A story about a prince and his pretty consort presumptive.
Crown Prince Raffe, as the only son of High King Alizade and sole heir to the High Throne of the Ruemri Empire, is bound to fulfill one important duty for the crown. Even if that duty involv...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"THIS IS fucking bullshit," Raffe grimaced, not caring that his father was sitting behind his desk signing some thrice-damned papers. Especially after he blurted out the reason why he pulled out Raffe from sparring with Deputy High Commander Jadel.
High King Alizade gave him an unimpressed look and slumped in his chair. "It's time, Raffe."
Raffe grunted. "Last time I remember, you told me I still have four more years."
His father shrugged. "I changed my mind," he said, as if that explained everything.
Raffe gaped and glared at him. "That is unreasonable, father. You promised me."
"Oh, don't be such a baby."
"I'm not a fucking baby! I'm trying to make sense of all of this."
"You sound like one. And as much as I hate to admit this, Raffe, I am getting old. I want to leave the throne to your capable hands while I can still walk with my back straight and my mind healthy and not because I'm too senile to rule."
"So, what, you just decided to retire?" Raffe asked indignantly.
Did his father lose his mind? Him? Rule the empire? Take his father's place? Raffe shook his head mentally.
He was well aware of his duty and where his responsibilities lay, ingrained within him long before he learned to write his name. However, being inundated with this immense responsibility at such an early stage? To govern an entire empire? No, it seemed inconceivable. His heart skipped a beat as he attempted to picture himself seated on the High Throne amidst the courtiers, delegates from Ruemri's ten kingdoms and the High Council, the army, palace staff, citizens, and even the faie — all anticipating greatness from him.
God fucking damn it, he was no coward but he felt on edge right now.
He closed his eyes to calm the panic that was growing in his heart minute after minute and to think of something that might change his father's mind. Raffe was never a coward—not in the court, not in the council, not even in the battlefield. But he was not a liar either. And he had to admit that he was not ready to rule.
"And besides kings cannot retire. What makes you think you can just retire?" he demanded and waved his hand to make a point, not caring if he sounded so desperate, even pathetic to his own ears.
"I'm the High King, Raffelar," Alizade answered slowly, almost as if he was talking to a stupid child. "I can make rules. And, yes, I can retire. Would you rather take the throne after I'm buried in our family tomb?"
Raffe opened his mouth, then closed it again. He cannot retort to something like that and Raffe hated the way his father took that side of the coin to win the argument. He slumped his shoulders and rubbed the heels of his right hand to his forehead.
"I don't care about the throne," he said and sighed in resignation. There was no out in this. His father had made up his mind. He met High King Alizade's stare, stormy gray eyes meeting its twin. "I care about the people."
It was the ugly insecurity that he might fail as High King and disappoint his people that was numbing his decision to agree with his father. But, Pantheon be damned, he would not admit that, especially not in front of the current High King himself.
His father gave him a pensive look and a slow grin crept on his lips, much to Raffe's irritation. The High King stood up and walked in front of him, holding Raffe in place by his heavy hand on his left shoulder and the other combing his thick black hair—a fond gesture of comfort from his childhood when Raffe would end up crying after a horrible nightmare or begotten day celebrations without his mother.
High King Alizade's grin evolved into a bright smile and made him look a lot younger than he was. "And that, my dear son," he drawled, "is what makes you a good enough king."
Raffe looked at the ceiling and sighed. "You're a horrible man, father."
His father just chuckled and shook his head fondly. He walked around his desk and leaned back in his chair. "Your coronation will be held this spring, dawn of the first day of the Festival of Lights. It's the-"
"'Dawn of the New King', I know, It's the very specific name of the very specific moment that you just mentioned." Raffe slowly shook his head. "You planned this all along, you cunning old man."
The High King gave him a toothy grin. "I know."
"Which, by the way," he sat on the edge of the desk, giving his father a challenging grin, "draws us to the fact that we have yet to receive word from the Twelve Clans regarding who to send here to continue the peace agreement. We can't have a coronation without her. The faie won't just sit still if they knew about this." He held out his hands, palm up, demanding a retort from his father. But none came.
He felt a little giddy at the thought that he finally had something up his sleeve to delay his fate. However, his triumphant smile faltered when he realized his father was regarding him with an amused look and a smirk that promised he was not going to like what he was going to hear next.
"What makes you think I'm not prepared for that?" the High King asked.
The conclusion dawned on Raffe as soon as the words left his father's mouth. He slowly stood up. "No, you did not," he said, not hiding the grimace on his face.
His father winked at him. High King Alizade just fucking winked at him. "Your mother would always praise me for being efficient and prepared."
Raffe groaned loudly. "I hate you," he said, pouring venom on his words.
"You will meet your fiance tomorrow, Prince Raffelar, and I expect you to be on your best behavior." He raised a cup of wine that was sitting idly on his desk a while ago. "Long live the High King."
"Loathe, despise, and detest you," Raffe said bitterly and focused all his energy on leaving his father's office, sending maids or guards scurrying after seeing his mood.
Fuck.
He needed some strong wine. Or even the cheap ones sold from Old Camila's tavern. And then he'll visit the Red Chamber for a good fuck of one or two. Pantheon damn them all, he needed to spend the rest of his day drunk and sated or Ruemri will have a crazy man for a king.
