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.
RAFFE FOUND himself trying to recall again why he was the High General at the age of twenty-nine and will be High King at thirty.
His mother, being the fierce, stubborn warrior that she was, introduced the art and mastery of swordsmanship to him when he was three. She was his first mentor, the one who taught him about duty and valor, and the very first person who showed him how to value pride, love, and devotion.
And then she was gone.
She went to Ianthe to defend her land and never came home again.
There were no warnings, no implications, or whatsoever. Just the naked fact that she died in the very land where she was born and the land that she loved the most.
Raffe was only sixteen.
The demise of his mother was the sole reason he vehemently persuaded his father to permit him to train under High Commander Salav at such a tender age. Eighteen was the stipulated age for army recruits, yet he was a mere sixteen at the time. His sole aspiration was to avenge her—the woman he held in the highest esteem. However, at sixteen, he was considered too young by most standards. His coming-of-age battle, before the queen's tragic passing, left him with a grievous wound that prompted High King Alizade to forbid him from wielding a sword until fully healed. The lingering scar incessantly itched over his chest and ribs.
When his father marched to Ianthe, Raffe remained in Ruemreon—consumed by bitterness, despair, and seething anger. He longed to witness the faces of those responsible for slaying the empire's queen, yearning to witness the regret and anguish etched upon their features as they breathed their last breaths.
Even after the morbid stitches were removed, it failed to deter him from spending countless hours sparring with Jadel, Rihan, and other El Casin guards whom he persuaded to join in.
And at eighteen, he was already joining the El Casin in their missions.
When he first wore the black armor of a general inlaid with dark gold the color of their house, many had whispered and gossiped behind his back whether so young a man was truly fit for the job. Raffe did not give a fuck. He was good at that. He was not the perfect sort, he admitted that, but he was not the kind to fail at his responsibility either.
He had no idea why these sudden morose thoughts were suddenly invading his mind. Maybe because of his father's words earlier, or the portrait of the late High Queen on top of the High King's desk. Or maybe it was just because of Soren's voice, the melodious tone of a natural storyteller. He was holding the book in his lap, eyes darting from left to right, silently reading the words in Alaia, and translating it to Ruemri aloud.
The book was a journal of High Queen Malina, a daily record of her life when she came to Ruemreon and married High King Isam. The worn-out pages consisted of her observations and impressions of humans—mostly of the king—his attitude, the way he talked, the way he worked his duties, the crinkle of his eyes when he laughed, how he behaved when he was with her, when he was with his council, and when he was with his subjects.
