2
“Nothing like a feast and a woman after your first kill,” Drakos says, clapping me heartily on the shoulder. I laugh, but my smile feels brittle as ice.
My eldest brother and I sit in a corner of the ballroom surrounded by a flurry of men and women, dressed exceptionally for the celebratory feast of my Enlightening. The women wear colorful, slim-fitting dresses, with large pendants between breasts and swaths of rubies and diamonds on wrists. The men wear tailored suits and white gloves; I spot Thatch, my uncle, through the mess of bodies. He wears a dark green suit akin to the traditional color of the Kalidii gens. He catches my eye and smiles, tilting his winecup in a salute. I return the gesture, raising a gilded wineglass. Green silk dons my hand.
Drakos and I are dressed in the same way, with white undershirts accompanied by green coats, with accents dotting our shoulders and collars, the Kalidii crest upon our breasts, and a fortune spent upon our necks and wrists. One accessory in particular gleams brightly from my wrist; an old-fashioned wristwatch hemmed in green jewels, gifted to me by my cousin Victor. I admire the deep shine of forest green, lost in the colors of my House.
The people coagulate together and talk about topics of interest, wineglasses held in gloved hands, glass rims shining with red lipstick. I overhear one lady talking about her family’s new estate; a man to her left speaks to a triad of women, boasting of his exceptional skills with a blade. Two men speak about the rogue state in the East, blaming Sohull for the cause of brutal vagrants running amidst the middle of the Realm.
“It is a travesty that such rogues run uncouth,” the man complains, shaking his head in bewilderment. “Lord Requor… what is he doing? They say he is a warlike man, yet his state suffers from these vile bands.”
“I hear they are comprised of Astoma. Led by one man who declares himself Lymorian reborn.” The two men stare at each other for a moment, then laugh. I lose interest in the conversation and my eyes drift across the ballroom.
The air quickly grows thick and heavy, full with the hundreds of bodies in the ballroom, sweating, drinking, and cursing to their heart’s content. The lighting is dark, provided only by a few torches far above my head, shining from a curved ceiling annotating historical events in great detail. A dark gloom is inevitably cast over the ballroom. Upon the dance floor, couples dance, laughing and twirling. I remember a different dance.
My leg bounces up and down as I survey the room. So many people.
A man approaches me on my right shoulder. He clutches my hand and launches into a tirade of excited conversation of how honored his family is to be personally invited to the Kalidii’s ballroom. He’s an older man, near fifty, with a portly build. I smile and say my thanks as the man speaks his praises, and then Drakos clears his throat.
“The hour is not here, my good lord. You break tradition.”
The man looks up and seems to notice Drakos for the first time. He pales slightly and tries a weak smile, tongue flickering over dry lips. “Prince Drakos, I never intended for insult… it’s merely been a long time since I’ve been within the Capital. Please excuse me.” The man hurries away.
Drakos watches the man take his leave with disgust. “Father never should have invited the Hormons. A family bordering on irrelevancy. They sully your party.”
“What’s the old saying? Inclusion is always better than exclusion? The more the better, I say.”
Drakos scowls. “What kind of daftwit saying is that?” His dark eyes scan the room like a predatory hawk, lingering on persons of interest. “This is not some lowborn ceremony. We are Kalidii, for gods sake. The Realm belongs to us, and so the Enlightening reception should be withheld to only a select few - families who aided the Kalidii in the war, who helped us secure our crown. Rich families. Families with land, families with medicines and technologies, families with reach.” His lip curls. “Not farmers, or laborers, or lowborn scum. Even the servants here are Astoma men. Cupbearers, as our lord father called them. I say it’s a disgrace. They needn’t the privilege of pouring my wine. What next, will they allow Reformers easy entry into my brother’s celebrations?” Drakos snorts, amused. “You should be offended, Calix.”
“Those commonfolk you speak about play a vital part,” I point out. “The Realm would not survive without those aspects of civilization. And it’s important that the Astoma are here, serving every lord and lady in the room. It perfectly encapsulates their defeat, and what comes to those who oppose us Kalidii.”
Drakos just shrugs, indicating that the topic is no longer interesting. “It’s your party, I suppose. If you want such vermin at your Enlightening, I will not stop you.” He leans forward in his velvet chair and sets his wineglass down, his eyes lighting up with sudden thought. “Let’s retract to my earlier question. What highborn lady will you bed tonight? I remember my celebrations quite clearly. I fucked the eldest daughter of the Terrans the night of my Lightening. A fun night, that was. She had been quite unbecoming of a highborn maiden.” Drakos grins at the memory. “She is here tonight. You could have her, I suppose, but I reckon she’ll want a sequel with me.”
“She’s all yours, but you’d best hide it from your wife,” I say absently. “The Valonts will not take kindly to you disparaging their daughter’s image. And, brother, watch the brash language. Father says we are to be impeccable tonight. Foul language is meant for lowborns, not highborns; and certainly not for us princes.”
Drakos just snorts laughter and sits back in his chair, shuffling back into the comfort of soft pillows. “Impeccable, you say, but here you sit. You are the reason for this ceremony, you are aware of that? All of these lords and ladies have come for you, my dear brother. Traveled leagues and leagues to see your Duel, from all over the Realm. A Kalidii prince invokes high standards. I suggest you do your best to meet those standards, and that starts with honoring tradition.” Drakos sips from his cup. “Let me educate you, dear brother, about our tradition. Tradition calls for you to stand by Father and greet and thank great lords and ladies so they can curry favor and hope to gain your hand. But here you sit, tucked in a corner of the ballroom, drinking with me.”
Anger rises within me, but I quickly choke it down. I muse over his words. Why am I with Drakos, in this secluded corner? I am not necessarily close with my eldest brother - in fact, I don’t like him much at all. The only reason he chats with me so much is because the liquor has gone to his head, and because he has no compulsion to socialize with others. He views everyone without Kalidii blood as inferior beings - simply holding a conversation with the lords and ladies is a sully on his character. A quite pretentious man, my brother is. So why do I stay with Drakos?
“You know I’m not one for big crowds.” The answer feels weak on my tongue, and Drakos just gives a faint smile.
“I suppose you’re not, but Father is. And anything Matyx Kalidii says…”
“Goes without question,” I finish. “I’m afraid you are right. I’ll make my way over to him soon, but let me sit here for sometime longer. I’ll have all night to honor tradition.” If Drakos heard the scorn in my voice, he doesn’t show it. I beckon over a cupbearer, who fills my glass with more wine. I take a deep draft of the sour liquid, appreciating the warmth spreading through my body. It makes my mind quiet, and I like my mind quiet.
Drakos watches the cupbearer retreat with interest, eyes lingering. My stomach sinks. I have seen this plenty of times before.
“You turn my back to me without seeing to my needs? My wineglass is empty, you daftwit. See it full.” He turns and smiles at me, as if his needless rebukes somehow appeal to me. The cupbearer murmurs an apology and fills Drakos’ cup, and in his haste, he spills a few drops on the back of Drakos’ hand. It’s only a few drops, and tiny drops beside, but the air freezes, and Drakos grows still. Fear clouds the waiter’s eyes; Drakos stares at his hand. He looks up after a few moments, his face a silent mask. “Tell me, what is your name?”
“Westen, my prince,” the man says, his voice taut with fear. A bead of sweat rolls down his temples and drips onto his uniform collar, but he doesn’t notice. The only thing apparent in Westen’s world is the cold gaze of my eldest brother.
I stir uncomfortably. “Lay off, Drakos.” He ignores me.
“Speak up, you imbecile. Have you no tongue, along with no balls? What type of cupbearer cannot pour wine? Are all you Astoma such incompetents?”
The Astoma murmurs an apology, but it does nothing to satisfy Drakos. A quiet gleam worms in my brother’s eyes; he is enjoying this, I find. He likes seeing Westen’s terror, his apprehension, and knowing he has the authority to do anything with him as he sees fit.
“What if you spilled on my suit?” Drakos continues. “A few inches inwards, and you would’ve stained my attire. Do you know how long it took for this coat to be embroidered in this silk? You couldn’t even begin to guess. I would’ve had you flayed, if you did stain my coat, but it appears the gods are merciful.” He makes a show of counting the wine beads on his hand. “Four drops. So four fingers is all I’ll take.” He looks up, beaming a smile. White teeth flash. Westen has turned the color of curdled milk. He fumbles for words, his lips trembling, and distaste fills my mouth. I am no stranger to Drakos’ vile way of treating the Astoma as his personal playthings.
“Lay off, Drakos,” I repeat, but my brother pays no heed except to shoot me an irritable glance.
“He must learn. If this bipedal rodent cannot even pour properly, it’s evident he has no use for fingers anyway.” He turns. “So, what will it be? Four off your left or right? Perhaps two off of each? I’ll give you the choice; I am in a good mood. It’s my dear brother’s special celebration, after all!”
“My lord, please… it was a mistake, only a mist-”
“Your kind seems to make aplenty,” Drakos interrupts. “I grow weary of them. And I am a prince, not a lord. Prince Drakos. Recite it to me. Yes. Prince, yes, enunciate the p more clearly. Hmm. Still shabby. It seems you cannot recall titles, in addition to being lousy with your hands. I’ll have your fing-”
“Drakos, stop,” I snap. “This is my celebration. My feast. My Enlightening. I will not have you bloody it for a mere mistake, so by the priests, forget it.”
Drakos blinks in surprise, leaning back in his chair. His mouth works soundlessly for several seconds. Then he smiles.
“My oh my… it appears the Lightening does do wonders increasing the worth of your manhood. My little brother has developed a little steel!” He looks over to Westen and loses interest, waving a dismissive hand. “Be gone.”
Westen disappears in an instant.
I sigh and down my own glass, closing my eyes for the briefest of moments. The sooner this night is over, the better. I thought the hardest part of my Enlightening would be the Duel, but I was wrong. It’s this mingling and fraternization and socializing with everyone and everybody. It’s constant. It’s exhausting, and I haven’t even started proper protocol. Before tonight my father had given me strict instructions on how to greet everyone, close to his side; they had come for me, after all. It’s the celebration of my Enlightening - the time when a Kalidii heir reaches manhood and slays his first enemy. The Realm rejoices at the prospect of another male heir, and all the States sing the Kalidii’s praises, from the Bannerlands to Trest. Though the chance is slim, being that I’m the fifth son, and seventh child of Matyx Kalidii, it is possible that I will become Preserver of the Realm one day. I imagine my father’s throne being my own and struggle to form the image in my head.
Unlikely, but a possibility.
That fact is not lost on the masses. I feel a constant gaze trained on me; lords eye me up and down, gauging my worth, and ladies speak in hushed whispers to their accomplices. Some laugh, some smile, covering their mouths with gloved hands; some show no expression at all. I feign unawareness and tell myself I don’t care what they say.
A young woman approaches me and engages me in conversation. She’s a pretty thing, all smiles and laughter and light touches at my jokes, but she’s not the first lady to approach me tonight. They want my namesake, not my person; that is not lost on me. Her golden curls and green eyes would surely entice others, but not me. I fake conversation with Drakos to get the girl away from my shoulder, and she obliges, retreating to a circle of her friends, but I feel her eyes remain on me.
“Kylen Ventruvian,” Drakos says, eyeing the woman. “Now, my dear brother, that would be a good fuck. Young, slim, and from a powerful family…the only child of Vastus Ventruvian, and heir of the Riverhold. Lord Ventruvian’s sons have all perished in the war, you see. Hmm. Yes, that would be quite nice. I am almost jealous of you, my brother. I have not had the chance to experience the pleasure of a Riverhold princess.”
The title does not impress me. I am a Kalidii; all others are beneath me, and that includes even state princesses.
Kylen is just one of a dozen ladies to already court me. I have no need for women; I already have the one my heart yearns for. I think of her, and her dark hair and lavender eyes, and longing blooms within my breast. I grow sick of this guise. I stand abruptly and decide I’ve had enough of Drakos’ company. I stalk past circles of conversing men and women, past elaborate tables displaying every delicacy from the corners of the Realm, past powerful lords and ladies that watch me as I exit the ballroom and head to the nearest washroom. The corridors are much quieter, but no less intricate. Tapestries fifty feet long hang from gilded ceilings, jeweled chandeliers casting light upon the artwork. White pillars bear engravings of famous events and historical figures, and the nearest tapestry depicts my father in all of his glory. He stands in the midst of the infamous Realm’s Battle, his pure-white armor unmolested and without a single scratch. The tapestry depicts his famous battlehammer smashing into the head of Lymorian Astoma, ending the false king’s life and ending the Fool’s Rebellion with a single stroke of his battlehammer.
I find the washroom and hunch over the basin, splashing cold water onto my face. The celebrations are supposed to go well into the night - I must remain alert. My head swims with fogginess, and I curse myself for my earlier foolishness. My father would not have me staggering around like a drunken fool, especially on the one day where I must have no ailments; I must appear perfect, a spitting image of my father, befitting of his genes.
I look into the mirror and try to see the similarities between father and son. I struggle to find any. All of my brothers share distinct traits to Matyx, but my father says I resemble my mother the most. I barely remember my mother and her features. Her face is lost to me. I try to recall her image, squinting my eyes and thinking hard, and a swirling image of a face appears in my thoughts. A woman’s face, yes, but devoid of any features. A ball of flesh and bone. A mask. I cannot remember my mother, not in the slightest. I give up and look back to the mirror.
My father is dark-bearded and strong-jawed, with eyes as dark as night. I bear none of those characteristics. The person staring back at me is a young boy, with smooth cheeks flushed with the presence of youth. I’ve always been bothered by the fact I never have been able to grow facial hair. Blue eyes shine back at me, set above a straight nose and slim brows. My blonde hair is perfectly oiled and styled, every strand rigidly maintaining position on my scalp. I stare into my eyes once more. I remember the blue in the eyes of the boy I had killed, just hours prior. It was so similar.
Astoma aren’t supposed to have features like that. They aren’t supposed to look like me. It would be a great travesty to compare an Astoma to a Kalidii. We are nothing alike. I am Kalidii, a prince, not a cupbearer. I shake my head above the basin and banish the troubling thoughts; nothing good will come out of dwelling in them.
Outside the washroom, Valum and Clydas await me.
My brothers are dressed acutely for the occasion, with embroidered vests of green stitching upon an overcoat of white. Knives dangle in oiled sheaths, but it’s merely ceremonial - no one would dare to lift a blade during an Lightening.
I greet them. “Valum. Clydas. Is Trystan not with you?”
“He’s next to father,” Clydas responds. “Where you should be. That’s why we’re having this conversation. Father wants you to do your duty, Calix.”
As always, Clydas speaks curtly and with perfect mannerisms - hands folded behind back, standing fully upright, steely with his eye contact. Valum is more indisposed. His eyes gaze across the corridor, to the tapestries and the pillars, and he yawns and scratches his arm. His vest bears a slight red stain, but Valum appears to have not noticed, or maybe he doesn’t care.
“I’ll be there,” I say, and Clydas nods.
“Make sure that you do. The Valonts have arrived - make sure to greet them properly. They haven’t made the trip into the Capital since Drakos’ wedding.” His eyes study me critically. “Fix your collar, it’s uneven. And what is that above your waistline? Water? Did you not think to use a hand towel?”
“It’ll dry,” I say. My lips form a thin line. “Thanks, Clydas. I’ll see to it.”
My brother lingers for a moment, frowning, but then turns and disappears back into the ballroom. Valum watches him go. “He can be such a dick.”
I smile. “He tries emulating Drakos, but he misses the margins by just a bit.”
“By a lot, you mean.” Valum blinks sleep from his eyes. He always wears a half-smile across his lips, as if he finds everything amusing, and his hair is spiked up as if he’s just woken from slumber. In comparison to Clydas’ perfect appearance, Valum looks like a shambling drunkard. Out of all of my brothers, I like Valum the most. He isn’t cruel like Drakos, or conceited like Clydas, or stupid like Trystan. Valum is older than me by just a year, but you would never be able to tell; he bears a youthful face. He even looks the most like me - his dark hair is streaked with rivets of blonde, and his eyes are dull chips of blue.
“But, Clydas is right,” Valum concludes. He notices my expression and looks at me sympathetically, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “I remember my Enlightening vividly. It’s long, but it passes quickly after the first hour. Come on, Calix. We should head back.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
I walk with my brother as we return to the ballroom and back into the mess of bodies. My father remains on the dias with Trystan beside him, engaging in polite conversation with a half dozen lesser lords. His eyes flick towards me as I enter.
And so I act the part of a perfect son, playing my role as well as I possibly can. I replace Trystan next to my father, and the crowd notices - it takes no time for a line to form in front of me, all lords and ladies of high and low houses, all bustling against each other for the slim chance that my lord father would look down on them favorably. I shake countless hands and gaze into countless faces. Many of them I already know - Lord Vax Armyni, Lord Farlan Requor and his lady wife Jezica; Lord Lyden Terran of the Northwoods and Lord Vastus Ventruvian of the Riverhold. They come from every State in the Realm, from the far north to the east to the south, and to the west. I know dozens of faces, and yet there are hundreds I do not know.
As the hours pass, the faces all merge into one, and I develop a response that appropriately lists all the proper courtesies but shortens each dialogue drastically. I play a little game as the next man ascends the dias to speak to me, some lord from the Reach. I think I recognize his face, but I cannot be too certain. My eyes could just be growing fatigued. I wonder just how quickly I can utter the greetings and send this man back down the dias.
Twenty-four seconds. Fastest so far. I find the little game amusing until I notice my father frowning.
“Lord Klein deserved a proper welcome. The Reach has harbored rebellion towards my rule in the past, and Klein has seen those factions squashed. You might learn to keep such people close.”
I duck my head from the rebuke and feel my face redden. Another approaches quickly, so I swallow my embarrassment and raise my head and look into the sharp face of Rylan Valont.
The Lord of Trest is accompanied by his wife Abella and their youngest daughter, Vira. The Valonts are dressed spectacularly - every lord and lady had donned their most expensive attire for this event, but they all pale in comparison to the Valonts. Lord Valont is dressed in a suit of pure white, with gold trimming and suspenders lined with sapphire and ruby. Rings flash from his fingers, and he wears two wristwatches on his left wrist, each far more spectacular than my own - one displays the time of the Capital, and the other the time of Trest State. Abella, unlike her husband, merely dons a simple black dress with gold armlets circling her biceps. She does not need to partake in this game between the highborn ladies who try to flaunt the wealthiest attire - no woman can match Lady Abella’s beauty. Abella Valont’s beauty is spoken commonly throughout the Realm, from cold cabins in the north to smoky taverns in the south. The talk of her being the most beautiful woman in the world is not an exaggeration. She is tall, just a halfhead shorter than her lord husband. Her eyes are a deep brown, shining blonde hair sweeps down her shoulders, and full lips part to reveal white enamel. Her cheekbones are high and set, skin fair and unblemished; she carries herself with the knowledge of knowing she is the most desirable woman in the room, and yet no one besides Lord Rylan can have her.
My eyes stray to Vira. She is the youngest of the three Valont children, not a day older than fourteen, but she shares features akin to her mother. She has the same hair and eyes. Her nervousness is not lost on me; her eyes dart about the room, and it seems as if she is avoiding my gaze. Apprehension grows in me. I look away.
I know Vira’s siblings quite well - Lyn, the eldest daughter, is Drakos’ wife, and her brother, Bethen, had become acquainted with me during Valum’s Lightening. I remember the blood and pain of our encounter with vividness. My fingers curl at the ugly remembrance of Rylan Valont’s eldest son.
“The boy of the hour,” Rylan Valont says, his face all bone and stretched skin, jaw and cheekbone sharp enough to slash granite. He offers me a firm handshake. “Or, I suppose, that boy has become a man tonight. Congratulations, my prince, and I offer my felicitations to his lord father as well.” He turns to face my father, and three decades of memory flit between the gaze. Besides my own father, Rylan Valont is the most powerful man in the Realm; but he is also one of my father’s closest companions. I’d even go so far as to call Rylan Valont a genuine friend to my lord father.
“You must be proud to have raised such a noble and honorable son.”
Matyx Kalidii dips his head in acknowledgement and shoots a warm look in my direction. My skin prickles at the unfamiliar expression, although I grow pleased - it is rare for my father to don that expression. “It’s the boy’s work, not my own. A man can only mold his offspring a certain percentile.”
“Certainly,” Rylan agrees. He looks to his wife and daughter. “I’d be remiss to brush over the proper introductions. Calix, you have met my lady wife Abella before. But I am under the inclination that you have not met my Vira?”
“I have not had the pleasure,” I say, offering a warm smile to the girl. She gives a quick smile in response, and our eyes meet for a brief moment before she breaks away again. “I know Lyn quite well. I’ve met your son Bethen; I’m quite acquainted with him, actually, if you recall. We had a certain… misunderstanding, for lack of words.”
I had attempted the words to be humorous, but Lady Abella frowns. I regret the words then, but Rylan Valont does not seem offended. Instead, a smile creeps upon his lips. “I do recall, yes. I was amused at the spectacle, although my love was not.” He looks over to his wife, and Lady Abella regards me shrewdly, her brown eyes consuming me like a morsel of tender food. I grow uncomfortable under her gaze.
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“I recall as well. I did not enjoy seeing my boy returned to me bruised and bloody… but when I saw your condition, I surmised it was an equal fight.” She smiles, and relief flows through me when she looks away from me and back to my father. “Lord Matyx. You might have an idea of what we are proposing here. Your son, Calix, has newly reached manhood, and will surely entertain a hundred of marriage proposals from lesser families within the upcoming months. My youngest daughter, Vira, is unbetrothed and has ascended womanhood. Similarly, she will entertain a thousand offers from men lesser than her. A maiden with blood like hers should only cater to the highest suitors. Her honor should not be sullied; neither should your son’s. Your son is a prince, and mine a highborn lady of Trest. Allow us to skip the mindless squabble and the pointless farce. I propose a match between your son and my daughter, to strengthen the bond between our two great houses and between the Capital and Trest, and to strengthen the foundations of both Kalidii and Valont alike.”
I reel backwards in surprise, although I knew I should’ve known the instant I had seen Vira’s expression, and when the girl ascended the dias to stand before my father and I. My father just tilts his head, his eyes glittering, showing no such surprise. He knew this was coming. I see it in his eyes. Valont had probably approached my father days prior to the Enlightening; if not months. This betrothal has been in the makings for a while, and I was none the wiser. Bitterness rises within me. I had held onto the faint hope that my father would allow me to pick my own wife one day, and I think of the girl I already love, but I knew it was a fleeting hope - my brothers had had their wives chosen for them as well. Drakos wed Lyn Valont, and Clydas the eldest daughter of the Bannerlands, and Trystan the eldest daughter of the Lord of Middlewatch; Valum betrothed to Vax Armyni’s daughter, a girl of tender age. Given the history, I should’ve known and prepared myself.
I look at Vira and feel sadness. The girl is so young. Unlike some men, I do not look favorably upon younger girls, especially one whose reluctance is clear as day. I already have my one, I think, but I don’t dare let the words come upon my lips.
“You offer my son a great honor,” Matyx Kalidii says. He turns and notices my expression, and his eyes narrow. I hurriedly dismiss all notion of misgiving from my expression, and force a smile to my face. My father continues. “Calix, what do you say of this offer?”
“One I am inclined to graciously accept,” I say, slipping into the facade of the Kalidii prince I feel so opposite to. Act noble, rigid, remember the mannerisms you have been taught. “I would be honored to speak the vows before the Priesthood, and take your daughter’s hand in the presence of the Order. She has inherited her mother’s looks, and her father’s voraciousness. It is a strong, fair match; that much is clear. As you said, Lord Valont, the bond between our great Houses is vital for the Realm’s wellbeing.”
Vira looks up at me. Then, I realize she does not have eyes like her mother’s. Her mother’s eyes are jagged things, forged from decades of struggle, whilst Vira’s are pure and guileless. A sudden surge of protectiveness flows through me. She’s scared of me because she knows what comes next after marriage vows are spoken, and she is scared of me because her eldest sister Lyn is wed to Drakos, and all she knows of the Kalidii princes is Drakos’ cruelty. I am nothing like the sort; I am not my brother. I will gain no pleasure from this arrangement. An heir can wait. Lyn is already swollen with Drakos’ child, and Clydas will sire his own any day now. My eldest sisters, Leone and Isla, are newly married and will bring more Kalidii heirs into this world. There will be no shortage of Kalidii blood.
Abella nudges Vira’s shoulder, and she blinks rapidly, suddenly recognizing the need to speak. She gives her bravest smile. “I would like that very much, my prince. I cannot find the right words to describe how grateful I am for this honor to be bestowed upon me. I had heard of you, from home - my expectations of your valor were high, of course, but your performance during your Duel was nothing short of dazzling.”
My mouth twists slightly as I hear Rylan’s words seep from the mouth of his daughter. I give a smile and thank Vira, who looks away, her part done.
“Discussion is good, but largely meaningless,” my father says. “Only words taken under vows and with the presence of the Priesthood stand with the Order of the world. Lord Rylan, Lady Abella, I would be most interested in dining with you one of these fine nights. When do you return back to Trest?”
“In three days’ time.”
“It’s settled, then. Tomorrow night, we dine, and we will begin preparation.”
Lord Rylan gives a bow, and Vira tries her best at a curtsy, although she cannot quite mimic her mother. They descend the dias and disappear in a throng of excited men and women who glance up at me, their cheeks flushed with the new gossip.
The last son of Matyx Kalidii will marry the youngest child of Rylan and Abella Valont. Oh, I had presented my own daughter before Lord Kalidii… but I cannot argue. It is a virtuous match. Now, all of the Kalidii children are married or betrothed.
The greetings soon slow to a trickle; either I’ve greeted all of them or they no longer bother to come up to me now that the Valonts have made their claim. It makes no difference to me - I’m just glad it’s over. My father descends the dias and sits at the high table, sharing dessert with the most powerful families of his Realm, and the waiters continue to plant new dishes and delights with seemingly no end to the night. The rest of my father’s actions tonight will involve endless politicking; I am not envious of him, especially when Matyx ushers a waiter to bring Drakos to the table and sit amongst them. My brother is an uncouth, raw young man, but even he sits as meek as a child before Matyx Kalidii’s knowing gaze.
I hear someone call my name, and I turn to see Bethen Valont approach me, bottle in one hand and winecup in the other. He’s changed since I’ve last seen him - a scar dons his left cheek, and his eyes have darkened into deep pools of intelligence - he’s no longer the tiny boy I dueled during Valum’s Enlightening. His shoulders have broadened, pulling tightly at his tailored suit, and he wears his dark hair short. I look into those unfamiliar eyes and wonder what he thinks of me. I am not the same boy either. “Bethen.” My greeting is curt.
“Calix,” he says, his voice laced with hints of alcohol. He throws on a lazy smile. “I must say, your family does know how to put on a proper feast. Is this wine from the Riverhold? The aftertaste is splendid on the tongue. And these crab cassets… I haven’t tasted such a delicacy since, well, Valum’s Enlightening. I guess it hasn’t been too long then, eh? A year? Less? My memory seems to leave me, but it is of no matter.” His scar twists when he smiles, granting him a sly and ghoulish appearance. “It is well done.”
I thank him and ask what he truly wants. Bethen doesn’t respond, instead offering me a wineglass. I accept and watch warily as Bethen pours into the cup, careful not to spill a single drop. He discards the empty bottle to a passing waiter. I try to keep a neutral expression donned onto my face, but I cannot help the worming suspicion that gathers within my stomach. The last time I had interacted with Bethen, we had been at each other’s throats on the training ground, our blood dotting the sand before guards pulled us off of each other. Naturally, I developed a deep distaste for this arrogant boy. He had offered a fair duel and had instantly broken his word when he threw sand in my eyes. He reminds me of a young Drakos, all arrogance and needless cruelty, and I hate him for it.
“I assume my parents have broken the word to you about the betrothal between my sweet sister and yourself.”
“They have.”
“What do you think of it?”
For a second, truth comes to the forefront of my tongue, yet I swallow back the words. Anger burns within me. What do I think? I think it’s a monstrous thing to have me marry a mere girl. I think it’s a monstrous thing to have me put on a pedestal and sold off like some rare collectible. I think it’s a monstrous thing that I had no choice, and I think it’s a monstrous thing that I say naught against it.
“I must say I was surprised, but I am quite pleased. It is a good match, and our families will be strengthened because of it. I suppose that makes us brothers twice over now, with Drakos wed to Lyn and I betrothed to Vira?”
“I suppose it does. How wonderful.” The smile fades from Bethen’s face, and he eyes the cup in my hand. “Drink.”
Wariness fills me. My House has still many enemies. “I’ve drunk my fair share today,” I hear myself say, and Bethen just snorts and raises his own wineglass to his lips and drinks deeply.
“I am not a poisoner, my prince.” Bethen sighs and brings a hand up to brush off the red drops beading around his lips. “I am hurt you wear that expression.”
“Natural habit,” I respond. I do not like Bethen Valont, but even I admit he does not have the stupidity to poison me in front of hundreds of watching eyes. I raise my own glass and drink, forgoing my earlier hesitations.
Bethen nods several times over, watching me drink. He looks at me with that lazy smile plastered onto his face, and then he suddenly draws very close, one gloved hand grabbing ahold of my shoulder. His fingers squeeze painfully. “If you ever touch my sister, I will have you gelded. I will have you die a slow death; one that you deserve.” His breath is hot and smells of wine; the smile remains on his face, yet it is all ice, and no warmth. “You hear me?”
I raise my free hand to my shoulder and remove Bethen’s hand from my shoulder. “You think to threaten me, a Kalidii. You overstep, Valont.”
Bethen keeps his voice perfectly neutral, as if we were discussing the weather. “What are you going to do, run back to your father? I’ve always reckoned you have no balls - you’ve always been more woman than man. Will you run back to your lord father with your tiny cock dangling between your legs?”
“My lord father will not hear of this,” I say evenly. “I could tell him, and he would have your head, but you would be right. That is cowardice. I do not need him.” I step forward, a dislike - no, a hate - filling my heart. Bethen is not as tall as me, but he is broad, and his eyes gleam with quiet cunning. He is a formidable man, but I remember his blood on my knuckles. I am not scared. Bethen Valont is a jealous man undeserving of his birth. “If you want blood, I am here. Your family departs in three days. Perhaps I will acquaint myself with your sister during that time. That is plenty of time to adjust to each other’s… certain preferences.”
Bethen’s chuckle is low and without humor. “When you die, you will not die like a Kalidii. You will not die like your lady mother, or your squabbling brother. You will die like an Astoma; a nobody. You will die alone and without notice. When you draw your last breath, you will hear your death rattle, and blood will cloud your throat and render breathing useless. I will be there, out of sight, but I will be there nonetheless, watching. Prince Calix will depart from this world and the world will not change in the slightest.”
From my peripheral, I see Valum watching.
I pat Bethen’s shoulder and smile. “Three days, Bethen. You have that long until your family returns to Trest. You know where to find me.” I step backwards and raise my voice. “Thank you for your kind words, Bethen. It has been a pleasure.”
I walk away, feeling Bethen’s gaze bore into my back, and note that I will sleep with a blade under my pillow tonight.
—------------
The rest of the night passes swiftly. I mingle in separate groups, sticking with Valum, and talk to sons and daughters akin to my own age. I share laughs with Lykan Laefon and jokes with Pierceton Armyni. The hours blur into a mass of smiles and stories, but the ballroom steadily empties as people return to their beds. Servants slip into the ballroom and start to clean the tables and pick up discarded napkins and wineglasses. My father departs the room, flanked by Rylan Valont and Vax Armyni; the three make a formidable sight, a clear picture of power. If my father is even capable of seeing people as friends instead of mere tools, those two would be the closest to meet the criteria. When my father slammed down Lymorian Astoma and ended the false king, he had help. Rylan’s men were the forces that made up the majority of Matyx’s legions during Realm’s Battle. Vax sailed his legions through the twisting straits of the Banhammer and decimated the remnants of Lymorian’s fleets, and what little power the Astoma commanded at sea sputtered and died. The Astoma ground legions soon followed when Matyx Kalidii smashed in Lymorian’s skull, uniting the Free States under his governance and ascending the throne. The Merger of the Free States.
The Realm has lived in a staggered peace since then, having quelled rebellions in the Reach and smashing scattered pockets of Astoma resistance throughout the corners of the Realm. Rogue bands frequent the middle states, burning and pillaging lightly-defended villages, running at the sight of any man with a sharp blade. Combat is not the only challenge the Realm faces. Whispers of the Astoma remain, even eleven years after Lymorian’s death. There had been many who believed that the Astoma lineage should ascend the throne, and not the Kalidii - some still share the sentiment that the Astoma are the rightful rulers of the Realm, being that Lymorian Astoma had been the one that fought off the incursion of the eastern continent of Mailynn, a warlike people who had long set their eyes upon the Realm. Prior to the Fool’s Rebellion, there had been no Realm - the land had been divided between various states, comprised of people who fought and warred at every minor inconvenience. The presence of Mailynn had spurred the states to band together - only together did the states have then men and power needed to repel the Eastern Shadow. Mailynn had slipped back to their continent, spurred by the sudden show of force, and the states had realized there were advantages that lay with co-existing with one another. The Realm was set in motion - boundary lines were developed, ships were built, trade was established, high lords and ladies raised and honored - but the Realm was missing one thing. A ruler. A king.
My father was widely known throughout the Realm during this time. Prior to the forming of the Realm, he had led the state that became the Capital. His was the most prosperous and luxurious of all the states, and that did not go unnoticed to many. He was a war hero, having sailed up to the Red Isle, smoking out the easterners who had set a foothold there. On that island alone did the Mailynn set foot before Matyx Kalidii descended on them with a vengeance. He grew popular with the soldiers, with the sailors - and Matyx had crowned himself King, deeming his homeland the golden jewel of the Realm, erecting the Citadel in all of its glory.
Elsewhere, Lymorian Astoma had thought him fit for the role. He had the backing of many of the northern states, and he had marched for the Capital with reckless abandon, leaving behind many men in his haste to recover the throne. My father had seen an end to that.
“See, that wasn’t all too bad,” Valum says, breaking me out of my thoughts. My brother wears his signature half-smile, and I can tell by the blush in his cheeks that he did not refrain from liquor. “Now, it is the best part. Wondrous sleep. And quiet. Cannot forget about that part.”
“Thank the gods. I thought I’d never get a chance to close my eyes and hear nothing at all.”
“Well, you may have to keep them open for a while longer,” Valum comments, and I follow his gaze to see Kylen stalking towards me, legs eating up ground with obvious intent. “Well. I should take my leave, then.” Valum gives me a mocking half-bow. “Welcome to manhood, dear brother.”
Kylen accompanies me as I walk back to my quarters. “Are the rumors true, then?” the Ventruvian girl asks. “You are to wed little Vira Valont?”
“Words were discussed.”
“A shame,” Kylen says, her voice dripping with disappointment. I glance over at the girl. She meets my gaze and gives a haughty smile. I can’t place the girl as genuine or not, and it bothers me. “To think you would wed before you experienced the pleasures of other things… or people.” Her fingers graze my left wrist, and I look at her irritably, all guise of politeness gone.
“Are you daft? I’m to wed Vira Valont. By tomorrow it will be all but settled. That is all there is to it. Seducing me will not change that, if that is your goal.”
The smile remains undeterred on Kylen’s face, and if one thing is for certain, the girl is relentless. “Can I ask my prince a question?”
“Fine.”
Her face turns serious. “Why did your father accept Lord Valont’s proposal? The two houses are already intertwined with Drakos’s and Lyn’s marriage, and they have a child on the way. To what benefit would it be to intermarry a second time? Why not look for other potential suitors… such as a family brokering the Guild, for instance.”
“My family has no need for your western assassins.”
“Please. We both know your father’s reign is not without challenge. Sohull hasn’t bent the knee, nor will they ever do so. The Rogue State repeatedly threw back the legions of the Realm’s, or have you forgotten? They will never accept your family as the Realm’s rightful rulers. They worship Lymorian Astoma far too much. Who knows what dark things could be transpiring behind those walls? Additionally, you have vagrant bands pillaging through the middle states, and your father’s legions have done nothing to stop those vagrants. So tell me, Calix, how is there no need for my Guild?”
I look sharply at her. “You’ll address me as your prince, Lady Kylen.”
Kylen takes the rebuke in good grace and lowers her head. “As you wish, my prince. My apologies.”
I look away from her, reaching the staircase that will lead to my quarters. I’m tired. So bloody tired. The last thing I want to do is hear an endless litany about the challenges the Realm faces. The only thing I want to do is to lay my head on my pillow and sleep endlessly, but I know I can only sleep a mere few - my father will expect my attendance at tomorrow’s brunch, and the time is already well past midnight. Wondrous sleep. I recall Valum’s words and snort in derision. Short sleep, more like.
“That does not change my previous comment,” Kylen says mildly. I’m in the midst of ascending the stairs three at a time, and I stop to look at her incredulously. She had fallen so silent I had thought she had taken her leave.
“What is there to talk about?”
“You do not find that strange? I understand that his Lordship is old friends with Rylan Valont, but to commit to such a life-altering decision… it only seems a bit rushed, is all I’m saying.”
“You do not know my father’s intentions, so don’t beguile yourself into thinking you do.”
“Of course, my prince. That is not what I meant. I’m sorry if that is what it seemed.”
“That’s not what it ‘seemed,’ that’s what you meant. Don’t prance around it.” I reach my quarters and breathe a sigh of relief. The night is finally over; as soon as I rid this shadow from my shoulder. I cast an irritable look over my shoulder, but Kylen’s smile merely widens further. I should allow a moment’s hesitation to insinuate that Kylen is welcome, and then throw the door in her face. If she will not heed my words, heavy oak will do the work for me.
Klorin Brasshand stands guard outside of my quarters. My bodyguard is an intimidating sight, standing well over six feet tall, with countless scars pockmarking his face. A heavy green cloak is clasped to one shoulder and falls to the carpet underfoot, piling into a heap of green cloth. He looks positively regal in his armor; all polished steel and burnished bronze. He wears only one gauntlet - his right hand is made of heavy brass, granting him his surname. Klorin always boasts about the nature of how he lost it; it had been severed by Cenn Astoma at Realm’s Battle, the false king’s eldest son, and Klorin always says that he would rather lose a hand than lose a head. Cenn No Head, Klorin would call him. He regularly would brandish his fearsome battleaxe and kiss the blade, mocking the fallen prince.
Klorin nods to me as I pass. “Prince Calix.”
“Klorin. Goodnight.” The guard opens the door, and I enter my bedroom. I turn to shut the door, but Kylen deftly slips through the opening and into my quarters. I stand there and feel a fool.
Kylen’s green eyes glitter in amusement. “Do you often bring ladies to your quarters at this hour, my prince? Your guardsman did not seem the least bit surprised.”
I just shake my head in disbelief. “You aren’t only daft; it appears you are also deaf and stupid. Or are you just incapable of following orders? You enter my room without permission. If I so wished, I could cause quite a spectacle between Lord Vastus and my own father. What if Klorin decides to tell all the lords and ladies tomorrow that you were here?” I know he wouldn’t, but Kylen has no way of knowing that. “They will think I bedded you and sullied Vira’s honor. How many more times must I say it? I have no need for you.” I should’ve told her off at the door. Klorin would’ve gotten the hint. I still could, but…
“I like the prospect of a challenge,” Kylen says, and her smile is less infuriating now. My room is dark, backlit by only my reading light, and I cannot deny the girl’s beauty. She is tall, nearly as tall as me, and the ornate green of her dress captivates her figure in all of the right places. My eyes drift briefly across the swell of her breasts, and Kylen notices. Her smile grows sly, and I feel a stirring in my groin. “A challenge makes the blood hot… and the act grows more pleasurable.”
I turn, trying to hide the blush in my cheeks. “You embarrass yourself like this, acting like a common whore. The Ventruvian line is above such things.”
“What things? Like fucking a prince?” She cocks her head. “I think every lady in the realm dreams of such a prospect, don’t you? Many men, as well, if I will be honest.” She laughs. “Highborn, or lowborn, all ladies wish for the same.”
“Leave. I will not tell you again.” My voice is curt, and I grow frustrated because I cannot deny that the girl entices me, and it irritates me. I’m angry at the involuntary response of my manhood; only one woman should incite that excitement. I am not like Drakos, who fucks anything with a hole between their legs. Kylen is beautiful, yes, but she is not the one I want.
She looks at me for a long moment, studying my half-turned face, and I think she is going to press the matter, but she only gives a faint smile, this one of defeat. Heeding my rejection, she lowers into a curtsy.
“Of course, my prince. I’m sorry if I-” She breaks off suddenly, her eyes widening at something behind my shoulder, and she lunges forward. Her hand catches my shoulder and pushes me into a nearby table, knocking over cups and plates from my early breakfast, sending the glass shattering on the floor. I land on a heap and gasp at the sudden pain that blossoms in my ribs - I landed on an upturned table leg. I draw in a rattling breath, and pain explodes through my lungs, my breath coming short and fast. I’ve cracked a rib, I think, in a daze. But why? Kylen pushed me. She saw something… something behind me. My thoughts come jumbled and confused, unable to make sense of things, and then Kylen screams and the door bangs open and Klorin bursts into the room, shouting a warcry, double-sided battleaxe in hand.
Light pours into the room from the open door, and I see a dark figure crouched over Kylen’s thrashing body, the unmistakable outline of a blade in hand. The figure slashes at Kylen, then turns and leaps towards me, hands outstretched; I fumble for the knife at my waist, but my fingers are slow in my shock. I look up into the eyes of my killer as the blade swings down towards my neck, and I utter a soundless scream.
I’m going to die. Gods, I’m going to die, I’m going to die. Why? Not like this, not like this… so… pointless.
Klorin’s axe smashes into the shadow, and the knife drops mere centimeters from my carotid artery, falling into my lap. Warm liquid sprays my face. I hastily squirm away from the blade, batting it away with panicked hands. It drops to the floor with a muffled thud. Blood drips from my nose and coagulates at my chin; the assassin smashes into the edge of my bed and slumps on the floor, growing still.
Klorin rushes towards the prone figure and promptly slices his axeblade through the man’s neck, beheading him. The head rolls across the room and thumps against a wooden stool. A crash sounds by the window past my headboard, and a dark shape slips over the lip of the window and into the night below. Klorin lunges, sweeping his weapon in a wide arc, but misses the figure by mere inches. He leans out the window, peering down into the courtyard below. I hear the hurried sounds of retreating footsteps, and Klorin draws a deep breath.
“ATTACK!” Klorin roars into the courtyard, his powerful lungs radiating his words so loudly I think all of the Capital must’ve heard his words. “MAN IN THE COURTYARD! AN ASSASSIN! HE TRIED TO KILL THE PRINCE! AN ATTEMPT TO KILL THE PRINCE! FIND HIM! FIND HIM!”
Klorin rushes away from the window and searches the rest of the bedroom, checking the washroom, under the bed, and slamming open cabinets and upending furniture. There is no one else. Only the one dead on the floor, and the one that hurled himself out of the window. It was quite a drop - I find it hard to believe the man had not broken something in the fall. Startled shouts echo throughout the courtyard below, and I know that fellow guardsmen have heard Klorin’s word and rushed to the yard. The perpetrator cannot escape, not now.
Klorin hurries to my side, panting. “My prince, are you hurt?” He reaches for my face. “Is this your blood?”
I’m mute. I shake my head as realization slowly dawns. Someone tried to kill me. Someone tried to kill me and end my life. My blood roars in my temples, my tongue loosens, and my fury arises. Someone tried to kill me. Who would dare? I am a Kalidii; I am untouchable. To act against me is to incur the wrath of my lord father, his legions, and the entirety of the Realm.
And yet someone tried to kill me, and they would have succeeded, if not for…
“Kylen,” I rasp. Every word is an agony. “Help Kylen, help her, and quickly, and find that damn son of a bitch that leapt out the window. Do not kill him. I want him alive. I want him alive.”
Klorin nods and rushes over to the girl. She lays curled in a ball, hands clutching the large gash in her stomach, her eyes glossy with shock. I force myself to a crawl, my ribs crying, the blood pounding so hard in my temples that I think my head will explode. Klorin rips off his thick cloak and wraps it around the girl, stemming the flow of blood, and rises to his feet.
“The wound is shallow,” he tells me. “Stay with her, I will fetch a physician.” He departs the room, heavy footsteps echoing in the empty hall, and his thunderous shouts shake the very foundation of the Citadel.
“Kylen,” I whisper. “Can you hear me?”
Jade eyes lock onto mine, and the glossy sheen overlapping them slowly fades as lucidity returns. “My prince,” she murmurs. “I am stabbed.” Her voice is monotone, quiet, as if she doesn't believe that the blood seeping from her wound and onto her hands is her own.
“It appears so.” I fold over Klorin’s cloak and check the extent of the wound. My hand comes back red and bloody. Her gown is drenched - how could this only be a surface wound? She bleeds so much! Is this usual for a stomach wound? I rack my brain for some recalling in my studies of human anatomy, but my wits abandon me.
I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting a headless corpse to rise behind me, dagger in hand, or for the other to return, but the room is quiet and still.
Kylen’s face is pale. “Am I going to die?”
I hurriedly shake my head. “No, no. Klorin says it’s just a scratch, you’ll see.” I press the cloak to her stomach, and she winces in pain, but she does not cry out. To my relief, the flow of blood slows to a trickle, and then staunches completely.
“You see? It’s shallow, the blade did not penetrate deeply.” My voice is thick with relief. I look at Kylen’s face, and a wave of sudden affection swamps me. She saved my life - the assassins must’ve been lying in wait. I shudder at the thought of the dark figures lying prone in my quarters, waiting for me to drop my guard so daggers could slice my throat. If Kylen did not pursue me, or jump to shove me out of harm's way, I would be as lifeless as the headless corpse strewn at the foot of my bed. Insurmountable gratitude rises within me.
“I will see that my father rises the Ventruvian line to the highest honors,” I say. “You will be given new lands, and titles for all sons and daughters, and the strongest metals from Steelrun and the most delicate spices from the Reach. And you will have-”
“I have no brothers… or sisters,” Kylen says, then she gasps. “It burns. Oh, gods, it burns.”
It’s then I notice that the assassin’s knife is lying only a few meters from me, half-concealed under a shard of plate. I reach for it with shaking hands and grasp the hilt, drawing it into full light. The hilt is black and twisted in the likeness of a smiling skull, the blade six inches long, double-sided and jagged, of the same color of the hilt. The blade is red with Kylen’s blood, but the blood is not the only liquid shining - some purple substance drips from the blade, coagulating with red blood. My blood chills. I recognize the poison. Every man, woman, and child in the Realm knows the signature purple of plaguevenom.
Kylen will surely die, and her death will be agony of the highest extreme. Kylen begins to cry. Shouts emit down the hall, and Klorin returns with a myriad of soldiers and physicians in his wake, all shouting over each other. My lord father appears, kneeling next to me, eyes scanning my body for injury. Concern shows in his gaze. I don’t register the unfamiliar emotion in my father’s eyes. I look back at Kylen, who is screaming, her limbs spasming as the poison takes hold of her.
The light catches the skull in the dagger’s hilt, and dead, bony lips twist and laugh.