This story, like so many others before, begins with the four most illustrious words in the English language:

“Fuck off, ya cunt!”

I wake to the sound of my steward’s legendary fondness for my wife’s cat and roll to flee the sound, instead finding the morning so bright I can very nearly see through my own eyelids.

My eyes open to the sun through open windows, curtains drawn and tied. The light, regretfully, has crept across the floors and up into bed with me. Unlike the cat, there is no shooing the sunbeam and barricading it in the hall, so I stretch, groan, and roll to my feet.

The day is young yet, judging from the gilt grandfather clock, and the aged wood is warm beneath my feet. There are times in every marriage where the involved parties fail to see eye to eye, but retrofitting the Royal Chambers with underfloor heating was something the Queen and I found much common ground on.

Temperate, comfortable ground at that.

The double doors swing shut with a click as I start to stretch, Stubbins pulling a sharp about-face. A whisper of a smile creeps onto his carefully schooled face – a steward must maintain propriety, after all – as he regarded me moving through warrior one in naught but a pair of silken tighty-whiteys.

“Performing an airing-out of the Crown Jewels, sir?” He approaches comfortably, hands clasped behind him.

“But of course, my Steward! It helps to maintain their luster!” Hunching over, hands clasped, I wink up at him.

“And here I was thinking the Queen was the one to maintain their polish. My apologies, sir.” His grin managed then to creep up one whole side of his face before being smothered. “And if I may be so bold, sir, I am your Regent. Or, perhaps, Valet depending upon your needs, of course.”

“Now, Stubs, I could have sworn you told me that a Regent rules in the absence of an able monarch. Am I not an able monarch, Stubs?” I clap my hands firmly on his shoulders, his eyes momentarily drawn to my package, set to wiggle from the sudden motion. “You can tell me to my face. I can take it.”

“Perhaps we address your state of undress before we wade into deeper waters, sir,” he says, an eyebrow quirked.

I hold his bemused stare for as long as I can before my eye twitches violently and we break into raucous laughter.

Unfortunately, dressing today is a serious matter. Fortunately, Stubs has a firm grip on the goings-on of the Palace and has prepared a crew of clothiers, drapiers, tailors, haberdashers, jewelers, assorted smiths, and the entire banquet staff to provide a hearty breakfast for those constructing my ensemble.

Sometimes, they even let me have some of the food. Sovereignty is hungry work.

Ah, a bacon sandwich. They’ve learned.

The lettuce and tomato would have inexplicably fallen off, regardless.

Ruling is responsibility, but there doesn’t seem to be much point to it if you can’t exert your will upon a breakfast sandwich.

Alas, I savor my way through one beautiful half before the hurricane of fashion nearby decides to make landfall. Lacking any sails to reef, I’m capsized immediately.

My sandwich is taken from me, my tighty-whiteys replaced. I’m being measured, poked, prodded, wrapped, caped, clothed, and capped; all the while, Stubs sits on a plush sofa, eating the other half of my sandwich. He notices me noticing him and raises the baconwich in salute.

Misbegotten bastard.

The onslaught continues for a while, no clocks in the Dressing Room, and eventually I am presented with a set of mirrors with which I can take in myself from every angle.

Hmm, yes. That’s me.

“Splendid, everyone, thank you. I expect you all to be at the celebrations today! Not you, Gio, of course. Your wife is being attended by the Chief of Midwifery as we speak, no doubt she’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be sure to have a chef sent should the child further delay their arrival.” This gets a laugh, though only a polite one. It seems I need to work on my material.

The myriad artists depart and Stubbins and I are left in my chambers once more, walking laps of the ceremonial outfit. It is, in a word, expensive. Or it would be, had the Queen not discovered a method for synthesizing matter from magic. I suppose the more appropriate word would be “traditional”. It is very much that. I lift a sleeve and though I expect a rustle from the fabric, it produces a soft metallic noise. I catch Stubs inspecting a section of the coattails with a loupe and release the sleeve.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

If I wait, he’ll inform me.

“No need to look so smug, Stubs, we both know you’re a far better metallurgist than I.”

“Indeed, sir. I only ‘look smug’ so that you say it aloud. It’s alway nice to be reminded of your strengths, particularly by a hero of Prophecy.” Damn the man, now he was smug and openly smiling. “As for the cloth, it seems to be the finest mail I’ve ever seen. Each chain smaller than a grain of rice, but almost entirely of gold, sir. An alloy, thankfully, so it won’t rub itself apart, but it still won’t offer much protection.”

“I tend not to require much protection, Regent. I thought you were aware of this?” Mock-serious, I poke at my old friend.

“I’ll endeavor to recall that in the future, sir.”

Damn. It’s always more fun when he reacts.

“Let us make haste, Stubs. We have places to be and – hopefully! – you know where they are.” A slight breeze through the open windows tickles at my leg-hairs and I realize I am still in my underwear. “But first, perhaps a tunic.”

“An excellent idea, sir. Back to the closet?” Stubbins half turns on a heel and holds an arm out toward the closet.

“I think not,” I say, and snap my fingers.

Being the regent of a magical kingdom comes with its perks and this was one of my favorites.

Golden light manifests from nothing and swirls around me, lifting me. Hovering and twirling in place, the light coalesces in front of my thrust-out chest. It starts to conde-

“Feel free to take your time, sir, I’m sure we have little to see to.”

-nse and then slams into my chest, turning the world into a blinding white void before the power shatters into glitter, leaving me covered head-to-toe in faintly glowing clothes, a small sword of unmatched make at my waist. Stubbins coughed softly and a sprinkle of glitter escaped. Having already heard every joke Stubs has about fairy dust, ladies of the night, and how damaging the raw Aetherial forces must be to his ‘mere mortal’ lungs, I was already making good time down a side corridor.

He could really do with a light jog in the mornings, regardless. A king must endeavor to ensure the health of his subjects.

Ordinarily, a day such as this would have me held up in ceremonies, soirees, talks, and other assorted politicking. Or – as I feel it should be called – faffing about. I sidestep a laundry girl coaching a golem on how best to fold a fitted sheet and change directions, heading down a side passage. Stubbins was known as the Bloodhound in our youth, an unparalleled tracker of nearly anything. It was with his aid the Continental Alliance was able even to get an army to the Nemesis’ walls.

I pause for a moment, the rare window in the servant’s halls catching my eye. The walls outside sparkle in the sun, jagged obsidian towers jutting up at odd angles from the ancient alabaster walls. Seamless stone wrought by magic and seemingly fused with the faceted black glass, one of the few remnants yet to be cleansed in the wake of purging the Beast.

“Sir?”

I manage to keep from jumping and wipe the surprise from my face before regarding Stubbins. To my surprise, he drops the usual facade we maintain about the Palace grounds and speaks first.

“Fuckin’ strange, yeah? Every time I catch myself at a window, I do the same thing. First time you had me lead us here, half our army dissolved into fucking nothin’, begging for mercy in front of our eyes. Alya’s a damn peach, but the way I hear her tell it makes me think maybe those towers ain’t movin’ an inch. I swear I can almost hear ‘em still screaming some days.”

Sweet fuck, Stubs. Everyone knows you don’t acknowledge the screaming of the towers. Even in your private thoughts! Especially in your private thoughts!

I open my mouth to speak and Stubs raises a hand to stop me. He clears his throat. “Worry not, sir. I don’t intend to delay us further. After you.”

And with that, we resume a swift walk, pausing occasionally to chat with palace staff and the golems they were training. My Queen tells me the golems have no awareness, but I refuse to believe in their stagnance – they clearly learn, so surely they can grow. And someone needs must maintain a good relationship, else the palace burn first in the Great Golem Uprising. The staff have, of course, been offered vocational training or university scholarship of their choice, paid fully by the crown. I also ensured they continue to receive the yearly invite to the Winter Celebrations, as one never wants to leave those with an intimate knowledge of your home feeling betrayed.

We emerge from the servants’ halls near the office of the Royal Treasurer, ensuring that the gifts requisitioned from the vaults were brought up for the ceremony and that the caterers had been adequately compensated. The bill was steep, but entirely manageable and – I would argue –  warranted for today’s excitement. From there, we had several further stops to sign or inspect things, ensuring plans proceeded according to plan. 

It all was.

So we continue our journey, visiting the guests of honor. The last of the Mountain Tribes had sent representatives and agreed, at long last, to join the Issachai Empire. The holdouts had finally been won over, promises not to intrude on their reclusive culture and the proliferation of certain magics amongst them were the final concessions that cinched it.

Now, they were out in full force, having taken a full wing of the Palace for their stay, and the High King the chiefs had raised awaited. We came to the broad archway leading to the chambers offered the tribes and found the guards engaged in a bout of cultural exchange.

A guard in gilt armor with a well-kempt beard, halberd left holding up the wall, sat with another in intricately decorated hide armor as the two compared scarves mid-crochet, results piled in their laps. Their respective partners stood nearby, two young women trading blows in some form of game, the ‘loser’ being made to take a pull from a flask.

They tried to jump to attention, but they were caught. A quick laugh and a chat with the attentive young warriors kept my nerves at bay. I was familiar with the High King, but friends we were not. The Mountain culture was a liberal one, its people free and encouraged to pursue their own path. Judging another for their path was anathema to them, but their chiefs and what little nobility they had were kept to a different standard. An ancient and ritualistic set of niceties, hospitalities, and rules of address built over centuries to prevent unnecessary bloodshed amongst those chiefs who walked the paths of conquest and slaughter.

I had studied what I could extensively, and the High King forgave the few stumbles so far, but the coming meeting had me filled with a familiar feeling of trepidation. But today stood to be a good one, so I swallowed my anxieties and threw open the door.

The High King was sitting at a dining table that had been pulled into his room, surrounded by the other chiefs and lords of the Mountains, half caught in full-bellied guffaws with the rest shouting with good-natured rage.

They all went silent at my arrival, turning to face whoever intruded.

A few good-natured smiles amongst the men that had led tribes to join the war, but stoic evaluation was the most common mask these men wore.

The High King rises, face severe, and regards me. Then a grin splits his face, he jumps the table with his arms outstretched, and yells out, “Bro!”

“Broooo!” I respond, and the High King reaches me, wraps his arms around me, and crushes me in a giant bear hug.

He kisses my forehead, laughing, then gestures to his table, calling for his attendants to bring chairs for myself and Stubbins.

We sit. We talk. We eat and drink and finally, we all rise, cups high.

“To the future,” the High King says.

“To the future,” I reply, and we all drink.