Just before the scandal that was about to occur at the grand Netzach station, the day began for one of the many families residing in the capital city. The plants in their modest yet well-tended garden greeted the morning sun. Just beyond it, their home stood tall: a two-story house with cream-colored brick walls and ochre frames surrounding its windows and front door. It was architecturally elegant but devoid of ostentation.

In one of the windows on the second floor, there was a personal room. Guided by the natural light and a wall mirror before him, a young man dressed and prepared to go out.

This will be the first day, he reminded himself, somewhat anxious, as he partially buttoned up a black tailored jacket over a white, fine shirt. He wore long, smooth trousers and leather loafers on his feet, both equally as elegant and dark as his upper garment.

It still feels like a dream that I was chosen, he thought, gazing at his reflection in the glass. He displayed a mix of rather unusual features within the region: skin as tan as an Ayarian, but with a softer and lighter tone reminiscent of a latte. His hair was short, curly, and jet-black. His youthful features were quite handsome and Apollonian, befitting a distinguished heart-throb, and among them, his brown eyes stood out: nearly as dark as the night but as lively as midday.

Suddenly, he turned his head to the side. Someone had tapped his bedroom door a couple of times and then gently turned the knob to enter. It was a boy of at least twelve years old. His fair complexion, light chestnut eyes and short hair contrasted with the darker tones of the man. He wore more casual but equally well-tailored clothes. A wooden wand was sheathed in a holster on the left side of his waist.

The man turned toward him, offering a warm smile. The boy looked up at him with a hint of curiosity.

"Are you going out, brother?" he asked.

"Yes, I'll be out almost all day," he confirmed, "I forgot to tell you at breakfast."

Just as I expected, thought the boy. His lips curved into a cheerful smile, mirroring his brother's. "Really? Can I come with you?"

The gallant young man crossed his arms, trying to put on a serious expression.

"Have you finished all your weekly chores, Enri Olivrin?" he inquired. "I've seen you quite distracted with your 'magic tricks'."

"Yes, yes, yes," the boy replied, nodding repeatedly. "I finished them just yesterday; I have nothing else to do. That's why I'm asking. I don't want to spend the whole day bored here."

His older brother's false mask of impassivity crumbled after that response, revealing his genuine, smiling face.

"Alright, then, you can come along," he agreed. He bent down a little and playfully tousled the boy's head. Both of them equally enjoyed their time together. "But only for a little while because I have to attend to some 'adult matters' afterward. Agreed?"

"Agreed," the boy nodded, pleased with the approval.

"Very well."

The young man released his brother's head and straightened up.

"By the way," he said, "Has our mother not woken up yet?"

"No, she must still be 'down for the count'," the boy replied with a playful tone.

Down for the count... The word made the young man smile again. Even though he knew what it meant, it never ceased to amuse him. "Olivrin..." His smile turned mischievous. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Of course," the boy replied, adopting a similar expression.

They both exited and walked down a corridor until they stopped in front of a particular door, which they quietly opened. Behind it, their mother lay on the matrimonial bed in her bedroom, bathed in dim light. Although she was asleep, her body exhibited an image far from the usual serenity one might imagine. She was lying face down with her limbs flexed in rather disparate positions, pushing the sheets away. Her slightly parted lips touched the pillow. Her posture resembled someone who had been knocked down by a swift blow, rather than a person in peaceful slumber, as humorously described by her younger son.

The two brothers covered their mouths, suppressing their laughter. On tiptoes, they approached the room's window, whose thick, closed double curtains made it seem as if dawn were perpetual. Each of them took hold of their respective edges.

"Good morning!" they exclaimed as they simultaneously pulled the curtains open. Light flooded the room like the surging currents of a flood.

"Aaah..." Their mother sighed in annoyance, squirming slightly as she felt the warmth of the sun on her closed eyelids. Their mischief had achieved its goal.

"Foul imp! Wicked Ashaim! Depart that body as Maskirio and the virtuous spirits of the heavens command you!" The elder brother exclaimed amidst Olivrin’s laughter, making theatrical gestures akin to a priest officiating an exorcism.

"Don't tease me, Gabran... Today is Soladi," his mother protested, addressing him by his name in a low and disheartened voice, shielding herself from the window's light with her sheets and pillows. Soladi was the last day of the week in the Maskirian calendar; the day of worship and rest.

"But it's past nine already, Mom," Olivrin said.

"It's inappropriate for such an illustrious eminence as yourself to intend to stay in bed all morning," Gabran continued with irreverent formality.

Touched by their comments, she turned to face them. Her sleepwear covered nearly all her fair, rosy skin. Her round face, though somewhat dulled by age and the absence of makeup, displayed keen and pleasing features. Notable among them were her upturned nose and her large emerald eyes, matching her straight, disheveled hair that fell on either side to her short shoulders.

"This 'illustrious eminence' was working like a Bunta slave until the early hours of the morning. You two can't say the same. If anyone in Netzach deserves a late morning rest, it's me," she complained. "Besides, when the hell have you ever gone without anything just because I like to sleep in?"

As her children stifled their laughter at her grumpy reproaches, she moved to touch the floor with her feet. She proceeded to get up and stretch somewhat clumsily due to the remnants of sleepiness. Her figure was slender, and her height remarkably short; even Olivrin was already taller than her by a few inches. Gabran, the elder one, towered over her by at least two heads.

"Thanks to you, I've lost the desire to go back to sleep. Well done, pair of buffoons," she said sarcastically in a calmer tone. She observed their attire. "And what's with those outfits? Are you going somewhere?"

"We're going for a little walk around the city," Gabran replied. "Do you want to come with us?"

"Nah," she shook her head. "No need to look in the mirror to know I look like a mess. I don't want to keep you waiting, and there are a few things I want to take care of... like lunch." She paused briefly, shifting her gaze to each of them. "Today is the only day we can all get together to have a meal, and I'm not going to let it pass by." She smiled with her lips closed. "What would you like?... How about 'Four Colors'?"

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

She asked. “Four Colors” was the name for the typical regional dish, whose origins and history traced back to the founding of the long-gone Kingdom of Lebias.

"Yes!"

"Please!"

Both of her sons agreed in hushed voices, visibly enthusiastic. It was one of their favorite dishes, and she was particularly skilled at making it.

"Perfect. See you after noon. If you happen to run into your father, let him know about the menu," she said, pleased with their approval. "Well, what are you waiting for? Weren't you going out?"

The brothers began to walk. Before leaving, they bid her farewell with brief hugs and kisses on her cheeks.

"Blessing!" Olivrin and Gabran said respectively before crossing the door.

"May the heavens bless you," she told them with a warm smile just before they left, following the common parting "protocol" in Lebias' culture.

When they were gone, she lowered her gaze.

Bunta slave... she thought, recalling that infamous historical figure she had mentioned in her outburst.

Her smile faded, and she ran her right hand across her forehead in a sign of regret. As inconspicuous as her comment might have been to her sons, the inadvertent impertinence of her jest made her feel ashamed.

I shouldn't have played around with that…

***

It had been about half an hour since the brothers left their home. They walked through one of the streets of the capital, weaving through crowds of people. The streets were so wide that they seemed custom-made for giants. Rectangular buildings dominated both sides, with walls of various colors that were remarkably smooth and uniform, as if carved from giant single blocks of stone instead of being constructed from rows of bricks. Some of them were as tall as small hills, with roofs ranging from entirely flat to extravagant shapes resembling sharp nails. But more than their imposing size and strength, they inspired respect due to their centuries of age, marked by commemorative plaques. The fact that they still stood intact was a testament to the prodigious engineering of their builders.

"When do you graduate, brother?" Olivrin asked Gabran. The two discussed various topics as they strolled.

"Next month," he replied. "Unless Mugnatir manages to conquer the city by some twist of fate, I'll finally become a graduate of the University of Netzach."

"Bachelor's degree in Common Arts with a Specialization in Theatrical Arts, was that it?" his brother asked, making an effort to correctly cite the full name of his degree. He glanced away for a couple of seconds. "Sometimes I don't understand why you chose to study something so basic. You could be so much more than just a theater artist."

"Because theater is what I'm most passionate about, I think that's clear," Gabran replied in a jovial tone, unaffected by his brother's subtle and ironic disapproval. "You know me; I've never been chasing power or prestige. Although I could have tried to become a warrior like our father or an engineer like our mother, those occupations simply don't interest me enough to be my life's purpose." He returned his gaze ahead, with a rather contemplative expression. "I've told you this so many times, but it's a mistake to underestimate art, Olivrin. Science and the military are very important, but art is the wellspring of inspiration from which they and all of humanity draw; it's what truly sets us apart from beasts and adds color to our existence."

"Whatever you say," Olivrin replied, pretending not to have paid much attention to his words. "In a few years, when I become the world's greatest wizard, you'll regret not having studied Nefeshic arts like I did."

The boy fixed his gaze in the same direction as Gabran, where they could see an imposing structure rising above the entire city on the horizon. Its base consisted of large interlinked spheres connected by thick tubes, jutting out of the ground at slanted angles. They all converged into a central sphere within the cluster, adorned with rhombus-shaped glass windows, sparkling like diamonds. A straight, vertical column extended from the highest point of the sphere, ascending several meters, and culminating in a narrow spire, sharp as a needle, brushing the skies. The perfection and surreal beauty of the artwork were so profound that even the natives of the capital often forgot their origins, mistaking it for a sculpture crafted by the very hands of the ruler of the universe.

The Royal Palace of Netzach, Gabran identified it in his thoughts. It had existed since before the legendary times of the Holy Rebellion and had served as the seat of the Kingdom of Lebias after its foundation. Following its fall, it was occupied by the current ruler of the city, King Renardin of Grianz.

Returning their attention and gaze forward, Gabran and his younger brother found themselves entering a vast, open rectangular plaza. Statues of famous figures from the past lined the length of the square, sheltered beneath pyramid-roofed structures supported by columns. At the far end of the place, white marble steps led to a platform of the same material. In its center lay a smooth, oval blue gem, embedded as if marking the point of an imaginary dais. The platform aligned perfectly with the Royal Palace, its majestic image standing right behind it.

"The White Forum" was the name of the plaza, well-known to both the brothers and the city's inhabitants, as one of its most iconic locations. It served as a regular meeting and leisure spot for all its citizens. The millennia-old history that emanated from the harmony of its exquisite art gave it an indescribable magnetism. Even at this early hour, it was already occupied by a fairly large number of people.

Gabran and Olivrin walked toward the platform. Gabran paused on his way, stopping a few meters from one of the numerous sculptures.

"Gabran?" Olivrin called, puzzled by the seconds he was taking to gaze at it with great solemnity.

Among all the sculptures in the square, this was the one that had attracted him most since childhood. At first glance, it wasn't anything particularly unusual, as it was one of the most beautiful and recent works in the plaza. However, there was something about it that touched the depths of the young man's heart. Something very few could feel, something he himself couldn't fully comprehend.

Suddenly, the sound of several trumpets playing a melody reverberated throughout, bringing him back to the present. Like him, his younger brother and the other visitors turned their heads to look for the source of the music.

"This is a royal broadcast from the Ministry of Communications of the Kingdom of Grianz. His Majesty the King will make important announcements shortly. Please gather around your nearest ‘spectru proeictarus’. We demand your utmost attention," declared a male voice that resounded in the square as clearly as the preceding trumpets. Its origin was impossible to pinpoint; it seemed to come from everywhere. A sophisticated technological system installed in the square and other parts of the city allowed for this remarkable effect.

A 'royal broadcast'... Gabran and Olivrin thought with reluctance. It wasn't the first time they'd witnessed one, and they knew well what to expect. Both were hesitant to join the majority in the crowd who, without resistance, obeyed the order and began to gather in front of the platform.

"The 'imminent' invasion by the 'heretic empires of the desert,' military exercises, patriotic slogans, and the latest popular sayings," Gabran listed, summarizing the common contents of the king's speeches during times like these. "He'll prattle on with the same nonsense as always, and nothing will happen in the end..." He let out a small sigh. "What a nuisance. Such a beautiful morning, and he had to ruin it."

"What should we do?" Olivrin asked. "Should we leave?"

Gabran shook his head. "No, it's going to be tough to find a place where we can't hear him anyway," he said, a smirk appearing on his lips. He turned, facing away from the platform, and looked back over his right shoulder at Olivrin. "I have a better idea. Follow me."

Encouraged by the intrigue of Gabran's plan, Olivrin followed him as they distanced themselves from the platform.

Meanwhile, at the foot of the "spectru proeictarus," the oval gem in the middle of the platform, a spectral figure suddenly appeared. Apart from its hazy sky-blue color, the figure had no other color to show but clearly depicted the appearance of a mature man, with shoulder-length hair combed to both sides. A square-faced man with a thick and well-groomed beard, wearing a three-pointed crown on his head, shaped like a fleur-de-lis. His tall, herculean body was covered by ornate armor, with an elegant cape draped behind his back. His image would have been more than fitting for a future statue in the square, were it not for one uncomfortable detail that slightly detracted from his aura of power: his right arm, or what was left of it. He had lost half of it to the enemy in one of the many battles he fought in his youth. What was once a nimble forearm was now nothing more than an unsightly stump that he tried to conceal with a rigid, metallic prosthesis; a pretty but useless decoration that only reinforced the bitter nostalgia for what once existed in its place.

That man was King Renardin, commonly referred to as the "one-armed king" in popular speech. He ruled over the Elvirean Kingdom of Grianz and the capital territories of what was once the prosperous Kingdom of Lebias. He was a foreign nobleman with blood ties to the region who had earned the right to the throne after the death of its previous dynasty, whose princess had been his fiancée. A ruler who had won the admiration of his subjects with his charismatic and strong personality.

Nevertheless, this popularity came at a high price. Inside and outside the borders of his domains, a large number of detractors were betting on his downfall.