A King's Decree.
“You will never grace the Cristwell throne.”
He never looks up from that crinkled paper that lied upon his desk. A letter, one lined with a lovely decal of gold trim once sealed with a now cracked blue wax seal. How nauseating did it sit in his stomach, reading the words over and over, furious that the Emperor would dare send out a request of the Dòmrien king to choose that of an heir to eventually succeed him.
None of them, to a man of his stature, were worth his crown.
“One of you,” he speaks again, “has put this idea that I care enough for any of you to take over… As if I were close to death already.” Valtteri takes a breath, “we’ve spoken of this, have we not? When you’ve exceeded what I’ve accomplished, expanded our land more than that of what I have, created something in rival to that of our lackluster empire—you will have my throne. Sounds simple to me… And yet…”
That paper catches the King’s attention again and he grits his teeth:
The news must be shared of the victories your sons have achieved. Whether you like it or not, one of them must be crowned as your next heir or the imperial council will choose for you.
In what world does the council believe that they run the nation at the whim of the emperor? Have these useless children sprout free from their loins? Is Valtteri Cristwell lying on his death bed just inches away from his last moments away from the Mother’s embrace? What has he missed that he must crown one of his unwanted, weak soul, bastards?
For a moment, his eyes close, “Neither of you deserve that of my namesake—my titles.” He’s focused on them, that giant of a man, hunched forward with his head rested on interlocked fingers, “Worthless, the three of you… just… worthless. And for what? Neither of you do anything worth a damn to prove yourself as an heir and yet, here we are, circling back, arguing about what piece of shit will take my place.”
Here stands the three Cristwell sons—the leech, the knight, and the self-proclaimed “warlord.” This was not uncommon of their father, sulking in that of the glory of their empire, loathing the fact that rules were always implemented and forced even harder on the man that frequented his way with avoiding them, pretending that the land around him was eternally untouched by that of imperial hands.
The king scoffs, glancing back down at that mocking letter, his attention half on that of his sons and the other side wandering angrily. Though men in their own right, with legacies building behind them, they were nothing to him but a poor night’s decision, laced with drunken regret. He could have done better… Or at least, that what he keeps telling himself. He could have taken that political marriage and settled with another royal to sire himself a child worth more. Even a girl would have been a better step than whatever these rodents were. Alas, one must work with what they have.
…Unfortunately.
“So, I have settled. I have an answer to the question of who my heir shall be, and it goes like this: only a knight can be molded to be perfect. Therefore, Valaan will be my heir. You will be crowned as high prince in just two moons.”
Disbelief. Joy. Anger. All awash ‘pon their visage as the middle of the three stepped forward, hand at his chest to deliver a low, praise filled bow. Throughout the excited “thank you’s” and quiet swearing of his eldest brother, Jolyon stood there for a moment. Though not a full Yu’lut, Jolyon knew his chances of inching close to the throne was slim to none, however he knew better for this… A fantastic warrior Valaan is, yes, but made to be king, he is not. His heart only knew of complications from the brimming fury etched in that of the middle child.
“Are you fucking with me? The man can’t rub two sticks to make a fire, and you want this imbecile to be your KING? You’ve said some ripe shit to me before, but this takes the jump, father.”
“I shan’t spit venom at the talents of my brother, but I will say I do not agree with you making him your heir." Jolyon speaks, "He is not fit to be king at any date.”
“You think so, brother? I think I can do it.” Valaan tilts his head, almost hurt at the words of his youngest.
Backtrack… Jolyon nods, “I know you can do it. You can, you just have to be trained for it… but not by Valtteri’s standards. Your kingdom will have you lynched. Have me at your side as your commander or your advisor and I will make sure you stand stronger than ever.”
Valtteri groans, leaning back in his chair, “Jolyon the strong. Jolyon the Champion. Jolyon the Kind! Oh please! What makes you think I want a bastard like you? Some futile sur’ve on my throne? You thrive on these shitty self-named titles, and you think I want a power hungry fuckwit like you? Answer: I don’t.” He’s standing now, hands planted at his desk, “If I had a choice in this, none of you would be my options. The downfall is that I must have blood on my throne.”
“Are you done?” Jolyon tilts his head, “Because my comment was not directed to you. But if all you wish to do is continue to insult us—fine. Okay. So, be it.” The prince nods, “When the moment comes for him to ascend the throne, I will be there as Warlord and Imperial Commander, whether you like it or not, because I will accept the emperor’s request at your furious behest otherwise. Then when you fall ill and this kingdom falls into ruin because they are finally free of your archaic leadership, run not to me. I will be among those rejoicing as we rebuild our home to be perfect. So go on. Ruin our home with your consistent bullshit and remember you did this to your legacy. Not us.”
Because you let it rot from the inside out and it festered like a fetid, poisonous mold, eating away at the skin of commoners… because you couldn’t find a moment to love your people or your kin.
So, it will burn with you.
For good and forever.
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