Feet aching, Ultiir looked over the petitioners who had traveled to the capital, hearing their complaints and passing judgment. “I declare in the name of King Hurvir de’Tro that you are sentenced to hang.” He told an old man who should’ve known better than to rape the young girl who had pleaded just moments ago. “Take him outside,” he said and the guards obeyed as the old man kicked and cried as he was dragged down the long corridor to the grand oak doors. “You will be given a bag of copper,” he said to the girl, “hopefully that relieves the trouble.”

  “Thank you, my king,” she said and Ultiir felt like the largest man in the world. She thinks me king. If only that were true, he thought.

  The day was over. Earlier the throne room had people along the walls, between the swirling marble columns and stained windows. Now, it was empty. Those who had come to watch the judgment had already filed out from boredom probably. The central colonnade and gray stone floor caused the small girls footsteps to echo like a giant.

  The throne was behind him. The large chair made of the same marble as the palace. A single red velvet cushion looked like a blood stain. His brother, the king, had decided to be late for court today, like everyday. The lords had scratched their heads, debated taxes, shouted about the approaching harvest, and argued over the lack of new slaves before leaving for their manses in the city. Then mostly commoners filled the room until Ultiir was finished. Now, it was only the six councilors and guards.

  As heir to the throne, Ultiir was to administer the king’s justice according to the laws of this kingdom. It never bothered him like it did the others in the King’s Council when his brother was late or never showed. And he knew the reason. Hurvir’s beautiful wife was still young and fertile, and Hurvir needed an heir. Not some banished bastard.

  Lord Urses de’Marisco, the chief informant, let out a sigh of relief. His cheeks red, his face younger than he actually was. “Productive.” He gathered his parchments and letters. A page helped him get organized. “If only His Grace were here. I’m sure the old man would’ve been thrown in a fire.”

  Lord Tedbalt Masson, gray hairs poking from his ears and nose, said, “We cannot expect the king to attend every day of the royal court. That is far too much to ask.” Another lord, Alan Hirons, the stubborn chief commander, chuckled but quickly stopped.

  “Surely, he will meet us in the council chamber.” Lord Gofrei Geary, the dark-skinned lord of Montlahead said. “His wife is beautiful, but I doubt he can fuck all day.”

  As if on cue the throne room door opened. A herald came in, but Hurvir quieted him. Ultiir and the other lords bowed. “I was worried you were never going to give up power, brother.” Hurvir said with a booming laugh, his muscles shaking under his velvet tunic. “I fear you enjoy passing judgment too much.”

  “Not at all.” Ultiir stepped away from the throne. “There’s a reason it’s your job.” But the kingdom would fall apart without me, he thought.

  “Your Majesty,” Lord de’Marisco said, “shall we finish our discussions elsewhere.”

  “Worried the guards will hear me joking with my brother?” Hurvir walked to the back of the throne room, to a small door and hall that led to the council chamber and the councilors’ studies.

  “I told you he’d be here.” Lord Geary said to no one before following.

  Lord Hirons sifted through letters detailing foreign affairs, Lord Geary stared out the turret window at the end of the chamber, and Lord Dovi Lyons played with coins. Lord Masson pulled at his white daken robes while Lord Serle Verrier brushed dirt off his blue and red ambassador robes. The lord of the Insurgent Redington, Hank Zazí, the bald weasel, filled their cups with wine from Baragio. Lord de’Marisco was whispering to himself. Always whispering.

  His brother sat at the head of the long birch table. Carved from the trees of the Ritaewood, with the faces of the Four on each leg, the table had sat in this palace for hundreds of years. Not one blemish. Until his brother decided war with the South was a good idea. He pounded the table and it cracked. Whispers of the gods’ judgment were quick. Hurvir ignored all. His brother was over a decade older than him, but still had all the muscles of his youth. Not like Ultiir’s lean arms. His brother’s hair had completely turned white. Like snow sitting atop a mountain. Ultiir still with blond hair. I wonder if Sophie looks at me as the better version of Hurvir. He laughed silently to himself.

  “First,” Hurvir began, “I would like to apologize for not being at court, but I was busy and my brother does a fine job in my stead. My wife’s needs are more important than mine own.” Everyone around told him it was no worry, save for Ultiir who rolled his eyes when no one was looking. “Shall we start? Or, if you like, we can move on with the day?”

  No one said anything. All the important news was either already said or would be said when his brother stalked back to his naked wife waiting in bed. No one had cared about Hurvir’s opinion on any matter since he went and got thousands killed. He imagined a naked Sophie. The queen with her smooth skin, round breasts, wide hips. Perfect. How Hurvir got so lucky he never knew. It would seem the gods favored him if it weren’t for all his curses.

  “Your Majesty, I have some important information that may interest you.” Lord Hirons spoke up. “I have heard rumors that independence seekers in the Flewthlands have spoken with Lord Blume. I worry the duke may try to follow his father’s footsteps of revolt. Losing that duchy would bring great harm to your kingdom.”

  Hurvir waved that away. “I stopped both the Esol Rebellion and his father’s rebellion. He owes everything he has to me. The Duke of the Flewthlands will not separate. And I will crush them again if they do.”

  “They have also sought the support of the queen of Maertan and king of Rowan.”

  “Queen Maide would do right to remember her place in this world.” Hurvir tapped the table. “And my cousin in Rowan knows not to go against me. His kingdom was broken and I’m supposed to fear the Rowai again? At least I know how to put down rebellion. I was the one who led the war against the Rainvealandians, not him. They were too busy falling apart every which way.”

  The room stayed silent save for a bird chirping at the window.

  “I’m sure you are right, Your Grace.” Alan said. “King Bartel would never go against Viguran.” The chief commander twiddled his thumbs.

  Hurvir seemed lost in his thoughts. “How great history would have remembered me had I taken Rowan when King Anton died. Instead, I let that bitch wife ruin her country.” His eyes focused back on the room. “Write to Lord Blume. Tell him to remember my strength. To remember Ritaeum.” Lord Hirons gave a sharp nod. The king turned to Lord Geary. “How has the city been? I haven’t been off the palace grounds since those farmers stormed the warehouses at the docks.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “The guard have been able to retrieve all stolen grain and the perpetrators have been dealt with. The High Doma has already ordered Gods’ Gift to be cleaned for your feast in the coming weeks. All vagrants and beggars will be pushed to Rat’s Nest in no time. No more stepping in shit on your way to the domaton.” Gofrei acted deferential, but his tone was that of annoyance as he fingered through letters and parchments.

  “My feast.” Hurvir leaned in his velvet chair. “How large will the gathering be? The queen has told me nothing.”

  Lord Verrier straightened his black doublet. “Emissaries from all of Adedor have sent word of their coming. Lords and dukes and barons from the North. Some Western nobles, even a man from Eotros who calls himself the Prince of the East. Unfortunately, it seems the only monarch gracing Vigur will be your wife’s father, King Anvrin.”

  “He just wants to keep me satisfied with our alliance. Doesn’t want me to cast out his daughter like I have my other wives. He knows that if Sophie has a boy we will be a step closer to uniting the second empire.”

  Talk of the second empire while you let this one starve? Ultiir thought. He knew how important a male heir was for Hurvir, the only child he had was a bastard who lived in Rowan. Ultiir imagined himself as the father of Sophie’s son. King Anvrin, would gift him all the gold in the world. He got lost thinking of Sophie. Her spotless face, her lips the color of ocean coral. How sweet her kisses must be. He remembered what she wore on her wedding night. The way that tight-fitted dress hugged her body, showing off more than some whores. But she’s no whore. She’s a queen. And she’s wasted on Hurvir.

  “And what of my mother?” Hurvir asked the table and Ultiir remembered where he was.

  “You know mother hasn’t left Goldfield in years, Your Grace.” Ultiir made sure to keep up the pleasantries. “It would take Vigura himself to come down from the heavens for her to travel upriver.”

  “I think our mother’s stubbornness would best Vigura’s miracles.”

  Lord Hirons combed through pages until he found a small map. “Perhaps, if Your Grace allows it, we can speak of your feast another time. It is still weeks away.” Hurvir nodded. “I wanted to speak about Redington.” Ultiir eyed the chief commander, Lord Zazí’s ears perked. “The city seems to be falling apart. The debt they accumulated from the Riorské occupation is far too much. Whole buildings decay and murderers run amok as the city governors try to cobble together any coin they can find.”

  “I heard,” Lord Lyons said, “that the city chamber was recently plundered and overrun by vagrants. It seems to be turning into Gereduss with every passing day. All the more reason to clean the Gods’ Gift.” Dovi still played with coins. “The treasury is near empty, if not already.”

  “How anyone would let this happen is beyond me.” Henk said. “If I were the lord in charge those animals would be dealt with like the vermin they are.”

  “What would you have me do?” Hurvir asked.

  “Gain a valuable ally and help pay their debts.” Lord Lyons said.

  Lord Zazí said, “Take the city.”

  Ultiir rubbed his head. The sun was high in the sky and was burning his face through the window. His stomach hungered. “Taking the city seems a drastic step. The whole of Adedor would begrudge us for it.”

  “We made quick work of the mites,” his brother said. “No army can defeat us.” Ultiir wished he could scream at his brother. Tell him how lucky they were that the Rainvealandians didn’t wipe out the whole kingdom. How blind he was. Lord de’Marisco was chewing his lip, Tedbalt shaking his head. At least I’m not alone in my thoughts.

  But Lord Henk Zazí, the dimwit from the city of the Reds, was filling Hurvir’s goblet just as much as his ear. “You would go down in history as a great uniter. Reclaiming Redington for the crown and showing all the kingdoms of the world how strong you are. Take back a port city before Pyre Blume makes us concede more. A port open to slaves. You should’ve heard the complaints of the cripples and old men who the lords have to rely on, Your Majesty, an utter catastrophe if all the slaves were to up and die.”

  “I think that is enough, my lord.” Ultiir rose to his feet. “This is a matter for another time.” Henk bowed away, but Hurvir was nodding.

  “Feeling the wind on my face would be a great deal of fun. Swinging a sword.” Hurvir began to laugh. “I should’ve taken the city when my men freed it from the mites.”

  “Your feast.” Ultiir said.

  Hurvir seemed to snap back. Birds sung outside the windows, an insect buzzed around Hurvir’s head. “Of course. Nothing can happen until my feast is over and done. We don’t want the nobles to rescind their letters of acceptance.”

  “Then it is decided.” The council stood and bowed as Hurvir stood. Dele, a page who waited outside, ushered the king from the chamber, guards following. Lords Hirons and Zazí followed the king, probably to whisper about Redington or military campaigns. Sir Lovis stood outside now, the chief of Ultiir’s household guard. The rest of the lords stayed behind to catch up on work. Or so they said.

  “Was Lord Hirons trying to get us pulled into another war?” Ultiir asked the table.

  “I’m sure he just wanted to make conversation, my lord.” Dovi said. “It was Henk who wanted us to die for a city he hasn’t sent foot in for years.”

  “The insufferable cunt.” Gofrei said as he rubbed his baggy eyes. “I say we tie him to a stallion, give him a sword of flames, and push him to the city. If he wants it he can have it.”

  “Perhaps,” Urses’s breathy voice whispered, “it is good for His Grace to be distracted by the thought of war with Redington. It will keep him busy while we plan the feast.” Urses de’Marisco let an ominous note hang.

  “I did find a man today, in the city, whose name I can’t recall, but he said he would gladly set fire to the docks. The city guard should be busy with sand and water while dinner is served.” Gofrei said.

  “You’re sure that man will keep quiet?” Lord Masson asked.

  “I borrowed enough money from our dear friend Dovi here.” Gofrei motioned to the chief collector. “And I burrowed more for the assassin to push are arsonist into his fire as it rages.”

  “And I found a group in Keeland who sells any and all mixes of potions and poultices you can imagine.” Urses said. “They sell deadly mixtures as well. They wish to meet me in the mountains first thing next week. I will tell the king I have gone to meet an old friend, I think, my lords, that will suffice.”

  Lord Masson chimed in, “Some of these bandits tell stories for gold, as anyone else would. Most of their elixirs are nothing more than water mixed with salt.”

  “We can try it on you if you’re worried.” Lord de’Marisco smirked.

  “No need. Bring me the poison and I will test it on a lily.” Tedbalt turned to Ultiir. “But we should be worried if it doesn’t work. What if all it does is give the king a stomach bug?”

  “Perhaps he’ll shit himself to death.” Gofrei laughed. “I feel that’s a more dignified way to go, don’t you think?”

  Lord Verrier coughed, his dark skin soaking the sunlight from the windows. “Are we forgetting your nephew in Rowan, my lord?” He asked Ultiir. “The Bastard Law still exists. Viguran had to go through the Bastard Wars. It would be a silly thing to not deal with our problem to the west before we dealt with the problem in this very palace.”

  Lord Geary waved a hand. “Hire some Gorthair and be done with it. They still yearn for the days of the Bruthaki Flames and want for nothing more than to see dead royalty.”

  “We must be going now, my lords.” Tedbalt said. “As to not raise suspicion.”

  “I must say this will probably be the last time I see you before the feast.” Gofrei said. “Her Grace, the queen, wishes for me to treat with her parents in Udello, guide them here. As if they don’t know the way to a riverboat and up the Montla-Ritae.”

  “We’ll need to discuss what’s to happen to her as well.” Lord Verrier said. “We’ve avoided the subject far too long.”

  “I will take care of that.” Ultiir said, a slight eye roll from Dovi Lyons followed.

  The room emptied except for Urses and Ultiir. The rose-cheeked man smirked as he cleared the table of his things. “I’ve never known someone to be so cavalier about the murder of their own brother and nephew.”

  “I’m not doing it for myself. I am doing it for Viguran. Too long have the people starved, frozen in the winter, had failed harvests. The gods will forgive me.” He hoped. The best way for him to not care about his family was to pretend they weren’t. He barely knew his bastard of a nephew, and his brother was much older than him. It was easier, as long as he didn’t step foot in Goldfield and see his mother.

  Urses’s hand rested on the door handle. “Are you worried about what’s to come?”

  Ultiir didn’t hesitate to say, “Never.”