Ruins And Royalty

Welcoming the Kingdoms -Chp 3 Part 2

The gates yawned open as the blare of a horn rolled across the bay, heralding the arrival of kingdoms long at sea. Their ships, proud and heavy with banners, at last touched the shores of Emperos. From the palace balcony we watched, every member of court assembled, draped in silks and metals worth more than small provinces. Below, the harbor curved like a half-moon embrace, stone walls reaching into the depths as if to cradle the dark, restless waters.

The air itself was a contradiction. Icy with the ocean’s breath, yet beneath a sky where the sun beat down mercilessly. The first vessel to cross the threshold carried crimson flags, each emblazoned with a crest I could not fully discern. From my vantage it seemed to be a serpent, its coils tangled with some object I could not name, ominous and deliberate in its obscurity.

The ship passed between two colossal statues that rose from the sea itself, a man and a woman, each bearing an urn upon their shoulders, eternally pouring the ocean back into itself. Their heads seemed almost to scrape the heavens, and by the time the falling water reached the ships below, it broke into a fine mist, veiling the boats in a shimmering drizzle.

“That must be the Wren family from Palisade,” Saurora murmured, her gaze fixed on the vessel. She stood at my side, adorned in scarlet and gold that rivaled the banners themselves, her hair swept into intricate braids pinned with golden leaves. She looked every inch the queen she would one day become.

At the prow of the ship, a figure stood taller than the rest, a man whose hair blazed an unnatural red, catching the light and marking him like a beacon. Even at this distance, with details lost to the glare, he drew every eye.

“That must be the eldest, Prince Mykhailo,” came a voice, casual yet certain. Kalmin had slipped to our side, as unnoticed as a shadow. His garments were as costly as any in the hall, though he wore them with the same carelessness that always left him looking slightly unmade, a prince roughened at the edges.

“And how would you know?” I asked, turning to study him. Saurora leaned forward, peering past me at our brother, her curiosity mirroring my own as we awaited his answer

“I know everything,” Kalmin declared with that insufferably proud smile of his. Saurora gave a soft chuckle and turned her gaze back toward the approaching ships. I, however, wasn’t finished with him.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” I said flatly, shaking my head at his theatrics.

“Oh?” he countered smoothly. “Then how would I know that he has the Wren family crest tattooed on his upper arm?”

“You can’t possibly know that,” Saurora cut in, her curiosity rekindled.

“I do. They all bear it,” Kalmin insisted, tapping his finger against my arm for emphasis. I jerked away and narrowed my eyes at him, searching his face for the telltale flicker of deceit.

“And how would you know that?” Saurora pressed, suspicion sharpening her voice.

Kalmin only waved his hand in mock grandeur. “Everyone talks. I listen.” With that, he laughed and strode off, leaving us standing in the breeze, the weight of his words hanging between us.

Saurora and I exchanged a look, both puzzled, neither fully convinced.

“When their family is introduced, I’ll see for myself,” she murmured, leaning onto the stone balustrade, her eyes still fixed on the ship.

“He’s probably lying, sister,” I replied, unwilling to give Kalmin’s claim another thought.

The remaining ships glided into harbor, banners unfurling in the sea wind, before finally descending the marble steps. Trees arched overhead, their branches spilling shadows across the railings, and the air cooled as we walked beneath their cover.

“Will you be at the gathering tonight?” Saurora asked abruptly, lifting the hem of her gown just enough to move with ease.

“Forcefully, yes,” I muttered.

“By whom?” she asked with a laugh, glancing sideways at me.

“Mother and Father, of course.” I raised a brow at her, though the answer hardly surprised her. Our parents shaped our days like sculptors shaping clay, every decision pressed under their hand.

“Now I must spend the evening feigning interest in dull conversation and pretending to enjoy the company of people I can hardly stand.” The thought soured on my tongue, and I scoffed.

“You dislike it that much?” she teased, shaking her head.

“It’s meaningless,” I sighed, already steeling myself for the ordeal.

“At least there will be wine,” Saurora said lightly, shoulders lifting in a careless shrug.

I shot her a sideways smile. “Are you suggesting we disgrace ourselves?”

“No,” she replied with a mischievous wink. “I’m suggesting we do our family name proud.”

After a few more laughs and fragments of idle conversation, we stepped into an open chamber supported by four pillars, one at each corner. They upheld a white roof traced with golden filigree, every line gleaming faintly in the daylight. At the center stood a broad stone basin, more fountain than birdbath, ringed by an assortment of potted plants, leaves spilling over urns, blossoms curling in every color, their fragrance softening the sharpness of the marble.

Directly opposite, a tall set of doors waited, leading into the throne room where we were expected to receive the kingdoms newly arrived on our shores. We lingered there, patient, until the rest of our siblings joined us.

That day the great hall had been transformed. Long tables and rows of chairs had been set out, each draped with banners embroidered with the crests of their respective kingdoms. The arrangement was ceremonial yet practical, an unspoken map of power and alliances displayed for all to read.

When we entered, we took our seats beside the King and Queen of Emperos, our vantage high enough to look upon the gathered families at their appointed places.

My father rose from his throne, followed by my mother, and silence fell as King Goran cleared his throat, his voice poised to command the room.

“Kingdoms of Pandora,” my father’s voice rang out, deep and commanding, “the Nightingales welcome you to the lands of Emperos. I am King Goran, and by my side stands my wife, Queen Nymera.”

The Queen lifted her chin, her face a mask of marble. She wore no warmth, only power, and her gown shimmered like a weapon drawn. The hall stilled beneath her gaze, silence rippling outward like a held breath. She was dressed to impress, yes- but more so to intimidate. And it worked.

My father let the weight of that silence linger before continuing, turning his attention to the assembled courts. “I present to you my sons and daughters…”

I kept my expression empty, my eyes roaming the hall as discreetly as I could. I had never seen most of these families before, their banners strange and unfamiliar. Only the Windanes of Yarrow were known to me, their presence expected, their reputation whispered of often.

But beneath my practiced composure, unease pressed at me. I had yet to face Prince Zander. The thought festered like a thorn beneath the skin. I told myself I didn’t care for such things, I rarely did, but this was different. Guilt had a weight I wasn’t used to carrying, and it sat heavy, demanding I decide whether to confess or keep my silence. Two truths warred inside me: my usual indifference, and the uncomfortable admission that this time, I regretted my actions.

“My second eldest son, Prince Aaron Nightingale…”

The sound of my name drew me forward. I rose and stepped into the open, as expected. From this vantage, the room revealed itself more clearly. My gaze fell upon the Wren family, seated close to the throne. Their hair marked them at once, all shades of red, as though their bloodline itself burned brightly for the world to see.

Kalmin’s words returned to me.

Tattoos.

I let my eyes trail down the arm of the tallest among them, and there it was: ink coiled into the shape of a serpent wrapping itself around a crown. My brother had not lied. As I glanced at the others, I spotted more markings half-hidden by fabric and armor, a family bound by crest and symbol alike. Fierce was too mild a word for them.

My father anounced the twins after me, and once they had stepped forward and returned, we resumed our seats. One by one, the kingdoms began to introduce themselves.

The Windanes of Yarrow were first, and the rest followed in their wake. Most were dull, their greetings heavy with pomp and words that meant little. I stifled a yawn, resisting the urge with effort; I could already imagine the lecture my parents would deliver if I slipped.

Glancing sideways, I caught my mother’s stare. Her attention was fixed on the Wren family, unwavering and sharp. I frowned slightly, wondering what in them had captured her interest so wholly.

“King Maxim and Queen Mazarine of Palisade,” a husky voice announced.

The hall shifted. All eyes moved as one toward the pair. King Maxim stepped forward, a man carved of stone and battlefields, his skin a map of scars. He was not a man who needed words to command a room; his presence alone was a declaration.

“My eldest son, Prince Mykhailo Wren. My eldest daughter, Princess Menirva Wren…” the herald’s voice carried across the hall.

The prince was the very likeness of his father, broad shouldered, sharp-eyed, though unweathered by time. His fiery hair was cut close, his fringe brushing just above his dark hazel gaze, a flame yet to be dimmed by scars. At his side, Menirva stood veiled in yellow, her face hidden beneath fine gauze that cascaded into her gown.

She was the only one concealed. Yet it was no oddity. Tradition dictated that a betrothed woman cover herself from the moment of engagement until the day of her marriage, her beauty preserved, kept sacred for her beloved alone. In that time, it was the man’s duty to prove his devotion with offerings and daily gifts, his affection displayed in ritual as hers was hidden in silence.

Thus, for Princess Menirva of Palisade to stand veiled was as natural as the air in the room.

The Wrens spoke their courtesies, the last of the families to be introduced, and then my father rose again. His voice resonated through the hall, heavy with both authority and finality, as he welcomed the assembly once more. Gifts were bestowed, treasures of gold, jewel, and rare craft, to each visiting house, tokens of alliance and spectacle. Then he declared the words all had been waiting for: the great festival would begin at sunset, when the sea itself swallowed the light.

We were led into a hall that opened onto an expansive balcony garden. At its heart loomed a statue of my parents, carved in marble, their features preserved in eternal sovereignty. Beyond the terrace, the palace grounds spilled into the distance, kissed by the dimming glow of day.

The chamber had been transformed into a reveler’s dream. Long tables groaned beneath a banquet fit for gods, platters of roasted boar and lamb rubbed with herbs, bowls brimming with figs and pomegranates, pastries dripping with honey, wheels of pungent cheese cut open to release their perfume. Incense curled lazily through the air, blending with the aromas of spiced meat and ripened fruit until the room itself seemed to breathe indulgence.

Cushioned seats and low couches were scattered in inviting circles, encouraging both comfort and conversation. Servants wove through the crowd with practiced grace, balancing trays that shimmered with golden goblets. Everywhere I looked, wine glistened like liquid jewels, dark and red as garnet, pale as amber, frothing in cups that overflowed as quickly as they were filled. Laughter rose in waves, bright and reckless, already loosened by the drink.

It was the kind of scene where secrets slipped easily from lips, drowned in the taste of sweetness and the haze of intoxication. A night where masks would falter, and truth might spill as freely as the wine.