The Bastard King

Ch. 2

Rowan

My jaw clenched in silent determination as my gaze fell upon the vacant throne looming before me. The echoes of a brutal battle flashed vividly in my mind, each clash of swords and cries of the fallen playing out as the throne appeared to expand in my vision. It was unclear whether the throne was truly growing or if my sanity was slipping, succumbing to the bloodlust that had consumed the majority of my men. This ascent to power was far removed from the idyllic image I had once harbored. I was beginning to grasp that power wasn't a divine bestowment from the gods; it was a position wrested violently and maintained with ruthless force.

Did I truly desire this? The certainty that once fueled my ambition now wavered, but the exultant cheers of the men surrounding me betrayed their enthusiasm. "Go on, majesty, take your place," urged my advisor, Eamon.

My hand, stained with the blood of battle, closed around the hilt of the sword strapped to my hips. With a swift motion, the other hand swept across my face, wiping away the evidence of the violent struggle. Stepping forward, I felt the oppressive weight of the armor on my weary body, each step a testament to the cost of the throne I was about to claim.

"Hmm," a contemplative murmur escaped my lips as my finger traced the elaborate patterns adorning the armrest of the ostentatiously large seat before me. The imposing throne seemed to mock my presence, a stark reminder that my father—though that term felt foreign and undeserving—now lay dead, his blood staining my hands in an indelible mark of my vicious ascent.

Two divergent paths lay before me, a choice laden with consequence. To claim the throne was to validate the prejudices of those who despised my lineage, to affirm their belief that my kind was unworthy. Yet, an alternate narrative unfolded in my mind—to ascend the throne and prove, against all expectations, that I could be a benevolent monarch, a ruler surpassing their wildest dreams, it almost felt naive of me.

The impending arrival of the Solarian king, the orchestrator of my newfound power, added urgency to my decision. I needed to secure my legacy before his presence overshadowed my own. As plans crystallized within my mind, I pivoted on my heels, lowering myself onto the throne of Valeria. The anticipated comfort eluded me, the grandeur of the seat not quite aligning with the reality beneath me.

Nonetheless, as I settled into the throne, the soldiers in the hall, their swords still stained with the aftermath of battle, erupted in a triumphant cheer. "Long live the King!" Their voices echoed, a proclamation that resounded through the hall, marking the inception of my uncertain reign.

"Majesty," a voice reverberated through the hall, breaking the aftermath of cheers that lingered in the air. "What is your first command as King of Valeria?" The inquirer's eyes held an expectant gleam, a curiosity that hung in the air like a palpable tension.

The darkness clung to me like a heavy shroud, making it challenging to shake off the weight that enveloped my senses. Keeping my thoughts aligned became an arduous task, my body silently pleading for respite. Yet, despite the internal tumult, all eyes remained fixated on me—a portent of the watchful gazes that would become a constant in the years ahead.

"Gather all the lords and ladies of the great houses," I croaked, the tremor in my voice prompting a swift response from a vigilant servant who darted away, returning in a heartbeat with a silver chalice of wine. I acknowledged him with a nod as he retreated. "I will speak with each of them, discern their loyalty. Then," I paused, scanning the wearied soldiers in the hall, "we shall feast." The ensuing roar of joy further clouded my thoughts.

"Take me to the king's quarters," I requested of Eamon, a stalwart figure beside me. "Ensure the city's security and commence preparations for my formal coronation."