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Chapter 2

Enraged by the council meeting, Balor storms off.

The prince surrounds himself in a comfortable place to enact his anger: his bedchamber. The faint sun burns as it barely crests the horizon. Through the lens of a towering window, Balor gazes down upon the whole of New Charil. Hues of purple and orange bleed across the sky as Balor’s ultramarine eyes trace the long, winding road of the Market District. The bizarre bazaar of intricate stalls where scholars chatter is like ants building an expansive empire.

“Your tea, my prince, says a servant from behind Balor.

Balor gazes upon the blue-clothed servant. His tea is indeed ready for him, resting upon the table in the center of the room. Thankless, the prince extends his left hand out to the servant as if wanting to be served. Understanding the gesture, the servant walks over to the table and pours the hot liquid out from the elegant, gold-trimmed teapot. She carries the cup over to her prince, and he angrily snatches it from her grasp.

Today’s council session finds new life inside of Balor’s brain. His visage contorts into a bitter mask, recollecting all of the painful moments in the meeting. The thoughts assault him like waves battering a beach, eroding his composure. They are relentless, even as Balor tries to pull away.

Balor just…cannot understand why his father always chooses to protect the humans. Why must he, Orderer of the Loyal Knights, be subjected to countless humiliations of losing to a bunch of humans!? His teeth fasten, growing agonizingly bare to the gum. He continues to simmer until he eventually boils over.

Indeed, a violent heat overcomes Balor. He unloads his furor, hurling his cup of tea. Some of the burning-hot liquid splatters on Balor’s purple doublet, but it mostly stains the opulent, indigo rug. The cup smashes into a portrait, which falls from the wall. Realizing what he had done, the prince rushes over to the portrait.

“Lucia!” Balor cries, scrambling to pick it up. “I’m so sorry, Lucia… I didn’t mean to…!”

Balor attempts to put the portrait back on the wall. With shaking hands, it takes numerous tries to finally place it back. All the while, the sound of heavy footsteps grows louder as if just outside of the door.

“Brother?” his younger sister calls from behind the door. “Is everything okay?”

Balor sighs and recomposes himself, smoothing his short, jet-black hair back.

“Come in,” the prince says.

The door unfurls, revealing Princess Lucia Gaiane Barn, the sight of which lifts a prominent smile upon Balor’s face. Her long, ebony-black hair sways as she quietly closes the door behind her. The length of her indigo dress catches the dim sunlight still trickling from the window. As she approaches her brother, her heeled boots echo throughout the bedchamber. Click… Click… Click…

Balor almost seems to humble himself in her presence, but there’s still the matter of the teacup.

“Oh! The tea!” Balor exclaims.

Balor turns to the servant, who stands like a doll on the shelf.

“You! Human!” Balor growls, snapping his finger. “Clean up that mess.”

“At once, my lord.” The servant bows.

“Balor?” Lucia calls once more. “Are you well?”

“Of course,” Balor twists his tongue and lies, walking back over to the table.

Balor gazes down at the table, pouring himself and his sister a cup of tea. His sister watches the servant clean the shattered cup near the wall. Her eyebrows lower into deep, inverted arches.

“Brother, what’s going on?” Lucia questions, motioning to the broken cup. “Before I walked in, I heard a loud smash, and now I find a broken cup. What’s happening?”

Balor’s head swivels back to his sister. Balor’s head swivels towards his sister. He closes his eyes, feeling his sister’s eyes fall upon him. He draws a breath, letting it go a deep sigh.

“I cannot fool you, can I?” Balor realizes. “No, dear sister, I am frustrated.”

“With what?”

“Father sees my effort against the Descendants and raises me more humans to do war with. We have tens of thousands of battle-ready Loyal Knights, yet he chooses to offer me human slaves exclusively...”

Balor stares long and hard upon his reflection in his cup of tea.

“…We could win this war if we had Solasúian combatants,” Balor continues. “After all, Empyrean Dias didn’t conquer Ardsach with humans. He did it with Solasúians.”

Lucia gazes firmly upon her brother. She reaches her hand over to his, clasping it tightly.

“Have you tried earnestly to speak with Father on this matter?” Lucia asks.

“Of course,” Balor responds, “but he refuses to hear me…”

While Balor’s beaten expression solidifies, Lucia’s determination only seems to grow in strength. Her right hand joins her left, wrapping it as if to signal this growth. Her brother’s gaze shifts from his cup and upon her face, where he is faced with an uncompromising smile. It floods him with a warmth greater than the tea.

“Try getting Lelantos’s support on the matter,” encourages Lucia. “Maybe if you come at Father with him, maybe he’ll hear you out.”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Balor takes a thoughtful sip. A contagious smile creases his face.

***

Meanwhile, in the depths of the Imperial Palace’s Great Library, Raphael Bela assembles with his friend, Elliott of House Cayrel. The day had become night, and the early evening draws the inquisitive minds of the pair. Seated amid a circlet of tables and chairs, the two browse through book after book, learning about the ancient dialect of humankind before they were forced to learn the tongue of Solasúians.

Travelling down one of the many alleys of knowledge, Raphael’s eyes comb through the many spines of the books in their shelves. The smell of aging ink wafts off of the pages as he seeks one book in particular. His index finger scrolls through the many historical accounts from the old world, but they don’t fit what he’s looking for. He then touches the bent spine of a book about magic, captivating him enough to withdraw it from its shelf.

Elliott, who is seated by a table nearby, turns to the young Raphael and curiously raises his eyebrow. He reads the blueish hue of the cover in Raphael’s hand, noting its unusual speak of spells and incantations.

“Magic?” Elliott questions, prying on his friend’s reading. “You earnestly believe that magic exists?”

“I’ve heard stories of the Descendants. Stories of men wielding fire in their hands and taming lightning,” Raphael explains, his eyes scouring the words in the book. “If not by magic, how else would such things work?”

“If such things exist to begin with… These are surely exaggerated battle tales.”

“Don’t be such a naysayer. Imagine if we could possess such devices—the things we could accomplish!”

“Now you’re speaking like Prince Lelantos.” Elliott sighs.

“As a society, we’re in a great spot. We’re this close to Utopia. Just one more nudge and we’re there.”

Indeed, Utopia—afterlife of all Solasúian life—is not merely a place of death, but a place of which Empyreans have toiled tirelessly to usher into reality. Ever since the days of Pallas Barn, the first Empyrean of Solasúian-kind, many have lived and died amid creating Utopia. Raphael flips through pages at blistering speed, looking for a single speck of information.

“Here, look,” Raphael says. He shows Elliott a page out of the book. Inscriptions etched on the paper reveals secrets discovered by the old world, symbols like circled hourglasses and crossed-out rhombuses, among countless others. Raphael sits like a dog wagging its tail, pointing out all of the symbols on the paper and their meanings. “If we could decipher the root of these symbols, maybe we could understand their works.”

”While that’s a good idea, I’m certain Prince Lelantos has already considered it,” Elliott states.

***

While Raphael and Elliott ponder their studies, on the third floor of the Imperial Palace is Lelantos Pallas Barn, the eldest son of Empyrean Divus Nomos Barn, who pouring all over the pages of books. In his candlelit bedchamber, darkness collects and awaits the waning light of the bleeding sun.

The keen-eyed Lelantos sips his wine as he procures another book. On its ancient pages are words of a foreign language, and it breathes new life into his research. His long, black locks sweep across his vision as he gazes down upon the hieroglyphs. He rests the book upon his desk before gathering up his hair and tying it together in an unkempt ponytail.

The white of Lelantos’s doublet is colored by the melting wax of the candle beside him. His glowing, sapphire blue eyes wear upon the pages, and his tan-skinned finger points at one key sentence. On his desk is a peculiar device, one of many in the room. Yet this one—a weapon of sorts with a long, thin cylindrical piece of iron—is the strangest. The device has several intricately designed engravings on it, something that surely required an expert blacksmith to build.

As Lelantos prepares himself to trigger the weapon, there is then a knock at his door.

“Come in,” Lelantos permits.

A subtle creak seeps into the room as the door, unfurling the appearance of his father, Empyrean Divus.

“Lelantos,” names Divus, “how fares your research?”

“Quite good, I must say,” Lelantos returns. “I had the castle smiths recreate a device for me. They call it a ‘musket.’”

“What does it do?”

“What indeed…”

Resting the butt of the rifle on the inside of his elbow, Lelantos’s finger tickles the trigger. Fire explodes from the mouth of the musket. A powerful blast roars like thunder. An iron ball is blown free from the mouth of the musket. A venerable vase in the victim of this hair-trigger, shattering in an instant.

However, the iron pellet ricochets off the adamas wall. Its trajectory now seeks the Empyrean, whose retina absorbs the sight of the speeding projectile. The pellet moves towards him, but Divus moves faster than even his breath. He swiftly pivots his body to the left and avoids the projectile altogether, which embeds into the wall behind him.

When the dust settles, Lelantos is in shock. Despite nearly killing his father, a toothy grin spreads across Lelantos’s face. Divus, on the other hand, appears irritable, fresh with the sting of the gunshot in his ear.

“Wow.” Lelantos utters amid his chuckling. “In the text, they call this thing the ‘thunderer.’ They aren’t kidding!”

Suddenly, the door into the room bursts open. Loyal Knights pour in, examining the place after that rather loud bang. Their glowing eyes scour the room for anything out of the ordinary, but then they see the bizarre device in Lelantos’s hand.

“What’s going on?” The knights inquire.

“At ease. It’s just another one of my experiments.” Lelantos dismisses.

With that, the knights withdraw back into the other room. Divus’s visage flushes from irritability to solemnity. He treads through all the unusual and spectacular devices in the room and draws closer to his son. His lungs, haggard and tired, begin to expel more fire, barging up his throat in a furious coughing fit. Lelantos dismounts from his chair to comfort his father, but there is little his presence can do to quell the ailment tormenting Divus.

“Lelantos…” Divus ejects as he grabs at his chest. “Listen… to me…”

“Of course, Father. What is it?” Lelantos agrees, placing his hands around his father.

Divus raises his left hand as his coughing spell eases. In his hand is the legendary blade of the Empyrean of the Solasúian race: the sword Arbandor, slayer of the Pale Wretch. Its elaborate, crystalline body shimmers in the candlelight. Lelantos’s eyebrow cringe up, confused by his father’s gesture.

“Arbandor?” Lelantos speaks. “Father, what do you mean?”

“I have little time left in this world, Lelantos…” Divus groans as his coughing lapses. “I need you to begin taking up the mantle of Empyrean, first by accepting this sword…”

“Of course, Father.”

Lelantos removes himself from his father and extends his right hand out ahead of him. His fingers wrap around its exquisite frame, its blade resting within a leather scabbard. He withdraws the sword from his father’s grasp, his eyes freely exploring its exterior. The weight of the sword is no simple task, for Lelantos can feel an entire nation hanging from its edge.

“I cannot rest without knowing the bloodline is secured,” Divus remarks.

“Oh, not this again…” Lelantos sighs, then slithers back to his desk.

“I know you detest the topic, but it must considered going forward.”

Lelantos tries to hide in his books to avoid the discussion, but it provides little success. Divus steps forward, practically standing over top of his son, the reluctant prince.

“I have offered the hand of many suitors, Lelantos. Are none of them desirable to you?”

“No, it’s not that… I’ve—”

“Are they not good enough for you?”

“I’ve just not thought about it.” Lelantos candidly emerges, then raising up his book. “I’ve been so thoroughly amid my research that I’ve not given it any proper thought.”

“Lelantos, I need you to get serious about this.”

“I will, once I’ve finished my research.”

“Lelantos!”

“Forgive me, Father, but I’m on the cusp of something great. Something that can really benefit Solasúian society.”

“I see…” Divus realizes, then turning back towards the door. “Ensure that you look at your options once you’re done.”