The snowstorm is persistent. The coronation has already been delayed by a day at this point. A great number of people, thousands of them, have defied the cutting wind and now stand outside the castle. The people have gathered because they’ve been told a new king is to be crowned today. People hug their own bodies to keep a modicum of warmth, to little avail. Eventually, the gathered crowd is rewarded for their persistence. The gates to the grand castle swings open and out walks a number of well-dressed men and women.

The crown prince walks at the head of the formation. To his right is his grandmother Katyla. Her grey hair and wrinkles speak of her age yet her eyes and straight back shows she have some fire in her still. At the left side of the prince is Marquis Jorn Trimstedt, a man of average hight and a bald head. He sports a well-maintained brown beard. Adjacent to them all is a man who attracts attention. Despite the blistering cold he wears only a large fur draped around his shoulders. The black paint around his eyes makes his blue eyes more pronounced. Although, more pronounced still is the large axe he carries. He is well known to the crowd already; they know him as Ruldan the High Priest of Sleighbor. There are more people of note following in their liege’s footsteps.

A moment of silence descends over the capital. The prince watches his subjects from atop a podium and his subjects watch the prince.

The prince clears his throat. “People of Kalixen. The king, my father, passed away during his campaign to the west. As his heir to the throne, I will follow in his footsteps and lead you to a bright future.” The wind worked against the prince, almost muting him completely. He couldn’t help a small sigh from escaping his lips.

Silence, except for the wind, once again prevailed. The large muscular priest signal for someone to come. A man with a large black bull came from the castle.

Ruldan raise his axe to the sky. “Today we shall declare this young pup a king. For this young’un isn’t just any pup but the descendant of the great king Kristofer I!”

The crowd have no trouble hearing his voice and they respond in kind. Ruldan continues: “His grandfather Kristofer I was the bulwark against the fucking shitholes of the west and his father Kristofer II died while keeping them at bay.”

The atmosphere grows agitated at the mention of the enemy, many people scream various foul things against the people of Brockmark. The axe-wielding priest puts up a hand to silence the crowd and looks to his prince. The crown prince of Kalixen remember the well-rehearsed routine of how the coronation was to be. He slowly goes to one knee and looks solemnly towards the thousands of people in the crowd. His grandmother smoothly walks up to him. She is offered a crown resting on a pillow from one of the attendants. With slow and steady hands she place the crown on the head of the prince.

The rambunctious priest takes this opportunity to walk to his sacrifice. Within the span of a single breath one can see the large axe firmly implanted in the neck of the bull. Despite his obvious strength he was unable to decapitate the bull in one fell swoop so he goes for another try. This time the bulls head rolls, completely separated from its body. The blood of the beast paints the ground and some of the unfortunate onlookers. One woman in particular stand with a horrified expression as her face is covered in blood. The priest himself was covered in blood but that hardly seemed to slow him down. Ruldan ceremoniously received a chalice from an attendant. He pressed it against the bleeding neck. It was filled to the brim quickly.

Ruldan kneeled before his still kneeling prince and offered him the chalice. The prince accepted it and struggled to not make a face at the blood. This part of the ceremony was his least favoured but his father had said it wasn’t so bad. His father was wrong. The thick blood was disgusting to drink. He gulped it down as quick as he could muster without vomiting. When that was completed Ruldan marked the prince with blood. Eyelids, cheeks, chin.

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All the nobles and people of note now kneeled and bent their heads down. Ruldan moved away a few meters and did the same. This was it. This is the moment. As the people around the prince kneeled the people in the crowd followed and they too went down on one knee. As everyone present was on their knees the crown prince rose. He was a crown prince no more.

“I am Kristofer III of Kalixen, your king.” A momentary easing of the weather allowed the kings voice to carry for the first time this day.

Ruldan yelled out: “Long live the King!” Everyone else followed the high priest’s lead and as one the crowd chanted. “Long live the king, long live the king, long live the king!”

The lowest level of the castle is reserved as a mausoleum for the kings and queens of Kalixen. Well, primarily for the kings and queens but their children have a place to rest here too. The former crown prince, the one who is now hailed as King of Kalixen, comes here often. Kristofer III can’t help but touch the golden crown resting on his head. The same crown depicted on the grave of his father.

“You died from pneumonia on your way home after defeating your enemy. I’m sure you would have much preferred to die by a sword.”

Kristofer reverently touches the stone impression of Kristofer II. Just like Kristofer I, he is depicted with a sword in hand. War. The young king shakes his head slowly. He is tall but with a lanky figure. His royal garb was made especially for him but he still finds it a tad large. He could almost infer a small critique of his thin frame because it felt like he could drown in his own clothes. The crown is too heavy. The golden chain with the sigil of Kalixen is too bulky.

“aahh.. Father, why’d you have to die so soon. I’m only fifteen winters.”

The grave remained silent to the whispering voice of the king. An echo gave an eerie aspect to the otherwise beautiful mausoleum. Lit torches on the walls cast flickering shadows. There had been a time when the king found this place terrifying. If the terror stemmed from dancing shadows or from the gruesome notion that his mother’s remains was here is uncertain, probably a bit of both.

“I’m not like you, you know. Your way of..” He stopped. What’s the point?

Kristofer bent down so his forehead touched the chest of the king of stone. “Your death was not in vain. Your victory over Brockmark will give us respite from war. Because of your victory I will..”

He paus for a moment. Footsteps. Lady Katyla appear in the doorway.

“The feast in your honour is underway and here you are talking to the dead.”

She walks over to stand beside Kristofer. “My son was a good king. A bit rash and no one would accuse him of being intelligent but I’m proud of him.”

Kristofer offers no immediate response. A dinner where he is supposed to look regal and happy. He feels neither at this moment.

Katyla continues. “As I’m proud of you, my grandchild. I’m not worried because I know you have enough between the ears to safeguard our realm.”

Katyla knows her grandchild well enough so she knows how to prod him.

“I’m not worried about intelligence, Katyla and you know it. I’m worried that I’ll be too weak to be a proper king, like he was.” Kristofer’s fingers tap on the stone representation of the last king.

Katyla shakes her head. “It’s not your destiny to be a king like your father and you know it already, you will be something else.”

“Yes.. But what if that’s not enough? What if..” Katyla change from a sweet yet sharp old grandma to a strict and sharp old grandma. “No more what if. It serves no point. You will be what you are, no more and no less. You will do what you can, no more and no less. Understood?”

Kristofer III of Kalixen accept katyla’s words. He has dreamed of his coronation for years. He has played with the many possible scenarios of what he could do to improve the land. This is different. This isn’t a game in his head anymore.

“Now, let’s head up and eat. Perhaps his majesty is in the mood for some bull?”

Kristofer’s grimace summons a heartly laughter from the woman.