“Some of my earliest memories are of being alone,” he spoke
coolly to the cavernous room. The bloodied, bruised, miserable and broken man
was seated against a grey stone wall. The floor below him was identical, though
moist with condensation. His ankles were clasped by heavy metal clasps and
chained to the wall behind him, though there was enough slack for him to spread
his feet out before him as he now did. His wrists were similarly bound and
chained to the wall, though could only float haplessly before his face.
The metal itself was black as night and totally smooth. If
he squinted, he could faintly make out runic markings, though in the
impenetrable darkness of the bindings, he could not be certain. They were
enormously heavy, and were perpetually cold and left his limbs feeling numb and
weak. His mind too was fuzzy, and he found it difficult to focus on a given
task for any amount of time.
He wore matching tan breeches and a tunic, but had not shoes
to cover his cold feet. Once long blond hair had been cut messily and now was
messily parted off the side of his head, resting around his jaw line. Vibrant
cobalt eyes had dulled from his injuries and now were listless and tired.
A shuffle of feet was heard as a figure approached him. They
wore a billowing green and gold robe with a cowl covering their face.
Nevertheless the prisoner was able to see glowing azure runes on his neck which
seemed to crawl down his shoulders and up to his face. His hands were folded
behind his back, and his footsteps were so quiet that it was instead the
movement of his clothing that gave him away. “Go on, Majesty,” the man said
slowly, carefully, emphasising the man’s title.
The seated figure did not raise his head further, but glared
at the magical man before him: “Do not mock me,” he hissed angrily, “I am
royalty no more. Your lady has seen to that…” He let his head fall forward once
more, struggling to remember where he had left off. “I was the first of so many
children, but they would not come until I was already grown… It meant I was the
primary interest of my already aged father.”
“And that, magister, was my greatest burden.”
Years Earlier
Before him rose the massive tower that comprised the centre
of the royal palace. Adjoining it was a smaller, though still very tall, tower
on either side. The whole structure loomed high, shadowing the courtyard
Vynlarion stood in. He was the Crown Prince; heir to the throne, but was all
too aware his actions had seriously challenged that right.
The young prince looked down at himself for a moment,
adjusting his clothing so that he would look his best. Shin high black leather
boots glistened in the bright, afternoon sun, his golden trousers, though
largely hidden by his overcoat, were pressed to perfection. His undershirt, a
simple white blouse, was smooth and crisp, while the vest over it matched his
boots. His overcoat was a much grander piece. It was an azure frock coat,
though its length ended at the waist, in the back it split into two long pieces
of fabric below his waist. Adorned with gold stitching and filigree. The
shoulders of the garment were stiff and plated with gold to match the
stitching, and Vynlarion would be the first to admit to the discomfort they
caused.
Taking a steadying breath, the young man ascended the stairs
toward his father’s throne room. “I did what was necessary,” he seethed in
irritation, “Our troops were not needed – they were just complicating things.”
The rationale made sense to him, but his father longed to be the first king in
centuries to expand their secluded kingdom. But where would they expand? All
the lands north of the Bulwark Mountains were theirs; any further expansion
would be beyond them and into the territory of the enormous Albion Union. Even
though they were a primitive people, by sheer strength of numbers they would
prove a formidable foe.
Vynlarion finished his ascent up the three story flight of
stairs and looked at the large, silver doors that separated him from his
destiny. “After today,” he breathed, I will be free…”
Crown Prince Vynlarion the First pushed opened the doors and
stepped into the brightly lit throne room. In the centre upon a stepped dais
was his father, perched on his throne like an old crow upon a fresh corpse. He
offered the king a deep bow, closed the distance between them, and stood before
the steps to the throne that, at one point, might have been his.
“You have dishonoured the throne, the nation, the family and
yourself!” The king’s roared from on high. The imperious voice echoed through
the throne room and ran through the young prince’s body like a sword.
King Anasterian forced himself to his feet, his golden robes
billowing around him as he descended down the high steps of his throne toward
his son, Vynlarion, who sat on knees a distance away, his head bowed. The room
was lit brilliantly with natural light and it reflected magnificently off of
the grand crown that rose a foot at its peak on the king’s head.
The old king belied his veneration and sped toward his only
son, and struck him across the face with such fervor that the circlet atop
Vynlarion’s brow was sent skidding across the floor. Tussled blond hair covered
his eyes as he looked up, but the look of shock was evident. “Father, I—“
“You will not speak!” The old man shouted as he loomed over
the teenager, “You are henceforth banished from my kingdom and shall not return
until you have proved yourself worthy to succeed me!”
Vynlarion stood, meeting his father’s furious gaze with a
wide, shocked one of his own, and when he went to speak, he was cut off again:
“You will bring me the power I need to protect our people: the Universe Tree!” Anasterian
flourished a hand in the direction of his son as he ascended the steps of his
throne, “Guards! Remove the banished prince from my lands!”
One royal guard from each of the now banished prince’s side
closed rank on him and grasped him firmly by the arms, hauling him to his feet.
“You will regret this, old man!” He shouted in fury, his explosive temper
having been triggered, “You will rue this day!” The guards hurriedly dragged
him away, but Vynlarion’s fury was at its peak: “I will make you pay!”
The air around him became eerily still and gold flecks
appeared and gently floated on unseen eddies. Everything felt so slow, almost
peaceful. Vynlarion could hear his breath coming in and out, his heart beating,
the gentle scuff of his boots on the marble floor, and the rustle of the plate
gauntlets on his leather tunic. Before him, the king’s face was slowly turning
to bewilderment as he rose to stand from his chair.
But the momentary peace abruptly ended, and a deafening
explosion rang out. The shockwave of magic rippled outward, tossing the guards
like garbage caught in a gale force wind. Portraits and other ornaments on the
circular walls around them came crashing down, shattering uselessly on the hard
floor. The king himself was forced back into his throne, while the remainder of
his guard was forced against the walls.
The royal guard struggled to regain their footing, a strong
vertigo robbing them all of their utility, though the king seemed unhampered and
extended his arm, raising his hand a distance before his face. His fingers
angled downward at his son and he spoke in a language that Vynlarion did not
understand. The words were powerful, ominous and foreboding, and as he fell
silent, a crushing fatigue impacted the prince. He slumped forward, his long
hair blinding him.
His legs felt weak and he collapsed downward, though was
caught by two new guards who began to drag him away. The muffled voice of his
father commanded them to banish him, and as much as he wished to deny his
father the satisfaction, Vynlarion could only mumble incoherently. His mind
felt stiff, as though it had been cut off from something so vital, but never
before acknowledge. He fought the block, but to no avail.
Before him, the brilliant gold colour of his hair was
darkening to a night black. It was a perplexing sight, but the banished prince
could give it no more thought. His eyes drooped and closed with a strange
finality. The last thing he remembered was the thud of boots as the guards
dragged him down the stairs of the palace.
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