“And with his passing, Dias would become the exalted Hero King.”

With rays of golden light illuminating the space, Raphael holds tightly to his book. The echo of a distant bell cues the conclusion of his reading, resting like the dust that filters through the sunlight. Raphael sighs as he closes the book, the pages rolling like a series of waves on top of the other. The book, titled The Tale of the Hero King, is the bible that everyone keeps close to their heart.

Raphael prepares himself for the day. He slips out of his linen shirt and undoes his pants. Lingering, he examines his bare body and notes his slenderness and growing muscle. Yes, his training is paying off! His hooded eyes rest upon the birthmark upon his neck: a patch of pale skin. He tenderly places a hand over it, certain that it’s the key to finding his mother.

Remarks upon himself aside, Raphael fits a fanciful, cobalt doublet upon his torso, struggling to push his head through the purposely close-fitting garment. He buttons up the doublet, then slips into matching breeches. Finally, he straps on a pair of leather boots and wraps a sword around his waist.

Finalizing his appearance, Raphael heads outside. The streets of the New Charil stretch before him, brimming with the same sun-kissed cobblestone as told in the story of the Hero King. The sun’s undisputed warmth bodes with harshness, and the city bakes in its unopposed heat. A cool breeze whips Raphael’s black hair, providing respite from the heat.

Departing his roadside townhouse, Raphael submerges himself in the bustling city streets. He lives in the Market District. It is a strange yet thrilling place, abundant with intriguing curios and gossiping socialites. Many Solasúians are familiar with the approaching young man, and so they scorn his existence. But Raphael pays them no mind.

Reflecting from Raphael’s pale blue eyes is a human, thin to the bone and gray of hair. His chains rattle as he is subjected to a harsh whipping, a fury shown by his master. His master’s glare sharply embeds into the back of the crestfallen old man; his tongue lashes with the same fury, shouting, “Move!”

Raphael walks past the violence, for such is commonplace. Indeed, Solasúians have enslaved mankind for a generation. It is a necessary evil, Raphael believes in his heart, for what would become of Solasúian society if there were no slavery?

The Market District is a singular straight line of road, but it is like the vena cava of the city. Raphael fits his dexterous body through the crowd, but even with his slenderness it’s a tight squeeze. Finally, after a mile stroll, Raphael arrives at his destination: the Imperial Palace. From here, Empyrean Divus Nomos Barn governs the entirety of Ardsach, with which New Charil is the capital of.

The castle is a fantastically sculpted masterpiece; it is encased in a fine layer of a crystal-like substance known as adamas. From its ogival arches, to its flying buttresses, to its magnificent use of tracery—everywhere the eyes rest is a monumental structure, painstakingly detailed by the hand of master craftsmen.

Standing at the tall gates of the castle, Raphael walks past the Loyal Knights posted there. After a short walk, he arrives at the courtyard. Much like the exterior of the castle, it is a complexly designed place, which lays under a vast archway.

Raphael pauses when his eyes catch the view of the statue of Dias Pallas Barn, the Hero King. This life-like sculpture—born just before his heroic sacrifice again the Pale Wretch—is crafted out of crystalline adamas; Dias’s fear-invoking visage and muscular armour is perfectly encapsulated in the finest of detail. Laurels and flowers rest at his feet, placed there by those wishing to pay their respects. Raphael bows his head to the Hero King, just as he does every day, before passing it by.

Raphael then journeys up to the towering doors into the castle, with the eyes of knights in his back. Banners of a winged lion dress the walls surrounding him and ribbed vaults loom overhead as he traverses the interior. Colors unimaginable filter through stained-glass windows, with images of Dias gloriously slaughtering his foes glimmering. The floors reflective like water, so much so that Raphael can make himself out.

Clearly distracted by the castle’s beauty, Raphael rekindles his focus and proceeds up the grand staircases in the middle of the entrance hall. His footsteps echo throughout the empty space. Raphael then arrives to the third floor of this majestic building, taunted further by banners of blue. The message of the Solasúians’ triumph over humankind is everywhere the eye looks. However, he is immune to the shame it wrought, for he is kin to both races.

Arriving at a large double door, Raphael pushes them open to unfurl the council chamber. The many faces of the Ruler’s Council find Raphael, greeting him with a mixture of resentment and glee. A long, ornate table stretches out before Raphael’s eyes as he breathes a sigh of relief, having finally arrived. Of course, those of the council are unimpressed by his tardiness.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Ah, Raphael…” A warm, inviting smile spreads across this man’s bearded jaw, heaving up a long, wrinkled face. “You’ve finally arrived.”

“My sincerest apologies, My Empyrean,” Raphael offers, bowing.

Indeed, the elderly man before him is Empyrean Divus Nomos Barn. Divus carries his heavily dressed arm and points at just yonder, where an empty chair and a desk resides.

“Please be seated,” Divus’s kind voice commands, which automatically draws Raphael’s motion.

The young man sits down at his desk, for he is the Transcriptor, the one whose hand writes and records the entire council session. He eagerly dips his quill into the bottle of ink beside him and signs the date at the top of the paper before him. It is the 25th of Caldor, which is the 11th month of year, between the months of Te and Alathe.

Divus’s sapphire blue eyes then rise over the table and stretch over to the back of the room.

“Begin recording our conversation,” he orders.

“At once, My Empyrean,” Raphael acknowledges.

“So, what’s on today’s agenda?”

A sharp, chiseled-faced man raises his voice to speak. He is Lord Caerus Alcain of House Kórakas, famously known as the Golden Envoys of Death for their battle prowess and their strikingly brilliant golden hair. Rather than be a warrior, however, Caerus appears to be a pusher of paper, for his muscles are dull and undefined.

“As we all know, Hero’s Day is tomorrow,” the hoarse voice of Lord Kórakas brings up, drawing Divus’s gaze. “I’ve arranged a tournament of Cearlach to celebrate the occasion and to please and entertain My Empyrean.”

The smile on Divus’s face widens even further.

“Ah, my favorite! You've outdone yourself, Lord Caerus,” Divus exclaims.

To the right of Divus hails another member of Ruler’s Council. His ancient, deeply wrinkled face appears to sink as he smiles, stroking a bread of long, silvery hair. He is Decimus Allamin of House Ishvara: a house whose roots originate in the Great Plains of Sa-am.

“I’ve coordinated with Lord Kórakas and have prepared the finest foods for the day,” the dark-skinned lord promotes, appeasing His Empyrean.

Tap, tap, tap, tap… Tap, tap, tap, tap… A rolling of fingers as if impatient thuds against the slick mahogany table, reverberating throughout the room as the discussion of upcoming festivities becomes the topic upon everyone’s lips. However, the Empyrean’s second eldest son, Prince Balor Pallas Barn, endures the conversation like water in a boiling-hot kettle.

Suddenly, the prince rises from his chair.

“I cannot stomach this any longer…” Balor mutters, venting his grievance.

Divus then turns and faces his son.

“Does this discussion of our most sacred of celebrations irritate you, Prince Balor?” he asks.

Balor’s sapphire blue eyes turn into daggers, stabbing his father’s face.

“Of course. We’re at war, Father. And we’re discussing the size of the parties we’re throwing, rather than the size of the armies we should be assembling.”

Divus crosses his hands together and lays them flat upon the table.

“I’ve already discussed with you. I’ve dispatched a battalion of troops to Fort Diassen.”

Balor forcefully throws his hands down upon the table.

“A battalion of humans,”

Divus heaves a deep, somber sigh. He closes his eyes, clearly lost in thought for a moment. It’s clear that he admits defeat, remaining quiet over Balor’s remark. Balor, however, remains in his stance, coiled up like a snake ready to strike. His glowing eyes envenomated, glaring spitefully at his father.

“You know, you can only protect them for so long, these precious human pets of yours,” Balor viciously spews.

“Is that a threat against my subjects, Prince Balor?” Divus solemnly questions.

“It’s not a threat, it’s a reality. They would be the first of many casualties in an attack on the capital.”

“Then I’d suggest you heighten our forces near the city to deter the Descendants during the coming festival.”

“With pleasure, Father…”

Balor slips away from his father, from the council whole. He heads for the door, slamming it closed behind him. With the door’s closure emanating through the council chamber, Divus returns his focus back to the council whole. However, as he attempts to speak, he is struck down with an immersion of fire smoldering in his aged lungs. His right hand fastens to his chest while his left reaches for his mouth. Embers of sickness rack his body, appearing in a harsh, heavy hacking fit.

Each member jerks from their chair, crying, “My Empyrean!”

Divus is thoroughly consumed by the coughing. He hangs over the polished table, his reflection smattered with blood leaking from between his bony fingers.

“…Momus!” Divus disgorges.

As Raphael and the council gaze on in horror, Momus Bres Barn, brother of Divus and Lord Speaker, calmly leaps from his chair. He withdraws something from his robe, a bottle of a mysterious kind. Within it churns an equally mysterious gray liquid, one of which he extends out to Divus.

Clasping the bottle of starchy fluid, Divus chugs it down. It proves to be his savior, for within minutes the hellacious malady ceases. Momus takes his handkerchief from inside of his opulent raiment and begins to wipe down the table, cleaning up the smattering of blood left in the aftermath of Divus’s coughing.

Divus raises his voice to speak, however all that comes out is a hoarse, deep whistle; his voice so burned from the coughing that currently no longer exists. Momus turns to face the council whole, and with grimness locking his face, he states, “Our Empyrean is feeling ill. Please, let this council end for the day.”

In the wake of Momus’s plea, the council members all rise, creating a singular creak of their chairs. Each places their left hand over the right side of their breast and bows, paying their respects to Their Empyrean. There is then an exodus of sorts, as every member of the Ruler’s Council depart. As the double doors open and swiftly close, Raphael lingers, standing beside His Empyrean.

“My Empyrean, I—” Raphael attempts to speak, extending his hand outwards ahead of him.

Divus’s emaciated fingers grasp shallowly around Raphael’s lively hand, offering the young man some calm to his mounting concern. Indeed, Raphael’s mind rests upon seeing Divus’s cracked, bloody lips rise, birthing a weak, but powerful smile. It illuminates across Divus’s face, creasing the wrinkles widespread upon his visage.