Shadow Touched (Editing)

6. GREY

By Royal Decree,

His Royal Highness, King Vincent of Athecca, invites all citizens of the Atheccan lands and the free kingdoms to celebrate his Silver Jubilee on the 13th day of Calabassis. To mark this historic occasion and 25 years of peacetime, the Royal House of Valederre will be throwing three days of celebrations. Unique to this Jubilee is the marking of five years since the end of the Gloaming and the loss of the great General Roman DeLumine.

~*~

Thankfully, my father's announcement for the Silver Jubilee was blissfully short. It didn't hurt that I'm also a bit tipsy—I find a bit of drunkenness helps time pass a lot faster. Regardless, it was over, and I didn't even have to duck out quickly to avoid the crowd of ladies waiting to accost me. My father barked a perfectly timed command for me to follow him.

Usually, when he speaks to me like I'm one of his underlings, I find myself fighting a desire to push back. Today, I breathed a sigh of relief. As he rushed from the Throne Room, I threw an apologetic shrug towards the women standing there, preening at me. Their crestfallen faces forced me to hold back a laugh, so I ducked my head and picked up my pace.

~*~

My father moves briskly down one hall and then another. Courtiers and servants jump out of his way as though his mere presence has burned their skin.

He's a big man, my father—broad-shouldered and still in peak physical shape even after all these years. He stands straight and proud and walks as though his body is a knife slashing through the air, ripping its way through time and space.

I've always wondered if a time will come when I walk with that same level of gravitas. If servants will scurry away at the mere sight of my shadow? When I walk by, they bow, and they smile. At times, they flirt openly and shamelessly.

Finch would say it's not that my subjects don't take me as seriously as they do my father, but rather I put them at ease in a way the King doesn't. I suppose it makes sense. I do tend to be far less intimidating. My father is, first and foremost, a warrior. He ascended the throne after a gruelling and bloody five-year civil war. He did not come from money or power; he was no more than a farm boy who took up arms to fight against the bourgeoisie and the deepening divide between the rich and the poor.

He's a hero to the common man. Even after 25 years on the throne, married to a Princess of Visteria, he still holds himself as though he's prepared for battle. It is incredibly daunting. Meanwhile, despite years of battle and weapons training, I've only faced down an enemy once. It didn't go so well for me.

"Peacetime has made you soft," my father once told me. As though a man can only truly be a man if he has risked his life and taken others.

As I ruminate on my father and our relationship, I realize I've fallen behind. He's no longer in my sight. Two guards flank me, but I sense their worry about keeping His Majesty waiting.

I can see my father seated behind his desk, tapping his fingers in agitation as he waits for me.

I pick up my pace, reaching the massive arched doors of the War Room in only a few minutes. I nod to the guards who stand on each side. And then...I hesitate. It's not that I fear my father. It's just that the War Room has always represented a certain weight. In so many ways, it's a physical manifestation of all that being King represents—the responsibility—which, if I'm honest, can be overwhelming. Sometimes, this room makes me realize how inadequate I must seem to my father and to the men who follow him with a religiosity I've yet to inspire.

I shake off my nerves. I'm being silly. Though there has been a distance between me and my father these past five years, I am still his son. His only son. His rightful heir. That ensures I am accorded a certain level of respect from the King.