Shift on the right food, step forward, and….
Completely bungle the strike he had been aiming at the large, armored knight in front of him. His blow was instead parried off to the side with such strength that his root was broken, and as a result, he stumbled. Never one to miss an opportunity, the knight took advantage of his clumsiness.
In seconds, Oskar, third to bear the name in the Eisenherz dynasty, found himself staring up at the distant ceiling of the private training room, deep in the heart of Kyronkar.
Flat on his back, and put there by his own bodyguard.
How truly pathetic. If only Alaric could see him now.
Oskar couldn’t help but wallow in his own misery for a moment. As was…becoming all too common, these days.
The would-be King was only knocked out of his brooding when the large, armored hand of Sir Augustine Clemont appeared in his field of vision. Tracing the path of that hand up to the owner, Oskar found that his long-time bodyguard had already removed his helmet to reveal the mildly concerned look on his broad, bare features. It seemed like the older man had correctly guessed that this practice session was…likely over.
Somehow, Oskar found the strength of will to reach up and grasp that outstretched hand, and allowed the owner to pull him to his feet with a grunt. He abruptly felt exposed in the bright mage-light of the training room, standing there under both the gaze of Augustine and the guards posted at the entrance.
This…wasn’t how a King should be seen by his subjects. Even if they were his direct servants.
His Father would never have allowed himself to be shamed so, even if it had been as mild as it was.
“A good effort,” Augustine eventually said gruffly, very obviously attempting to comfort him in his own awkward way. “However, the angle of the blade was off.”
The unspoken criticism, of course, was that Oskar was supposed to be better than that. After all, he had been instructed in bladecraft since he was old enough to walk. A mistake like that was supposed to be something he had grown out of years ago.
He looked away from Augustine. “Ah…yes, of course,” Oskar said, breaking the growing awkward silence. “I’m…merely tired, old friend.” He forced a laugh and plastered a smile on his lips, doing his best to copy the same one Alaric had sported so often. “Turns out attempting a practice session after a long night of negotiations wasn’t the brightest idea, eh?”
“…as you say, Your Majesty,” Augustine replied, unable to keep the concern out of his voice. Oskar’s smile wobbled at the sound of it.
However…
It died completely at the new voice that spoke up, from the entryway of the practice room.
“He’s not a majesty yet, Sir Clemont,” A young, cool, feminine voice piped in. “The correct address would be ‘Your Highness’.”
Oskar felt a frown steal across his face, even as he saw Augustine stiffen in front of him into a more respectful stance. Not only that, but he heard the armor of the guards clatter as they stood at attention.
Everyone here knew who that voice belonged to.
Oskar took a deep breath and turned in place to find his sister, the Princess Isolde, leaning against the locked and closed doors of his private practice room. It was obvious she had weaseled her way inside somehow without alerting any of the occupants, much less the opening of the door. He felt a spark of irritation pierce through the melancholy he had been falling into at the sight of her.
He hated it when she did things like this. Her time in SED had instilled some frustrating habits into his only surviving direct family member.
A sigh escaped his lips, and Oskar bent down to pick up the practice sword he had dropped when Augustine had bowled him over. He took his time waltzing over to the rack and depositing the sword, and only once it was safely stored away did Oskar turn back to regard his sister. It was…almost hard to recognize her these days.
Ever since the end of the Construct War, Isolde had chosen to disdain the trappings of her station. It was common knowledge these days that she had been a small unit commander among the ranks of SED, before the tragedy of Elderwyck had wiped them out nearly to a man. As a child, Isolde had grown up wrapped in fine, if not childish, dresses. She had been the apple of their Mother’s eyes, Gyre rest her soul, and as a result had been nearly pampered. After her passing, the younger Isolde had grown more…isolated, dour even. However, nobody had expected her to have been scouted before her own Awakening to join the royal intelligence services and be placed on an intense, preparatory training program. From what Oskar understood, all of this had been done directly under the King’s nose and without his permission.
It was only after everything had settled down that questions were raised about why. The answers had pointed towards…certain manipulations that seemed to have infiltrated deeper into the heart of Herztalian governance.
Isolde had not taken these revelations…well, to say the least. These days, she spent a great deal of time outside the walls of Kyronkar. As a result, she often looked like those who dwelled in the lower level of Blutstein, taking to randomly appearing in the simple workman and traders fair that was common among the people. If not in a more…masculine cut. She was capable of appearing court-appropriate, but invariably she would disappear into the city once more. It was only at his pleading that his sister had chosen to spend most of her nights in the halls of Kyronkar at all.
Even then, there had been weeks in which she had outright disappeared. Frankly, Oskar was surprised to see her at all. Isolde had very pointedly told him to his face that she blamed his ‘treachery’ in the midst of the Construct War for the loss that the Loyalist faction had suffered in the war. Even if it had been revealed as the plot of some ancient, accursed beast from the War in Heaven, she had still wanted to win.
Oskar didn’t understand why she had publicly chosen to support his bid for the throne.
At the very least, he was satisfied with the way her eyes, so similar in shade to his own, had grown half-lidded at the casual dismissal. “Hello, Isolde, how are you? Doing well today, I trust? Whatever could bring you here to this locked and private practice session?”
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
Isolde’s lip curled slightly at him. “You have guests,” She said bluntly, leaning against the door with arms crossed. “I suggest you see to them.”
A frown stole across his lips. “That’s it?” Oskar asked incredulously. “You came all this way to tell me I have guests? You haven’t spoken to me in nearly two weeks, and that’s the first thing you have to say to me? Isolde, I-”
“It’s Greycton and his apprentice,” Isolde said, bowling right over his words without a care.
Oskar…stilled, as the implication set in. “I…see…” He said slowly. “Hart is…in town then? Why have I not…?”
A humorless frown stole across his sister’s lips as Oskar heard Augustine shuffle restlessly at his back. His bodyguard had never liked Nathaniel Hart, not since word had first reached him about the man. “He only arrived yesterday, and he’s been a busy little bee from what I understand. Why, he’s already had a nice little chat with Cousin Wenzel.”
At that, Oskar wasn’t able to stop a curse from escaping him. “Damnit,” He hissed, running a hand through his still sweat through hair. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”
Isolde rolled her eyes at him. “I only found out a few hours ago. I’m not a god, Oskar. Besides, I would have told you sooner if you weren’t sulking in here,” She held up a hand to stop his reply. “Enough. It’s done. I told Stroud to take them to the crystal waiting room. He’s been doing his clumsy best to keep the two of them entertained while I tried to find you.”
Oskar tensed. “How long have they been waiting?”
“Oh, about half an hour,” Isolde said, sarcasm thick in her voice. “Not long at all.”
Without another word, Oskar broke out into a sudden run towards the doors of the practice room, hearing Augustine follow loyally behind him. Isolded pivoted away smoothly just before he burst through them, uncaring about his haste. As he sprinted down the hallway towards the crystal waiting room, Oskar saw that Isolde had elected to follow the two of them, easily keeping track with her older brother. He couldn’t stop an ugly flush from crawling down his neck at the implied humiliation. Oskar had been meant to be the Herzgard, once upon a time, and yet here was his younger sister with more than a dozen levels over him.
He…truly was a shame upon his entire line.
A few minutes later, Oskar came to a sudden stop before the tastefully ornate doors of the waiting room that the Eisenherz dynasty typically used for visiting royalty. He self-consciously straightened the sweat-soaked practice clothes he was wearing and took a deep breath. Surely Hart wouldn’t hold it against him, right?
Oh, what was he kidding? The man hadn’t exactly been shy about his distaste for Oskar. It was just another in a long line of his failures.
Oskar felt an impatient prod at the small of his back and knew just who it was. He chose to take it as encouragement, firmed his stance, took a deep breath…
And swept open the double doors of the crystal room.
Oskar barely paid any attention to the intricate crystal and quartz bedecked finery. Instead, his eyes fell on the occupants sitting around the meeting table in the center of the room, an untouched-looking tea set resting between them. On one side of the table was Senescal Vernan Stroud, an exceptionally loyal man who had all but run the goings-on of Kyronkar for decades. Alas, for all of his organizational prowess, conversation was not one of his strong points. The portly man almost looked like he was drowning on dry land, from how he had been attempting to clumsily distract the…guests.
Two of Herztal’s heroes. One very old one, who had been a prominent figure in Herztalian society for literal centuries. Someone who had been a foundational force for not only the premier mystical academy on the face of the planet, but also a driving force for societal advancement.
Also, probably the leader of the single strongest military force in the country that had not sworn direct loyalty to the Throne.
Headmaster Greycton of the Academy of Mystic Arts, Grand Marshall of the Order of the Eclipsed Dawn. Oskar noticed that the man’s Antium bodyguard had returned at the same time as the other man at the table, but the foreigner was notoriously reticent. He stood still on the far side of the room with all four of his arms crossed, eyes fixed at a point on the wall, and unmoving.
However, the other one at the table was a man who was much more mysterious. Someone who had appeared from what seemed to be the veritable Aether to become the Headmaster’s direct apprentice. Someone who had somehow devised a method to break the long accursed Slave Bond while he was meant to have been under its influence, according to rumor. A man who had distinguished himself in the Construct War by not only working as an assassin for the Uprising, but who had somehow slain the Calamity which had risen in Elderwyck at the apex of the war.
And…from the unclear reports he had received over the last few months…might have been involved in the death of a second Calamity within the borders of Kawamara.
As always, the sight of Nathaniel Hart disquieted Oskar for no reason he could pinpoint. Ever since he had first laid eyes on the man back in that battlefield tent where he had betrayed Duke Graden, something about him just made his skin crawl. There was something…other about him, and that feeling had only grown worse since he had picked up some form of transformative curse from the very Calamity he had slain. It was hard to even call the man human anymore, with his sharpened Elf-like ears, slit eyes, and strange black scale patches. Oskar suppressed a wince as those cool emerald eyes assessed him standing in the doorway, so disquietingly similar to the shade born by those of the royal family.
At the opening of the door, Stroud scrambled to his feet to greet him, while the Headmaster and Hart followed in a much more composed manner. “Y-Your Majesty!” Stroud cried in relief, looking to be near tears. “M-May I present-”
Oskar interrupted him by holding up a hand, with an easy, practiced smile on his face. “There’s no need, Seneschal. I’m more than acquainted. Headmaster, a pleasure to see you again.”
At his words, Greycton of the Shattered Sun inclined his bare head to the younger man. “Prince Oskar.”
His smile nearly fell off at the short, almost curt greeting from the ancient Magi.
The last time Oskar had spoken to the man, the Headmaster had been very open in referring to him as ‘King-Elect’. This…didn’t bode well.
“And…” Oskar rallied, turning to face the other man, cooly observing the interaction with keen eyes. He had to fight not to flinch as their gazes briefly met. “Sir…Hart. It has been some time since last we met. I hope you are well.”
“Your Highness,” Hart said mildly, inclining his head as well. “Well enough. A point, however. I am not, in fact, a ‘Sir’…despite your insistence on using the term,” Slowly, Nathaniel Hart sat back down in his chair before anyone else did, in an open breach of decorum. “Pointedly, I remember that you intended to knight me once you had ascended to the throne to facilitate the…whole charade.”
The unspoken implication hung in the air, causing Oskar’s smile to slip briefly from his lips.
You needed a King to be knighted, after all.
Tellingly, Isolde cared nothing for the games being played. She slipped into the room behind Oskar and lifted her chin almost defiantly at the inhuman man at the table. “Hangman. I see you managed not to get yourself killed.”
Oskar was deeply frustrated when a note of real amusement stole over Hart’s face at Isolde’s blatant taunt. “Well, well. If it isn’t Thirty-Two. I see you managed not to get ripped apart by a Revenant. We never met up in the aftermath of Elderwyck, so I wasn’t sure if they weren’t just blowing smoke up my…behind,” Hart said, eyes briefly flickering over to Oskar. “When they told me you survived.”
The Princess rolled her eyes and strode over to the table, stealing the chair Seneschal Stroud had been sitting in only moments ago. At the pleading, almost begging look the man shot Oskar, he nodded and gestured towards the door. Stroud outright sagged in relief before scurrying into the hall as quickly as he could, nearly ramming face-first into the mountainous form of Augustine as he did so. The bodyguard didn’t even look at the Sensechal as he closed the door behind him.
Instead, he already had an offended glower on his face at the sight of Isolde pouring a cup of tea for Hart while Oskar stood just before the doorway, looking and feeling like a fool.
Greycton sat down at the table and accepted a cup from Isolde with a brief smile and nod, before looking up at Oskar. “Do join us, Your Highness. I believe we have quite a few things to discuss. Quite a few indeed.”
What the hell had Wenzel said to them?!
