Rulers of Veistanlu

Father

Prince Alvar held the lavender letter close to his heart.

In exchange for the letter he had written earlier, he gave the fresh sambocade he had bought on the way to prison—thankfully, the baker had not kicked up a fuss over him because he had failed to recognized him as the Prince of his own homeland— to a pair of protruding hands, considerably larger than his own.

It seemed as if we were returning gifts from each other, he wanted to laugh at the thought while he was gliding every single wall with full stealth. Blue eyes gazed at every furniture and color— which had little to none. He had mutual thoughts with Onyx; the prison was mind-numbingly monotone, urging him to get Onyx out this instant.

He felt the cool breeze caress his robe bottom as he struggled to suppress a little, flustered smile from forming on his face. The fact that he was invisible comforted him since he was free to feel what he had to feel.

When his fingers continued to tingle, he sighed gently, knowing he'd have to spill it all in his caramel sheets with black ink when he got to his chamber, and wrap himself in warm, pervenche sheets. When he felt he was being too excited, he scolded himself, But that does not mean I should break my neutrality.

But first and foremost, he needed to eat.

He was getting hungrier by the second, having used all three of his skills for such a prolonged time and having shared them with another. Such actions had required greater stamina, having the Prince never done it within years. As much he had despised how his throat felt jabbed when he had forced himself to indulge in Sir Marshall’s well-cooked delicacies before his departure, he was relieved that he had done it.

He found himself walking near Velemau's Great Bridge, and lingered there, hoping to save enough energy to return to the palace. His eyes lazily fluttered by the gushing river below to both sides of the pathway, and hearing no steps or breaths made him comfortable enough to be uninvisible.

An unexpected low voice from a person with high demands called, “Hey!”

Perhaps he made the wrong decision.

He was quick to vanish like a flame clinging onto a candle's wick fading when blown out, due to the very familiar voice. As his shadow disappeared, he observed four civilians on a street by the bridge full of diners and inns. One wore golden armor that sparkled dimly, another had light brown fringe, and the other two were blonde women.

Renjiro stared at him as though he was a ghost— unnoticed and unfelt, but once seen.

Despite being far afield, he noticed, the Prince said in his mind. He might fail to recognize me, hopefully.

“Are you okay?” The Prince heard an unfamiliar voice of a man. It must be from the one with brown, wavy hair asking Renjiro. “What are you looking at, My Lord?”

Renjiro’s faraway voice declared, “I’m just looking for His Majesty by the bridge! Prince Alvar, I saw you!”

“...”

Prince Alvar’s lashes shut, his eyebrows knitted. He is the Grand Knight after all.

“I may sound crazy, Your Majesty! Please reveal yourself and let me accompany you home! It’s a cold night.” Renjiro was well aware that he would— not might— appear insane in front of the serfs, but he continued to be loud nevertheless. The serfs had puzzled looks, as if Renjiro was possessed by a devil; they had no idea about the Prince's powers when the Knight appeared to call out someone by the unfilled, dim bridge.

Prince Alvar could display himself and be escorted back to his office by Renjiro and three other people, or he could walk back, which was at least ten minutes away. His lips moistened as the algae-scented breeze cooled his neck; how he hoped he could go in a royal carriage instead, free to contemplate and appreciate his own thoughts while patiently waiting for his destination.

This was not feasible unless he wanted to be shot by an arrow, pierced by a spear, or even worse, hexed by magic.

Neither of his choices was what he decided to do— he fled, feet above ground.

**

Over the years, no Royalty would return to the palace with rapid breathing and beads of sweat on their hairline—then along came the Prince, who went through the wooden doors with such characteristics. He had the impression that his forefathers and mothers pity him in the heavens.

Despite this, he managed to move elegantly with his unkempt hair and wrinkled clothing.

“Ah.” A dark-haired man dashed towards the Prince, who’s frail body began to sway. “I believed you'd be approaching by the window, so I didn't wait for you by the door,” he replied, his arms outstretched to greet his exhausted friend.

The Prince leaned into Duke Mejia’s chest, pink lips pursed. As his stomach growled and blasted in appetite for once, he muffled, “Food.”

The Duke saw an envelope being held tightly by a pallid hand. He took it to lay beside the brown desk before leading him to his wooden throne. He said something that spiraled into nowhere inside the Prince’s mind. “Please— I can’t deal with two individuals fainting on a single night.”

The Prince’s breathy voice asked, “What?”

The Duke ignored his question, and handed him a bowl of crunchy oats drenched in honey, spiced with cinnamon. It had been a favorite meal in the past, and something the Prince had remembered the Duke would always offer. “Nostalgic, huh? I knew you were going to be starving.”

The golden spoon oscillated back and forth from the bowl to the Prince's famished mouth, which the Duke looked at with a smile, eating his bowl of oats, too. He was faster than his usual pace of eating, yet he remained spotless. It was indeed nostalgic, he thought at the last spoonful of oats— but he wasn’t satisfied that he snatched Etheniel’s bowl and ate it all.

Etheniel chuckled and let him be.

“It was difficult to catch what you had said,” the Prince said as he gently set the second empty bowl down his desk. “What was it, exactly?”

Duke Mejia nervously chuckled.

“Etheniel,” Prince Alvar hushed, glaring with suspicion.

Etheniel ruffled his dark hair with his palm, his hazel gaze shifting above the Prince's shoulder. His lips trembled as he prepared to speak, but then the wooden doors opened, revealing four people. Three of them were gasping for air as if they had just emerged above water.

“Prince Alvar, you have snuck out again!” Renjiro yelled, confident that there was no way for the Prince to get himself out of the confrontation. “I saw you with my very eyes, and I was worried! Why were you outside?!”

Etheniel laughed, his shoulders moving up and down as he gripped his stomach in his hands. “You—” He looked at the Prince and gasped for oxygen. “You demanded that I keep my yap shut about you sneaking out. You, on the other hand, were the one who handed yourself away.”

“I was not at all caught,” Prince Alvar hushed, and was looking from the flabbergasted Duke, to the determined Knight. He contemplated if he should tell the truth about his desire to meet Onyx for the peace of his mind, but Renjiro would reprimand him more. Aside from that, he'd be questioned about why he was so attached to Onyx, which would be awkward. “I just wanted some fresh night breeze.”

“I believe His Majesty has disclosed the truth! You were being sly, but at least let me take your weary self home!”

If he escorts me home…

Prince Alvar had fond memories of playing with his pals in the Royal Gardens during evenings, when they would avoid getting hit by a ball thrown by opposite sides in order to win. Young Renjiro would always accompany him back to his chamber afterwards, or to have supper with his family. He was always easy to be weary, so Renjiro would have him clinging on his back like a rucksack.

I would rather not.

“I can handle myself,” The Prince shut down his offer, knowing that Renjiro would suggest a pickpack ride when Renjiro had noticed that he was breathing profusely. His vulnerability in front of three other people would shame him. Good thing he couldn’t blush, or his cheeks would saturate just thinking about it.

Renjiro asked in his overdramatized voice, “What if you get raided once more by a band of assassins? What if you trip yourself over? What if you pass out?”

When Etheniel gulped at the final query, his prominent Adam's apple shifted, but the Prince didn't notice. He was watching the serfs' chests rise and fall in haste, as well as their perplexed expressions as they tried to figure out what was going on. It gave Etheniel so much relief.

“What matters is that I am well,” Prince Alvar stood away from his chair, and was walking so silently towards them. The serfs were quick to respectfully drop one knee. “I would rather have you apologize to them for making them run. Not everyone is as active as you.”

“Oh, my apologies! I may have put the Prince ahead of my purpose to bring you back here!” Renjiro yelled, bowing down to the three kneeling, facing the wooden floor. He added, “But please, don't forget how to appropriately engage with His Majesty!”

The brown-haired boy’s brittle voice said, “You have been so kind to us. We don’t mind at all, Your Majesty!”

Prince Alvar asked, “May I ask for your names?”

A light-haired boy was the first to speak. “Of course, Your Majesty. My name is Quillan Lark.”

“Good evening, Prince Alvar. I’m Lauren Smith. This is my sister, Suji Smith,” said the woman who appeared to be the oldest, gesturing at an exact younger replica of her.

“You may stand.” They promptly shot their legs up after the Prince's command. However, their heads remained bowed; they may have been too afraid to confront Royalty for the first time. The Prince could see with clarity that he was intimidating them, then he remembered Etheniel leaning by the desk behind. Not one, but two exalted ranking officials the serfs were politely bowing for.

To avoid becoming disoriented— since he recently was almost at the verge of fainting— he carefully turned around to face Etheniel and reminded him, “I have not received any responses from you.”

“It’s nothing important if your mind failed to register it,” Etheniel said, and was smiling smugly. He appeared to be lying.

The Prince moved on to a new question that had been lingering in his mind now that he felt the current topic was insignificant. His mind gave thoughts of a tired yet stunning face, and recalled things. “Onyx was trembling. Even though it was cold, he appeared apprehensive and... afraid.”

Etheniel replied, “Perhaps he was just anxious, Your Majesty. A serf with a simple life will be shoved into an arena full of Nobles. It’s pressuring.”

When Etheniel was right, the Prince remained silent. He hadn't moved on from Etheniel’s nervous chuckles and mannerisms that appeared suspicious. That was when Prince Alvar thought that he was hiding something, which was similar to an animal keeping away a piece of food from its hungry herd, just a bite-size— or was it really that small?

When a detective could detect even the smallest lies, they could also flawlessly carry them out.

“You may believe it was because of me or the interrogation, which is fair. I inquired as to what Dolian had done to him personally, but he stated he couldn't recall.” Etheniel's hands were buried deep within his maroon pockets, and he was rather uneasy. “It might have caused him to second-guess himself.”

“I agree. Onyx always forgets things almost every time, Your Grace,” Quillan said shortly, and was looking troubled. Etheniel sighed, seeming he was relieved that the serf came to back his half-truth claims. When Quillan felt he interrupted them, he said, “I’m so sorry, good Sires.”

He drew the attention of the Prince. Blue eyes scanned the serf's neck, noticing a faint scar from a neck cuff. Lauren and Suji had the same feature when he looked. It was harsh and common among slaves where the owners would treat them like uncontainable animals, leashing them with cold, tight metal. Cuffing anyone was illegal in the past ten years. When their scars looked too old as if they got it as a child, the Prince sighed in relief that Dolian had not restrained their throats.

Onyx, on the other hand, lacked the scar that the Prince remembered.

With gloom in his heart, the Prince remained still and said, “Enlighten me.”

The serfs were gestured to sit on the azure couches, then their narration began with only a smattering of disorder: how Dolian would seek to attack them, how they weren't paid the correct salary and sometimes got nothing, how they went through starvation and drought on many occasions over the course of six years.

Sir Marshall had brought them steaming tea and fresh bread with sliced cheese, and he had remained in the office to hear the terrible narrative. After all, it was refreshing for him to hear the perspective of life from the opposite class, and from youth. He felt sorry for them, just as the other Noblemen did.

“It was very not good, but it was Onyx who made us have the least scars,” Lauren said, teary-eyed. “He made us stay alive.”

Suji sobbed when she bit into the bread, something she hadn't had in a long time. “Even when he’s not, he’s a Knight. Our Knight.”

“So please, Your Majesty, Your Grace, My Lord,” Quillan cried, both knees meeting the hard, wooden floor. “Save him. We heard that he is in prison, and he never deserved any minute further in that place where Dolian should’ve been.”

When Prince Alvar had not remarked, and Renjiro had not admonished them for not using honorifics when discussing the Baron Dolian, they understood the events were momentous. Seeing others weep and beg broke Prince Alvar’s heart.

With his tall physique and who knows how combative he may get, Onyx had been there for six years, capable of almost anything. When Prince Alvar thought about him, his heart sank; it pained to think of how much potential he had squandered. He would have been so wealthy and well-cared for if the Prince had met him earlier, but Onyx had not appeared to want to leave the other serfs alone to be harmed, to be scarred.

He realized right then and there that Onyx was a good person. He'd interacted with him enough to conclude Onyx was one of a kind, coming to him with no intention of murder. Not only his skin, but the Prince could see his intentions were clear.

Prince Alvar gazed at their tears softly, convincing him that his doubts about Onyx were unfounded and irrational.

“Have no worries.” Even when he felt heavy, he finally had the strength to respond, “Onyx shall be free tomorrow.”

For the first time, Quillan stretched his neck to face the Prince, noticing how exquisite and distinctive his features were. Along with the wonderful news about his raven-haired pal, the beautiful face astounded him, making his eyes water.

“Thank you, Your Majesty!” he cried, smiling, with his lion heart. “I, and we, shall be forever grateful!”

Quillan dashed over to the women and hugged them. The four Nobles observed the women returning Quillan's embrace with their arms full of fresh scars, revealing their strong bond. It was a joyful sight to behold.

Just as the ambience became lighthearted, a large man with a red mantle above his shoulders appeared behind the open wooden doors. With just one glance, Prince Alvar identified who it was, and remained still.

“All kneel for His Majesty, the King!” Renjiro immediately exclaimed. Everyone else hastily knelt, displaying respect as a result of the Grand Knight’s immediate kneeling. All of them-- with the exception of the Crown Prince.

“Sir Marshall, I was waiting for you by my chamber.” The low and resonant voice shivered every spine in the room in fear— except the Prince who showed lethargy.

“Apologies, Sire. I have been assisting your son and his subordinates,” Sir Marshall replied before standing up.

Intimidating and fierce wrinkled blue eyes scanned the room, causing the King to squint. He had never seen so many new individuals in the palace, and without his knowledge. After showing an unfavored expression, he glared at a pair of young, blue pupils that were as sharp-looking, not angry, yet certainly trenchant as his.

“We need to talk,” Before his red mantle swayed to turn away, he demanded of Prince Alvar. “Meet me in my chamber this instant.”

Sir Marshall immediately chased after the King and closed the door.

The tension was heavy between the father and son, as if they were being pulled below the ground. Even the serfs, who refused to set their eyes on the King, knew that there was something off when Renjiro, who was full of stories to share on their way to the palace, had yet again not said any word.

“Sir Renjiro, escort them to the third tower. They shall have their rest.” Shortly after the Prince’s command, Renjiro held his golden visor to him, left the sage green robe by the couch, and left with the serfs silently. Only the Prince and the Duke were left in the blue-walled office.

“Prince Floris,” Etheniel called behind the Prince after everyone’s departure. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“I would prefer you to not be involved with the King and I,” Floris answered softly, even though they knew that he was upset. Etheniel would always have the relaxed and carefree look, but Floris noticed that he may be a bit worried for him.

Floris added, “Our Grand Scheme shall not be derailed by my own father, so you shall remain the liking of my father to you. Let us proceed with caution and good fortune shall come our way.”

Etheniel was rather shocked than worried. “You’re a bit more positive tonight.”

Floris would never utter such a thing. His pessimism about himself, coupled with his assassination circumstances, aided his resolve to be extra cautious and hide behind the royal gates since he was fifteen. Positivity was not the aspect keeping him alive. Besides skill, it was luck.

To be taken down thirty-three times, and surviving all of them was luck. To visit a loving charity securely and meet Onyx by chance was luck. To be saved from a flying, thrusting spear that could ruin all his unfinished symphonies was luck. To sneak under the dusk when the shadows posed a threat and came home safely was luck.

Although, there was one thing that he was unfortunate about.

He gave it a quick thought, and answered, “I am by no means a positive person, but a lone man like myself has no choice but to cling on to fortune for I had too many misfortunes.”

“I agree, but you shouldn’t anger King Alvar,” Etheniel hushed.

“I should only make his eyebrows knit.” Floris followed Etheniel that fast-walked to the door, opening it for him. What was supposed to be a luxurious mantle turned out to be a denim robe on his weighty shoulders, flowing away from the door sill.

Etheniel asked, “Then what are you going to the King?”

Floris' sight locked on the cream walls up front, before whispering, “I will guilt him.”

Like any other hall, where Floris walked so silently and refined by the red carpets were noiseless. Naturally, he would complain about it on the back of his head, but the matter at hand was too serious to contemplate. Any affair was serious with the King.

The walk was long after he left Etheniel, and he finally saw Sir Marshall in a black surcoat. His white gloves held by the door handle when he said, “Great Evening once more to the Crown Prince!”

Floris returned the greeting without a smile. “Great evening, Sir Marshall.”

He would at least smile, even a little, to warm greetings— but he couldn’t find the warmth he was hoping for from the King’s chamber. He wanted to apologize, but he remembered there was no need. Sir Marshall always understood that he meant no offense, and that his ego shunned towards his father.

The chamber was very spacious, around double the size of his office. Everything was in tones of vivid crimson, brown, and gold. The room was shimmering spotless thanks to Sir Marshall.

The King was fortunate to have something Floris couldn’t have; a butler.

Sir Marshall then closed the door, turning the room equivocally dark. The hanging candelabras were switched off for some reason, and the only source of orange light was from a candle by the nightstand.

Conversation head-on with Royalties should never be this dark, but Floris thought it was ideal. The King would not have a chance to discover his disorderly state nor question him about it.

It was a blur of reds and blacks by the crimson bed that was vivid when it’s bright, but he could still make out his father's form by candlelight. He was motioned to take a seat on the plumberry-red couch in front of the King's mattress, and there were still no words.

Even if Floris’ patience was the highest among them, he rushed to start the conversation that was never in stored for. “Do you intend to speak, father?”

“Out of all the individuals in your office, you, my son, was not bowing below me,” he said in a drowsy voice, making Floris sigh. It was dark because it was King Alvar’s bedtime. Yet he chose to meet Floris this time. What importance could this meeting behold?

“I do not recall my respect for you, apologies,” Floris said softly, in an attempt to taunt his father. It appeared to be working when he heard a heavy sigh of exasperation.

King Alvar’s mighty yet calm voice said, “How many times are we going to have this discussion? I reared, nourished, and educated you, unlike those pitiful three serfs who-knows-where they have come from.”

“Enough.” Floris’s lips slightly frowned, his eyes glared. He was irritated that he felt upset enough that he allowed expression to be painted on his face. Because he was enveloped by the darkness, he let himself be.

Their conversation about the Butler's Selection was calmer the day before, and one thing was certain: it wasn’t a battle of who could offend the other better, unlike tonight.

“I have looked through the registries, and saw some interesting names in there that I would like to suggest to you,” the King said.

“By interesting, you mean Nobles?” Floris asked, his glare remained sharp.

King Alvar replied, “Obviously. They are raised with class, they carry class, they have class.”

“Who cares about class?” Floris crossed his arms by his chest. “My life is on the line. Can you be any more dafter?”

King Alvar’s knuckles tensed in the shadows, and yelled, “Then, what do you want? A peasant to be on your side?!”

“Yes,” Floris casually answered. He was fighting the urge to laugh, since his own father brought up a topic that he was having difficulty doing it himself, and his father hadn’t expected that Floris would agree.

To make his father more furious, Floris declared, “In fact, I have chosen my butler already.”

“My, my.” Floris could hardly see his father rubbing his own temples. “Then what in the heavens is the Butler Selection for? It would be a disgrace to cancel such an event for the people of Nobility!”

“Who says it would be discontinued? I will use the event to clear Sir Onyx’s name.”

“I recalled that name to have no surname…” King Alvar appeared to be thinking, which left Floris breathing heavily as preparation for his father’s outrage.

There it was; the King shouted with great anger when he realized, “Onyx, the scoundrel that wronged Baron Dolian?!”

“Dolian wronged Sir Onyx,” Floris said calmly. Sir Marshall gulped from afar, since he was responsible for relaying information from the Knightdom to the King without knowing it was false.

“Do not dare use honorifics on that fatherless youngin. Peasants are in no need of such,” the King said darkly.

“You are right,” Floris said calmly. He pressed his fingertips tighter on his lap, knowing that he was about to lie on Etheniel. It turned out that Floris wasn’t satisfied with his father’s eyebrows knitting. He wanted his father to scream in anguish when he said, “I used an honorific as respect to Sir Onyx being my combatant.”

King Alvar had totally lost his calm composure. “Are you out of your mind?! You claimed yesterday that a butler might kill you, so why the hell are you settling for a mere peasant with a criminal record?!”

Floris looked upset. “Wrongly accused. He is no criminal.”

“And what makes you say that?! Have you even met him?!”

“I have.” Floris said with confidence. “‘Use your mighty wits and analyze each person’, you had advised yesterday. I have applied it on Onyx, and he is worthy.”

King Alvar loudened his voice. “I am not allowing this!”

“As I already indicated, there is an atrocious Noble who has ruined an innocent man. That is a priority that you must look upon, not the class of my chosen servant.”

"What are you trying to do?" The King’s irritated voice asked. For sure, his eyes were bulging with anger in the darkness. "You schemed without my approval!"

This is it. Floris smiled softly after finding the right opportunity to taunt. He warned, "It is as though you are tolerating the acts of Dolian if you back down on my notion. That would be unkingly, don't you think?"

The walls trembled; flashes of lightning reached through the red silk curtains.

King Alvar had cared too much about the Royal family’s reputation then until now. Floris agreed that it held importance since it affected the strength to influence the citizens; however, he thought that the King placed reputation as his highest priority. The King prioritized it too much that he tended to forget his son’s safety, and what was the better course of action.

If Floris would be honest, that fact felt like a stung from a bee, but inside his heart.

His taunt had calmed King Alvar. His voice was calm and rich once more. “You are too confident in accusing Baron Dolian.”

“I had studied criminology, and there is evidence against him. My confidence always comes from knowledge,” Floris said.

King Alvar remained freezing cold. “I accept that you shall perform justice tomorrow, but I do not accept that peasant as your combatant! Does he even have a proper fighting physique? I bet his body does not get the nutrients he needs, and after a single punch from enemies, he would be a reed in the wind!”

Floris countered, “Actually, he is taller than you, so I am assuming he is six-foot-three. It is true that he does not get the right nutrition, but he is not at all weak. I was about to get killed the other day by a spear, but he had caught it for me so easily. Are those facts enough to satisfy you, or do you want Duke Etheniel to back those claims?”

All of a sudden, King Alvar coughed violently multiple times. Sir Marshall dashed over with a towel, patting the King on the back. Floris remained seated in his chair, watching even when there was little to see. His father's heavy breathing was merely a minor source of concern for him.

Perhaps Floris went a bit harsher than he realized, yet he wouldn’t want to apologize. When the King stopped coughing, Floris uttered, “We have no more moments to spare. I will only say this once.”

Floris explained the atrocities of Dolian, mentioning every detail on the unlabeled letter that Onyx had sent. Afterwards, he explained the scheme to clear Onyx’s name in summary.

He still detested Onyx alongside the Prince. “Even so, there are so many men who signed up. At least choose from the commoners! There is this man who has a body that seemed to eat twenty pigs all at once—”

“I want Onyx…” Floris paused.

—