It is a foggy afternoon at Myriad Palace, a hallmark of Raskidon’s architecture. Brick curtain walls surround a mostly rectangular building. Its shape is rendered somewhat irregular by the need to incorporate towers for defense and to maximize the use of even building space. The fog may take away from the exquisiteness of the ocean view such a high promontory would normally provide. But the palace stands where it does in preparation for an arduous last stand. A well-read strategist would see the need to siege the capital city, march uphill towards the palace, and siege that as well. Having an entire army attempt to scale other faces of the cliff was unthinkable. It would mean bypassing the artificial defenses by overcoming the sturdier natural defenses. Choosing a location where fog was both ubiquitous and constant brought additional reassurance to the first Czars that had been faced with their empire’s downfall.
Such drastic measures were taken for a simple reason. Raskidon’s Czars have shaped their outlook on the life of their domain around one looming disaster: it will one day outlive its usefulness in the eyes of its overlord. As the tributes that Raskidon’s larger neighbour, Poqdovia, increase, so too have the forceful seizures of produce. Czars pilfered from their peasants first, then stole more as time went on. This was far from enough, and they seized land from feudal lords as well, a path they had avoided in fear of them raising armies against Raskidon. And should the current or future Czar be forced to amplify this course of action; his greatest enemies would be within his borders.
In the palace lives Donik, along with his sons, concubines, security, and servants. The Czar is now fifty-six years old. His hair retains shoulder length despite pattern baldness just above his temples and grey streaks showing his age. A prominent mole on his lower right eyelid is the first feature to stand out when people meet him. Donik has now spent five years with gout and two with tuberculosis. He is well aware of how close the end of his reign is. It brings him some degree of relief. The languishing czardom will no longer be his problem. His sole concern lies with the gavelkind system. Having a new Czar accede to the Raskidon throne usually entails a few years of civil war. Donik himself waged one for ten before securing his position. Poqdovian rulers were always eager to capitalize off of their neighbour’s assailable state and offered to intervene on behalf of the claimant who promised the most concessions. The civil wars became bidding wars and played a major role in why paying tribute became an overwhelming expense for the nation.
Czar Donik believes he finally has a plan to break the cycle. At the very least, he feels he has nothing to lose by implementing it, despite the great peril it will bring his children. Donik instructs his guards to assemble them all at the throne room. He contemplates how they will all react to his unprecedented idea. The bond the Czar has with most of his children is fairly limited, a choice too deliberate for him to describe as neglect. As is typical of Raskidon Czars, Donik was quick to betroth any daughters he had to important figures in other countries. He only bothered naming them because at least that much was expected, much less raising them himself before offering them to these new families. They are likely happier and safer than his sons, though. They spend their whole lives learning how to be diplomats, military strategists, statesmen, and political theorists. Their schooling is special compared to what the peasants have access to. But since it conditions these apparent heirs to pursue power for themselves and then strengthen the realm, other ambitions and passions they may have are overlooked. Donik himself minimized his own involvement in the instruction of his sons; there were plenty of generals, advisors, and other people willing to offer guidance in his stead. As for his wife, she was captured and killed by his brother, Caleb, during the succession war.
And so, the Czar’s seven sons arrive within two minutes of each other through one of eight doors. As is customary of all potential heirs, they all wear topknots, never to let out their hair until becoming the new Czar. The throne room is decorated with white marble floors, Corinthian columns, and kempt flowers hanging from the six-cubit ceiling (a Raskidon cubit is about 2.7 feet).
Through the two doors on each side, people in the palace can walk vast corridors to reach most important locations inside.
The eldest of the princes is Perun, aged thirty-one. He is the only one with clear memories of the civil war between his father and his uncles, which leaves him the most desensitized to violence. Whle he is respected for his military acumen, having been the brains behind Raskidon’s defense since he was seventeen, there are rumors afloat that he works with a network of criminals to ensure he benefits from both successes and shortcomings of Raskidon. Perun stands tall, almost as much as his spear is long. His chainmail keeps a snug fit around his muscular build. His left eye socket has been covered with a patch ever since an attempt on his life by bandits; this does not, however, fully conceal the scar running from just above his eyebrow to the ala of his nose. He is not known to smile, but when he does, his expression appears “disturbingly devious”, as one chronicler remarked when writing about his combat training.
Ryler was Donik’s first son after the war, now twenty-five years old. He is pudgy from the lack of activity and hefty meals aboard merchant ships. His facial hair is also disorderly, and anything that can puff out does. Ryler tries to compensate for his unsavory physique with his attire, including a flat cap with the feather of a phoenix sticking out from the back (in truth, he dyed one from a heron orange), a blue and white striped tunic, and shiny black boots. As the only prince with green eyes, Donik was always paranoid that someone else had been courting his concubines. Ryler gained a business sense early on by finding apprenticeships under merchants and bankers. While his father resented the idea of a prince accepting a subordinate position, he could not argue with the amount of money Ryler brought home. He is credited with delaying the seizures of land and allowing Raskidon to afford mercenaries.
Cyrus is regarded as Raskidon’s best diplomat. He embraces the major risk of visiting Poqdovia quarterly, but he stops by a handful of other neighbours to make his homeland sympathetic to them. He made viridian robes a tradition for those in his line of work. There are those who respect Cyrus for his work in making peace and establishing friendships. But many cynics question his loyalty to the land he represents, fearing his exposure to foreign ideas may entice him to subvert Raskidon’s values.
Edwin has had the hardest time finding his place in the royal family. He shares a mother with Cyrus, making them the only two of Donik’s sons to do so. So, he received the least attention from her when compared to all his half-brothers. Edwin grew up receiving instruction for a church position. But the clergy have been seeing their positions undermined by foreign missionaries. It is believed that a variety of foreign pantheons are overtaking it. Donik does not care, since most of the church backed his brother, Astaroth.
Luther, fifteen, is learning the ropes in terms of public relations and administration. He is just old enough to assist in managing imperial policy and just young enough to be perceived as harmless by otherwise outraged strata he must address every time he passes a reform. Luther’s physique is close to Edwin’s, despite being four years younger. His lighter hair and paler skin are what make their appearances distinguishable. But most of all, blistered skin makes reminds everyone what the worst part of their teen years was: constant fear of whether blemishes were the result of acne or infection.
Miccolo is the apprentice of Spymaster Corvus. He coaxed many important targets to take him in by presenting himself as an orphan. Nobody ever recognized the apparent orphan as a Raskidon prince, having received advice from Corvus to avoid a life in public. As Miccolo stayed in the homes of various foreign figures, he acquired blackmail material, which compels them to act in the interests of Raskidon. If anyone ever lacked useful information, running away from home after an argument was the go-to cover for an extraction. Many fathers across the world are still wondering what ever happened to their son. Instead of building up a reputation now, the boy journals, hoping to preserve his story for posterity and cement himself as a national hero.
Morton is three and has only basic literacy under his belt. He is resting in the arms of Count Aster. Aster’s short, orange hair is combed towards the front. His bright blue eyes are reflective of his ancestry in Hoytland, a land annexed by Raskidon a few centuries ago. His attire consists of a two-tone, brown doublet, light brown trousers, and leather boots. Aster was granted guardianship over Morton and marriage of one of his many sisters as a reward for his role in quelling a rebellion by other members of the nobility. Some of Donik’s daughters had to remarry after their husbands died trying to revolt, so it was of no inconvenience to him. Since then, Aster has been close friends with the Czar, who waited for a day the count was visiting to announce the new succession plan.
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“My solution is simple. Cull the least fit among you now and spare your homeland of the bloodshed that would come later. From this day onward, none of your deaths shall be investigated. If you fear this process is not in your best interest, depart from these lands now. I shall disinherit anyone who disappears, so feel free to make it subtle.”
Most of them are speechless; some are stuck in shock, but others are scheming straight away. Edwin, wide-eyed and sweating, pleads with his father to reconsider. “What if we agreed on a division now, so nobody can complain later?”
Donik cackles at this perceived naivete. “Why? In order that all of you may place a horde of peasants in harm’s way for each other’s holdings instead of yourselves? Please, I lived through that era twenty-five years ago, as have all my forefathers.” Cyrus taps Edwin’s shoulder. He whispers a request to convene in private on how to protect each other. Edwin nods in agreement. It is at this point that Miccolo sneaks away to relay this information to Corvus. He requires a head start and he knows it. A life in the shadows may backfire unless its two protégés draw from its strength now. Bickering among the royal family becomes fainter as the spy enters the west-southwest corridor and turns to his right toward a stone spiral staircase. He halts halfway down and pushes in loose bricks one by one. Behind them is a rusty iron door. He delivers two thuds to the door one second apart. After waiting thirteen seconds, he rings a bell that he keeps concealed in his sleeve.
This unique auditory signal enables the sentinel on the other side of the threshold to identify Miccolo as the person outside. Everyone with access is diligent in creating the correct cue. They all know that an improper execution results in the sentinel flinging the door open and firing an arrow at the presumed intruder. Dozens of mysterious disappearances can be attributed to protecting the secrecy of this room. The sentinel nudges the door open and comes out to assist Miccolo in setting the secret wall back up. It feels like a jigsaw puzzle, except there is no image for reference. Bricks towards the top were made to be looser. Pushing at the bottom would make the entire structure crash, and any noises would be audible from both floors. Once the wall is reconstructed, Miccolo heads inside a moldy, dimly torchlit room to meet with fellow members of the Czar’s Friendly Shadows.
The group was ostensibly established to protect Donik and expand his influence abroad in a covert manner. However, its loyalty to Miccolo and Corvus has been taking precedence ever since the Czar fell ill. The men are in navy blue cloaks to distinguish themselves from the common thug wearing black yet still have something dark and unadorned. A few of them sit around a dusty, oval table with a few papers scattered about. Miccolo shifts his gaze between the seated men, trying to make out who is who. There is always the possibility of an infiltrator, even within a group and hideout this secretive. This causes enough paranoia to have someone stand in each corner, watching those at the table and each other.
When Miccolo hears the feint tapping of one of those people creeping behind, he considers this a bad sign and draws a dagger from a sheath strapped to his arm, concealed under his sleeve. He turns around as he does this before a familiar voice inquires, “what did the old man have to say?” Corvus takes off his hood and switches places with someone next to Miccolo. Corvus makes an immense effort to look nondescript to passersby. He dyes his hair to appear a light brown instead of blond and keeps it messy to look like an overworked peasant. When taking his cloak off, Corvus is quick to don a plain wool beret. He keeps his face covered in dirt so any unusual features such as skin tags blend in, but it also sells the illusion of Palazo’s typical impoverished lifestyle.
“Can you,” Miccolo puts his dagger away, “not scare me like that, sir?” For all the merits his occupation has, he resents the constant vigilance required to perdure daily hazards. As a new guard takes over Corvus’ corner, the young agent proceeds to share everything he knows. “I have to get rid of all my brothers to become the new Czar.”
Corvus smirks with a great malice. He can live vicariously through his disciple if he crafts a solid plan for disposing of all of Miccolo’s dynastic rivals. Lavish parties, countless concubines, incalculable wealth all to himself, but only if he stays on Miccolo’s good side after he takes power. As Corvus places a hand on Miccolo’s shoulder, he adhorts him to be cautious and use cunning. “You were always meant for this role,” Corvus brags on the kid’s behalf. He flings out his arm, gesturing to others at the table. “Isn’t that right, everyone?” Everyone applauds in silence but with enthusiasm, apprehensive about making too much noise while in the secret meeting room. Miccolo is flattered to have this much support. It reminds him that he is not just the Spymaster’s sidekick. The Czar’s Friendly Shadows acknowledge him as a prodigy in his line of work, vital to Raskidon’s security and leaving no one more suited for a position of power than him. “You know what else, Miccolo? Everything else you ever wanted comes with this job.”
A few hours pass, and Edwin, as promised, enters Cyrus’ chamber. With purple carpet, bedding, and walls, the room appears beyond fit for a man of his status. Cyrus sits at a small, ornate table with a candelabra and three glasses of wine. Immediately noticing Edwin’s arrival, he puts aside a letter he was drafting and pulls a chair out for his brother. Once they are both seated, Cyrus offers Edwin two of the wine glasses, a common gesture for a guest. The young cleric accepts this with sincere appreciation, and they begin a somber interlocution.
“Edwin, my dear brother,” Cyrus implores, “we must abandon Raskidon. Father has lost his mind.” Edwin trembles for a second, taken aback by this suggestion. He considers his brother vital to the czardom’s survival compared to himself; nevertheless, Edwin allows the diplomat to make his case. “One thing is for sure: I refuse to do anything as horrendous as what he proposed to you. Also, I am deathly afraid of what our elder brothers could do to us.”
Edwin is still agitated. Someone well known for understanding the needs and desire of people and nations now comes off as tone deaf. He jerks back in his chair and tries to justify his desire to stay. “But for once, I believe I have a chance to become Czar. I was never considered for any important roles in the czardom compared to you. I was taught to recite scriptures fewer and fewer people follow, while I myself take interest in what missionaries from Zhugo have to say.” The younger brother takes a few sips of his wine to calm himself down. This works for the time being.
Cyrus, however, is losing his appetite. He clenches his fists and lectures Edwin. “Is that your greatest concern? Unbelievable! You are precisely the ‘least fit’ he was alluding to. What makes you think you would survive all the chicanery?”
Edwin too becomes more animated. Beneath the table, his feet are shuffling around. “I knew it! This has nothing to do with my safety. You have no faith in me and none in yourself!” He exclaims.
“Listen to me!” The diplomat surges from his seat. “Father is pitting us against each other, and I am attempting to prevent that! Why is this so difficult for you to process?” His hands cling to the edge of the table. He stares insistently into his brother’s eyes. “What does father have planned if we murder everyone but each other? He made it abundantly clear he would not allow gavelkind to remain.” Edwin glares back with resolve. He is ready to become Czar or nothing at all. After a moment of eye contact and each allowed to process his own thoughts, Cyrus lets out a defeated sigh. He recognizes his lack of control in this situation. “I suppose I shall leave it to you, then. Perhaps once you are in power, I may call Raskidon home once more.” With this admission, he begins cleaning up and preparing for bed. There is a chance for Cyrus to facilitate Edwin’s seizure of control. But he first cycles through some options for how to leave.
“Maybe.” Edwin finds comfort in hearing that Cyrus does believe in him after all. For years, he was unsure if anyone did. The peasantry may look up to him for his ability to preach hope to them. But there was no sign that they would prefer him over the young reformer, Luther. Edwin bids his brother good night and leaves him to work on the letter.
Edwin proceeds down the corridor. Bare stone bricks make up the floor, creating a sepulchral tapping noise with every step he takes. Someone else’s are in the distance. Maid staff dim the lighting around this hour. So, even as he gets closer to the other source of noise, Edwin sees but a silhouette. It takes a moment for him to deduce who it is, just knowing that this person towers over his small frame. “Edwin! Cyrus!” A hoarse voice bellows. It was Perun. He is not prepared to pick any physical fights with his rivals just yet, as agitated as he may be.
“Yes, Perun?” Chimes Edwin. He is hoping that Cyrus, while possibly asleep now, deters any aggressive action by proximity alone.
“What are you runts screaming about?” He demands, scowling down at the tiny Edwin.
The priest notices his brother is standing without his spear, as good of a sign as it is unusual. Nevertheless, he is keeping is guard up. “Well,” he looks back at the way he came, prepared to bolt back to Cyrus’ chamber, “Cyrus was arguing why we should leave.”
Perun scoffs at that answer and gibes, “he’s right, you know.” The commander would prefer to save effort by persuading his brothers to depart, but he is already crafting plans to snuff everyone who stands in his way.
“Agreed. Would you like to join us?” He quips back with a smug grin.
Perun guffaws raucously, bends down, and flicks Edwin’s forehead. “No. Now, scram!” Edwin winces at the pain since the flick was stronger than he had though possible. But he maintains his composure and points back with both thumbs. This creates a firm reminder for who else can hear the conversation. The elder brother knows better than to make himself a threat now. He stomps off, feeling he has greater issues to focus on. Edwin lets out a sigh of relief. He begins coming to terms with the horrific deeds that may be required of him to survive, to lead Raskidon into a new era.