Coltair stood at the altar facing the long aisle that led to the back of the room. His mother sat to his right, dressed as a ridiculous testament to the opulence and wasted wealth of his family’s status. His father sat beside her, just as lavishly dressed; he even wore the dark eyeliner that was fashionable a hundred years ago. Coltair thought it made him look like a child’s entertainer.

Dressed extravagantly in his own wedding attire, the eldest prince said nothing and concentrated on the task at hand. Hundreds of his father’s court members filled the throne room, which was blissfully open to allow the sea breeze and the cooler evening air. The musicians played softly in the corner, plucking at light stringed instruments in their brightly coloured and gold-trimmed finery.

Flower petals dotted the aisle runner, whitish pink against the navy blue. Coltair’s eyes lost focus as he awaited his fate, his thoughts wandering to words of the ancestors encouraging him to bide his time and his temper—to accomplish this, his time was at hand.

The crowd gasped and buzzed, so he lifted his eyes.

At the far end, a swath of material in the shape of a woman now stood, flanked by an army of her family members, beaming and fussing with their own extravagant clothes.

When the music changed from lively to soft, the woman started to walk.

It took forever. Coltair was near shaking in his effort to stay still. He gave no indication he was not a willing participant in this event and squared his shoulders; it would not do to slouch or frown.

Grow thy bloodline, whispered the ancestors when he’d told them his age had come that he would be wed to a woman. A true leader spreads his seed across the world. Bring our breadth to the distant corners and find your place among us—as our king. It begins this night.

In the tradition of the emperor, the heirs were married young and before they ascended. It was said this was one way to ensure the right emperor assumed the throne. Coltair was expected to produce heirs well in advance of his taking the mantle. His father, barely a man himself when he’d sired Coltair’s sisters, had assumed the throne with no less than five children by the time his era began.

It was unclear what ended an emperor’s era in the end. Death seemed to claim them at the time the heir showed their readiness. Poison was ruled out; many emperors had hidden in their later years to avoid betrayal. Tasters were employed and even investigators—paid in exorbitant amounts to find the cause—ruled it out. Coltair had a theory that it was the ancestors that made the choice. Ever diligent in their plan for world superiority, they simply would not suffer an old fool who no longer felt the persistence to push for Rogun dominance.

Coltair took the hands of his bride and the veil was removed from her face. She was lovely. At least it would not be hard to live with someone he was expected to see and be seen with when she was at least pleasing to look at.

The girl looked nervous. Fifteen like him, she was barely old enough to know who he was. He said the words the advisor spoke and she repeated them. When she smiled at him, he frowned, causing his bride to look startled. Correcting his expression to a tolerant smile, he watched her startled eyes flutter down in a demure, nervous recovery. He turned them to face the crowd, which cheered and clapped, and by one hand, he led her from the room.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

It was an excruciating, long evening. He knew this was just the beginning of his plan, but Coltair never wanted to marry. He’d have been happier to continue the ancestors’ work on his own, leaving the marital responsibility to Zephen, who he knew was infatuated with several girls already; let his brother suffer the drama and the messiness of women’s affairs.

Sighing with impatience to get on with it, he stood now in a light, oversized silk shirt of white and matching pants. To the left was the enormous bed, drapes pulled back and blankets removed. No less than eight oversized pillows lined the back.

He watched his bride approach. She was so nervous her body was shaking. Draped in a single sheet of silk, her hair, now brushed soft, was pulled from her face in braided rope bands. She stopped in front of him.

“My name is Candice,” she murmured. Coltair, his eyes stuck somewhere on her bosom, let his mind wander to the dinner he’d endured where she’d sat silently beside him. He’d never asked her name.

“Coltair,” he said to her. She blushed and seemed to warm and relax a little. “You may call me Highness,” he reminded her.

The warmth to her face vanished.

He held their hands high for her, the shaking more evident in her upheld limb. He walked her deliberately to the bed and waited for her to climb up. She did so and tried to slide to the middle as elegantly as she could. Coltair remained standing at the edge.

He wasn’t entitled to feel it, but he was frustrated with the indignity of the scene, though the ancestors warned him to play along with everything until he himself wore the mantle. To raise suspicion that the emperor’s son had unusual plans for the future of the crown now could spell disaster.

“Take it off,” he ordered Candice.

Visibly started, she clasped the material in front of her.

When she looked around the room, his expression turned less friendly, but there was no one going to help her. Timidly, she began to comply.

Finally, Coltair thought. Seeing the girl’s breasts, her fine skin and colour unblemished, stirred his body to at least show an interest. Candice glinted in the bright light, decorated in brightly coloured jewels and beads the women favoured as body art, using sugar syrup to affix them to her torso. He could see she was decorated in the motif of a mermaid; the turquoise, blue and white jewels went down to her navel and heavily all over her belly.

Coltair sighed in resignation and rose to climb onto the bed on his knees. He knelt over her and lowered his pants. Candice whimpered

Explained to him in detail, he followed the acceptable way to conquer his bride to satisfy the court. Coltair simply locked his mind to what the ancestors said. They had wanted this so-called ceremony as part of his pledge of loyalty to them, as much as it was to his father and kingdom. So be it. Without passion, he thrust and thrust deeply, his body rising to the requirement, despite the complete lack of emotion he would have required if he had actually cared for this girl.

Huffing through his end, he gripped hard the headboard and yelled in his climax.

Remembering his instructions, he backed off immediately and moved to kneel upright once more. He continued to work to catch his breath and watched the girl, who moments ago had been a virgin beneath him, squirm and turn from him, biting her lower lip to stay quiet. Two maids appeared between them and one pushed Candice’s legs shut.

“Well done, Majesty,” Mogu said, appearing beside him.

He flinched when a warm, wet cloth went around his member, but he relaxed and let his valet clean and replace his pants. “Once a week until the girl blooms and we should have confirmation.”

Coltair didn’t acknowledge him. He turned and watched the fifteen court members, now mumbling and conversing between them, probably about which alliances with Candice’s father were the most favourable, leave the room after witnessing their consummation. His mother was the last to leave, her head lifting in satisfied pride before turning without a word to him.

He slid from the bed and allowed Mogu to replace a robe, then without a look back, left the room.