He is heir to the throne... And she is the broken rule he must erase...
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In the Kingdom of Vakythia, power cleaves the populace into two distinct classes: the Blessed, wielding gifts granted by the Ember, and the ordinary citizens, devoid of such...
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While Elaria diligently exchanged her muddy boots, I took it upon myself to shed the sweat-soaked shirt I had worn while dancing in the wind with Daelan. I opted for something more regal, a wardrobe transformation echoing the taste of my father-something he would not just approve but adore.
I slipped into a refined ensemble: a cream-colored inner shirt paired with a knee-length black coat adorned with intricate gold trinkets along the edges. The coat, deliberately split open, showcased the inner shirt. A brown belt cinched my waist, complementing the sleek black pants that gracefully met a cleaner pair of boots.
Presenting myself in the hallway, I found Elaria standing before the colossal oak doors of the throne room. She fidgeted and twisted, her hand meticulously arranging her hair in the most perfect manner possible.
"Ease up a bit," I mumble from the shadows, jolting her so much that she drives a punch straight into my gut. Her swift strikes are irritatingly effortless, and woe betide any man who falls for her only to betray her. Elaria is a force to reckon with, especially when she tightens her grip on your breath. A Diremage-that's what she is. Rare, lethal, and captivating.
"I wouldn't have to if Father stopped sizing me up to you," she retorts, rolling her eyes and patting her dark mane of hair.
"Father measures you to me?" I respond, intrigued. It's a revelation. I had almost considered myself nothing more than a pawn in his game-a spare being managed until I produce an heir he can mold to his whims. If he survives that long, that is.
"Oh, spare me the lecture and don't pretend you're not relishing this moment."
"That Father is shaping you in my image?" I grin devilishly, my right hand adorned with regal princely rings waving through the air. "It does give me a certain thrill." I pivot to gaze at her, capturing a fleeting smile on her face before it vanishes like a fleeting shadow. "Out of sheer curiosity-what exactly are you to model?"
The doors swing open, sparing her from the need to respond. Not that she would've answered anyway. In more ways than one, Elaria is more akin to Father than she realizes. Cold, unyielding eyes with a trace of softness, lips pressed in a deep line, and brows eternally furrowed, much like his.
Any Vakythian civilian wouldn't contest that she inherited striking features from Father. While she claimed his straight, raven-dark hair, I possessed Mother's soft dark curls and her eyes-those sweet, honeyed eyes. Father's, on the other hand, were dark, darker than the night itself.
Entering the room with Elaria by my side, I survey the occupants of the dining table. Father presides at the head, Mother by his side, and Uncle Morwin seated at the opposite far end. Two vacant chairs await us, Elaria and me- and an extra one for Nerys. I settle into the seat next to Father, opposite Mother, while Elaria takes her place at my side.
"Good evening, Father, Mother..." I gaze down the table. "Uncle."
My uncle's icy gaze fixes on me, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "Evening, Thrystan." His dark mane of hair, reminiscent of Father's, is sprinkled with strands of silver. I always found it intriguing, and Mother claimed his hair had always carried that touch of silver.
