Did the gods see as he did—from a window, high above? Humans no bigger than insects, scurrying about, building castles and towns like ants with their hills. Alaric stared down at the bustling courtyard below, lost in thought.

"Are you listening?" A wood rod smacked against his desk, demanding attention. The bark was battered and peeling away. Faded green-white stripes covered the gnarled amber. Alaric, who had been leaning in his chair, fell back in surprise. His arms flailed as the chair tipped over, and the prince found himself performing an acrobat's act.

"Help." Was all Alaric managed to say before a motely hand, stained with ink, seized him by the collar. The leathery, freckled face of Grand Master Theldore appeared. Bushy brows furrowed, and nose wrinkled in annoyance. His attire could be mistaken for that of a monk: brown wool robe, a balding head, a leather sash filled with ink bottles, and spare quills. Except monks wore no jewelry, like copper rings, or carried sticks. He was a member of the Order Chronicle. A group composed of scholars, philosophers, and physicians dedicated to the study and preservation of knowledge.

"Do try daydreaming some other time. I hate to repeat my lectures." He stood Alaric up, returning to matter at hand. "Now, where was I?" The chronicler paced back and forth, resting the rod on his shoulder.

Shelves lined the rounded corners of the room, crammed with leather-bound books and vellum scrolls. The private solar, built of rough-hewn stone and mortar, carried a faint, musty smell. Situated on the midfloor of the library tower, it required a long, winding ascent. Alaric often complained about the grueling trek up the stairs; Sir Careridan simply called it good exercise.

"There." The raven-haired boy pointed to the front, where a massive map, nearly the size of a carpet, was draped across the wall. The oversized decoration depicted the northern portion of the known world, dotted with islands and surrounded by an ocean of blue. Three landmasses stood out like sore thumbs: one to the west, one to the east, and one to the north.

Constanbul. Reildor. And Ekadrith.

"Yes, I remember now." The pacing stopped, and the man in robes tapped his rod against the map. "My prince, where are we?"

"In a castle." Alaric deadpanned, stifling a yawn.

"Do use your head." Master Theldore replied, patiently.

"Can you be a little specific?"

"Enlighten me."

Alaric rolled his eyes. What is it with old men being cryptic? And why are so many my teachers, he thought sourly. "I'd be happy to enlighten you, Master Theldore." He smiled sweetly. "At your age, it's only natural to forget." The prince gestured to the left side of the map. "This is the High Kingdoms, once a land of petty kingdoms and squabbling clans. Until Drachara marched through centuries later and decided to turn us into an imperial province."

"And then?" Master Theldore asked, his tone prompting Alaric to continue.

Alaric shrugged, "Half a century of Drachen supremacy ended when Jotunn hordes invaded Constanbul," he said, recalling an old tome he'd once read. The text described the Jotunn as creatures that matured like men but lived far longer, rarely fell ill, and cared little for hovels or the comforts of humanity. The author claimed they lacked the strength and resilience of men, but their delicate, branch-like limbs made them swift and agile. Alaric silently thanked the Forefathers they didn’t roam the High Kingdoms. He wasn’t sure if the Jotunn truly existed, or were human enemies of Drachara twisted into monstrous legends. Either way, he was relieved never to have seen one.

A loud cough from Master Theldore snapped Alaric out of his thoughts. The chronicler furrowed a brow that, to Alaric, resembled a squirrel’s tail.

"Continue," Master Theldore said, motioning with his rod.

Alaric took a deep breath, drawing on past lessons. "Lewyn Pengor and several petty kings rose up in rebellion. The whole affair ended in all heroics and victory. Three years later, Lewyn holds an assembly with those same important kings." He paused, his mind faltering as he tried to recall the names of the ancestors from which most of the five ducal lords descended. Griffin King Rhyskard, the first Duke of Lotheign, was etched early on in his memory. And he knew Lewyn Pengor, of course. The man was the first elected High King. But the rest? They blurred together, slipping from his grasp.

Determined not to falter, Alaric pressed on. "Lewyn proposed that they elect a high king among themselves, and the petty kings agreed. But in exchange, they demanded another meeting be held after Lewyn’s heir took the throne, so they might judge the crown's succession and preserve their own rights. Thus, the tradition of the Kingsmeet was established, and upon swearing fealty to the High Crown, King Lewyn granted each former king a ducal title. They became Dukes, receiving domain over entire regions of Reildor."

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Alaric inhaled after the last sentence, the musty air filling his lungs tasted somewhat fresh as he released it in a smug smile. He had just summarized several centuries of history within a few breaths.

Master Theldore lowered the amber rod, returning Alaric's smile with a small one of his own. "Well done, my prince," he said pleasantly. Outside, a bell tolled, its chimes bouncing across the solar's brick foundation. "The empire crumpled, and out arose the High Kingdoms of Reildor, forged by petty kings."

A petty queen, and a sand prince, Alaric silently added. The former sea kingdom had continued its odd custom of female primogeniture, and the desert kings of Navarre became princes. The Prince of Navarre, Alaric mused, held a curious place among Reildoric nobility — a hereditary title tied directly to the land rather than bestowed by the Crown. The principality also possessed not one but two votes in the Kingsmeet. Alaric decided King Lewyn had paid a steep price for their loyalty, indeed.

"In matters pertaining to succession, the founding and formation of the Kingsmeet is paramount to understanding," Master Theldore concluded.

"Because of how Father took the throne." Alaric ventured as he sat up, gathering his things. The bell marked the beginning of noon and the end of morning lessons. Creases formed beneath the freckles of Master Theldore's forehead as his bushy brows flew up in panic. Alaric felt a smidge of guilt, watching the chronicler's eyes bulge like a lost fawn. His poor tutor looked as if he witnessed treason being spoken from the very heart of the library tower.

Which wasn't necessarily wrong. Being caught questioning His Majesties legitimacy meant questioning his authority over the realm. Which meant treason, and therefore warranted a visit from the headsman. But Alaric simply mentioned, albeit accidentally, the unorthodox manner his father took the High Crown.

"No, no, no. I said nothing of the sort," Master Theldore said, visibly shaken. "Your fath— I mean, King Leoffric ascended the throne as the rightful claimant," he spluttered, fumbling with the copper rings adorning his fingers. Slipping his battered stick into a holster sewn into his sash, he cleared his throat. "Owain Pengoraith left no children, you see. Prior elections clearly dictate the Kingsmeet to assemble after the Crown Prince dons the High Crown. Owain failed, both as a husband in siring offspring and in his duty to the realm to produce a trueborn heir. Thus, His Majesty broken no tradition fighting the usurpers and stands legitimized as King Owain’s grandnephew."

Alaric couldn’t help but quirk his lip. The chronicler certainly had mounted an impassioned defense. "I see…Well then, on behalf of House Audramn and in King Leoffric’s good name, I extend my sincerest gratitude to Master Theldore for his unwavering defense against any hearsay regarding His Majesty’s rightful rule."

Master Theldore accepted the royal thanks, bowing low at an angle Alaric had not thought possible for a man of Theldore's age. "I am unworthy of such thanks, this chronicler lives to serve the royal family, My Prince." Alaric's mouth stilled, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. Three years of hearing similar servile phrases, coated with honeyed flattery and fresh sycophancy, had made it a habit. Respect paid is respect given in kind to the deserving, his father’s voice echoed in his mind—one of the few hearthron adages Father had passed to him.

It was Theldore who had taught him his letters and numbers back in the nursery, and Theldore who had weathered his young temper tantrums with remarkable patience. Alaric still remembered the chronicler’s first arrival, part of the contingent of Order scribes, apprentices, and researchers accompanying the Royal Chronicle to court. Even when Alaric’s frustrations caused chairs to splinter or ink bottles to crack in his grip, Master Theldore had been visibly shaken—yet undeterred. His dedication to education was as resolute as a squire’s commitment to the martial path. It also helped that Master Theldore was of the few teachers Alaric found somewhat agreeable. His approach was strict but fair; he always praised honest effort, even when Alaric daydreamed or made mistakes.

"Your loyalty is duly noted. Please Theldore, rise. There's no need to bow so low, you’ve taught me for six years. I’d rather you not risk your back over such formalities." Satisfied that Master Theldore could stand just fine, Alaric made for the door.

"Just a moment, My Prince," his teacher called out. "Gentle, please." He motioned to Alaric's hand hovering near the brass knob, its burnish still gleaming, unlike the well-worn hinges fastening it to the door.

"I'm aware. It won't happen again." Alaric grumbled. He grabbed the doorknob with the delicate touch of a midwife, slowly twisting it. Too much pressure, and the knob could bend. And if he pulled too quickly, it might break off entirely. He usually avoided mishaps like the one that had befallen Theldore’s door before by paying careful attention to everything he touched. The price? Every. Single. Waking. Moment.

It had been two years since he left the nursery, a tyke no longer, and three total since his "gift" awakened. Yet, he still required constant accommodation for the simplest things: reed styluses and quills, replaced by clumsy metal pens; breeches or trousers, fastened with thick leather ties instead of delicate clasps. Precious glass, silver, and gold cups swapped for replicable bronze. Alaric would have gladly forgone cutlery and used his hands to eat if Mother hadn’t relented and allowed him to switch silver for pig iron utensils. Even the thickest vellum page demanded a light touch, lest his fingers tear through it like wispy cobwebs. If the Saintess had so benevolently bestowed him this latent "gift," as Mother claimed. Why was She so determined to make it feel like a curse, inconveniencing him at every turn?

Alaric drew back his hand, his ears tingling as blood simmered, incised by the bitter thought. He laced his fingers together and made a grand gesture of stretching his arms, ignoring Theldore's unspoken concern. With a light touch, he eased the door open. Alaric turned, grinning as he gave a mock bow. "I bid you farewell, Master Theldore." He glanced at the narrow flight of steps waiting below. They were like rows of teeth, jaws wide open, ready for him to trip and break his neck. Or legs. Perhaps both.