in attempt to reach the back gates.

 

        “Ahh, so it seems I have been found,” a voice echos. You look around for the source of the voice in the large room and your gaze settles on a shadow in the corner. From the shadow emerges a knight in armor dark as the night sky. Using one arm, the knight draws a large two-handed claymore from his back. He swings it with ease while staring at you. For an instant you swear his eyes gleam red. “You have met with a terrible fate. There is no mercy for those who oppose the will of my lord.”

 

        “Guards! I have located the perpetrator!” you vehemently shout, not taking your eyes off the person. He makes no attempt to attack and eventually, you hear footsteps echoing through the halls.

 

        “Ah, more fun for me. I shall enjoy serving my lord.” With that, he charges you, accelerating to an impossible speed in an instant. From the corner of the room, he is before you in a blink of the eye. On instinct, you lift your blade upwards, parrying the blow. The force of the blow alone drives you back and he shifts his blade for an overhand slash as you regain your footing. Having no time for anything else, you bring your sword above your head to parry. His blade crashes down on yours, sending you to the ground. He quickly charges and brings his blade down on your prone form and you expect your life to end. A loud clang resonates through the room instead. You look behind and see Watson’s blade keeping the fiend’s away.

 

        “Get up, Anonymous. I will not have you dying on me!” Using all his strength, he shoves its sword away. You do a quick roll backwards and use the momentum to get back on your feet. Both you and the commander ready your blades, preparing for his next move. The three of you lock eyes and eventually, you hear a group of footsteps. A group of guards come from behind you.

 

        “In the name of the king, freeze!” one of them shouts. The fiend lowers his blade and begins to laughs. Slowly at first, like a rusted gate, before turning to loud cackles. From the corner of your eye, you see a few of the guards step backwards. His laughter dies down and he motions you closer. Half the guards draw their crossbows and open fire. Some bolts dig into the armor while a few ricochet.

 

        Smashing the arrows apart, he looks at the new opposition. “Come at me,” he says in a dangerous tone. The guards let loose a war cry and charge, ignorant of his skill. With ease, he fends off the group of guards, his blade cleaving through the men one by one. Within mere moments, blood, guts, and gore cover the entire room. He swings his blade to clear it of bodily remains before looking back at you. “Pathetic weaklings. Which one of you desires to die next?”

 

        In response, Watson calmly walks towards the knight. Suddenly, with explosive speed they collide, steel clashing in a frenzy. Every swing the knight throws at the commander is parried and countered with one of his own attacks. The expertise of the two master swordsmen can be clearly seen. Eventually the commander gets the upper hand and with a diagonal strike, the sword crashes into the neck of the fiend. A black fluid seeps from the wound as the sword snaps like a twig. Watson’s eyes widen and the knight smiles menacingly and slices the commander from head to naval. Before the corpse hits the floor, the knight is on you once again. He brings his blade down and you bring your blade above your head to parry with one hand at the end of the blade and one hand grasped around the pommel, but you aren’t expecting the force that follows. His blade crashes down like the punishment of god. As you crumple to a knee, you see his eyes flash red once more.

 

        “Your commander put up commendable resistance. How will you fare alone?”

 

        He draws back his blade from yours and draws back his other fist at the same time. In one fluid motion, he moves to punch. You angle your blade in front of his fist, hoping to reduce the blow that follows. As the armored fist connects with your blade, it collides into your chest, sending you flying backwards. As you lay on your back, out of breath, you hear him approach slowly. Knowing your fate, you muster all your strength and rise to your feet.

 

        “Impressive,” he calls. “Few can survive the strength of my fist without repercussions.”

 

        He was right. Your bones were probably shattered, but you cannot allow him to escape. Enduring the pain, you ready your sword once more. A twisted grin forms on his face and he changes stance, holding the sword in both hands. Your eyes widen at the thought of his strength. He charges once more, bringing the large claymore in a wide counter-clockwise sweep. You jump back to dodge his blow but he follows through with his swing, bringing it back over his head for an overhead slash. He brings the sword down and his blade collides with yours, sending you stumbling to the side, your blade scraping the floor. He raises his sword for an overhand swing and you raise your sword to parry the blow once more. Instead he feints and heel stomps your chest, sending you sprawling across the floor. You try to move, but can’t. His blows have finally taken their toll. He approaches your vulnerable form, swinging his blade through the air causally.

 

        “Goodbye, human,” he calls. He raises his blade above you and brings it down. You close your eyes, resigning yourself to the afterlife. Instead of pain and the sound of a blade cleaving through flesh, you hear gasps and whispers.

 

        “What is that?”

 

        “It seems injured.”

 

        “Somepony get a doctor!”

 

        “What’s a minotaur doing here?”

 

        “Is it dead?”

 

        “Creature, what manner of being are you?” a young voice filled with authority asks. You open your eyes as much as you can in your current state to see an equine with a blue mane. You blink and notice the armor it wears: a golden trimmed, purple breastplate adorned with a star in the center.

 

        “Help,” you cough. As you fade out of consciousness, you hear it shout one last word.

 

        “Medic!”