HOOTERS

THREE BASTARDS AND A FUNERAL

Few years crept by, and King Alfred’s forbidden spells finally caught up to him. His body rotted from the inside out, his breath stank of sulfur, and his bowels betrayed him mid-throne speech; literally. The place stank of incense and fear; every corridor whispered prayers for a king already decomposed in his one throne. Hades was calling, and he wasn’t whispering. He died clutching his robes in one hand and his crumbling genitals in the other, gasping at the only things he had left: his sons.

There were three. Three bastards of three deadly sins.

There was Aurel, firstborn of the cursed Queen, a man whose eyes had long since burned with resentment that refused to be extinguished. He blamed the hooters for his father’s death, and worse, for the shame that clung to their family name like a leech to warm flesh. Aurel had inherited none of Alfred’s magic, only his rage: and he wore it like armor.

Then came Arche, who the King had with the faceless witch divelle. Arche was a walking libido, already banned from three wings of the palace due to conduct too graphic for this tale and was only allowed this once to see his father as he cried for death. The resemblance between him and his mother, uncanny: the eerie eyes, well-defined cheekbones and of course his infamous rod which had blessed or cursed about half the palace staff, depending on who you asked.

And lastly, there was Arthur: oh, Arthur. The baby born of the king’s own clone-wife, Alfreida, a magically gender-bent version of Alfred himself, conjured from one too many glasses of wine, desperation, and a mirror that whispered, “you don’t need anybody to feel loved”. She lived for eight days, long enough to develop opinions. She questioned the King’s sense of judgement once and was immediately fed to the royal hounds.

Arthur was born the next morning, conjured from womb and wickedness, from Alfreida’s blood and Alfred’s ambitious magic. He slipped out of the king’s altar, not crying, but giggling and immediately flickered every lamp in the chamber. Since then, he had never quite stopped glowing or leaking magic like sewage from a cracked pipe. He once turned Arche’s bread into a stone during breakfast and claimed it was “an accident.” No one was convinced.

Arthur was all smiles, no brain; but his power was unmatched, terrifying, and about as controllable as a fart.

So when King Alfred finally gave up the ghost; crumbling into a pile of ash, leaving teeth, bones, and memories, it was Aurel who took the throne. He wore it like he wore everything: tightly, and with spite. He didn’t mourn, he measured, plotted every ally, every threat, every hooter and to him the hooters were already dead.

Outside the palace walls, rumors stirred. Humans and hooters went about their activities because the death of the King was none of their concern. Some drunk and hailed at the news, thinking life was about to get better.

But in the throne room, there was no joy. Aurel’s coronation was silent, save for the groan of a rusting crown being placed upon his head.

He wore it tightly. He ruled with spite.

And what’s a new king without a grudge?

Aurel wanted vengeance—vengeance by purge.