Chapter 1: Chapter 1 — Fallen King
The ominous sky hung low, its palette a blend of dark grays and heavy blues. The roars of thunder reverberated through the air, punctuated by jagged streaks of lightning that seemed to tear the heavens apart. The cold gnawed at the boy's exposed skin, his tattered clothes offering little protection.
In his worn hands, he clutched a woven basket, its size twice his own, filled with potatoes—the meager yield of his labor. The market was abuzz with activity as others hurriedly gathered their wares, unwilling to let anything go to waste. In this unforgiving economy, every morsel mattered.
The king of Adri, absent for years, had left a void—a decade-long dispute that hung over the land like a storm cloud. The boy's wobbly steps carried him toward his battered home, where hunger and uncertainty awaited. The rain threatened to fall, but hope was scarcer than water in these troubled times.
And so, the boy trudged onward, weaving through the crowded streets, his heart heavy with longing for a resolution that seemed perpetually out of reach. The kingdom held its breath, waiting for the return of its ruler, praying for an end to the strife that had torn families apart and left dreams shattered.
But the sky remained unyielding, its tempest brewing, mirroring the turmoil within the hearts of its people. The boy's footsteps echoed the collective yearning—a plea for peace, for justice, for a future where woven baskets would overflow with abundance, not just potatoes, and where the king's absence would be a distant memory.
In the quiet corners of the market, whispered rumors circulated—a prophecy, a hidden heir, but there is only one heir? . The boy knew not what to believe, but he clung to the hope that somewhere, beyond the stormy horizon, lay answers. Perhaps the lightning would illuminate the way, or perhaps it would strike him down. Either way, he pressed forward, a tiny figure against the vast canvas of fate.
As if harmonizing with the gloomy atmosphere, the next dreaded words killed the glint of hope in their eyes. " The King of Adri is dead!" All eyes on the battered soldier, a lone figure standing amongst the chaos. A seemingly last survivor from the troops. His blood-soaked hands clutched his abdomen, crimson blood dripping over the cold pavment, staining its cracks like a webbed tapestry.
News spread like wildfire from the bustling market to the farthest reach of Adri. Woes, cries and rage erupted from the crowd, the market turning into a cacophony of grief and despair. The shrines ancient and weathered, gong their bells—a funeral symphony that rang throughout the capital. The surviving soldier was escorted back to the castle. The nobles, those who had once danced in opulent halls and schemed in shadowed chambers, now sought an audience with the Prince—the heir to a fractured throne. But their requests were met with rejection, doors closing against their desperate pleas.
Soft knocks on the rich wooden door pulled the prince out of his train of thoughts. His gaze shifted from the vast window, which framed the sprawling capital like a living tapestry, to a cushioned seat adorned with intricate carvings. The wood seemed to whisper secrets of bygone rulers and forgotten battles. " You may come, Daemi " The door groaned, its hinges protesting as it swung open. There stood a man— Prince Daemizio, his cousin—clad in a white button-up shirt and high-waisted pants. The gold chains draped across his chest glimmered, a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere. His eyes reddened from the unshed tears that threatened to pour anytime.
"Lucas, the King, I—" The Prince's voice faltered, and the weight of the moment hung heavy in the room. Lucas, understood without further words. His nod was both a confirmation and a silent acknowledgment of grief. The castle walls seemed to close in, their stone surfaces absorbing the sorrow that permeated the air. It was evident on what was next, The distant bells, The frantic movement of people—commoners, nobles, soldiers—created a chaotic dance at the castle gates. They came seeking answers, seeking solace, seeking a glimpse of the truth that had shattered their fragile hopes. he had long accepted the truth. Ten years of waiting had eroded hope, leaving behind a hollow ache. Even the possibility of the King's return, even with his lifeless body, had become a distant dream.
"Daemi," the Prince's voice carried a quiet resolve. "Have the hall prepared. Summon the nobles—they must gather. And send for the High Priest. We will mourn the death of King Pierre Jean Aeron Adri Devereaux."
Daemizio dropped on one knee and bowed his head, stifling cries bout to spill forth as he speak " Yes, your Highness. "
Even with a large number of people, the hall can never be full, for its vastness is a testament to Adri's legacy. Mural paintings adorned the ceiling, their colors muted by the weight of grief. Chandeliers, once symbols of opulence, now hung like mourning stars, casting fractured light upon the polished floor and the windows, taller than trees, reached the heavens for its height. But it wasn't something to boast for now when the atmosphere suffocated the nobles seating on the seemingly infinite long tables.
The Prince's presence alone weighed upon Sui de Valentine's heart, a delicate ache that defied reason. She had once been promised as Lucas's fiancée, their union of noble lineage and shared destiny. But the Prince—aloof, distant—had always been a shadow in their story.
His snobbery, veiled behind courtly manners, cut deeper than any blade. Sui wondered if it was his nature or a deliberate choice. Perhaps he hid from her, avoiding chance encounters in the castle's labyrinthine corridors. She imagined him slipping through hidden passages, like a phantom eluding her gaze. And why? Because of her beauty? The thought made her chuckle, though her fan concealed the mirth. Beauty was both a blessing and a curse—a double-edged sword that cut through courtly intrigues. The Dutch, stern-faced and observant, might misinterpret her smile. They knew nothing of her inner turmoil, the fragile threads that held her composure intact.
Her gaze, like a moth drawn to a celestial flame, fixed upon the vast door as the High Priest stepped into the hall. His hair, a cascade of white as snow, flowed down his back, nearly reaching his tailbone. The silk of his clothes, hues akin to moonlight, whispered secrets of ancient rituals and sacred rites. His face, ageless despite the passage of centuries, bore the weight of wisdom and devotion. Sui de Valentine, hidden behind her fan, found herself admiring him. It was a sin, surely—an indulgence of the senses. The nobles, their heads bowed in reverence, dared not lift their eyes. They knew the High Priest's beauty was both divine and dangerous, a forbidden allure that could lead astray even the most steadfast hearts.
But Sui? She was an exception. Shame seemed a distant concept as she stole glimpses of him. His youth belied the eons he had witnessed—the rise and fall of empires, the birth and death of stars. His presence was a bridge between realms, a conduit for prayers whispered in candlelit chambers and echoed in the hallowed halls.
The High Priest stood before Prince Lucas, flanked by his uncle, the Royal Duke Daemon Adri Devereaux, and his cousin, Prince Demezio Devereaux. The trio bowed in unison, their knees touching the cold floor, and the entire hall followed suit. The air thickened with reverence, as if the very stones absorbed their devotion. He was chosen once in a millennium, gifted with divinity and the ability to bless the kingdom. His touch could turn barren soil fertile, his words could mend broken hearts. The people whispered of his eternal youth, a grant from Adhara. And then there were his abilities—the light that flowed through him. It healed wounds, shielded against harm, and lent strength to the weary. The nobles, their eyes downcast, knew that the Priest was more than a conduit for prayers. He was a beacon—a living embodiment of hope.
"Adri, it is with a heavy heart that I tell you today. Our beloved king, Pierre Jean Aeron Adri Devereaux, has passed away after a long and hard battle. His bravery and determination will be remembered by us for eternity." His voice, soft like his appearance, reached out to the hearts of many. Cries and silent tears occurred to a few, while many feigned solemn silence. The hall, once filled with grandeur, now held the weight of loss—a kingdom mourning its fallen ruler.
"I humbly ask that you all keep the royal family in your thoughts and prayers during this difficult time. The loss of a king is a great sorrow for our kingdom, but we must remain strong and united. May the king's spirit guide and protect us in the days ahead. May Adhara, in her divine wisdom, look down upon us and grant us strength in these trying times." As the golden head of Prince Lucas rises, it greatly reminds the High Priest of the late king. The room stirs—the duke, the prince, and the nobles following suit.
"Blessing us with your Authority, we humbly express our gratitude to you your holiness, It was devastating to lose our king, my father who taught me how to stand in times like this, to stay as the strong foundation of the blessed kingdom of adri, " For the first time in history, the voice of Lucas reached the ears of the nobles, his demeanor was akin to a flower, almost too beautiful to see. His eyes the hues of nightshade, a mix of indigo and royal purple. wisp of long blonde lashes flutter as he speaks. "As his son, it is my duty to inherit this throne and continue to strengthen the very foundation that my father built, "
Sui observed the subtle expression that slipped across his features. Was it a smile, a mad grin, or something altogether different? The ambiguity of it sent chills down her spine,
"And as his son, it is my sole duty to uncover the traitor lurking among my deceptive court, the one who slithered through the shadows and stole the life of the King of Adri." His voice dripped with venom, each syllable a venomous fang aimed at the heart of the murderer.
The Duke on the right of lucas choked from shock, Royal Duke Daemon Adri Devereaux has never heard of such a hideous phrase from his mouth. Has the prince gone mad? he thought to himself.
The priest visibly recoiled at the sudden bite from Lucas. Memories surged—a time when Lucas was but a child of eleven, hiding in the castle garden. Tears had stained his cheeks as his father departed for war. The maze of bushes had concealed him, and his cousin Daemizio had called out, desperate to find the blond prince.
In those moments, their relationship had seemed pure, untainted by the complexities of courtly life. Lucas was merely a grieving child, robbed of a father's embrace. But now, as the High Priest grappled with the present, he wondered what lay beneath the Prince's veneer. Pulling back from his reminisce, he wasn't sure of what to ponder of his behavior. The king's death, a tragedy that echoed through the kingdom, held more questions than answers. Was it truly at the hands of his own people? The nobles whispered, their minds weaving theories like spider silk.
"Lucas what is it you're blabbering? The late king was killed at the battlefield, i don't understand what you mean—"
"Daemon," Lucas's voice cut through the tension, "your brother has been away for ten years. Yet not one message or word has arrived at the castle. How did this flimsy soldier, who claims the King of Adri is dead, manage to survive the treacherous battlefield? Not one single dried bloodstain signifies his survival from the war."
The hall quivered with shock. Horrific revelations hung in the air, like a blade poised to strike. The nobility shifted—some exchanged glances, others masked their fear with stoic expressions.
Daemon, The late King's brother seemed to be in disbelief of Lucas' words but nonetheless beckoned a knight to bring in the soldier who survived the war. "This calls for a thorough investigation. Lucas, I, Royal Duke Daemon Adri Devereaux will see to it that my dear brother's cause of death will be determined. For the meantime, in preparation of Prince Lucas's crowning ceremony, the nobles are commanded to remain silent of this matter until the official announcement is made. May Adhara look down upon us and grant us strength in these trying times."
The nobilities kneel and bowed their head before leaving the hall in disbelief, The priest has remained tight lipped until all the nobilities left the hall and only the Royal Duke and two Princes remained. Discernment was a gift void of him, Adhara has given him everything in exchange for not knowing the truth and lies. But despite that, it doesn't mean he didn't get wiser from the experience he accumulated throughout the years that he's lived, that's why he knew, only he knew, the only truth in the hall right now is—
"Prince Datura Lucas Adri Devereaux, I Adarius, the high priest who was crowned by Adhara look forward to your crowning ceremony, May Adhara grant you wisdom and knowledge, your highness. "
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