-- Vanni –

The king was a rotting, old bastard of a figurehead.

Despite his lineage, or perhaps because of it, Vanni liked calling people bastards. There was something deeply satisfying about pasting the label, used with such vitriol against himself, on people who actually deserved it.

In any case, he had to keep himself from wrinkling his nose as he entered the throne room. There was no literal scent of decaying flesh, but the king metaphorically matched the description so well that it provoked a visceral reaction for the [Incipient Tyrant].

The king looked down on his son with all the apathy of housewife before an anthill; still in debate as to whether the infestation is close enough to her house to destroy. His robes hung heavily on his wiry, stooped frame—it was not long ago that he’d been the absolute specimen that had seduced Vanni’s mother, but age had taken its toll. Even a [King]’s allotment of Charisma wasn’t enough.

Vanni’s progenitor had never levelled very high in that class, anyways (take from that observation what you will, but don’t mention it in the palace).

Courtiers and advisors surrounded the throne. They were a mix of yes-men and competent liars.

The room smelled of overbearing wealth: metallic hints of gold and platinum and anything else shiny, the smell of polish on a tiled floor that was elaborate enough to be a mosaic, perfume hanging heavy like rotting fruit, nose-itching dust stored in the tiny grooves and pockets inevitable with such intricate decorations, even their makeup gave off a hot-clay scent in the heat.

Servants in grey, loose clothing looked cool in comparison as they beat the air with massive fans.

Vanni would burn this room, and the people in it, to the ground someday. Melt it into slag if possible.

He’d loot the place first, though. No need to waste resources.

The king gestured to his son to come forward.

“You have helped in the financial department.” Vanni’s progenitor noted, “So I will listen to your request.”

‘Helped’ was an understatement, the place had been in absolute chaos and leaking money like sieve, but Vanni didn’t comment on it. He’d known it was a thankless job when signing on—that was part of the point. Palace-dwellers overlooked the power in wrangling budgets, and that made it a massive, exploitable weakness for the illegitimate prince to latch on to.

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Vanni bowed deeply.

“I ask for the Scoop.”

A murmur ran through the court.

‘The Scoop’ was generally referred to as ‘our late stronghold,’ ‘the place of our ancestors’ or other polite euphemisms in the palace. Nevertheless, nearly everyone dismissed it when it came to power; it was a non-entity politically, and too shadowed by the mountain to produce enough crops to make the land profitable. It belonged to the king, technically, but there was no governor and was generally left to the old sects.

But it had a certain cultural relevance.

The Old Palace had once been looked at with scorn for being ‘old fashioned,’ but had lately been viewed more charitably as part of their ‘honored history.’ There were even some nobles forming expeditionary teams for the sake of ‘intellectual discovery’ and their own reputation. The old sects, as well, were viewed as ‘retro’ and ‘charming’ among the elite (although none of them followed the old gods religiously). Even the Scoop itself—a geographical phenomenon, wherein a massive scoop of rock had been displaced somehow from the rest of the mountain, leaving a sizable indent—was considered an excellent ‘fallback position’ strategically; many of the warhawks had been using that to justify more confident aggression.

To hand over control of it felt significant, no matter the actual consequences.

The king snorted. “What nonsense. I’ll give you one more chance, request something else.”

Vanni bowed lower. He carefully relaxed his jaw so that he wouldn’t grind his teeth.

“My liege—” And didn’t those words burn in his mouth, lies or not, “—I am the only one among my brothers who does not have a territory. Would you have me ask for another land?”

The court fell silent. It was traditional for every prince to have some title to fall back on—it reduced struggles for power when it came to succession. If every ‘heir’ had a chance to live well without being [King], it reduced the desperation of the struggle.

And currently, every royal-owned lands other than the Scoop would grant Giovanni, the royal bastard, some kind of power.

“Are you accusing me of negligence?” The king huffed.

Vanni shook his head, staying bowed low. “I would never accuse, my liege,” By Laurus, that title was sour, a loyalty he hated to even pretend. “This is but a humble request.”

A request that, if rejected, would make the king look negligent—or worse, intentionally disrespectful of tradition.

“Hm.” The king narrowed his eyes at his son. Silence tingled in the tiny hairs on the back of Vanni’s neck. Then the old bastard laughed.

“I jest.” He chuckled, “Of course you should have the Scoop—what better gift than one rooted in emotion for the son of my beloved lover?”

Ice ran in Vanni’s veins.

That ‘beloved lover’ had been killed by the king’s orders.

He lost track of the murderer’s speech. Only gathered that his request for the Scoop had been granted. Made it outside the court, outside the scent of rotting minds and rotting wealth and rotting morals.

Took deep breaths. In. Out. His mask of a naïve prince would have covered any blank-faced response to the ‘gift.’ It was alright. He was safe.

And, with his new source of endless wealth—that was what people forgot about dungeons, the money—he would exact bloody revenge.