2.

  Something was rotten in the state capital. The emperor is dying, poisoned by his own son and the venom has lingered deep inside his tainted blood. Physicians poured through his main chamber in a storm of blue cloaks and leather poulaines. While there might be twenties or so servants squirming throughout the castle, worrying about their dying leader well-being. The head practitioner and advisor, Francis Antedo, however, was the only one leaning solemnly outside Morpheus’s bedroom door with his head down and arms tucked together in solitude. On most surfaces, he seems hopeful, even rational, but in truth, the advisor knew they will never find the cure for this illness that had struck its last remaining hours.

  Earlier, he had stormed into a room that smelled of blood, and resinous incense when Francis sees the sorcerer standing by the emperor’s bedside, hovering both her hands wide to cascade a calming blue aura over the feeble man lying in agony.

  Francis could see hints of fatigue under the woman’s eyes as her power weakened every seconds she emit those blue luminance lights.

  “Give us a moment, Fraya,” he nervously interrupted.

  The sorcerer hesitated before slowly gathering herself toward the door when she suddenly turned and warned Francis in a whisper. “I’ve never seen someone be sicken so quickly, I’m afraid it might even be over before dawn.” She pressed to carefully examined his complextion, “I’ll be back once Leon gets here, but an advice to not rile him up Francis; He has already suffer enough.” She said, waiting for his nod in approval to her little spew did Fraya finally leave.

  When the door closes, was when the noble man finally erupted, “Damn it, Morpheus!” Francis yelled when they were alone in the room. “You knew all along this would happen, yet you still trusted that bastard. Now look what he has to repay us.” The man aggressively lowers himself to the emperor’s bedside. “An emperor killed by his own kin. How distasteful.”

  The emperor finally let out a slight laugh at his companion weirdly expression. He joked, “Must you be so hurtful?” His laugh turned into a grunt as the pain hit him.

  “What hurtful is his unforgivable crime, not my words, Your Highness.”

  The agony was written too plainly across his face; “Isaax only did it because he had to. I won’t blame him for wanting me dead.” Morpheus said, even in his final hour, the dying emperor bear no ill will.

  “Morpheus…” The Black Seal is long gone with Isaax; everyone would be good as dead before your death anniversary even arrives, he wanted to say, but the words would not come out. Has the moment between life and death can change someone so greatly, even a unsentimental person like the emperor would say such bittersweet words.

  A lock of shiny white hair fell across his eyes as the man looked up. “Francis,” Morpheus cried out, moving very slowly as if he were still dreaming. “Leon…standing will falter as a bare king, only he can shield the realm from the darkness to the three lands now, upon my death… to rule in my stead…help my son, Francis. Only you know what a wretched emperor I’ve been. Make him be better than me.” His voice had been faint as a whisper. “You-- ” Morpheus winced.

  “Are you certain?” Francis asked quietly, sitting on scorching fire at the edge of the bed.

  Morpheus hesitated. He wanted to say something else but instead lifted his hand, the gesture pained and feeble. “I have my reasons and I’m sure you have yours but Leon is the last heir…our last hope. And The Rebels, it’s all in the past now, Catherine’s right... don’t go after them anymore…their children…those kids are innocent, leave them be.” He said; the agony was written too plainly across Morpheus’s face. Those words twisted his gut like sharp daggers. “Promise me,” Morpheus pressed.

  The advisor remained silent for a while before letting out a thin smile; “Do I look like a liar?”

  As they both shared a small laugh, he repeated, “Promise me, Francis.” The spell had taken hold and fogged Morpheus’s mind. He lowered himself to the bed; only when Francis gave him his word did the fear go out of Morpheus’s eyes. May heaven… be with you all. When those final thoughts escaped his trembling lips, Morpheus softly sagged himself into the pillow, and sleep took him.

  After those dreadful minutes, the disquiet advisor remembered nothing. His steps became weary and slumped to the side as he called for the servants and physicians.

  Minutes later outside the door with his head lowered in contemplation, waiting for some sort of miracle to happen if he would just close his eyes and walk away from the room reeking of death.

  Heavy chains jangled softly as a royal knight came up beside him to whisper quietly. “Headmaster, Prince Leonitus has arrived.”

  The advisor hesitated before nodding in approval for the guard to leave. Remained still in a pose, Francis soon saw a tall figure quickly emerges from the steep stairwell. His striking short hair was as white as snow, and through those fierce greyish-blue eyes gazing straight ahead into the darkness carried deep hints of sorrow. Upon closer look, large ink stains can be visibly seen splashes all over the man’s velvet cloak, blowing in between each step he took, spreading an even more ominous aura to his presence.

  Leon stops in front of the door, unable to let himself step inside just yet. “How is he, uncle?” his voice grows impatient. He has only to look at the advisor to know that something is dreadfully wrong.

  “They’re doing everything within existing power, but the curse seems to have already taken a toll on him. We have tried to lessen his suffering, but only a miracle can heal what’s left.”

  “How long?” Leon asked.

  “By rights he will not live past the night; neither the physicians nor Fraya know for certain, but only the dying man can tell how much time he has left.”

  Leon knew right away when a strange chill went through him, and without a word, he made his way toward the frigid coldness of the chamber. His jaw clenched with discomfort before turning the door handle ever so slightly, his heart pounding rapidly when the advisor suddenly placed a hand on his shoulder, gently nudging him backward.

  “Leon,” Francis said as though trying to comfort him.

  But Leon’s face was strangely empty as he spoke frankly, “Don’t let any servants disturb his rest aside from Fraya. And for certain, no one can know Isaax is responsible for this, at least not until I can find him back alive.”

  “This is classified as a rebellion, he'd be good as dead upon returning to the capital," Francis argues.

  "I know, but Isaax couldn't have done this without knowing he'd be catch and executed. He did this knowing full well he was going to be protected by someone other than us." Leon took a paused to sternly stare ahead, as if wanting the other person listening to pay attention to his next few words. "Uncle, it's not Issax I want. If you wish to find the predator, you have to follow its prey first."

  Francis nodded his head and questions; "You think his backer is a person to hold this much greater power?"

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Thinking in quick cleared thoughts he said. “I'm certain, but this matter shall be discussed in another time, right now I need Atlas to send out an imperial decree to find sorcerers all across the land and gather them here at the capital within a week, I want every single one of them, if they refuse, offer whatever it takes for their forthcoming.”

  The advisor gave him a look then a tiny curve of satisfaction protrude past his lip before he gave Leon a definite nod; “At your command, Your Highness.”

  When Francis left him to say his final good bye, the perfect evenness of Leon’s temper, a rare and valuable quality in a sovereign, held no restraint.

  i.

  A grand funeral for the emperor has commenced for three days straight inside the golden palace. A coffin covered in glitters and diamonds felt unlike the man lying inside, carried by twenty-one knights in shining armors, and hundreds of nobilities follow behind, can be seen making way to the House of Prayer. The street capital was filled with people throwing golden Aemion flowers across the pathway, and for the first time in years, the gleaming castle bells rang like a sorrowful song for the death of their leader.

  Leon was present from the embalming to the burial; the moment he saw the silky fabric of the radiant sun symbol covering the hollow-out face of his father, a certain unpleasantness ran through him. Maybe, only because the prince knew he was soon to be the next person laying there.

  Even worse, Francis had reminded Leon he was supposed to cry. No one knows if it is because of the drugs the young prince has taken to reduce his long illness of insomnia or if he is genuinely dead inside. Still, those tired grey eyes have yet to shed any ounce of sympathy for his creator.

  Inside the prayer house, looking out toward the crowd of unfamilliar faces as the Arch Pheonix recited deep prayers to the entire capital while standing on a massive altar. Francis, who has been standing at the side since the beginning, whispered closely into Leon's ears;

  “Apparently, only one captain has made it back to shore in Clereta, Your Highness; five of their ships have been hijacked; their sailors tortured and hung by pirates when acrossing near by water of the Aldebaran’s territory.”

  Leon had a slight bitterness in his mouth. Hands clutching on the sword strap beside his waist. Under Aldebaran kingdom ruled by Authur Maddon one man with a primary objective for a massive territorial expansion, dominating all lands for a revival of historical greatness. Along the way, he ideology of purity has cost a massacre of more than millions people, he calls The Others.

  “What else?” He asked.

  Francis looked apprehensive. “Xodon said he saw them hoisted the Aldebaran’s kingdom banner for a peaceful turnover. Considering this as a warning from Arthur, once you’re crowned. I suggest we should postpone your enthrone, till we learn about your brother’s whereabouts.” He did not wait for a reply. “You are his last threat, Leon. If anything were to happen, it would be your blood to shed these halls.” Francis has just reminded Leon of how much he hated being threathen, the suffocation makes him felt unruly.

  “My death should be the least of your worries. Every moment we delay gives them another chance to be prepared. Then there won’t be any blood left to shed these halls.” As he took a breather, staring intensely at the stained glassed window illuminate by sunlight sweeping through the white palace, Leon turned to look out into the sea of nobility sitting among one another across ten rows of painted wood pews. He took a glanced at the familiar middle-aged man wearing a red beret, who seemed to be sitting on the edge of his seat this entire time. Leon slightly hissed in amusement, before leaning over to whisper quietly into Francis’s ear.

  Only when the Arch Pheonix concluded his speech, marking an end to the day of interment, did a sudden relief hit the atmosphere in Baerysian’s capital. Outside, between the crowds of people slowly exiting the sanctuary, the man in the red beret was Lord Bartton can be seen lingering inside the narthex with a slight seriousness protruding across his face. He taps his foot against the pavement, anxiously waitting

  As though seeing the right person he has been yearning for, the man exclaimed in excitement seeing the advisor emerges though the door, along with his guard.

  “Francis!” He called for the advisor, “A moment, please, if you would be so kind.”

  The advisor stopped. “Lord Bartton, shouldn’t you be on your way to the banquet tonight?”

  “I was but…” Bartton hesitated, eyeing down the guard in front of him.

  Following his eyeline, Francis quickly understood and hesitantly gestured for the knight to back away. Only then did the man continue his word without glancing warily among his surroundings.

  “Morpheus was never a man to leave his throne so easily; it has come a surprise to us all that this would be his end of the rope because of old age.” He leaned closer. “Has he named you the new sovereign?”

  “Lord Bartton, this doesn't seem like an appropriate time to discuss such matters.”

  “By that, he must have already placed Leonitus as the next regency; if that’s true, then this is our time, Francis.”

  Francis frowned. “Our time?”

  “Strike! Now, while he still trusts you.” Lord Bartton looked around again and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I know your nephew like the back of my hand, and I doubt the boy knows what bad there is to come upon his upcoming enthrone.” His words left Francis stunned for a few seconds.

  Earlier, Leon had took the liberty of whispering quietly to him something upon the alter, after he had saw Lord Bartton in between the massive crowd of people.

  “Bartton is a headstrong tiger but holds no value in being merciful when seeing a lost deer in the wild.” Leon said, shining a bit of clarity onto the confusing advisor.

  “Your Majesty.” Francis said, leaving a questionable look toward his nephew as though trying to read his hard gaze and while he supposedly understood his vague words. The advisor seem to be wondering, how long this little boy has been pretending to stay oblivious until this very moment. How much more does he knows about the people trying to get rid of him?

  “Francis?” Bartton distance voice came into view. “Did you hear what I said?” He rushed.

  “I see.” Francis mumbled to himself and turned away, slowly make his way down the endless hallway, following closely from behind was Bartton continuing in a whisper.

  “You’ve always been a follower, Francis; take a stand to serve the people for a change so he will do anything you say, drag him by the nose, whatever you must do to get upon the throne by rights.”

  “You’re talking about an uprising inside the House of Prayer sire. Aren’t you afraid the gods might not spare you?” Francis let out a slight laughter.

  Bartton took a step back and hissed under his breath. “Gods or not, the man who holds the emperor holds the empire; this heaven on land would be wasted in the hand of an incompetent soon.” He continues. “But that can all change, you’ve already gotten the upper hand; without your help, he will never sit on that throne either way. A wise man like yourself should always think for your own benefit; make certain of Leon’s success and confine him as your sword.”

  Francis gave him an enlightened look and questions. “Then what will happen, if I were to betrayed you Lord Bartton?”

  “You don't have the guts Francis, if you wanted this empire could've been easily handed over to someone competant, but I know your loyalty to this country stood above anything else and it will forever be like that, no matter who its ruler might be. So think again my brother." They finally stop by a massive stone planter as Bartton extend his arms out to catch an Ameions on its branches and crush the pulp with rough fingers before continuing. "The Marquess in Clereta is already by command with thousands personal guards at the ready; a king of any land should be afraid of our join union.”

  “The Marquess in Clereta, you say. I thought the Valentinas bare no taste for such intrigues.”

  “They didn’t, at least until the title was passed down to their only survivor, after that massive fire.” He said with a sign before continuing; “The poor boy had just gotten back from Bennyport when he heard the news of his wife’s death. When I last saw him, Augustas hadn’t slept for days trying to find out what was left of their ashes.” Bartton shook his head in grievances.

  “What seem to be the cause?” Asked Francis narrowing his eyebrows.

  The man gave him a weary nod; “God knows, but I do think that sly fox Arnell had always planned for his son to become the head of the Valentinas, maybe this could’ve been one of his many scheme. Though I must say, it had worked out quite perfectly.” Bartton chucked as they both walk past each column before fading into the distance.

  By the time Lord Bartton bid farewell to Francis on his carriage, the guard being sent away earlier could now be seen standing quietly behind one of the massive pillars. Under the heavy dark mask covering part of his solemn face was Prince Leonitus. For a second he thought of his mother whom traded her own lives the other hundreds looming at chance to strikes back.

  In the distance Francis can be seen running back in a hurry, his face beam with worries. Only when the out of breath advisor stood infront of him did Leon finally spoke while staring out toward the gate ahead.

  "I need you to send out another messenger again for Duke Grayan before sunset. Urge for his immidiate return." Leon took a paused to carefully pick at the flowers nearby with it yellow bulb dangling between the wind in a stone planter before continuing. "It's time his notorious good luck can finally come in to great use."

  Francis hesitated before making his final with uneasiness. He knew Leon conscience was conflicted from what Bartton had said earlier but that didn’t depart him from the critical reality that they needed to find a savior, a protector, and most of all a sacrifice to lure out the true dark essence of the land below.