Shadow Touched

2. GREY

"Prince Greyling of House Valderre!" The court herald bellows as I walk into the Throne Room. My father—King Vincent of Athecca—sits on his throne. He's dressed in the same royal livery I wear, a dark, forest green tunic, with black as-night trousers. High leather boots that emphasize the muscle in his calves and a black velvet coat perfectly tailored to his form. The only difference in our attire is the crown of onyx, littered with emeralds, that balances on his head. As heir to the throne, I wear a crown for special occasions only and one not nearly as ornate.

My father's eyes lock on me the moment I step through the doors. I can see his displeasure as his mouth becomes a tight slash across his face.

I'm late for the weekly receiving. Again.

This past year, he's left me to handle the requests. He only shows up now to revel in the pomp and circumstance—and to pass judgment on my decisions. People from across the country travel weekly to Mirrador Castle; sometimes, they ask for blessings, and other times, they bring offerings. Usually, they come to have us solve their tedious provincial complaints and in-fighting.

I shouldn't call them boring. Judging with grace and respect is an integral part of ruling. The fights between our farmers, merchants and trade smiths aren't what bore me. The laymen of this country come from far and wide with real issues. When I can provide answers and solve problems to improve their day-to-day lives, I feel grateful for my role as future King.

No, the nobles, with all of their wealth and privilege, show up to lob petty complaints against each other, always in an attempt to gain more. They're constantly demanding more when they already have so much. I'm often forced to bite my tongue to keep from sharing my true thoughts with these leeches. But, keeping the nobles happy is the key to keeping the House of Valderre in power. I know this. It's been drummed into my head since I was a child. But Gods forgive me; the Atheccan nobility is woefully ignorant of all they have. It's rather pathetic.

Regardless, my father's cold stare leaves me feeling sheepish, like I'm five years old again. I fight to keep from scurrying up the dais to take my place at his side.

As I slowly walk down the aisle, I catch sight of Finch—Captain of the Guard and my best friend. I say catch sight, but he's nearly impossible to miss. He's tall. Even amongst the guards, he towers over many. His broad shoulders are equally as impressive as his height. His dark hair is raven black and emphasizes his tanned complexion. He keeps it shaved at the sides and neatly trimmed at the top, which hides his natural curls.

Even though he stands at the back of the stage, watching over the King with an eagle's eye, I can see the brightness of his emerald green eyes and the slight upturn of his mouth. He's taunting me for being late. Again. The bastard.

I narrow my eyes at him. I swear, for the briefest moment, his shoulders shake slightly as though he can't contain his laughter. I know he'll be ribbing me with this later, only for it to turn into a lecture about not shirking my responsibilities.

Finch is always on me about being responsible. Everyone's always on me about being responsible, as if I don't understand the importance of all this. As if I haven't spent my entire life, all twenty-five years of it, being continuously told how vital my role as prince regent—as the future King—is. As if I haven't walked about with the weight of the world on my shoulders since birth. I suppose this is what life as heir to the throne is like.

It's only gotten worse over the last five years, especially after...after the incident. Now, people watch me not simply because I am Prince Greyling of Athecca but because they wonder if I'm healthy and capable of leading the country.

As if they even know the truth of everything that happened.

That's why I can't afford to keep being late to these damn Receivings. It wouldn't engender much confidence if anyone found out what was keeping me.

Despite my father's glare, I take my time heading up the aisle. I let my shoulders drop, and my steps linger. I take in the crowd, nodding here, smiling there. I'd rather the courtiers in attendance think of me as a rake than weak.

I catch the eye of Lady Serephena. As beautiful as she is insufferable, she bats her eyes at me. Her long, strawberry-blonde hair is piled high on her head. Ringlets fall artfully, perfectly framing her face. Her light brown eyes glitter with knowing. I hate her with a burning passion. No matter. I flash her a big smile and follow it with a wink. Lord Worthington—her recently announced fiancé—scowls at me.

The moment lasts only a few seconds, yet it's enough to make the crowd forget I'm late. When the Receiving ends, this interaction and its scandalous nature will be the topic of conversation.

"Forgive my lateness, Your Majesty," I mumble, bowing deeply before my father.

Apart from a flick of his cold blue eyes, he doesn't respond.

"Herald!" he calls, his deep voice booming through the hall. Call forth the next citizens."

I take my seat to his right—as is Atheccan custom—on the smaller, slightly less gaudy throne that sits a head lower than his. The third throne, twin to my father's, sits empty. The shadow of my mother haunts it.

I give my head a slight shake. I've not been sleeping great. These long days and sleepless nights have started to catch up to me, which is why I was late. I nodded off in the library while doing research. One minute, I was staring out the window, thinking, lamenting the dark, overcast day, and the next, I was being tapped awake by a nervous maid.

I turn my attention to the task at hand, falling into the conversation between my father and the young man who stands before him. I'd say he was a merchant's son by the look of his clothing. Middle class. Well-fed and sheltered.

"...the unrest is, as I'm sure you can understand, Your Highness, not good for business. These disappearances are—they're scaring off locals and visitors alike. We've had to close down two of our stalls for lack of business. Rumours swirl that Qeles is haunted. The entire province hunted by some sort of phantom. The change in weather and darkened skies don't help. Some go as far as to whisper of a possible return of the Gloa—."

"The Gloaming ended five years ago with the death of Lord Solditch," I interject, my voice strong and clear. The young merchant's eyes flick to me, widening at my forceful tone. "General Roman DeLumine died ending it. Any talk of its return is just that. Talk."

The young man nods at me in acquiescence.

"We will send two guards with you upon your return home. They will investigate this strange phenomenon and report back." I give him a tight smile. "We will find the source of your problem and see it put to rest."

"Thank you, Your Highness...Your Majesty." He gives a deep bow and backs out.

My father says nothing. I fight the urge to roll my eyes and instead call out to Llew, the Herald.

Receiving days are such fun.

~*~