Dhaakir al-Khatib leaned back in his seat, the cold wet cloth over his eyes softening the pulsing blows hammering against the back of his eyes. Icy water dripped down his face and into his dark hair. His chair, simply adorned with flakes of obsidian, leaned so far back it would’ve dumped a normal person on the floor.

The small cave they’d found underneath the desert echoed with every little noise, whether chatter, dropped item, or clatter of metal. Each another nail driving into his temples, shattering his rest.

They were getting longer and stronger. Idly, Dhaakir wondered if he’d overcome the aches this time, or they’d finally get the better of him. Near on three-hundred years old, this was the fifth time he’d been struck by days long migraines. Pain to blur his vision. Nausea, confusion, dizziness followed in its wake.

Five headaches that could kill a person. Three within the last seventy years. Yet he was still standing. For now. He couldn’t help but wonder how many others had arrogantly posed themselves against the mere failings of their bodies. There was that one lady… he struggled, trying to recall her name. She’d died when he was young, though, and that was a long time to hold on to a memory.

“Sir,” an attendant whispered, her voice lowered in awareness of his pain.

With a thumb, Dhaakir lifted an edge of the cloth to see who was talking to him. She was a fine girl. On the paler side, they’d been spending too much time in dark bunkers, but her appearance only enhanced her youthful features. The heat brought a slight flush to her cheeks, setting her dark eyes off. Glistening hair hung loose with a slight wave to it, as if just taken out of a bun.

A smile swept Dhaakir’s lips. Even the boring, scrapyard uniforms they’d been forced to scrounge together couldn’t hide the swell of her bounty. Though ill-fitting, her shirt strained in containing her capacity.

Finally, he noticed the little teacup she held out for him. Dark clay, rather than Sankurian porcelain. We really are only a step away from the slobs roaming the streets. He sneered at the thought. Taking the cup, he gave the girl a benevolent smile.

“Thank you, miss?”

She coughed and cleared her throat, the flush fading from her face. Eyes wide, she glanced around and bowed low. “It’s no worries, great sir,” she said in a bare whisper.

“Let me look at you, proper,” he said, letting the cloth drop and straightening his chair. With a hand, he raised her chin. She gave him a tremulous smile, overawed by his power. She’d get used to it soon enough. The new angle let him look down her poorly fashioned blouse. Grinning, he nodded. He’d make her forget about it all soon enough.

“Dhaakir!” the prince shrieked. “Let that poor girl go and come over here.”

He dropped his hand, turning to glare at the whiny brat. Barely twenty, the spoiled rat hardly had any right calling the attendant ‘girl.’ Glancing back, he saw her retreating form. She’d come back to him, they always did. Still, she looked almost as good leaving as she did—

“Dhaakir!” yellow eyes were wide with scandal as the runt nearly leapt onto the table.

The prince, well… King, thought Dhaakir with a wince, was getting red in the face and looked to be moments from both of his royal eyes popping out of his head. He really didn’t need to listen to another whimpering rant about moving again. Perhaps he should send the girl to him instead of his own bed tonight. Might be exactly what was needed.

“Sir, if you please,” one advisor said. Thin and withered, with an equally discouraging mustache touching his lips. “I’m afraid the young King might attempt violence.”

Stolen story; please report.

Dhaakir sighed, but walked over. “Your Majesty?” he asked. The… King’s pinpricks yellow lights, sat deep in the hollow sockets of his fat face, stared daggers at him. The boy wasn’t fat himself. His face had simply never shed the boyish blubber that fell off real men.

Perhaps it’s better I don’t send her to him. He might turn her off men forever, Dhaakir thought.

“Dhaakir, tell them it’s enough.”

The thin reedy tones of the royal drilled at his temples like picks into marble. Taking a deep breath, Dhaakir examined the table. “And what would be enough?” he leafed through a few reports and letters, then glanced at the maps. “Your Majesty,” he added.

The runt growled and grit his teeth like a rabid hunting dog. “This foolery about fleeing.”

Dhaakir frowned and glanced around at the papers. “Fleeing? Are we in open combat?” then he realized it and groaned. “We’re not fleeing, pr… my King. We’re changing the location of our principal base to make us harder to locate and fight. Have you seen this?” he asked the advisor with the pathetic mustache.

“We’ve been trying to bring it up—”

“King, what is all this activity? Are you moving into Elusria again? After the attack on the school failed, I made myself clear—“

“I am King! I make the rules.” the little piglet gave him a scowl that appeared on the edge of tears.

Of all the sniveling, silver-spooned… Dhaakir trailed off, not worth continuing the thought. “You make the rules. But there’s no need to attack that school anymore. It was ever a trap to catch our attention and bring down a few of our masters.”

“But, sir,” a second advisor said. This one had a fat little body to match his fat little face. “Look at this. The reports are clear. They are training specialized tethered. Powerful and strong. They have multiple high-masters guarding it.”

“They do not.” Dhaakir sent a caustic glare toward him. “A high-master could’ve beat them.” The blubbering pig ducked his head and pulled away from the table, as he should.

Dhaakir worked in silence, looking over the reports and recent positions. Minutes passed in choked back silence, especially for the child King. As the troop movements, tactical patterns, and underlying thought revealed themselves to Dhaakir, the headache worsened.

A dark pulsing edged his periphery as he put down the last papers. His forehead felt as if a river was attempting to push its flow through narrow veins. Hands trembling, he leaned forward, glaring at the ‘advisors’ and prince.

“It’s a trap.” His words hung in the air. His glower took in every person around the table. “Asmar clearly put a lot of thought and effort into it. Hiding beneath layers and layers of advisors, but his touch is all over these movements.”

“Are you certain?” the prince asked nervously.

Dhaakir looked him over once again. Barely twenty, his cheeks hadn’t seen a razor in a week and could go another month. The finest clothes they could find hung awkwardly on his perpetually lanky frame. Rosy cheeks, still full with his childhood, burrowed yellow pinprick eyes. A simple crown of hammered gold forged to look like a burst of light settled in his dark sweat hair.

It is almost unbearable, Dhaakir thought, turning from the table. He passed his chair, snatching up the wet cloth he’d left there. No longer cold. “You,” he demanded, pointing into the mass of servants and attendants. “Give me a bedchamber now.” He strode further, a skinny, dirty boy skittering to follow. “And get someone to refresh this.” Tossing the wet cloth after the kid.

Soon, he lay in the closest thing they had to a proper bed. Made from hide and stuffed with feather down, comfortable but smelly. A chill cloth covered and soothed sore eyes. Still, his thoughts churned.

Maybe he should kill the prince… King, really. Not liking him didn’t make him any less King. But he couldn’t reunite Ankiria. Much as he hated to admit it, Dhaakir lacked the power to do so. Both as a tethered and a person. People only ever rallied to him reluctantly.

It was bending to the rightful King, painful as that may be, or bending to those pasty cucks. He sneered. Dhaakir had led the first charge against Elir, crushing the rebellious nation under his feet. He had torn apart their army. He had ravaged their land. He had ripped through their capital, tearing their Queen off her throne. He had dragged the impertinent bitch in front of the King and he’d brought her back home, belly swollen with Kingsblood.

Raheeda, the thought came suddenly to him. She’d been the high-master who achieved nothing. Notable only for all the things she didn’t do with it. When they’d cut her head open, her brain had been an overgrown mess of unidentifiable matter. Is that what’s happening to me? Just another footnote in history?

He sat up, pushing his legs over the bedside. Wet cloth landed in his lap.

The advisors looked up, startled, as Dhaakir stormed up to the table. He took one glance at the maps. “If I’m setting off this trap. I’m doing it right.”