They say that blood is thicker than water. To the sole heir of the Lovenburg kingdom, blood was never thick enough. He had waited nearly two decades for his father to do something meritorious for their kingdom. Yet, it seemed every new action taken by the crown tainted their lineage further. Pure Erstem blood was their origin, and war was its history. A prophet long gone claimed their kingdom would endure until it reached both ends of the horizon, but only if it were taken with force. Over the centuries, this prophecy was what guided every conquest waged by his ancestors, and their people dominated the land with an iron fist.

However, his ancestry had grown weak with time. By cover of night, a gang of lesser nobles kidnapped his grandfather when the Prince was a baby. They forced his grandfather to sign a treatise, granting them a say on the decree of kings. His grandfather gave those treacherous fools a run for their coin. In the end he yielded, for the brief civil war proved too costly if their borders were to expand. After that shame, he witnessed his father bend the knee to the council after his grandfather had succumb to wounds from this civil war. Accepting their ‘aid’ was beyond treachery, and this submissive decline could not be forgiven now.

There were a few things that were understandable. He could overlook taking the slaves off the battlefield, for they often retreated or turned on their host like the spineless non-Erstem filth they were. In fact, he could almost agree with his father for pulling troops back from the Eastern lake borders a decade earlier, which stopped all momentum in the region. Those Namandlans held the mountains in the east with impressive skill. But his father dishonored their legacy by sending an offering of peace. Peace was for when the world was united by the righteous will of the Ersta through the glory of sacred warfare. His father claimed this was to allow the men to focus on the northern front. His words of compromise reeked of weakness.

The northern front was its own disaster, but that wasn’t his father’s fault. There was not a way to have accounted for those desert zealots burning down their own border forests just to kill the advancing forces. Thankfully not too many important soldiers died. Just slaves collected from the varying territories.

The slaves, whom the Prince liked to address as ‘Sau’ due to their filthy living and varying non-blonde hair, had taken to calling it the ‘Battle of the Burned Woods,’ and his father had done nothing to stop their tiresome wailing. The Sau constructed a vigil in their slum, and it had been there for at least eight years without being torn down or burned to put them back in their place. The Prince knew within his heart that his father had simply gone too soft to lead this kingdom to greatness.

Of course, the Prince had an answer for this. He had been planning to take the throne, to slaughter the Weisen Council, and to secure their future with force. It was his right to lead when his father was gone after all. With all of the blood shed so far, his father’s weakness would only be a small consequence to a greater sum. He rallied a fair army of followers in secret. Lords and soldiers who described him as ‘fearsome’ and ‘cunning’ and expressed excitement for his follow through. He had laid out a plan to overthrow his father publicly, utilizing his rallied men to seize the castle and the council building in a fell swoop. This siege would be during the Neuanfang ceremony where there would be the most people to witness his ascent. Much to his excitement, the ceremony began tomorrow when the sun rose highest in the sky.

These wonderful thoughts would have to wait their turn, however. The Prince had his regular responsibilities to tend to while he bid his time. This did include his favorite form of respite: Extracting sweet screams from the captives of the war front. He told his father that he was attempting to gather information about war strategies, but mostly he just enjoyed the terror in the eyes of those chained in his playroom.

The room, once a private cell for captive lords, sat in serene darkness until the Prince ‘rediscovered’ it. It sat nestled in the darkest corner of what was now a proper jail, down a long stretch of walkway secured by two heavy oak doors. These thick barriers minimized the number of interruptions he would have to his resting time. The Prince was confident the wailing of his playthings was only music for his ears, and he delighted himself in spending hours finding new methods to get the reactions he craved.

Sadly, those captured from the Tìr Dhè often did not survive the journey, so it was rare for the Prince to gather what he was able to from who he was able to. As luck would have it though, a deployment of guards from the northern territories had caught a scout of sorts. He had been processed and chained for interrogation on arrival.

This captive had supposedly been deeply nestled in their territory, hidden in a camp half a day north of the main stronghold in the Sandmeer. According to the deployment that apprehended him, he picked up the Erstem language in his time spent in the kingdom. It was not often he got to speak meaningfully to a captive. Although no conversation with an inferior was meaningful to him. It was, however, an exceedingly rare treat to understand his anguished cries for mercy.

He savored the thought of another strong, bronze skinned warrior pleading for his life, but in words that didn’t sound like a mixture of insane gibbering and throat clearing. With these thoughts in his mind, he made haste to the prison.

To say the Prince was disappointed by this new captive was a gratuitous understatement. The captive was not a large man; in fact, he was rather plain. He was shorter than the Prince by half a head. His fiery hair matted with blood and grime hung loosely to veil his face, and he was unresponsive to the Prince when he arrived. His tanned skin showed the damage of the desert sun and the many years spent under it, but the bruising and cuts of cudgel strikes told a far different tale.

The guards had not mentioned they had already had their own fun with the captive, and the Prince would see to their reprimand personally when the time came to it. He mused for a moment of his first action as king being to flay an overzealous underling for insubordination. He then dismissed the thought for more pressing matters.

He was finally alone with this ever so lackluster spectacle of humanity and needed to bring up some kind of worthy entertainment. It had been a long day of pretending to give half a pig's ass about the endless tirade of bitching and whining about ‘revenue’ from lesser nobles. Blood and terror were the cure for this headache.

The Prince waited for any sign of his prisoner waking, and when he found no signs beyond shallow breaths, he struck him across the face with the back of his right hand.

“Rise and shine, filth!” chided the Prince.

The naked, blood drenched man startled back to consciousness, shivering against the cold stone. His bright green eyes burned with a shocked sense of wrathfulness in the low torchlight that illuminated the cell. He shook the hair from his face, revealing the bruise that lined his left eye socket. The Prince walked slowly across the cell from the weary figure and sat on a well-worn stool, then offered a wide smile.

“I heard from my men you’ve learned some of my people’s superior tongue. How did someone so simple minded manage that?”

The Captive glared at the Prince in silence, studying this strange boy sitting before him. The Prince guessed that he was sizing him up, seeing if he had any means of escape. Though the man was shorter than him, this captive did maintain a fair physique, and was likely stronger than he would have initially given him credit for. After a few moments, the captive seemed to relax, and said “I learned by speaking with merchants from your lands. They claimed to have permission from your king, but my people know the look of greedy men when we see them. I know your tongue very well.”

The Prince sat on his stool, transitioning from a face of half-genuine shock to a now rather pleasantly surprised smirk. “Your Ersta impresses me. You speak better than some of our slaves do warrior. It means you can give me more of what I need.”

“… What would you need of me?”

“Answers. Why are you in my Kingdom? What do your people intend to do this time?” The Prince dropped his mask of pleasantry and demanded with urgency. “You will tell me everything I want to know. The Tìr Dhè will join the king's lands, sooner or later.”

“Your kingdom?” The prisoner said, “You are mistaken on many counts, youngling. To answer you though, I am an exile; I seek to restore my honor and return home. Nothing more. The tribes on the border have assured the Elder Council that they have no need of aid. I would not deepen my shame by rendering aid unwelcomed. The lands of the Tìr Dhè yield to none but the gods.”

The Prince stared deep into the captives’ eyes, searching for a sign of misdirection, and much to his disappointment, there was none. This was irrelevant though. The wall bound oaf dared to question him, and that was enough.

The Prince withdrew a leather roll with two silver clasps from his satchel, undid the clasps, and unfurled his usual bag of information gathering toys. Blades of variable sharpness, long thin slivers for prying into the more intimate and neglected parts of the body, and a thin metal string taken from a minstrel that proved to be rather useful in the Prince’s pastime, and all gleamed under the flickering flame light. A nervous yet curious look came over the Captive. The Prince savored that.

“I don’t like that answer,” remarked the Prince, in a dismissive tone, “Care to give me a better one? It might hurt less if you do.” The Prince offered another toothy smile and stood at a well-practiced angle in the light to cast a deep shadow across his face.

He discovered over time and toying that while physical scars yielded satisfactory results, mental scars lingered much longer, and allowed even his presence to become a weapon against the lesser beings in his kingdom. His reputation alone was enough for the Sau, but for new toys, a lasting impression meant he could have so much more fun.

Over a span of no more than twenty seconds, the Captive looked at the blades that now rested on the stool, then to the young man with the shadow cast over his face, adorned himself with a puzzled expression, relaxed, and then chuckled heartily.

“You must be one of those blade dancers from Evandria. It’s strange you would come so far south. I saw one of your troupes perform an act with shadows cast just like you have them now. They come through my town to flaunt their performances every few other summers. I saw it when I was a younger man, it didn’t impress me much. It would explain those flashy colors on your clothes though. Your types are all the same, all about the show. Get to it then, not like I’ve anywhere to go. If I die here or against the beast, it makes no difference to me. All lives return to Am Stèidhichear in the end.”

The Prince sat aghast in the shadow of the torchlight. Disappointment made the seconds pass like minutes. He turned away from his prisoner, and then withdrew to the stool, standing over his ‘toys.’ Invoking the name of one of the gods in his disgusting home language was foul enough. From what he said, it must have been a name for The Guide, the lord of life, death, and the cycle. He had heard these zealots were religious, but he didn’t think it was suicidal. It made the rest of his playtime feel so boring, knowing he wasn’t all that afraid of death. But this witless cur had the audacity to ruin his resting time, and then calling his regal apparel flashy? He wasn’t necessarily wrong. These were the clothing of fine nobility. But to compare them to some trash circus act? What kind of performances was this foppish man going to anyway, where people got cut up for a show. It did pique his interest though. Perhaps they had more… advanced techniques to offer. The Prince realized he lingered on his thoughts too long when the captive let out another deep laugh.

“Sorry if that ruined the performance for you. Honest to the Gods though, that’s all I have for you. I guess the bit about the Tìr Dhè yielding to the gods was unnecessary, but it is the truth. The sands forgive no souls, as my people say. Also, it’s strange for a performer like you to be down in a cave like this, claiming this is your kingdom. If it helps, you did have a very scary look on your face with those shadows, and this is a fine cave. Not as fine as the caves I helped carve in my youth, though. Are you Ersta aware…”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

The Prince, unwilling to entertain this idiotic babbling further, used his access to his collection and withdrew a finely sharpened blade. With one clean sweep, he sliced along the prisoners bare midsection. The sanguine tide rolled over the coast of the Captive’s abdomen as he let out a gasp of pain. However, his humored demeanor shifted not to a face of pain, but of disappointment.

“And here I thought we were getting to know each other so well. What was that for? There’s usually some fanfare before the show starts.”

The Prince stood in the dank air and permeable dark of the cell, looked upon the ragged visage chained to the wall, and found himself physically staggered with disbelief. What madman had his men dragged down into this pit? No wonder they had to savage him so roughly. Was he just immune to the pains of the world? That would obviously require more testing, but the thought was interesting. It did mean he could get far more creative access, but simply none of the satisfaction it would bring. All the same, he would come out on top, but it meant that this Captive was an oddity even by the Prince’s standards.

The Prince replied “I am the heir to the Kingdom of the Lovenburg bloodline. Prince of the Erstem, son of the unconquered lineage, and soon to be its rightful King. If you won’t give me what I want, I will take it from you in pieces. Do you understand that much?”

The Captive locked eyes with the Prince, and again, his expression shifted. This face expressed visible concern, and that gave the Prince a little more reprieve. The Captive grew silent, seeming to think deeply about what he might say in this situation, when he spoke once more.

“I’m hunting.”

“Hunting?” inquired the Prince in a disappointed tone.

“Yes.” The Captive replied stoically.

“You’re fucking with me again; aren’t you desert dog?”

The Captive showed no expression and continued in an unenthusiastic monotone.

“You wanted the truth, and I gave it to you. I am an exile, I told you that already. I was given the task of hunting a great beast to restore my honor with the Clans, and the diviners claim this beast hides in a tall standing stone tower by a lake several days southwest of this place. The Clans do not anticipate my return, but I wish to prove them wrong and restore my name. I allowed your men to find me so I could travel safely down the river through your lands, for I am unaccustomed to the wild woodlands. I did not anticipate your men to be as talented warriors as they are, and that is why I am in this cave now. My confidence was my downfall, but I am no threat to you or your kindred. If I am allowed to leave, and reclaim my possessions, I will be heading straight for this lake to find my quarry, and then return home or die to it. No more, no less. That is my cause to be in these lands, and I wish to leave them as soon as I am able to.”

The Prince studied the Captive’s face and found no hints of deception to work with. It was strange that this sand rat was heading to the long-abandoned watch towers. He learned about the towers from his father; they stood as a reminder of their kingdom’s humble beginnings, in the days before they mastered even basic smithing techniques.

In the present, the tower to the southwest was long abandoned, and normally ignored due to the burdensome voyage to get to it. There were no roads out to the lake, and it’s a two week walk to even get there. However, the safest way to travel through the kingdom was along the rivers, and it would only take four days’ time. If there truly was some beast there, that was an issue of its own. The guards were adept in handling the banditry, the rare kobold raids, and the other foul creatures of the night. However, the last great beast his family had to slay was a fearsome Lindworm, but that had been nearly two centuries ago. They were more careful now and made sure to burn the corpses on the battlefields so as to not attract their attention anymore. The head of that Lindwurm still hung over the throne in their castle.

It did not seem like this captive spoke falsely, and that concerned the Prince even more. As he was soon to become king, dealing with this great beast was likely going to be his first action. The captive seemed like the type to die if he were to hunt alone. Simply too arrogant, almost insufferably so. He pondered his options on this task when one of the cell guards suddenly burst into the room.

“Milord, there’s been an issue with some of the servants…”

“Slaves. They’re slaves, you will address them as such in my presence, no matter what father insists upon.”

“Right milord. Well… the slaves seem to have been taking extra food from the larder. They claim to have spotted rats, but we remembered you’ve requested to oversee these things personally. We’ve rounded up all the slaves who have been working in the kitchen these last few days, and none of them are fessing up.”

“I see. I’ll head to the larder in a moment then. Away with you.”

The guard stood at attention, gave the Lovenburg salute, his right arm aligned with the horizon, bent to place his hand in a closed fist over his heart, and then left to return to his duties. The Prince turned to the Captive, and said “So, I suppose that means our time together is ending abruptly. I’ll be returning in two days, so get comfortable in the meantime.”

“Oh, how could I not be? Cold chains, bleeding wounds, and in an empty cave. Such a lovely place.”

The Prince scoffed, put away his collection of blades, tucked the leather wrapping under his arm, and then without another word, locked the door to the cell. He ordered the nearest guard to get an herbalist to tend to the Captive’s wounds so his new toy would last a while and trotted off to educate the Sau in the larder on what happens to hungry mouths who take too much.

He made it quick; dead children always taught the fastest lessons, and usually it only took one to get the point across. The Sau were replaceable after all, they bred like rabbits. Rats or no rats, it wouldn’t be too consequential. It’s why he didn’t mind taking them however he desired when he felt the mood. However, this time was different. He needed to rest for his big day tomorrow and couldn’t afford to waste time on replaceable underlings. Uncle Oswald arrived tonight, and when he did, they would discuss the tactics of taking the throne in his princely chambers. Only his personal guards would be stationed nearby, and they were prepared for the day. Between Uncle Oswald’s troops, and his guards leading a small battalion into the Weisen building, the Prince prepared to be King soon enough.

---

Night fell as the Prince paced in his chambers, polishing his favorite blade. It was a well-crafted iron dagger, set into a polished walnut grip. He received it for his tenth birthday celebration and made exceptionally effective use of it. As he was beginning to grow concerned about the time, the door to his chambers opened.

Before him stood a familiar haggard man. He was a wall of a human with a flowing golden mane, equally as glorious as his elaborately braided chest length beard. Streaks of silver had not yet beset him the way they grasped the Prince’s father. He hung his fur cloak on the rack in the corner and found the most comfortable chair available before collapsing into the comfort of a padded seat.

With a dry throat, he croaked out “Nephew, I know you’re probably excited about tomorrow, but shut the fuck up for five minutes and let me enjoy this chair.” The Prince nodded, ordered a guard to fetch a slave to bring some wine for them, and got comfortable as his uncle shed the stress of the long journey.

Uncle Oswald was a strange man by nobility standards. He had forsaken his claim to the throne to pursue the life of a traveling minstrel. In his travels, he realized that was a foolish thing to do, and returned home to try restoring his claim. Grandfather punished Uncle Oswald by sending him to manage the Waldgebiet, the woodlands ridden with giant spiders and goblins. Though he took the office humbly, the signs of age wore twice as fast on his face.

When the Prince was a young boy, his uncle had been the one to teach him the family histories that his father ordered to be kept from him between his rare visits. Stories of the mysterious prophet who saw their greatness. Sagas of the wars waged against the inferior clans. Epic tales of the rival clans that banded together once, in an attempt to stop the lineage from achieving their destiny. The folly of fools, to see greatness and stand against it. However, the past remained in the past, and greatness was an ongoing march. By tomorrow morning, it would be his turn to march upon the throne and become King Hans, First of his Name.

With a deep sigh of relief, Uncle Oswald sat upright, tugged his chair closer to the table between them, and withdrew a rough drawn map of the throne room, and of the Weisen Council hall. His uncle might be a strange man, but he was also renowned for being the strategist who helped take vast swathes of land in the northern deserts before stepping down to leave the kingdom. Uncle Oswald was beloved by the people in his duchy, and by the noble houses, an unheard-of accomplishment. The two milled over which doors would be secured, and discussed who among the nobles would be loyal to the King or to them. The Prince determined that the Weisen Council Hall could just be burned down to make a show of standing in the way of nobility. Oswald remarked on the cleverness of burning the council hall, as it would pull loyal troops away from the throne.

Towards the end of the discussion, Oswald’s demeanor shifted. He spoke softly, and said “Nephew, I do have a serious question to ask of you. This… overthrow. You are certain that this is what you want?”

There was no hesitation in the Prince’s answer.

Oswald studied the Prince’s face, and his expression darkened. “I want to tell you something then. A story, like when you were young. Would be all right with you?”

The Prince thought for a moment and nodded. He was no longer a young boy, but he did miss his uncle's stories. The last one he had been told was half a decade back, when he was only twelve years old. He recalled it fondly; it was about how uncle led an expedition to recover giant spiders for dissection and poison refinement. Initially the Prince wanted to poison his father with great spider venom, but uncle reminded him that a King must show strength, and poison was a weakling’s tool. He wanted to look strong for his people, and they deserved a leader who would stand strong.

“This one is… different, so be patient with me.”

Uncle Oswald then regaled the Prince with a tale of two boys, riding on horseback with their father, who brought them along to survey a warfront and get a status report from the men who failed to get a foothold beyond the woodlands. The father dismissed the sons to have a ‘private talk’ with his generals, and the two had run off to a stream less than a hundred paces from the war camp’s border.

They intended to hunt small game and practice their bushcraft skills, when they found themselves ambushed by a man who had been hiding in the mud, watching the camp. The man grabbed one boy by the throat, drawn a knife, and told the other to not move. The other boy had already notched an arrow, and had it poised to fire.

The first boy was terrified for his life, closed his eyes, and tried not to keep thinking that this man would slit his throat, when the man suddenly went limp. The other boy had taken a gamble and fired his shot, placing the arrow square between the man’s eyes, and saving the first boy's life. When they returned and alerted their father, they learned the man was a deserter, one of their own kindred who turned against them. Their father issued an order to have that man’s family routed out and burned alive. For the brothers though, the one saved swore his life to the other, and that he would save his life when the time arose.

The Prince tuned out sometime between walking out to the bushcraft practice and the arrow in the man’s head but nodded and agreed when his uncle asked if he understood the message of the story. Uncle Oswald often spoke in parables, stories of being strong when a leader needs to be, or to know when the right time to act is upon you. It seemed this was just another one of those parables, and the lesson was obviously that taking a chance can lead to substantial rewards, like a lifelong devotion.

The Prince studied his uncle’s face and found that he seemed upset. Perhaps that wasn’t the lesson after all, but what else could it be? Uncle Oswald rose from the table, excused himself, and walked to the chamber door. He then paused upon draping his wide frame in his fur cloak once again.

“Nephew… Just know that whatever happens tomorrow, I do love you. I’ve always loved you like you were my own son. I know your heart is in the right place but remember that an empty head rings hollow.”

The Prince didn’t know how to respond, or if this was an insult, or a compliment. He didn’t think he acted in any wrong way. As his uncle left his chambers, the Prince mulled over what he had possibly done to evoke that comment from his uncle. He concluded that his uncle must have noted him failing to pay attention, and it must be a warning to make it less obvious once he was on the throne. He did remember his father offered a similar lesson when he ignored a man who had come to court whining about something pertaining to finances. Something about equipment for the men, nothing he found terribly important. His father struck him on the side of the head, and delivered a lesson much like this one, but in a far harsher tone. Uncle was a much kinder man to the Prince, but it seemed the lesson was universal to the family.

The Prince decided to practice his attentive listening appearance for a while in his mirror. When that grew tiresome, he succumbed to the siren call of sleep, where he dreamed vividly of blood and gold. He couldn’t wait to make his dream a reality.