《The Doves Amongst Demons》 Chapter I- A Future Queen (Scene 1) Sofia Paloma, princess and future queen of Eastamere, kept her head down, pulling her hood tighter to obscure her identity. A rolled map poked out of the heavily packed bag slung over her shoulder as flat shoes tapped against the smooth stones, each step echoing in the deserted streets of Palomia, Eastamere¡¯s capital. The full moon cast a silvery sheen over the city, cold and unforgiving. She was twenty-five now, no longer a child, and she was ready to go. She had avoided her father¡¯s royal guard patrolling the streets tonight, relying on her brother¡¯s rigid and predictable system. If Luis caught her, what would she even say? How could she explain this desperate escape to the knight who put duty before everything? He¡¯ll drag me back to the palace, Sofia thought, her heart sinking. Luis doesn¡¯t understand¡ªhe never will. And yet he was still her little brother. A gust of wind brushed through her white silk dress, making the bow of the pink ribbon around her waist flutter. She shivered, quickening her pace toward The Dove¡¯s Corner Inn and towards warmth. The inn¡¯s sign screeched as it swung, its shadow stretching across the street¡ªa dove, the crest of House Paloma, her father¡¯s emblem, and a symbol of peace for all mankind. Guilt gnawed at her, but she shook it off. I¡¯m sorry, Father. First, I¡¯m going to live. Sofia carefully pushed against the front door, relief flooding her as she stepped inside. Amiable conversations fluttered against her ears, mingling with the smells of spiced Eastamerean wine and summer beeswax candles. Each breath filled Sofia¡¯s lungs with heady perfume while the heat of a roaring hearth danced across her skin. She kept her hood up, wary of being recognised, unable to shake the feeling that each step away from the palace was a step further from the person she was supposed to be. It nagged at her. This was a betrayal of everything she had been taught to uphold. A wooden staircase lay before her, leading to the upper floor. Sofia climbed the steps, each creak of the wood echoing under her feet. When she found the room, she pushed the door open and stepped inside, finding a window overlooking the paved street Sofia had just travelled down¡ªa perfect view. ''Nicely done, Your Highness.'' A glass of red Eastamerean wine sat on a round table, its owner a young woman with the fiery hair of the Gallos. Esme turned to Sofia and offered a drunken smile. ''Trust you to start drinking without me,'' Sofia scoffed, lowering her hood. Esme shrugged. ''You shouldn¡¯t have taken so long.'' ''You don¡¯t have a brother who is captain of the royal guard.'' Esme placed another glass on the table and started pouring. ''Everything¡¯s better with some wine in the belly. Drink up, Your Highness. You¡¯re safe now. Luis won¡¯t find you here.'' With a small chink, the pair of them tipped their glasses towards their lips. Sofia took a moment to appreciate the smooth, sweet taste. In the long and dreary council meetings, Father had only allowed one glass so they could keep their wits about them when considering important matters of state. Yet she¡¯d heard the stories of when Father was her age, of when he used to drink whole barrels with his friends. Most of those friends were dead now, buried beneath the old battlefields that had once staged pivotal conflicts between their own kingdom and their neighbouring kingdom, Galia. The war had ripped their youths right from under them. The door burst inward with a resounding crash. For a moment, Sofia tensed, thinking it was her brother coming for her. She relaxed when she saw who it truly was, the third part of their journey. Her childhood friend, Fernando, stumbled into the room, his breaths ragged. In trembling hands, he clutched a weathered book covered with the fierce image of a snarling green dragon, its scales shimmering in the candlelight. Fernando¡¯s brow shone with sweat, his black hair tousled from his urgency. ''I¡¯ve got it,'' he said, holding the book in the air triumphantly. Esme rolled her eyes. ''He forgot his dragon book.'' ''Don¡¯t roll your eyes like that, Esme,'' Fernando said, ''It¡¯s the whole reason we¡¯re going on this trip in the first place!'' ''For you, maybe. For me, not so much.'' ''That doesn¡¯t matter,'' Sofia said, maintaining the peace between her friends, as she always did. ''The main thing is that we¡¯re here and we¡¯re doing it together. Look¡­'' Sofia reached into her bag and pulled out the map she¡¯d rolled up. She straightened it and placed it on the table, a map of the continent, a large, rugged, triangle-like shape. The Border Mountain Range cleaved through the land like a timeless scar, leaving Eastamere on the east side and Galia on the west. They would see it all. Her heart ached as she looked at it, thinking of her father¡¯s inevitable disappointment. He¡¯d put so much faith in her, named her queen when Eastamere had never had a queen. Lords protested and advised against it, but her father wouldn¡¯t hear of it. She was the firstborn child, and that was the way of things in his kingdom. I need this, Sofia thought desperately as she stared at her map, Father has to understand. A small splodge of wine leaked into the parchment, staining the southern sea crimson. ''Great,'' Sofia groaned, her heart sinking, ''You¡¯ve just ruined my map.'' Esme shrugged. ''It¡¯s just parchment. You¡¯ll see the real thing soon enough.'' Sofia¡¯s eyes lingered on the wine stain, her heart fluttering with frustration and regret, her mind trapping her father¡¯s pained expression, refusing to let him go. ''Where are we starting?'' Fernando asked, peering at the map. Sofia blinked and forced herself to focus, pushing her doubts aside for the moment. ''Here.'' She pointed to one of the cities on the southern point of Galia¡ªNymerium. ''Nymerium has good inns and a clear path north. From there, we can begin our journey.'' Fernando smiled. ''Excellent,'' he said, glancing down at his book, ''I hear Nymerium has history with dragons.'' Esme scoffed. ''The dragons are dead, Fernando, how many times must I tell you that?'' ''Alright then, what about the frozen north?'' Fernando planted a finger into the northern section of the continent, coloured white. ''They say the wizard Cronus and his army of orcs still live.'' Esme snorted in hearty laughter. She was right, of course, no one had seen a living dragon or any orc army for decades, but there was so much more to see. They could travel to the northern provinces of Galia and Eastamere, climb the Border Mountain Range, visit the ancient burial sites of the elves. Anything to escape, just for a little while. Doubt gnawed at Sofia¡¯s resolve, her body itching to move to the harbour. The longer they stayed here, the more likely Luis would find them, and smash her hope into pieces. Bam! Bam! Bam! Sofia froze, the knock at the door rumbling throughout the entire room. ''Sofia,'' a voice called. Bam! Bam! Bam! ''Sofia, are you in there?'' Sofia¡¯s heart plummeted. Her brother¡¯s voice reverberated through the walls, each word a hammer blow. No, she wanted to curse, to shout at the Gods for being so cruel, and herself for being so stupid. She snatched her map from the table, rolling it up tight before the door swung open, revealing a pair of knights wearing the gold-plated armour and white cloaks of the Eastamerean royal guard. One of them swanned forward, his sweeping dark hair perfectly combed. ''What are you doing here, Luis?'' Sofia asked, struggling to cling to her confidence as a knot tightened in her gut. ''We¡¯re carrying out our duties as knights of the royal guard,'' Luis said, serious as ever. ''What are you three doing here?'' ''Nothing,'' Sofia said as a thousand excuses flew through her mind, none of them good enough to convince her brother that nothing was going on. ''Hmm¡­'' Luis stroked his chin. His gaze remained fixed, the silence more accusing than words. Luis had always been a stickler for duty and honour, but ever since Father had promoted him to captain, he had only grown worse. ''I¡¯ll ask you again,'' Luis said, an icy chill growing in his voice as he stepped closer, ''What are you doing here?'' Sofia looked her brother in his sharp brown eyes, eyes that missed very little. She opened her mouth to spout some lie to him, some silly excuse that Luis probably would never believe even if he drank enough wine to sink a ship. But the words never came, and the truth lay for all to see. ''Well, I suggest you wrap it up and come with me,'' Luis said, before Sofia could say anything, ''Father¡¯s called an urgent council meeting, and he wants you to be there.'' Sofia¡¯s heart sank, her freedom disappearing like smoke in the wind. Yet curiosity itched at her brain. ''Did he say why?'' she asked her brother. ''Father is going to make peace with Galia.'' Luis¡¯ words hung in the air for a moment as an eerie gust of wind forced its way into the room, making their candles flicker. Sofia¡¯s stomach churned, and in the distance, she heard a faint noise that sounded alarmingly like a cry for help. Peace with Galia? She could hardly believe it. No doubt some members of the council would think that impossible. Some were still recovering from the wounds of their last war, twenty-three long years ago, when Sofia¡¯s father was a young man and the newly crowned king. ''Now come on,'' Luis said, marching closer, ''Father is waiting.'' Sofia¡¯s breath hitched as the blinding gleam of her brother¡¯s armour shone in her face. She wanted to tell him that he couldn¡¯t make her go anywhere, that she wanted to stay with her friends and continue her adventure. But her mother¡¯s voice whispered in her mind¡ªYou are the blood of the dove, and the blood of the dove runs thick. She let Luis take her arm and carefully escort her towards the door, her destiny weighing her down with every step. Sofia heard Esme say something to Luis, but he quickly shut the door behind her, barring Sofia from her friends. (Scene 2) A chill set about the air, gnawing at Sofia¡¯s skin as she sat at the polished oak council table, her fingers tracing an intricate carving of a dove on her chair¡¯s armrest. Bold colours divided the room¡ª the lower half gleaming in a fresh, black coat, with the upper half painted in a dark red. Stained glass windows depicting the ancient time of the elves stood to Sofia¡¯s left, the moonlight giving their blue and green robes an ethereal glow. A single gaping fireplace sat in the corner, light cobwebs surrounding it, casting eerie shadows that crept across the room, inching ever closer. Sofia¡¯s gaze shifted uneasily to Lord Serben Diae, seated beside her. He adjusted his posture, his thin smile gleaming like polished steel under the dim, flickering light of the chandeliers. His green eyes pierced through the gloom, their sharpness contrasting with the soft light. ''Thank you very much for attending tonight¡¯s council session, princess,'' he said, ''Your father will appreciate it.'' Sofia managed an awkward smile for her father¡¯s old friend, her stomach tightening into a knot. A groan resonated from across the table. Lord Keylor Gallo, another one of her father¡¯s loyal councillors¡¯, presence was like a storm cloud gathering. His grey hair tumbled like a cascade of rain, and his thick brows were furrowed in an unyielding scowl. His fingers gripped the edge of the table so tightly that the knuckles were white, as if he could crush the wood beneath him. The black council chamber door creaked open, and a hearty guffaw fluttered in, making Sofia flinch. The king graced the room with a jovial air, his golden jacket shimmering against the dark wood panelling. He carried his halberd like an old friend, the metal catching the light with each stride. Behind him, the golden knights of his royal guard marched in, their armour clinking softly. They took their positions, standing still like statues. Sofia quickly rose and followed the council in bowing her head to her father, her legs trembling slightly. Once everyone was seated again, Sofia¡¯s fingers resumed their tracing of the carved dove. ''I¡¯m sure by now you have all heard my plans,'' Father said with a smile. ''Have you forgotten who the Galians are, Your Majesty?'' Lord Gallo¡¯s voice thundered, the sound reverberating off the stone walls. The noise made Sofia jump, her heart racing in response to the sudden outburst. ''I defended the border from King Rickard¡¯s¡­ ambition. I¡¯ve seen what they¡¯re capable of under tyrants like him!'' He scoffed. ''They don¡¯t know what peace is!'' Her father¡¯s gaze transformed instantly, the warmth of the caring storyteller of her childhood replaced by the steely resolve of King Geraldo II. His voice, when he spoke, was a low growl that seemed to shake the chamber. ''I defended our country against the Galians as well, Lord Gallo,'' he said, gripping his halberd. ''I fought them rather than shouting commands from behind high walls. Do not presume to know more about King Rickard¡¯s brutality than I.'' The intensity of her father¡¯s glare made Sofia hold her breath, as if the sheer force of it might ignite the old lord into a ball of flame where he sat. ''That does not conceal the truth,'' the king continued, his voice firm. ''I promised my wife I would end the tensions between our kingdoms. Now that the chance is within reach, I cannot waste it, not after all we¡¯ve lost.''This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Mother¡¯s dead, Father, Sofia thought miserably. We¡¯ll never know what she truly wanted. Lord Serben leaned forward, his gaze darting between her father and Lord Gallo. ''Correct, Your Majesty, peace is the priority. We must take this chance¡­ although¡­'' Her father¡¯s attention snapped to Serben. ''Although, what?'' ''I would exercise caution. Lord Gallo has the right of it. The Galians aren¡¯t as driven for peace as we are. Many still see you as ¡®The Devil¡¯s Cobra,¡¯ the man who relishes battle¡­'' ''I am not that person anymore,'' Father said firmly, the pain of that name etching across his face. ''I know that, Your Majesty,'' Serben said softly, ''It is simply the reality of our situation.'' ''Do you suggest I send someone else to make peace in my place?'' Father asked sharply, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing. ''Wonderful idea. I¡¯m sure King Rickard will appreciate that very much.'' ''Respectfully, Your Majesty, I didn¡¯t say that,'' Serben said, ''I only meant we should proceed with caution.'' Sofia¡¯s mind whirled with the implications of their words. Her father¡¯s determination, Serben¡¯s measured concern, Gallo¡¯s blunt warnings ¡ª they all swirled together, a cacophony of conflicting advice that left her feeling more lost than ever. And then, as sudden as a bolt of lightning, Father¡¯s gaze shifted to look directly at her. ''Sofia, what do you think?'' Sofia froze, her breath catching in her throat as the council chamber fell into a tense silence. All eyes turned to her, their gazes sharp and expectant. She had always known this moment would come ¡ª the moment when her voice would matter, when her opinion would shape the future of Eastamere and the continent as a whole. But now that it was here, all she could feel was a bone-deep terror threatening to paralyse her. Father discreetly tipped his head, inviting her to speak freely, but the gesture, meant to encourage, only intensified the pressure. I remember when your father became king, Mother¡¯s voice soared through her thoughts, he was just like you, all scared and on edge. Look at him now. Her mother had always known what to say, always found the words to soothe her fears. But now, standing in the very chamber where her father had made countless decisions, it was difficult to reconcile the man before her with the boy her mother had once described. King Geraldo II, the unyielding warrior, the man who had led Eastamere through countless battles ¡ª had he ever truly been afraid? Had he every truly been young and terrified of what the future held? ''Erm¡­'' Her voice wavered, and a pang of shame shot through her. She had wanted to sound strong and confident, like her father, but instead she felt like a child lost in a room full of giants. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to disappear, to retreat into the shadows and let someone else bear the burden of this decision. But she couldn¡¯t. She had to stand her ground. Drawing strength from the golden dove on their house banners, she forced herself to remember what that symbol meant. A symbol of peace for all mankind, forever. ''I think we should take it,'' she said finally, her voice steadier than before. She met her father¡¯s expectant gaze, forcing herself to hold it, to show him that she believed in her words. ''If we can achieve peace, we should take that chance.'' The words hung in the air, and for a moment, she feared she had made a terrible mistake. What if the council thought her too na?ve, too inexperienced to understand the gravity of the situation? Her mind raced with the possible repercussions, each one more dire than the last. But then Father bowed his head, a prideful smile playing on his lips. Relief flooded through her, but she fought to remain strong. She thought of Fernando and Esme staying behind in Eastamere while she travelled to Galia. The realisation gnawed at her, a sharp, relentless ache that deepened with every passing second. She had done her duty as the future queen, saying what needed to be said, doing what needed to be done, but the consequences of that duty weighed heavily. The prospect of going to Galia alone, without the comfort and familiarity of her friends, felt like a step too far. ''Although¡­'' Her words slipped out before she could stop herself. ''I would appreciate it if Fernando and Esme could join us on our trip to Galia.'' ''With respect, princess, you shouldn¡¯t even be here,'' Lord Gallo objected, his voice a harsh bark that echoed off the chamber walls. ''Discussion in this chamber is for members of the king¡¯s council, you know that.'' Sofia tried not to flinch at Lord Gallo¡¯s words, as biting as they were. She had long understood that his harshness was born of loyalty and experience, not malice. He was a bitter old soldier, scarred by years of war, and had never learned the art of diplomacy. Yet, despite his lack of grace, he had been instrumental in her father¡¯s victories. Without Lord Gallo¡¯s strategic brilliance, the war might have had a very different outcome. ''I think we can make an exception for your future queen, my lord,'' Father said, grinning in that familiar, reassuring way. ''You will one day take orders from her.'' ''Not for many years, I hope,'' Lord Gallo replied, scowling. Father¡¯s grin faded, replaced by a flash of anger that made Sofia¡¯s pulse quicken. ''That¡¯s your final warning,'' he said, jabbing a finger at Lord Gallo, his voice a low growl. ''You presume too much, my lord. I have decided. We are going to Galia, and we will make peace. Is that understood?'' Lord Gallo grumbled something under his breath before saying, ''Of course, Your Majesty.'' Father turned back to Sofia, his smile returning, though it didn¡¯t reach his eyes. ''I¡¯m sorry, my love. I cannot allow Fernando or Esmerelda to accompany us to Galia. The only people who will go are you, me, your brother, Lord Serben, and the royal guard. I need to make a good impression on King Rickard if I¡¯m going to achieve peace. My decision is final on this.'' Final. The word struck her like a blow, robbing her of the last shred of hope she had left. Of course, it¡¯s final. Her father¡¯s decisions always were. ''My friends will keep me company,'' Sofia said, her voice small and strained. ''I won¡¯t¡­'' I won¡¯t feel so alone. The unspoken words echoed in her mind, but she couldn¡¯t bring herself to say them. Admitting her fear to them would only make her seem weak in their eyes ¡ª and she couldn¡¯t afford that, not now, not ever. Father nodded, his expression softening, but his words were resolute. ''I understand your apprehension, Sofia, but rulers stand alone in our burdens. What sort of father or king would I be if I didn¡¯t seize any chance for you to gain the vital experience you need to be queen? So when we travel, I encourage you to watch intently and take everything in. Is that understood?'' The phrase ¡®stand alone¡¯ echoed in her mind like a tolling bell, a stark reminder of the path she was destined to walk. Alone. The burning stares of Lord Serben and Lord Gallo scorched her, their expectations palpable, but in her mind¡¯s eye, their faces blurred and transformed. She saw Esme and Fernando sitting in their places, Esme with her ever-present wine, swirling it lazily in her glass, and Fernando, lost in his books, his brow furrowed in concentration. Sofia imagined them sailing away on some grand adventure, their laughter carried by the wind, their hearts light and unburdened. They would explore distant lands, eat the finest foods, drink the rarest wines, and revel in the joy of a youth that she would never know. They were free ¡ª free to choose, to live as they pleased, to make mistakes and learn from them without the eyes of a kingdom watching their every move. How foolish I was, Sofia thought bitterly, to believe, even for a moment, that I could be anything but the future queen. She forced herself to nod stiffly. ''As you say, Father.'' (Scene 3) Luis Paloma lay in his bed, his gaze fixed on the intricate details of two crossed blades painted on the ceiling. One sword gleamed with a hilt adorned in precious Eastamerean gold, while the other flaunted a hilt made of the darkest Galian black. Below marked the date, 1019 AHH (After Human Habitation)-1021 AHH, the dates of the last war with the Galians, twenty-three long years ago. His body throbbed with pain after enduring a full day of standing in heavy armour, anticipating. That is when he wasn¡¯t attempting to motivate Sofia to pursue a more fulfilling existence. He tutted to himself just thinking about it. She was the kingdom¡¯s future, and she squandered her time in that damn tavern, drinking her liver into oblivion, running from her responsibilities. And this trip she planned to go on. Did she not understand a future queen couldn¡¯t just drop her responsibilities and leave without a moment¡¯s notice? Just as he was lost in his thoughts, a sharp knock on the door startled him. He tensed up and straightened his sore back. Letting out a deep yawn, Luis¡¯ exhausted body begged for rest. As captain of the royal guard, it was his duty to remain vigilant. That took its toll. He had no right to complain; his royal guard vows demanded unwavering dedication. Luis approached the door, anticipating a servant with urgent news, or maybe one of his brothers of the royal guard giving him a report. He pulled it open. Standing before him was Aurelio Diae, his toned body encased in gleaming gold-plated armour. A twinkle sparkled in his green gaze. ''Your Highness,'' Aurelio greeted him with an arched eyebrow. Luis¡¯ heart fluttered and a smile crept on his face. He gripped Aurelio¡¯s breastplate, yanking him into his bedroom. As soon as the door slammed shut, Luis didn¡¯t hold back. He kissed Aurelio like he had never kissed him before, savouring every moment, drowning in his relief. Right now, all he needed was to feel something that wasn¡¯t crushing obligation. With Aurelio, the stress flowed out of his body and relaxed his limbs, allowing the kiss to become more flavoursome, less rigid. All that mattered was this moment, a moment where he could be himself, a moment where he didn¡¯t have to be this rigid, emotionless knight all the time. His armour gave him pride. Aurelio gave him joy. But before he was satisfied, Aurelio pulled away. ''Luis, are you sure you¡¯re alright?'' ''Never better,'' Luis said, leaning in to kiss him again. ''I think we need to talk.'' ''What¡¯s there to talk about?'' Aurelio unstrapped his sword from his belt and let it rest by the wall. He sat on the bed and tapped the space next to him. Luis huffed. If he knew Aurelio, this would be another instance of ¡®discussing their feelings and doubts and their deepest darkest secrets¡¯ rather than getting on with what Luis actually wanted to do. The weight of his armour pressed into Luis¡¯ flesh, but Aurelio¡¯s captivating emerald eyes always weakened his resolve. He made his way towards the bed and allowed his arse to sink into it. Aurelio offered his hand, Luis eagerly accepting. Their fingers entwined into a comforting embrace. ''You know you can tell me anything, can¡¯t you?'' Aurelio said. Luis nodded. Aurelio remained silent, waiting for him to speak. ''I¡¯m sorry¡­ for what just happened there,'' Luis said, ''I just needed to clear my head.'' ''Of what?'' ''Sofia. I think she¡¯s planning to go on a trip, with your brother and Esme Gallo. She actually thinks she can drop her responsibilities and leave like she¡¯s some child. She¡¯s the future queen, for goodness¡¯ sake! What if by the time she¡¯s ascends to the throne, she somehow ruins our alliance with the Galians and we¡¯re plunged into another war?'' Aurelio chuckled. ''Luis, your sister has dreams, that¡¯s all. You¡¯ve achieved yours.'' ''Not yet,'' Luis said, offering Aurelio a wry smile. Aurelio shyly looked down at their linked hands, grinning. ''Luis, your father isn¡¯t going anywhere. Sofia has you to look out for her¡­ and you have me.'' Luis couldn¡¯t help but giggle. ''That is true enough.'' They kissed again. This time, there was a sense of calm and tranquillity, free from stress or desperation. Luis wanted to stay like this for eternity. (Scene 4) The biting cold of the Galian weather greeted Sofia as she disembarked from the ship. The clattering of hooves and the rumbling of the carriage navigating the unfamiliar Galian streets filled the air as Sofia sat beside her father and brother. In Eastamere, the sun provided her with constant company; the warmth caressing her skin. Here, in Galia, dull grey clouds shrouded the sky. Muddy streets replaced the spotless stone blocks of Palomia¡¯s streets, people crowding the road in droves for the tournament, undoubtedly putting coins in many a pocket. Establishments like the bustling inns, the busy greengrocers, and the sooty stonemasons all stood squat, wooden, and perilously close together. Sofia couldn¡¯t help but imagine the crackling flames that would consume the city if even one building caught fire. Perhaps a sprinkle of heat was what this place needed. ''Cold?'' Father asked with a knowing smile, the carriage jolting back and forth. Sofia rubbed her forearm, the icy chill seeping into her skin. ''I¡¯ll manage.'' Father nodded. ''Very good. I want you to be especially attentive today, Sofia. Trust me, you¡¯ll have to do plenty of dealings with Galians, too, when you¡¯re queen.'' The chilly breeze brushed against her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth and excitement Sofia imagined her friends were feeling back in Eastamere. They were preparing for the trip she had arranged while she remained stuck in this carriage. ''Pay attention to King Rickard¡¯s sons as well,'' Father said, his grip on his spear getting tighter. ''And you, Luis.'' Father put a firm hand on Luis¡¯ golden pauldron. ''Good luck in the tournament. I need you to be on top form today. Give these Galians something to remember.'' Luis smirked and glanced out of the window. ''Don¡¯t worry, Father. I¡¯ll win.'' The carriage came to an abrupt halt, jolting Sofia forward. Sir Aurelio Diae waited for them to disembark on the Galian streets as Luis went first, nodding at Aurelio as he stood on the other side, the pair of them looking like golden statues. Father trailed behind Luis. He stepped into the daylight where the midday sun fought to penetrate the gloomy, overcast sky and radiate its glow on Father¡¯s skin. The potent stench of dung assaulted Sofia¡¯s senses as she exited the carriage. They¡¯d arrived outside a huge amphitheatre, its towering presence casting a dark shadow over the entire street. The roar of the crowd inside it whistled into the air, hungry for some swordplay. All eyes set on the group standing in the middle of the street. Eleven soldiers formed a line along the road, clad in their signature black armour and crimson cloaks of the Galian royal guard. Each of them stood as resolute as statues, some of them standing tall and muscular, others standing shorter and thinner, but all donned their black armour with a sense of unwavering pride that rivalled Father¡¯s own royal guard. In the middle stood a twelfth figure. King Rickard of House Rue. He wore a miserable expression, his dark grey hair falling over his coat lined with sheepdog fur, the animal on the Rue House emblem. His icy, penetrating gaze sent a shard of fear plunging into Sofia¡¯s heart. Father¡¯s grip grew tighter on his spear. I remember when your father became king. He was just like you, all scared and on edge. Look at him now. Father relaxed his shoulders and approached, his confident strides forcing everyone else to move in tandem with him. Sofia stuck by her father and brother, who were protected by the vigilant nine of the Eastamerean royal guard. Serben followed closely behind Father. Stopping only a few feet away from their Galian hosts, Father leaned casually on his spear, exuding his kingly confidence. He was King Geraldo II. He had a reputation to maintain. As Sofia attempted to mimic her father, the icy Galian breeze sent shivers down her spine, turning her into a motionless statue. King Rickard surveyed them all, his glare sweeping over every member of the Eastamerean party. When his eyes fell on Sofia, her heart paused, as though struck by lightning. ''Galia welcomes you all,'' he said, a snarling undertone lacing into his voice. Sofia anticipated her father¡¯s response to be a warm and diplomatic smile, like he did with Serben or Lord Gallo. The smile never came. ''Thank you for accepting my request, Your Majesty. I hope today can bring about a new friendship for our kingdoms.'' Father reached his hand out for King Rickard to shake. The Galian king glanced down at it, staying his hand. ''I hear your son is looking to fight in the tournament.'' King Rickard turned his head to face Luis. ''I¡¯ve heard a great deal about his skills with a sword.'' ''You won¡¯t be disappointed,'' Father said. ''Will I not?'' The Galian king raised an eyebrow. ''Then let¡¯s make it a fast start. You remember my son, Prince Rickard, don¡¯t you?'' His Majesty gestured towards one of the men in black armour. The king¡¯s son, Prince Rickard, stood taller than his father, his blonde hair flowing down his head. Bathed in sunlight, his skin glowed, giving him an appearance of being far younger than his thirty-four years. Sofia glanced over at Father. A few wrinkles sat under his eyes. Will that happen to me when I become queen? ''How about we begin our celebrations with our first contest being between your son and mine? Give the crowd something to cheer about?'' King Rickard said. Father turned towards Luis, Luis signalling his agreement with a confident nod. ''Why not?'' Father said. ''Then it¡¯s decided. If you¡¯d like to step inside our arena, the tournament will begin shortly.'' ''I couldn¡¯t help but notice, Your Majesty,'' Father said, before anyone had the chance to move, ''You don¡¯t have your entire family present. Where is Prince Jacques?'' King Rickard tightened his jaw, glaring at Sofia¡¯s father. ''Sir Theon!'' He turned to one of his knights to whisper something in his ear. ''I¡¯ll get him, Father,'' Prince Rickard said, his tone exhausted. ''It¡¯ll make things quicker.'' King Rickard¡¯s face twisted into a grimace, as if he had just discovered a fly in his soup. He reluctantly nodded. Prince Rickard bowed his head to his father and, signalling to a rather tall knight, hurried down the street, the knight marching behind him. They hurried towards the Galian royal palace, its hexagonal shape casting a commanding shadow over the city. ''Shall we get on with it?'' King Rickard raised his hand, directing everyone¡¯s attention towards the bustling fighting arena. Sofia followed her father, her feet awkwardly squelching in the muddy streets of Galia¡¯s capital. Sofia had only heard stories about Prince Jacques Rue. Many said he never came out of his tower, that he was a monster unlike anything the world had ever seen. He was wrong, in more ways than one. Sofia shivered at these thoughts invading her mind. If she could think this way about others, whose to say others didn¡¯t think this way about her? ''So,'' King Rickard¡¯s booming voice dragged Sofia back to reality. His icy stare bore down on her. ''You must be Princess Sofia. I¡¯ve heard a lot about you.'' Sofia gulped, wondering what exactly he had heard. I can¡¯t be afraid of him, she thought, dogs can smell fear. ''It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty,'' Sofia said, ''Today is going to be a great day for our kingdoms.'' King Rickard offered her a devilish smile. ''That, I¡¯m sure.'' His gaze fell on Father walking into the amphitheatre. ''Has your father told you to keep a close eye on today¡¯s proceedings?'' His voice made Sofia¡¯s body turn to stone. She stiffly nodded. ''Yes.'' ''Good. I¡¯ve said the same to my son. I expect him to take heed of it.'' He looked her up and down, like a warrior would when getting the measure of his opponent. Tipping his head to her, King Rickard said, ''enjoy the tournament, my lady.'' He passed her, his black-armoured and crimson-cloaked knights of the Galian royal guard at his tail. Sofia¡¯s heart thumped in her chest as the amphitheatre loomed over her. After your father, it will be you wearing the crown, her mother had once said to her, and it will be your duty to uphold the peace and protect the realm. Sofia took an almighty gulp, fingering the pink ribbon around her waist. She pushed herself further into the shadow of the amphitheatre. If you work hard and make sure you do all the right things, you will succeed, I can promise you that. Chapter II- The Spare (Scene 1) With the stroke of a paintbrush, she appeared as clearly as he remembered her. Each dash of colour brought her back to him, her golden hair rippling down one shoulder like honey. Perfectly smooth skin glowed softly with radiance as ocean-blue eyes sparkled with laughter, captivating him all over again. After fifteen years, Aubery was still the most beautiful person Jacques Rue had ever seen. The cool, empty breeze of midday floated across his bedroom, stinging Jacques¡¯ thin arms. He shivered slightly, drawing his black robe tighter around himself, wishing it could shield him from more than just the cold. The breeze would soon travel towards the bottom of the tower and beyond, where the rest of society would be¡ªwhere his twin brother Rick would bring glory to House Rue and live the life Jacques could never bring himself to embrace. Up here in Jacques¡¯ bedroom, high above the bustling world, there was nothing to disturb him; only the odd caw of a raven flying by his window. Jacques blinked as the faint rustling of someone climbing his tower in heavy armour disturbed him. The door opened, and the air fled towards the windows, making the curtains billow out like ghostly hands. A shadow cast over Jacques¡¯ painting, and for a brief moment, he felt a pang of anger over the interruption. Jacques sighed. He already knew who it was. He turned to see his brother Rick standing before him wearing black armour with a cloak draping over his back, coloured white on the inside and black on the outside¡ªthe colours of the sheepdog of House Rue. Shiny blonde hair rippled down to his shoulders, his sharp cheekbones poking through glossy skin that made him look quite dashing today, as he did every day. But Rick wasn¡¯t looking at Jacques. His eyes were fixed on Aubery, eyes full of guilt and dread. He hasn¡¯t forgotten her, Jacques thought, and neither will I. ''Need I remind you of the meaning of a closed door, brother?'' Jacques asked, trying to break the silence. Rick didn¡¯t say anything for a while, and hardly blinked. He was speechless, the sight of Aubery completely disarming him. An imposing shadow appeared behind Rick¡¯s back, wearing the black armour and crimson cloak of the royal guard. Sir Owen Flagg, The Northern Knight, stood a good head above any other knight, with shoulder-length auburn hair, fiery maple-coloured eyes, and ugly scars stretching across a rugged face. Jacques almost envied the simplicity of the life of a knight like Sir Owen Flagg¡ªfighting battles, protecting his king. How easy it must have been to have such a clear purpose, to be free from the torment of unresolved emotions. Sir Owen gave Aubery¡¯s painting a concerned look before turning to Rick. ''Your Grace,'' he whispered. Rick blinked, and his eyes floated about the room as if he¡¯d completely forgotten why he was there. Swallowing hard, Rick looked Jacques in the eye, clawing back his soldier-like composure. ''Our peace tournament for the Palomas is about to start,'' he said, ''and Father expects both of us to be there. Your absence has already been noted.'' Jacques nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders, his attention shifting towards the captivating colours of his canvas. He didn¡¯t want to go, didn¡¯t want to stand amidst his father¡¯s oppressive shadow in front of all those people, pretending everything was fine. ''I¡¯m perfectly content staying here on my own and painting, thank you.'' Rick latched onto his shoulders and spun him back around, the sudden movement causing Jacques to stagger and nearly drop his brush. ''Do not spend today locked up in here like some sort of damsel in distress. I know you and Father have had your differences-'' ''You can say that again,'' Jacques muttered, rubbing his shoulder where Rick¡¯s grip had tightened, a dull ache spreading beneath his fingers. ''I¡¯m asking you as your brother,'' Rick said, his eyes wide and pleading, ''Please, swallow your pride and come to the tournament.'' Jacques¡¯ gaze drifted to Aubery. He would always cherish her laugh, her smile, the books she liked to read, but he hadn¡¯t come into this world with her like Rick had. They¡¯d shared tears over their mother, endured their father, and picked each other up when no one else would. They¡¯d fought, like families tend to do, but they were brothers first. And they always would be. Even as Jacques considered it, a bitter voice inside him whispered the truth he¡¯d tried to ignore for years. He¡¯s always been better than you, and he¡¯s ashamed of it. He couldn¡¯t say no, not really. Not without betraying the bond that had kept he and his brother together all these years. ''Very well, I¡¯ll attend,'' he said, ''But don¡¯t expect me to be happy about it.'' Rick¡¯s face lit up with a smile. ''Thank you. I¡¯ll be getting ready by the time you get there, so I¡¯ll see you once my first fight is done.'' Rick¡¯s armour clinked and clattered as he turned towards the door, creating a metallic symphony that echoed long after Rick disappeared from sight. The sound gnawed at Jacques, a reminder of the path Rick had chosen¡ªone of glory and honour. Sir Owen remained standing by the door, his posture as rigid as an ice statue. ''Will you be requiring an escort to the tournament, Your Grace?'' Sir Owen asked dutifully. Jacques shook his head. ''I wish to feel the sun on my face, Sir Owen. You, sir, will block it out. Good luck in the tournament.'' The tall knight gulped and opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something. Maybe he wanted to tell Jacques to cut his brother some slack, or maybe it would be another lecture from yet another person about duty. All the same, Sir Owen kept whatever he wanted to say to himself, bowed courteously, and left the room without a fuss. Jacques quickly tidied himself up before getting dressed. If Rick wanted him to attend this mummer¡¯s farce, he would not do so looking like the scruff everyone thought he was, his father chief among them. He slipped on a pair of brown leather boots, a pair of trousers, brown shirt, wrapping a blue neckerchief around his neck, before reaching for a long leather coat, with golden vine patterns lining the collar, joining at the back where the initials R.R. lay for everyone to see. After he was dressed, Jacques then looked for the sword his father had given him for public affairs such as this one, but he couldn¡¯t find it. He sighed. Perhaps it was being sharpened. Either way, he would have to make up some elaborate excuse for His Majesty. There was more chance of the world ending than Father failing to notice that he didn¡¯t have it. He was about to leave his room, to meet his oh-so-loving king, when something caught the corner of his eye. A locked chest concealed in the shadows sat near his window. It was meant to be for heavy armour, but as Jacques took the key and unlocked the chest, the only thing sitting inside of it was a single sheet of parchment, never meant for anyone¡¯s eyes but Jacques¡¯. His fingers trembled as he reached for it. When he brought the drawing to the light, his dream came back to him, as clear as anything. It wasn¡¯t of Mother, or Aubery, or anyone he¡¯d ever met. This woman had long dark hair and olive skin, possibly from the sunnier kingdom of Eastamere. She was standing on a beach, wearing her white silk dress with a pink ribbon tied around her waist. Although she wasn¡¯t smiling, there was a warm kindness to her that couldn¡¯t be explained, more than anything he¡¯d ever experienced. Jacques only wished he¡¯d known her name, but he suspected she didn¡¯t exist, that she was a product of his imagination, much like Aubery was now. His head hurting, Jacques dropped the drawing into the chest. He shut the lid, so the woman¡¯s face was out of his sight and out of his thoughts. He let out a heavy sigh before finally making his way towards the door. As he pushed it open and started down the spiral stone staircase, he couldn¡¯t help but steal a final glance back at Aubery, taking comfort in her familiar gaze. Jacques ambled down each step, the midday sun poking at him through every passing window. The weather was being kind today, probably to accommodate their foreign guests. It was always said where an Eastamerean went; the weather followed them. Jacques wondered whether it was the same for a Galian. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he opened the door to a corridor leading to the throne room. The flickering torchlight illuminated the mint-green walls¡ªwalls that strangely felt foreign to him despite the years he¡¯d spent within them. His father had chosen green to cover the blue that had once dominated the palace walls, a symbol of their house¡¯s victory over the Ayasem dynasty. But to Jacques, the green felt like a betrayal, a stark reminder of how his father had erased the past, leaving nothing but cold ambition in its place. The throne sat alone under a huge glass dome where the sun¡¯s rays shone down upon it, its solid golden structure shimmering as Jacques passed it by. It was a throne that had witnessed a millennium of power. House Ayasem had been closer to gods than men, their bloodline said to hold the power to summon streams of blue lightning from their fingers. But that era had ended shortly before Jacques was born, snuffed out in the blaze of his father¡¯s rebellion when their magic drove the last king, King Jacob, to madness. Jacques¡¯ grandfather had been the final victim of that madness, reduced to a pile of ash by a power that no longer existed. His father¡¯s greatest pride was that he had defeated the last wonder of the ancient world, that magic was no more. But as Jacques walked through the hall, he couldn¡¯t help but wonder if something else had died with it¡ªsomething that couldn¡¯t be replaced by gold or power. His father¡¯s victory had come at a cost, one that Jacques felt in every cold glance and harsh word his father had given him. As he trudged through the sludgy mud of the city streets, people glanced at Jacques, either with suspicion or fear, as if he were a ghost haunting the streets of the capital. He couldn¡¯t blame them. In many ways, he felt like a ghost¡ªcaught between the past and the present, never fully belonging to either. The streets buzzed with people excited for the tournament. One merchant was shouting about his fresh fish, one crazed preacher shouted about orcs coming down from the frozen north to end the world, and an innkeeper was now roaring at one drunken golden-haired boy to get out of his pub. Jacques took a deep breath of the shit city air. This was his home, such as it was. He¡¯d known little else. All Jacques had to do was follow the crowds, and they were never too hard to find. Flocks of people gathered around the tournament theatre, the structure towering above Jacques¡¯ head. Guards stood by the door, checking every single person for potential weapons. Their black armour provided a pleasant contrast to the capital¡¯s predominantly brown colour scheme. Jacques breezed past the queue to approach the guard standing by the door. ''Good sir!'' he called out as the guard patted down a spectator, the words slipping out with more bravado than he felt. ''Yeah?'' the guard mumbled, not even taking the time to meet Jacques¡¯ gaze. The casual indifference stung him more than Jacques cared to admit. It was a small slight, but a familiar one. ''My father is expecting me,'' he said, injecting steel into his voice, trying to channel the authority that always seemed to come so naturally to his father. ''Be a good lad and take me to him.'' It was only then the guard finally looked at him. His jaw fell open. Scrambling to attention, his body stood stiff as a branch on the world¡¯s toughest tree. ''My apologies, Your Grace. Please, come through.'' Jacques allowed himself a smug smile as the guard opened the door. The sight of a bustling crowd greeted him as he stepped inside, and his throat tightened. So many people, Jacques thought grimly, his smugness quickly evaporating. The press of bodies, the storm of voices, the sheer energy of the place¡ªit was overwhelming, a sensory assault that made him want to turn and flee back to the solitude of his tower. He filtered through the crowd, feeling the atmosphere grow stronger, stealing the air from his grasp. The roar of the crowd was deafening, and Jacques could barely hear himself think. Solitude never made him feel like this, the cool embrace of concentration. Instead, he was here, amongst everyone. Damn my father, Jacques thought bitterly. Amidst the heavy crowd, he transported himself back to his paintings. He imagined vast landscapes, endless horizons, and he imagined Aubery¡¯s laughter ringing through the air. His body deflated as he exhaled, and his vision returned to him. A staircase lay in a dark corner, with two members of the royal guard, Sir Bryce Howard, and Sir Finn Alisser, standing at the foot of it. Jacques squinted to make out Sir Finn¡¯s face beneath the helmet, but the formidable triple-edged trident he carried left no doubt. The dream came back to him, and the woman on the beach. Now, he saw Sir Finn standing with her, kissing her on the lips. His head started hurting again. ''Ah, my favourite drinking companion!'' Jacques said, trying to ignore his hyperactive brain. Sir Finn responded with a striking smile and a laugh. ''How are you, Your Grace?'' ''Dragged to a tournament where sweaty men bash each other¡¯s skulls in? I¡¯d say I¡¯m in relatively high spirits.'' The daylight made the staircase¡¯s summit seem like some great beyond. ''Is my father up there?'' Jacques asked, trying not to sound too apprehensive. Sir Finn was about to answer before Sir Bryce¡¯s droning voice overshadowed him. ''See for yourself, Your Grace,'' he groaned. As Sir Bryce spoke, a wave of his peach-scented odour hit Jacques like a punch to the face. He always swanned around wearing those ridiculous perfumes. Sir Finn returned the glare to his brother-in-arms. ''Excuse me, Peach Knight!'' he said in the blunt accent of a northerner, ''Remember, this is the Prince of Galia you¡¯re speaking to! You will show him respect!''A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. At least someone is willing to fight for me, Jacques thought, taking a positive where he could find it, as the noise of the fighting arena bashed against his ears. ''Gonna make me, Fish Knight?'' Sir Bryce turned towards Sir Finn, pumping his chest out. Jacques huffed as the two knights stared each other down. He had not the time nor the patience for petty arguments. He¡¯d save that for his father. ''Well, it was lovely to speak to you chaps, but His Majesty is waiting.'' Jacques brushed past the two knights without another word from either of them. He scaled the staircase, each step clapping against the wooden floor. When he reached the top, eight chairs stood on a wooden platform overlooking the fighting pit. Sir Orchis Vortigon, The Hawk Knight, stood positioned at the far right of the platform, his sharp eyes glazing over the crowd. But it was the chair in the middle that drew Jacques¡¯ attention, the one with a particularly high back. His father sat in it, surveying the arena with the same icy indifference he¡¯d shown Jacques all his life. At fifty-seven years of age, his face was as dull as a raincloud, a look that could make the most joyous occasion seem blue and empty. A sword hung at his waist, the sword he¡¯d used to kill King Jacob Ayasem, on the day he¡¯d won the throne for House Rue. (Scene 2) ''You¡¯re late,'' the king said, his voice cutting through the noise of the rapidly filling arena. He didn¡¯t even look at Jacques, his eyes fixed on the bustling crowd below, but the disappointment was clear, laced into every word like a dagger. Jacques rolled his eyes. ''Fashionably late, I would call it, Father,'' he replied, forcing a spring into his step as he strolled toward a chair to the king¡¯s left. ''No doubt you wouldn¡¯t have come at all if it wasn¡¯t for your brother.'' It has taken you mere moments to compare me to Rick, Jacques thought, his blood simmering with a mix of anger and resignation. But it warms my heart to know that we agree on something. His father¡¯s ability to diminish him, to reduce him to nothing more than a shadow of his brother, was as reliable as the setting sun. The king finally turned his head toward Jacques, his scrutinising gaze pinning him in place. ''Where¡¯s that sword I had made for you?'' Jacques froze by his seat, his heart skipping a beat. It would appear the world will not end today, he thought. ''I¡¯m afraid I lost it,'' he admitted, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. The king¡¯s thunderous glare was enough to obliterate any contemptuous thoughts swirling in Jacques¡¯ mind. His eyes bore into him, demanding submission, extinguishing whatever small flickers of rebellion Jacques might have harboured. ''You lost it?'' Father growled. ''Yes¡­'' Jacques muttered as he crawled into his seat, feeling smaller with every passing second. ''Sorry.'' Thankfully, the king shifted his attention, casting a glance at their exotic guests as if he¡¯d only just remembered they were there. ''Jacques, this is Geraldo Paloma, King of Eastamere, his daughter, Princess Sofia, and finally, Lord Serben Diae.'' Jacques leaned forward in his seat. King Geraldo, despite being closer to Jacques¡¯ age than his father¡¯s, still bore the faint marks of a life lived hard¡ªthe stretch marks on his otherwise smooth skin, the weary set of his shoulders. The Devil¡¯s Cobra, they called him, and Jacques could see why. Geraldo lounged in his chair with a casual confidence, his right foot resting on his left knee, radiating a kind of power Jacques could never hope to emulate. Lord Serben was another matter entirely, a man who seemed to bathe permanently in shadow, his presence dark and foreboding. A man after my own heart, Jacques mused, feeling a strange kinship with the mysterious lord. But whatever connection he felt was abruptly severed when his eyes landed on the king¡¯s daughter, Princess Sofia. Jacques blinked three, four, five times, his breath catching in his throat. But no matter how many times he tried to clear his vision, she remained¡ªsitting there, impossibly real. Her glistening dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, her sun-kissed skin glowing in the daylight. She wore a dress as white as snow, with a pink ribbon tied around her waist. What the fuck? Jacques thought, his mind reeling. The dream of the young woman on the beach, the one who had haunted his dreams, flashed before him. The same dress, the same ribbon, the same face. It was her. But how can it be? The question rattled through his mind, threatening to unravel whatever was left of his composure. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and inexplicable recognition tightening around him like a vise. Is this some kind of cruel trick? He wondered. The possibilities swirled in his mind, each one more unsettling than the last. But the more he looked at her, the less he could convince himself that it was all in his head. There she was, as real as the chair beneath him. As her chestnut brown eyes met his, Jacques had absolutely no doubt what she was thinking. She¡¯s heard the tales about me, he thought, and she probably expected to see some sort of monster. Now I¡¯ve disappointed her. The realisation gnawed at him, sharper than he would have liked to admit. He had disappointed many people in his life, but this¡ªthis strangely stung more than the rest. There was something in the way Sofia looked at him, something that reminded him of Aubery. No, he thought fiercely, I won¡¯t let this happen. He would bury this feeling deep within himself, lock it away where it could never touch him again. Jacques blinked, suddenly aware that everyone was staring at him. His father¡¯s scowl was like a knife¡¯s edge, cutting through his momentary lapse. ''Jacques,'' the king growled, his tone brimming with irritation, ''King Geraldo just addressed you.'' Jacques blinked again, struggling to recall what King Geraldo had said, but his thoughts were tangled, ensnared by Princess Sofia¡¯s eerie presence. ''I said it¡¯s a pleasure to finally meet you, Your Grace,'' Geraldo said patiently as a wave of cheer came from the expecting crowd, ''I¡¯ve heard plenty about you.'' All bad, I expect, Jacques thought, feeling a bitter twist in his gut. Just like your daughter. His throat ached for a drink, something strong enough to dull the edges of his spiralling thoughts. But he forced himself to respond with something other than the truth. ''I¡¯ve heard plenty about you too, Your Majesty. It¡¯s an honour to meet a warrior as renowned as The Devil¡¯s Cobra.'' King Geraldo cast an uncomfortable glance at Jacques¡¯ father before schooling his features into a charming smile. ''I hope to leave that title behind me, Your Grace.'' Jacques couldn¡¯t stop the grin. He had heard the tales of The Devil¡¯s Cobra as well as anyone, and he doubted the King of Eastamere had truly left that part of himself behind. In truth, Jacques wished he could see that legendary skill on display today¡ªalmost as much as he wished he¡¯d never seen Sofia¡¯s face. You could talk to her, a voice in his mind whispered, a voice that sounded unsettlingly like Aubery¡¯s. You saw her in your dreams; that must mean something. Jacques clenched his jaw, forcing Aubery¡¯s voice into the same dark corner where he¡¯d locked away the rest of his unwanted emotions. Dreams are just dreams, he told himself. Aubery had known that, and she would have understood why he chose not to dwell on them. He was here to support Rick, to show his face at this farce of a tournament. That was all. He didn¡¯t need another entanglement, another woman who would inevitably find him lacking. But even as he tried to convince himself, Jacques couldn¡¯t help the fleeting thought that there was no harm in having a bit of fun while he was here. His gaze drifted to the seats next to the king, still empty, awaiting Rick and his oh-so-lovely lady wife, Princess Mirielle. A distraction, perhaps. ''Where is the queen of beauty herself at this time of day?'' he asked. His father sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture that Jacques knew all too well. ''The Princess Mirielle is amongst the city, Your Grace,'' Sir Orchis Vortigon replied, his voice slithering out like a serpent, every syllable oozing with practised deference. ''She¡¯s donating money to charity.'' Jacques couldn¡¯t resist a smile. ''How generous of her. Did she spray the peasants with fragrances from the far south while she was at it?'' The king let out a deep groan. ''Jacques, if you cannot be civil with the princess, then I suggest you stay silent, understand?'' For a brief moment, Jacques allowed himself to feel the thrill of his father¡¯s discomfort. Watching King Rickard of House Rue¡ªvanquisher of the most powerful man Galia had ever seen¡ªtrying to be courteous was like watching a bull trying to walk on thin ice. It was almost too much to bear; Jacques had to stifle a laugh. But then his father¡¯s hand touched his arm, and all amusement fled as their eyes locked, the icy blue of his father¡¯s gaze freezing Jacques to his seat. ''I am warning you,'' his father said quietly, his voice cold enough to chill Jacques to the bone. ''You think I want you here?'' Jacques met his father¡¯s stare, but where he had once found strength in his defiance, now there was only a hollow echo. His father¡¯s disdain was nothing new; he had dealt with it for over thirty years. But as he delved deep into the blizzard that was King Rickard¡¯s burning glare, Jacques found himself unable to move, unable to breathe. ''I never wanted you,'' Father said, ''Remember that before you open your mouth.'' The words struck Jacques harder than they should have, as if they had pierced through the armour of indifference he had spent so many years crafting. Trumpets blared, their powerful sound echoing through the fighting pit, but Jacques barely heard them over the roaring in his ears. He felt a tightness in his chest, a familiar constriction threatening to crush him from the inside out. Guards marched towards each other in the arena, brandishing their long brass instruments, but their movements were a blur to him. His eyes flickered over to the king¡¯s steward, Dennis, who entered the pit to a resounding cheer from the crowd. The sight of Dennis¡¯ youthful face, so full of excitement and energy, was almost painful. He gripped a scroll in his right hand, nodding his head towards every inch of the arena, before finally bowing when he faced the royal box. Jacques swallowed the sadness that had crept up on him so suddenly, trying to force it down, to bury it like he always did. But it clung to him, heavy and unyielding. He leaned forward in his chair, his movements stiff, and turned his head towards Sir Orchis Vortigon. ''Not fighting, Sir Orchis?'' he asked, barely masking his pain. The Hawk Knight stood proudly in his black armour, his crimson cloak of the Galian royal guard draping over his back. His black hair, trimmed and sharp, matched the stubble on his face. His light brown eyes held an intense gaze, reminiscent of a hawk fixated on its prey. ''I prefer to watch from a distance, Your Grace,'' he said, his tone calm and measured. Jacques frowned, the knight¡¯s answer only deepening the disquiet in his mind. He¡¯s supposed to be a knight, isn¡¯t he? But as he stared at Sir Orchis, Jacques couldn¡¯t help but wonder if perhaps the knight had the right idea. Watching from a distance¡ªremaining detached, untouched by the chaos around him¡ªseemed like a luxury Jacques could do well with right now. ''Princess Mirielle, Your Majesty!'' Sir Bryce Howard bowed and vanished down the stairs, leaving all eyes on the platform to shift toward a single dazzling figure. Princess Mirielle Jubilee was only twenty-four years old but she¡¯d already become one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom. She bathed in the midday sun, her green silk dress shimmering, complementing her flowing brown hair. A golden necklace in the shape of a buzzard lay on her chest, the emblem of House Jubilee. She would never be as beautiful as Aubery was, but she was close¡ªpainfully close. For a fleeting moment, Jacques considered making a joke about how the Eastamereans made Mirielle look ugly, something biting and clever that would amuse him at the very least. His father¡¯s words echoed in his mind, freezing the remark before it could leave his lips. I never wanted you. ''You¡¯re just in time, Mirielle,'' the king said as he hoisted himself from his chair and showed the princess to her seat. ''You had a productive day, I trust.'' Princess Mirielle¡¯s lips curved into a captivating smile, revealing a row of gleaming white teeth that were more like a predator¡¯s fangs. ''Very productive, Your Majesty,'' she replied, her voice carrying the harsh, nasal tones of a Coastman¡¯s accent, which grated against Jacques¡¯ ears like slate. He clenched his jaw, wondering how anyone could find that voice charming. Yet, here she was, the darling of the court. Of course, she¡¯s from Coast, Jacques thought bitterly. The city of Coast, Galia¡¯s primary port, was a place of the upmost strategic importance, its royal fleet the kingdom¡¯s first line of defence against naval attacks. His father had been meticulous in securing House Jubilee¡¯s allegiance, and Mirielle was the crown jewel in that alliance. ''After I finished organising the feast for tonight,'' Mirielle continued, her voice thick with pride, ''I travelled to every orphanage I could find and donated some of my money to all of them. In this time of peace, I think all should reap the rewards.'' Jacques rolled his eyes, a familiar wave of irritation rising in his chest. How is no one else seeing through this? But even as he silently seethed, a part of him envied her. She had the power to be seen, to be adored, to win people over with a pretty smile and a few coins. Jacques, on the other hand, felt like a shadow in comparison, forever lurking on the fringes of his father¡¯s court, seen only as a disappointment or a burden. No one expects anything from me, he thought. Not even a cruel joke. ''Welcome all to our peace tournament, a ceremony celebrating peace at last!'' Dennis shouted. The crowd erupted into applause as the king mustered a wave, his expression one of weary obligation. He leaned over toward Mirielle, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. ''I do wish they¡¯d cut the formalities.'' ''I agree,'' Jacques chimed in, hoping for once to align with his father¡¯s sentiments. Perhaps if he agreed on something so trivial, Father wouldn¡¯t find a reason to be displeased. ''We can skip to the dinner and the wine that way.'' His attempt to join in was met with silence. No one acknowledged his remark, except for his father, who fixed him with another cold stare, making him feel like a fool for even speaking. ''Please allow me to welcome our first fighter to the pit! He is only twenty-three years old but one of the greatest swordsmen in the land, please give a warm welcome to Prince Luis Paloma!'' The crowd offered Prince Luis a modest round of applause as he stepped into the fighting arena. His father, King Geraldo, acknowledged him with a nod, his face lighting up with the kind of pride Jacques knew he would never see in his own father¡¯s eyes. ''And his opponent, the reigning champion of His Majesty, King Rickard¡¯s, nameday tournament, undefeated in two consecutive years, please welcome His Grace, Prince Rickard of House Rue!'' The arena erupted with noise as Rick entered the fighting pit, his sword raised high above his head. Jacques watched as the pride oozed from the eyes of the men in the crowd, their roars of approval filling the air. But it was the gazes from the women that truly stung¡ªgazes filled with lust and longing, their screams growing even louder when Rick¡¯s line of sight just happened to fall on them. Sometimes Jacques wondered if his brother actually enjoyed all of this¡ªthe adulation, the constant praise, the expectation that he would always excel. Did Rick ever feel suffocated by the weight of it all? Or had he simply become numb to it, the way Jacques had become numb to his own failures? At least when I stumble, Jacques thought, it¡¯s only my own reputation that suffers. But Rick¡­ he carries the weight of House Rue on his shoulders. If he ever faltered, even for a moment, Father¡¯s wrath would be something only the Gods could temper. ''But before our fighters clash swords, His Majesty, King Rickard, would like to say a few words!'' the steward announced. Father rose from his seat, his gaze fixed on King Geraldo. The crowd hushed, every eye locked onto their king, as if the mere sound of his voice was sacred. King Rickard prowled towards the edge of the platform, his presence commanding the arena¡¯s attention. ''For thirty-five years, I have held this crown,'' Father began, his voice echoing with the authority of a man who had shaped the very world his people lived in. ''And I¡¯ve seen this kingdom grow and strengthen. In that time, I¡¯ve produced an heir I can be proud of.'' He gestured towards Rick, the pride in his golden son unmistakable. ''Which is why I know my legacy will live on, the reason my house will keep this throne for generations after my death, all because of what I¡¯ve done over the last thirty-five years. But this tournament is not only for me. It is for all those who fought alongside me when I took this throne. When you hear the ring of swords, I want the sound to take you back to the days of my coronation, the moment you knew you fell on the right side of history.'' The crowd erupted into applause, their cheers a chorus of adoration for the man who had led them to victory. Jacques frowned. This was supposed to be a peace tournament, a celebration of unity, yet Father¡¯s words seemed to glorify the bloodshed that had brought him to power. Jacques¡¯ father was many things, but forgetful was not one of them. He had a long memory, one that clung to past glories and the enemies he had crushed to secure them. The two fighters stepped a few paces away from each other and bent their knees slightly, preparing to fight. ''Jacques¡­'' His father¡¯s voice cut through the noise when he¡¯d sat back down, drawing Jacques¡¯ attention. ''I will see you at the feast tonight.'' Jacques suppressed a sigh. He enjoyed food, but the prospect of sitting through another meal with his father, enduring the constant scrutiny and criticism, drained any appetite he might have had. I never wanted you. A surge of anger stiffened Jacques¡¯ upper lip, frustration boiling just beneath the surface. ''I thought you wouldn¡¯t want me there,'' he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though it quivered with the effort. Father¡¯s gaze shifted to Rick, who stood poised and confident in the pit. ''You see your brother? He is doing his duty and showing that we are ready for the next step in our history.'' ''On my mark¡­'' Dennis said, the crowd falling silent as they waited with bated breath for the signal. Jacques felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest. He had to ask, even if it meant hearing another rejection. ''And what about me?'' The question hung in the air, heavy with a desperation he couldn¡¯t quite hide. As Jacques watched his father¡¯s face, he saw something that made his heart skip a beat. His father was smiling. ''I have different plans for you,'' Father said, his smile sending a chill down Jacques¡¯ spine. Before Jacques could process the words, Dennis lowered his arm and shouted, ''Fight!''