Evening shadows crept over the city of Kingsland, dulling the tiled domes and burnished pavilions, veiling the people hurrying to finish the day’s tasks, each one as raven-haired as the next. Dimness slid over bubbling fountains and delicate stone arches until finally engulfing the city's heart, Wranbanise Castle. The last rays of sun hit the heights of that elegant fortress and lit the handsome face of Gisemere Wranbanise. The crystal beads woven in his dark hair flashed before the dying light finally fell behind the outer walls. Gisemere scowled into the fresh twilight and turned from the window.
“It is simple,” his deep voice echoed off the marble walls and cut through the nervous mutters of the crowd below him. “They will accept me because I carry the name. You will accept me because you must. I am the only Wranbanise left.”
“But you are not of the blood…” a withered man said.
“The bloodline is dead,” Gisemere snapped. “It is time to face the fact of it. A Wranbanise must rule and I am the only choice. The people care nothing of the blood, only safety. They believe the world is what we tell them. And you," he gestured to the dozen men and women standing around the room, "do not possess the strength to face what will come if that dream is broken."
“The Velli say there is another. They will not accept your rule,” a woman in shades of blue said. Gisemere waved his hand dismissively.
“The elves give some wild fairytale with no proof. Have they produced this mysterious heir? Have they explained why King Emindel himself failed to acknowledge this other before he died?” The young man paused, waiting. He knew they were cowards, every one of them. He only needed them to give in to their fear. “The Velli would have us on a wild hunt for a make-believe heir while our kingdom goes leaderless in its time of need. Ask yourself why.” Anxious glances passed between the men and women, any small defiance fading. “We are the oldest of the Aurelian families; the wisest, most respected. The elves have hidden themselves for too long. The people no longer trust them. We should no longer trust them.”
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He raised his head proudly as he walked down the stone steps. “We are the Aurelian. We are the people of balance, the defenders, the wise, and we have ruled unquestioned for centuries. We must continue to do what is best for the people of this city and all of Orvesa. They look to us to guide them and trust us to do what is best. Conflict will only harm them … harm us.”
A stern-faced man with silver in his dark hair and a purple birthmark on his cheek stepped forward. “The elves will not protect you without the blood. You can not wear the ring,” he said. “They will know. And if they ever produce the one they say is of the blood…” The word left unsaid thundered through the hall. War. Orvesa had not seen war since the Miotan invaded over 600 years ago. The Wranbanise family’s actions in that war led them to the throne but also left the continent shattered for generations. So shattered, even the distant memory still held weight.
But Gisemere remained unmoved. "That is my concern if it comes to pass. Yours is protecting the people. The city cries out for a leader and becomes restless in the waiting. Elves and magic rings do not make kings. You do.”
The crowd responded to his words with downcast eyes and nervous whispers, as the fate of Orvesa teetered between unearned pride and the fears of old men. One by one, the gathered counsel turned to him and nodded their agreement. The woman in blue was first to raise her glass, “To King Gisemere. May he prosper.” The blessing echoed around the hall.
Gisemere smiled as he raised his glass. “As may we all.”