Chloe lounged on a wooden armchair that was all the rage. The rigid, ever-so-expensive wood made her back ache. Presumably, it was too busy being all the rage to worry about silly little things like comfort.
"Hensworth!" She called out.
From the other side of the room, a man who had about the same presence as wallpaper seemed to materialize from thin air. He had always been there, of course, but had a way of fading into the background.
That's what she liked about him.
"Ma'am?" Hensworth strode over to her, unable to hide his eager smile.
"Don't look so excited, you pervert," Chloe snapped, pouring some icy cold water on his burning passion. "Remind me why we bought this piece of shit chair again?"
As if to make a point, she shifted awkwardly, her comfort not increasing by a single molecule.
"It's for good posture, Ma'am," Hensworth said apologetically. "Shall I have the chair removed?"
"Hm…" Chloe frowned, biting her bottom lip as she tended to do when thinking. "Does Alton have a chair like this?"
Hensworth glanced sideways, not meeting her eye. The man was bookish, practically a skeleton in a suit. His face was narrow and long, with hair retreating far back from his temples as though allergic to his forehead. He sported a bushy moustache and had the air of a man who knew something about everything.
"What is it?" Chloe asked, sitting upright.
"Well, ma'am…"
"Yes?"
"I hear your brother has taken to standing recently. Apparently, he feels sitting in anything is bad for one's posture."
Chloe's eyebrows knitted together as she scowled. "Why the fuck would standing help with your posture?"
"I expect it might, Ma'am."
"Yeah!?" She glared at the butler. "Well, Alton doesn't have to wear heels!"
"Ma'am, you don't have to stand just becau-"
"Oh! I forgot I had an expert on royal politics here! Please, enlighten me."
Hensworth looked down at his feet miserably.
"You know as well as I do that if he is seen standing and I am seated – I'll look like some spoiled fucking cow." Chloe sighed. "Is there any chance you could get a pair of heels that don't try and smush all my toes into one big lump?"
"I-I'll get right on it, ma'am."
Hensworth bustled backwards and strode across the lavish room to the door. Just as he reached for the brass handle, the overdesigned wooden monstrosity slammed open, crushing him against the wall.
Two men hurtled in, both of them sweating profusely. One had a prominent pot belly and embarrassing comb-over that did little to preserve the last shred of dignity he had lost years ago. Or, knowing him, he had probably sold that last shred for a discount price.
The other was short and thin. At first glance, he looked like a lost street urchin, with ruffled clothes and a wild, unkempt demeanour. He had eyes that never seemed to stop wandering and hands a little too nimble for someone who worked in the palace.
Both men rushed towards Chloe, breathing with about the same output as a steam train.
"The ceremony…" The portly one wheezed.
Chloe's eyes scanned from him to the shifty-looking man.
"Happening, now…" The second man gasped, his eyes swivelling around the grandiose room like a kid in a sweet shop.
Chloe blinked a few times, glancing back and forth between the two men and Hensworth, who looked like he'd need to be scraped off the wall with a shovel.
"What ceremony!?" She snapped. "Do you have any idea how many bloody ceremonies I go to? There was one for my fourth fucking cousin's choir last week! My breakfast is a fucking ceremony!"
The two men had already doubled over with their hands on their knees. It looked like they had run a marathon, realized they had taken a wrong turn at some point and been forced to run all the way back again. Seeing that they were in no state to reply, Chloe just glared at them, hoping that the sheer magnitude of her anger would squeeze a few words out of their remains.
From the doorway came the sound of distant footsteps echoing down the palace's cavernous hallways. They were unhurried, as though the owner of said footsteps were on a jaunty stroll.
Soon, a tall figure strode through the doorway, glancing around the room, bemused.
He had a grizzled, weather-beaten look, with greying hair and the sunken eyes of a man who had seen one too many things. He wore battered leather clothing, covered in so many patches the original material had long been lost to time.
Something about his thoroughly unhurried appearance frustrated Chloe.
"I assume you know what these two are blithering on about," she snapped.
The man smiled, revealing wolfishly sharp teeth. "I do indeed. It's the ceremony."
Chloe rolled her eyes. "Yes, but what ceremony?"
"THE ceremony."
Chloe's mind ran through every event it could possibly be and kept coming to one single, horrible conclusion. Of course, it couldn't be that ceremony. She would have been told…
She looked up at the panicked men and remembered exactly who her brother was.
No. She wouldn't have been told.
She rose from the ghastly chair and took a deep breath, readying herself for what was to come.
"It wouldn't be…" she stared daggers at the relaxed man. "It wouldn't be my Bestowment… would it?"
The two panting men nodded vigorously.
Rage started to bubble up in Chloe's stomach, and she felt like she had just swallowed a lump of burning coal.
"It is?" She asked, her voice unnervingly even.
All three men nodded.
Chloe took a deep breath and counted to ten as images of her brother's head on a stick popped periodically into her mind.
"Right," she said, glancing down at the heels that were torture to wear. "They are holding my own Bestowment without me… I see."
If her mood could be described in terms of weather, then right then, it was whatever the child of a hurricane and tsunami would be.
Chloe took off running.
She bolted out of the room, straight past Hensworth, who lay slumped by the door. On her way by, she kicked his outstretched foot, shouting - "Get Up!"
As she ran down the hallway, her bare feet slapping against cold marble floors, Chloe imagined the palace's layout in her mind, planning the best route. Should she cut across the gardens barefoot? If she wanted to make it to the chapel on time, yes.
She made up her mind quickly and kept running, hearing distant footsteps behind her as the two exhausted men and Hensworth - who had miraculously revived upon her command – chased after her. There was no sign of the other man, Gaul, but that was to be expected. He wouldn't run for anything.
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Except perhaps to get out of running a further distance later on.
Hensworth had a terrible bruise swelling up on his forehead, the likes of which Chloe had never seen before and seemed oblivious to the constant stream of blood flowing from his nose. The other two men huffed and puffed as they ran, sweat streaming down their faces.
The palace they ran through was, for lack of a better word, airy. It had presumably been designed for giants, as every ceiling was high enough for three men to comfortably stand on each other's shoulders.
Grand paintings lined the walls, often depicting gruesome battles where silly locals tried to keep their land. Aside from war, there were also paintings of past royals and famous figures.
The position of these paintings was always in contention.
For example, the current regent would put their portrait right at the palace entrance and shift the portraits of whoever they didn't like to some far-off corner of the palace. Then, when they died, their painting would be relocated to some dusty old attic and replaced with the headshot of the new regent.
This was a cyclical process that Chloe found rather childish.
That being said, she had fought tooth and nail to get her picture in the dining hall. There was an odd sense of satisfaction in knowing she got to look down her nose at every guest who dined in the palace.
She ran past many famous figures on her way through the winding halls, thundering down an endless labyrinth of twisting corridors.
Soon, she arrived at a door leading to the gardens. She flung it open and jumped down onto a gravel path with a surprised grunt.
"Fuck."
She awkwardly walked to the other side of the path, finally reaching the grass. From there, she tore through the garden, running alongside blooming flower beds arranged in stunning ornate patterns.
The garden filled the centre of the palace, with tall spires rising on every side. The towering walls were made from dark stone and covered in thick battlements and narrow windows where archers could rain down arrows on any foolish gardener who grew flowers in a treasonous pattern… probably.
By this point, Chloe was so far ahead of her entourage she couldn't even hear them anymore.
Ahead, a wide archway led back into the palace. She ran straight through it and blasted down the long corridor that ended in tall cathedral doors. The vast doors stood ajar, and she could see candlelights flickering from within.
The soft drone of chanting murmured down the corridor.
They had begun without her.
Chloe swore to have the Bishop executed when she was queen and pushed on, running with the enthusiasm only greed can muster.
She barrelled through the doorway and into a long chapel.
Hundreds of wooden pews packed with white-robed priests all slowly turned to stare at her. The front pews were full of many important figures, all of whom would be dead once she was queen.
The head Bishop stood beneath an enormous chandelier at the front of the chapel, silhouetted by an intricate mural of a man holding a brown bowl. He wore black robes inlaid with gold and carried a silver sceptre that ended in a huge opal.
The Bishop looked down his nose at her, peering past a pair of miniature spectacles.
"You're late, your highness." His voice was like a bucket of iced water being poured over Chloe's head. Her burning anger was doused and replaced by cold, calculated fury.
Beside the Bishop stood a tall man with broad shoulders and striking blonde hair. He had eyes that seemed to bore right through whatever they looked at and the chiselled jaw of a hero. If he were a horse, he would have been well-bred.
"What kept you, sis?" He asked.
Chloe didn't like the lilting way he said 'sis'. It had always grated on her nerves when he called her that, but right then, it was particularly egregious.
"Oh…" She paused to catch her breath. "I had an important meeting with…" She looked around the room, realizing that anyone she could possibly have had a meeting with was already in there with her.
"Yes?" Her brother egged her on. The bastard.
"I was…" A thousand faces flashed through Chloe's mind, none suitable for an excuse.
At that very moment, Hensworth and the other two men burst into the chapel, heaving for air. Chloe took one look at Hensworth and started talking.
"I was meeting with an etiquette expert. He informed me that sitting in anything is bad for one's posture."
"Ferdinand?" Her brother asked.
"Yes?" Chloe had no idea who he was talking about.
"Is that a question?"
"No?" She shook her head, not even quite sure what she was talking about anymore.
It looked like Alton wanted to say something more, but the Bishop had grown fed up with their inane chatter and smashed the pommel of his sceptre onto the floor. A resounding bang rippled through the church, quieting the murmuring pews and panting men.
"Shall we proceed?" He asked. It was more of a statement than a question, as though any answer other than yes would be wrong.
Chloe bit her lip and nodded, awkwardly walking through the centre of the chapel to where her brother and the Bishop were standing. She lined up beside her brother, and they both stood opposite the Bishop with a wide metal bowl between them.
The bowl was more of a troth than a standard bowl size-wise, with it being big enough to wash a dog in. Within the bowl lay a silvery liquid that seemed to move and ooze all on its own, with rainbow patterns swirling atop the surface of the liquid like an oil slick.
"Ahem," the Bishop cleared his throat, and every eye in the room landed on him. "As I said earlier – before Princess Chloe deigned to grace us with her presence – we are gathered here today for the Bestowment of royal blessings."
He thrust his sceptre high above his head, waving it like a conductor's baton. "With the tragic passing of King Harnet, we are a kingdom without leadership, a nation with no rudder, a ship with no captain." His voice boomed through the church with a soft, hypnotic tone that drew in everyone who heard it.
"We are bereaved!" He cried, thrusting the sceptre high into the air. "To replace Harnet with an unworthy successor would tarnish his legacy. Thus - we must test his heirs' mettle."
He brought his sceptre down firmly, flourishing it at the deep basin the siblings stood beside. "This holy liquid can only be activated by royal blood and will gather to form a suitable weapon or tool for these fine regents-to-be."
Chloe eyed the silvery liquid eagerly, the naked flame of greed flickering within her gaze. She had heard many stories of what previous royals received and could only imagine how mighty her Bestowment would be.
"With these Bestowments, the two heir hopefuls will spend a year using their newfound royal abilities to better the kingdom and gather the support of its citizens."
Alton gave her a smug sideways glance.
She wished she could turn his head sideways.
"After the year is up, we citizens of Rostic will gather outside the mighty walls of the capital and cheer for whichever of the two heirs has done the most good."
The chapel started to fill with murmurs as people speculated on which of the two might win.
Not many suggested Chloe.
Fewer did so as anything other than a joke.
"Thus, by the will of the people…" The Bishop hoisted his staff towards Chloe and Alton, sweat dripping down his face. "The next regent will be chosen!"
Silence filled the chapel like thick, impenetrable smog. None could quite find the nerve to break the tension, so they all sat in quiet observation, watching as the Bishop glided towards the basin.
"Alton, are you ready?" He asked.
Alton nodded - an almost lustful twinkle in his eye.
The Bishop turned slowly to Chloe, his gaze penetrating. "And you, Chloe. Are you ready?"
She nodded, her mouth set in a grim line.
"Then stretch out your hands."
Doing as told, the pair reached out, holding their hands palm down above the basin. The silver liquid within rose slightly, like iron filings being drawn to a magnet.
The Bishop's hand flashed, and two small cuts opened on the palms of their hands. There was no pain as blood fell from Chloe's hand into the basin. Only excitement.
When the dark red liquid touched the rainbow swirls on the surface, it burrowed straight through, sinking into the silvery murk. Soon, the liquid began to bubble, morphing into different shapes and tools as though cycling through every possible option.
Chloe watched the process nervously. She knew what she wanted, or rather, she knew what she didn't want. A weapon. She couldn't fight and had Gaul to do that for her. She needed something that would help her in a different, more spiritual way.
It seemed that the liquid knew this, as every tool it formed on her side of the basin aired more towards things with practical use. Her brother often got swords, shields and spears – but her selection was decidedly more esoteric.
Finally, after a few silent minutes - where all that could be heard was the soft slosh of the liquid - two solid objects rose from within the basin.
The first and perhaps most eye-catching was a broad sword almost nine feet in length. It looked like a girder with a handle, and Chloe doubted her brother would ever be able to lift such a monstrously large sword, although the broad grin on his face signalled otherwise.
"Ah," the Bishop muttered, gesturing to the enormous sword as it rose, hilt first, from the basin. "The giant slayer – Extroder – a fine sword indeed. He who wields it draws strength from those slain by the mighty blade's edge."
Alton reached out and grasped the handle, hefting the sword like its great weight was only theoretical.
Chloe stopped paying attention to Alton around the same time her Bestowment fully formed. It was an intricate brooch made from a lifelike purple rose inlaid with gold.
"And the Catold, an interesting tool, to be sure." The Bishop watched the brooch with a hesitant, calculating gaze. "This tool can read the thoughts of those in its presence and even influence them to some degree. A powerful weapon in politics, to be sure."
Chloe froze as she reached out for the brooch, slowly turning her head to glare poisonous daggers at the Bishop.
"And why the fuck would you say that here?" She hissed, her voice low and threatening.
As if to prove her point, the room behind her grew even more quiet, eerily so.
The Venn diagram of people involved in royal politics and people who really didn't want their minds read was almost entirely the same.
As if to rub salt in the wound, the Bishop smiled and spun on the spot. He strode out of the room with purpose, his luxurious black robe swirling behind him like shadows given physical form.
Shortly following his departure, the room was calm.
Not the sort of comforting calm found at a spa, but the kind that came before a storm.
Chloe picked up the brooch, placing it on her lapel, and slowly, like a turning ship, she spun to face the gathered attendants.
They all looked at her suspiciously as though wondering if that very moment was too soon to have her assassinated.
"Ahem," she cleared her throat awkwardly. "Well, if that is all, I would like to thank everyone for coming. I'm sure my late father would have been proud to see so many of you here to support us."
Of course, she didn't point out that they had no choice.
"Quite," Alton said with a nod. "Before everyone departs, I just wanted to say that my door is always open if you need any help." He hoisted his sword to make a point.
The room was filled with cheerful chatter and a chorus of thanks.
Chloe scowled at him and nodded. "Likewise."
“…”
No one seemed particularly eager to go anywhere near Chloe.
"Well," she muttered, staring down at the rose on her lapel. "Shit."