Blood Dowry

Caedes

The sun that shone over the Kingdom of Caedes was no ordinary sun.

Its light stretched across the sky like golden silk laid out by the hands of the gods themselves. Slowly, gently, the sun climbed higher, touching the ivory towers that pierced the clouds. The palace walls glimmered in its reflection, turning the fortress into a jeweled giant basking in its own glory.

Within those ancient stone walls, life moved to a rhythm unlike the world outside. White marble floors gleamed like summer lakes—smooth, spotless, untouched by the feet of the unworthy. Thick Persian carpets silenced every step, and torchlight bathed the corridors in a warm, honeyed glow. Crystals hanging from the ceiling shimmered like stars that had learned to sway.

In the grand hall, nobles dressed in silks dyed with colors so rare they might as well have been bought with the blood of peasants. They moved like peacocks—heads high, breaths measured—as if the very air of the palace was too sacred to be drawn deeply. The room was heavy with the scent of roasted meat, distant spices, and aged wine.

At the far end of the hall sat the King of Caedes, his throne carved with golden eagles spreading their wings behind him. Beside him sat the Queen, serene, her delicate hand resting on the gentle curve of her swollen belly. The faint chime of wine glasses filled the hall, while the royal couple watched the nobles dance with a look that hovered somewhere between disdain and amusement.

“Look at them,” the King murmured, swirling his wine before taking a sip. “Dancing on the ashes of sorrow.”

The Queen smiled faintly. “They bow to the throne, my Lord. Not to the truth.”

Beneath the fragrance of perfume and wine lingered another scent—iron, sharp and quiet. The smell of blood, not yet old. A soldier entered, his armor faintly clinking with each deliberate step. He knelt before the throne, placing his sword on the marble floor.

“My Lord,” he said, bowing his head low. “The body of the Second Prince has been laid to rest.”

The King’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. He reached for six gold coins and handed them to the soldier. “Divide them evenly.”

The soldier accepted them with cupped hands, bowing so low his forehead touched the floor. “My gratitude, my Lord.”

The King said nothing more. His gaze returned to the nobles spinning across the hall. If the gods had not been so merciful as to cloak sin, every nose in that hall would have grown long with lies.

The soldier rose and walked away, down a silent corridor where two others waited—men who had helped bury the Second Prince.

“The King gave us three coins,” he said, showing his palm. Three gold coins gleamed under the torchlight. “One each.”

They exchanged glances, then laughed quietly as they slipped the coins between the folds of their armor. “The King’s as stingy as they come,” one of them muttered. “Without us, he’d never sit that throne.”

The first soldier chuckled and clapped his shoulder. “You’re right. He’s got the stomach for murder, not for war.”

“Come on,” the third added, grinning lewdly. “He’s just a fool in love. His wife’s the one who holds the real power. Can’t blame him though—have you seen her? I’d die for a night with the Queen.”

“In your dreams!” the others barked, laughter echoing down the marble halls.

Meanwhile, the ballroom still pulsed with laughter and music, the nobles oblivious to what had taken place the night before—when the moon had hidden her face in grief.

The King’s smile faded into something darker as his mind slipped back to that night.

Not a battlefield.

A dining room.

He had sat across from his younger brother—the Second Prince—just like when they were children sharing stolen bread beneath the royal table. But the air had been heavy, poisoned by silence and fate.

The Prince’s hand trembled over his chest, blood seeping through his fingers. The King’s dagger had found its mark—swift, precise, merciless.

The Prince tried to speak, to beg, but only blood spilled from his lips. The King watched, emotionless, idly swirling his wine. When the body finally collapsed to the floor, he rose, pouring the rest of his drink over the wound. The red wine hissed against torn flesh. The Prince’s eyes widened, crimson and furious, before going dim.

The King threw his cup aside and knelt, pulling his brother into a tight embrace. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice low and almost tender. “Through death.”

He held him like a man soothing a nightmare, until the body stiffened... then went still.

The eyes that once held light now reflected only the ceiling murals—their painted victories frozen forever above him.

Back in the ballroom, the Queen looked at her husband with tired, knowing eyes.

Her hand, soft as silk, rested on his. She didn’t need words; the King understood.

“Very well,” he said softly. “Let us hear the prophecy before we retire.”

He signaled to one of his ministers. The music died away, and the dancers stepped aside. An old man in a gray cloak approached, holding a worn parchment covered in ancient script.

He closed his eyes, whispering words too faint to catch—prayers, incantations, or perhaps just old habits. Then his eyes opened, sharp and bright.

“My Lord,” he said, smiling, “the child in her womb is a son—a strong one. He will be the crown that leads Caedes to glory.”

For a heartbeat, silence ruled the hall.

Then the King laughed—a booming, triumphant sound that swallowed the chamber whole. “Then we shall feast for seven days and seven nights!”

Cheers erupted.

Wine spilled.

Music returned.

The King escorted his Queen to her chambers. There were no words between them, yet their gazes spoke volumes. When he kissed her forehead, she sighed, whispering softly, “Our child will embrace the world.”

The King smiled faintly, brushing his hand over her belly. “Not embrace, my love. Conquer.”

When she had finally fallen asleep, he left the room and made his way to the royal library. The high shelves groaned under the weight of old tomes, and a massive crystal chandelier bathed the space in shifting amber light.

A man stood by the window—tall, cloaked in black. Gold thread spelled out his name along the hem of his robe: Luthias Varne.

Sensing the King’s presence, Luthias turned and spread a map across the mahogany table.

Blue lines traced trade routes, red dots marked Caedes’ reach. But in the far west, one region was circled in black ink.

“The territory of the Black Kite,” Luthias said, voice deep and steady like a tide hitting stone. “They’re difficult to subdue. But at least the people won’t side with them—I’ve already sown enough hatred in their hearts.”

“Well done, Luthias.” The King smiled—a predator’s smile—as he patted his shoulder. “You never disappoint me.”

Luthias hesitated, then added, “When I delivered water to Sadera, the villagers complained. They say the Black Kite’s ships were spotted near the coast.”

The King’s eyes lingered on the black circle drawn on the map.

“The complaints of peasants are ripples on the surface,” he said coldly. “Your task is to drown them. Sadera must never fall—to anyone but Caedes.”