The Alpha King Is Mad

Episode 6

KILLIAN

Do you know how hard it is to reason with Father? Well, let me simplify it for you: it's beyond hard— it's downright impossible. Father's stubbornness and unwillingness to listen to anyone but himself have made it incredibly challenging to have any meaningful dialogue with him.

If you were to venture into the towns and villages of Agromania, you would encounter a common sentiment among its people. Mind you, they will never openly speak ill of the king, ensuring their words remain hidden from the ears of guards and soldiers, but you would undoubtedly hear murmurs of discontent. "King Tyrell is evil," they might say, expressing their frustrations and grievances in hushed tones.

And, can you blame them? Not only are they mistreated, they aren't even treated as human beings?

And what does Father do, time and time again? Rather than consider his actions, he constantly validates these complaints and proves the people right every single time.

Take, for instance, the recent demand he made for a third of the peoples' monthly earnings. It was a preposterous request, to say the least, that promised to cause immense hardship and further exacerbating their already strained situations.

Oh, damn! Why was he like this?

But what's truly unfair is that, under Father's reign, nothing is provided for free to the people. Taxes aside, they are burdened with exorbitant expenses for even the simplest of necessities. The guards stationed in the market, for example, are paid by the traders who then pass on the cost to the people. Even the usage of the various streams in the land comes at a price, leaving the common folk to bear the weight of these additional expenses. It seems that everything within the kingdom has a price tag, and inevitably, the money finds its way into Father's seemingly endless pocket.

As I stood outside the closed doors of the grand throne room, frustration began to build within me. The sentry, adorned in his polished armor, looked at me with a mix of respect and fear in his eyes.

“When will they be out?' I asked, anxiety seeming to catch up to me.

Sensing my impatience, he cleared his throat before bowing deeply.

"I'm sorry, your Grace. I do not know when they will emerge," he murmured, his voice laced with empathy.

I sighed, feeling a surge of disappointment. "Oh, it's fine," I replied, my voice tinged with mild frustration.

Just as I turned to sit down, Damian, a smoking pipe in his mouth , appeared at my side. He had a knowing gaze, his usually calm demeanour tinged with concern. It was clear he knew exactly why I had been waiting outside the throne room and it was even clearer that he didn't want me here.

"I presume there's no need for me to tell you why I'm here," Damian spoke softly, his tone calm and steady.

I nodded, my eyes meeting his. "Yes, there's no need, Damian. I'm going to speak to him. You know someone has to," I replied resolutely, my determination shining through my words.

Furrowing his brow, Damian turned slightly to face me more directly. His voice grew gentle, tinged with a touch of worry. "Are you sure someone has to? Killian, you know he will not listen to you. Why get into a fight with him of all people?"

I averted my gaze, silently observing the ornate carvings on the walls of the castle corridor. The murmurs of the courtiers and servants seemed to fade into the background as I reflected on Damian's words.

It was true, Father had always been resistant to hearing differing viewpoints, and once he puts his mind to something, it's hard to make him see otherwise.

However, I couldn't ignore the plight of the people any longer. Their suffering had become far too evident, their whispers of discontent growing louder by the day. Before a Royal, I am a person, and I felt it was my duty to advocate for them, to bridge the gap between the tyrant ruler and his subject.

Even if there was no point trying.

A hullabaloo behind us drew my attention. The great oak doors of the throne room creaked open, and the figures of the Lords emerged, their faces etched with weariness from long discussions and heated debates. It seemed their meeting had finally concluded.

They bowed as they saw me, some of them even whispering ‘Your Grace' before bowing.

Straightening my posture, I stood tall, still avoiding Damian's gaze. I uttered resolutely, "You say this like you don't know what the people go through. If I don't speak for them, who will?”

After saying that, I walked into the throne room, making my way straight to Father, who was seated at the throne, a scroll in his hands.

As I stood in the opulent throne room, I suddenly saw the wisdom in Damian's advice and very nearly decided to not say anything. Swallowing my nerves, I mustered the courage to approach my Father, whose presence commanded both authority and fear.

With a deep breath, I curtsied before him, my head bowed respectfully.

"Your Grace," I began, my voice steady but tinged with a hint of urgency. "Father, I need to speak with you."

In that moment, he paused, setting aside the scroll he had been engrossed in, and removing his gold-rimmed spectacles. His piercing gaze met mine, curiosity etched across his features. "I'm sure that whatever it is you have to say, it can wait," he responded, his tone carrying a hint of dismissiveness.

Yet, I knew that the matter I wished to discuss couldn't be delayed any longer. As he began to delve into the intricacies of his latest project, The Royal Bank of Agroman, explaining how it aimed to safeguard the kingdom's wealth and introduce the concept of banking to society, I couldn't help but feel a sense of frustration. His words washed over me like a soothing lullaby, while my mind buzzed with the urgency of the issue at hand.

Determined to interject, I couldn't let his enthusiasm for his project overshadow the importance of my own concerns. I cleared my throat, my voice steady but firm. "I’m afraid, Father, what I have to say is directly related to this new project of yours," I stated, hoping to catch his attention.

Seemingly oblivious to the significance of my interruption, Father extended his hand, signaling for a nearby maid to bring him a chalice of wine.

With a sense of obedience, she hurried forward, placing the ornate cup in his outstretched hand. As I watched their brief interaction, I couldn't help but note the stark contrast between his commanding presence and the servitude expected from those around him.

“Kneel before me,” he said to the maid who gave him the wine. Sipping his wine, my father turned his gaze back toward me, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Please, continue," he urged, his tone a mix of intrigue and impatience.

Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I shifted my weight ever so slightly. It was time to make him understand the gravity of the situation, the impact his new project could have on our kingdom and its people. Even if he didn't have a heart, at least he should hear this.

"Father," I began, my voice calm. “I came to speak to you about your project. Father, I'm begging you to reverse it and abandon this idea of taxing the people more when you need money.”

He was quiet, but his stare was burning like an open flame.

I continued, my heart pounding with a delicate blend of determination and trepidation. "Father, if you were to walk into the villages and truly observe, you would see the dire circumstances many of the people find themselves in. Poverty has settled upon them like a relentless fog, making it increasingly difficult for them to secure the most basic necessities. With the rise of thieves and the prevailing sense of insecurity in the past year, each day becomes a struggle for survival, with many of them barely scraping by, living from hand to mouth."

Upon hearing my words, the chalice my father had been clutching slipped from his grasp, crashing to the ground with a resounding clang. The sudden sound the golden chalice made startled those nearby, and a maid rushed forward, her eyes wide with alarm, to swiftly pick up the chalice.

Father's gaze then turned back to me, a questioning tone in his voice as he began the interrogation. "Are you the King, Killian?" he asked, his eyes searching mine for some kind of confirmation.

I shook my head, feeling a mix of frustration and resignation. "No, Father. We both know that I am not," I replied, my voice laced with a hint of exasperation.

Peering at me intently, he continued his line of questioning. "Have you ever ruled a kingdom, Killian?" he inquired, his tone void of emotion.

Again, I shook my head, maintaining eye contact with him. "No, Father, I have not," I admitted, annoyed that he chose to see it this way.

A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face as he posed a rhetorical question, his voice dripping with superiority. "Then, tell me, whose legacy stands as the greatest king Wembourge has ever seen?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as if to challenge my answer.

"You, Father," I stated, my voice tinged with anger.

“Remember that, Killian, when next you come to challenge me," he retorted, his voice filled with scathing mockery.

My voice faltered for a moment, attempting to clarify his misunderstanding. "I am not chall--"

He cut in, shouting at the top of his voice. “I have heard enough. You're my child, but you're also my beast. Be a beast and never ever worry about how the kingdom is ruled.” He shifted his gaze to the maid kneeling before him. “Undo my fatigue, and then suck my c**k. Do it better than you did last time. If I feel your teeth, I will slit your throat.”

I marched out of the throne room barely able to contain my anger.

“Where are you going?” Damian asked as he saw me opening one of the corridor huge windows and sitting on it. “Don't tell me you're going to see Manila again.”

Ignoring him, I slipped out my thick wings that were more than twenty-five feet in width, and then shot myself into the sky.