“Hello? Hello!” my father says, and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Just a hello on such a joyous occasion? It’s a time to celebrate!”

“Celebrate what?” I ask.

“The war, my boy, the war! You’ve finally made the announcement, Millar, and I couldn’t be prouder of you!” He squeezes my shoulder. Living with that for years has made that shoulder very, very tough. It came in handy wielding a sword. I’ve never figured out if my father had this in mind when he rough-handled me so much.

“Oh, that.”

“Oh that,” my father mocks me as he walks with me into the citadel, greeting the guards on the way. “Oh just the most glorious victory Grundar will have since the taking of Sever, oh, just that.” My father laughs as he pats me hard on the back. He winces with pain after doing it, forgetting the injury on his mangled left arm.

“I haven’t done it yet, Dad,” I say as we pass through the long entrance chamber. It’s decorated with war banners and other trophies of the past. There are also hidden corridors and arrow slits in the walls, ending in a large, spiked gate that leads further into the Iron Palace.

“Oh but you will, you will,” my father says as a guard comes through the gate at the other end carrying a covered tray. “And now you must take the first step toward that victory.” My father and I stop and the guard kneels, presenting the tray. My father grins as he takes the cover off the tray, revealing a platinum and gold inlaid helm, a small red spike on the top in imitation of the Iron Palace. The Heir’s Helm. “Time to show you to the army.”

Without another word, I’m rushed off to my changing room. Paralyzed by the patriarchal force of duty, I can’t resist as aids strap plated armor and the sword Cromlin made to my body. The whole time my father talks of tactics and gives the advice on supply and morale that he’s repeated a dozen times at meals and lessons.

The armor creaks quietly as I make my way to the upper levels of the citadel. “You did what now?” I ask. My father had just then gotten around to telling me what was going on.

“I’ve made an assembly. The Council of Generals is gathered at the main balcony and is currently tallying troop numbers and placements,” my father says. I hear a faint cheer coming from outside. It’s muffled and soft, but must have been incredibly loud to make it this far into the citadel. “You will meet them and address the nation.”

I don’t say anything. It’s not like I haven’t done this sort of thing before — a national address is no big deal. Now is just not the time for me to be proclaiming the glory of Grundar’s victory.

“I know it’s last minute, son,” my mother says as we meet her at the thin, tiled staircase that leads to the level with the main balcony. “But you only have to say a few words of encouragement.” Both she and my father are dressed in their regal battle apparel.

Taken to the balcony swiftly, I tell my parents that I know what to say. I actually have no idea what to say but that’s not important. We pass through the throne room on the way, gathering my brother and the other generals. There, hanging over my father’s sword-shaped throne, is Mendar Steel’s broken iron and bronze sword. For the thousandth time my father reminds me of that sword and the story of Steel’s battle with Sander and the founding of the kingdom. He says it’s a reminder of my duty to bring victory yet again to Grundar.

“Just like Mendar Steel, that great king who set the base of our great nation, you will go to battle, beating this iron people into polished and unbreakable steel.” He pats me strongly and proudly on the back and we walk on, past the thrones of the king and queen. The queen’s is shaped like a golden shield. The king’s is a platinum and gem-studded throne made to look like a wide blade.

“But just like Mendar Steel,” my mother says, “you must be wary of the weakness of Sander. Laziness, disunity, and selfishness are his principles, and you must weed them out of yourself before you can unite the lands under Grundar’s flag.”

It’s all good advice and I know it by heart. I really don’t want to hear it, though, confused with the kingdom as I now am. As we exit the throne room, there is the soft, echoing clatter of metal, a whisper that bounces lightly off the walls. No one knows where that sound comes from, but my father says it’s just echoes from the city. It’s always made me uncomfortable, though.

The main balcony on the edge of the black metal citadel is about fifty feet across. It’s built into the front side of the Iron Palace about three quarters of the way up its sheer, black face. A long, barred railing edged in polished brass lines the balcony. As I approach, one of the generals shouts my name to the masses.

I get to the edge of the railing and look down as the general bows and backs away. Down below, outside the citadel gates, the masses of Grundar have gathered in honor of the announcement. Men and women of all ages jump up and down cheering as I do nothing but wave and smile.

“My fellow Grundarins,” I begin, projecting my voice so it travels throughout the hushing crowd.

“Those pig-headed horse-eaters!” I say, and kick over the sitting room table.

“An heir shouldn’t talk about his people like that,” Len says, putting the table back upright.

I pace back and forth in the small sitting room adjacent to the great dining hall. The room has several couches and chairs that are very comfortable along with tapestries depicting battles. I’ve been punching and kicking over most of the furniture.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“The complacent idiots!” I shout.

“Please not the lamp, greatness, your mother loves that. Put it down,” Len says, and takes the unlit brass lamp out of my hand.

“All I did was spew out dribble, Len. And they ate it all up!” I punch a wall. The wood panel hurts my hand delightfully.

“I thought it was a very stirring speech.”

“It was.” I turn around and begin pacing around the couch. Len stands unmoving. “It was when my father gave it ten years ago. I had no idea what to say so I nearly quoted him word for word. And the generals and all the people loved it!”

“I still don’t see why you’re angry,” Len says as I lap around him a second time. “That means that they’re loyal. It means—”

“It means they’re idiots,” I say.

Len grabs my arm as I walk by. He pulls me back toward him with patient force.

“I am tired of you talking like that. Now explain why you yelled at your father at dinner this minute,” Len says, walking me to the couch. He lets go and I sit down, still fuming. Len’s stare down at me with his arms crossed makes me sorry I made him upset.

“It’s just like the factory, when I gave out that award for the retiring smith,” I say, taking a deep breath to calm myself. Len taps his foot. “When I gave him that silver hammer, I asked him what the shop was like when he started. He said it hadn’t changed much.” I stand up and walk over to one of the tapestries I’d taken punches at and smooth out the creases. “Then I asked if he’d changed anything. In forty years, he said he hadn’t changed how he worked one little bit.”

“When something is at an expertise, you don’t need to change it,” Len says. I shake my head as I clean a bit of dust off the now smooth tapestry. “Don’t tell me you can’t get the idea of technology out of your head. Look, Millar.” Len turns me around and puts a hand on my shoulder. “We don’t need those things. Life is good right now, for you and your people.”

“I know, I know,” I say, and start pacing again. “But these people, even father, all they want is to continue what they’re doing. They want the same exact battles and campaigns, they want the same work, and they want the same leaders. They’re so happy to stay where they are they don’t want to realize that there’s something more out there. Technology aside, I’m just sick and tired of this kingdom not changing.”

“So you don’t like Grundar? Your kingdom, greatness?” Len asks.

I walk over to the small window and look down on the city. It’s dark now, and the streetlights and dim lights from houses give a light glow, turning colorful buildings that in day are bright into grey shadows.

“I didn’t say that,” I say. “And I didn’t say that there’s something better. There’s just… more.”

Silently, my father opens the door to the sitting room and walks in. He takes off the king’s helm, the shimmering gold and platinum helmet leaning on the massive red spike on its top, and sits down on one of the large, leather chairs. He puts the helm on his leg and starts tapping on it with his fingers, not looking at me.

“More what?” he finally asks.

“Father, I…” I begin, walking back to sit on the couch.

“Answer my question,” the king bites.

I freeze. Len keeps standing, looking at my father with his arms crossed.

“More than what Grundar has now,” I say with a sigh.

“Ah, you mean the Brill,” my father says with a grin. He takes a knife and a sliver of wood from his side pocket and begins cutting. Never able to sit still for too long, my father’s been carving this particular piece for a few days now. It’s a ball cut inside a box made out of a single piece of wood. “For a moment there, I thought you were talking nonsense.” Chuck, chuck his knife cuts as he speaks. “Your outburst at the table convinced the generals to follow your strategy to the exact, though they have yet to hear it. Anger is a good way to control your generals, Millar, but be careful how you use it. Your command needs to know you’re stable in order to have confidence in you.”

“Yes, Father,” I say, glad that my burst of anger was thought to be on purpose.

“All the same, your mother and I can tell you’re under a lot of stress. Whether it’s because of your journey or because of the war, I don’t care. I just want you to know that I’ll do all I can to help you with it.” He shifts the unfinished box on his hand, unable to keep his right arm steady because of his injury in Severdom. Too many arrows can permanently weaken even the strongest arm.

“Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be fine in a few days,” I say, and sit down on the couch.

“Good. That being said, your brother tells me you’ve been acting very upset. Dissatisfied is what he calls it.” Chuck, chuck, he blows on the little box, almost done shaping the ball inside. “I want you to stop acting like that, Millar. You need to put aside your problems and concentrate on your duty to your country.”

I squeeze my fist.

My father sees me tense up and puts down his knife and leans forward. “Millar, you don’t have the opportunity to question things. You have a duty. You weren’t born to a privileged family where you can sit around and think all day. You have a great responsibility to your people that you cannot neglect. Let someone else worry about the nature of things. The people need you to be their prince.” My father stands and picks up the helm, pocketing his knife and box. “Good night, son. Tomorrow we will discuss your strategy.”

“Goodnight, Father,” I say, and shake his hand.

When he leaves, Len looks at me, waiting to see how I’ll respond.

“He’s right,” I say.

Len nods.

“This will be the last night,” I say.

“Oh?” Eelian asks, sitting on my bead and munching loudly on an apple.

“Yes. I’ve got too many things to worry about without your ideas messing things up. Anyway, with the war coming I won’t have time for stories.”

“I see.” Eelian tosses the apple core out the window. It’s a good shot. The window’s barely open. He stands and walks over to his storytelling spot. I sit down on the chest without a word.

“So if you wanted to tell me that true history you were talking about, I think it would be best to tell me now,” I say.

Eelian stands, bobbing around in his liquid-like way. “There are three types of history in the universe, Prince Millar. The first is common history, what the victors and rulers have written in books. The second is true history, showing events as they truly occurred. Since most history is subject to interpretation, unbiased history like this is difficult to find. But rarer than this is the third type, lost history.”

Eelian reaches into his robe and pulls out a long tube with holes in it. It looks somewhat like the flutes or whistles common throughout the kingdom. But this is of some strange, red wood and carved in a natural, not quite Gale fashion. Eelian plays a light, dancing tune on it. The music comes as if five flutes were playing at once, all harmonizing with each other.

“What is that?” I ask.

“A choir flute. Lost history is that which is either forgotten, lost to time, or that which rulers choose to forget. Lost history is written out, but sometimes it’s better that a people forget it. Nearly always, this is a tragedy, for if people don’t know where they came from, they’re doomed to return there,” Eelian says, and plays a quick tone again, this time much sadder. “This tale is one the Prophets tragically tried to forget.”