Away from a small bustling no-name town, a modest cottage was found within the forest foliage. It took fifteen minutes of walking on a dirt trek to reach the humble abode, covered in vines and leaves. Behind the cottage, was a little small patch of agriculture and various edible vegetables were seen growing there.
The afternoon sun today was a pale, indifferent smear through the dusty window and dust bunnies were seen dancing through the rays. As the scent of dry earth and wild herbs drifted in, it slowly made itself known to as a distinct contrast compared to the cloying perfume of court that persistently remained on his linen.
Alca Viremont Solieus, fifth prince from the Soleius Empire and the only heir of the now-defunct lesser noble Viremont family; also currently serving the ninety-eighth day of his third year of exile. He was mending a tear in his only good shirt — a practical skill his six siblings would have sneered at — when the door swung open with a great force that nearly caused his flower vase to fall.
The hinges groaned and Alca winced.
A man who looked no more than twenty-two shuffled in. His outfit was askew, his dark hair looked like a bird's nest, and he was unshaven, as if he just woke up within the hour (and he probably did). In his arm, he had held a scroll with a parchment quality that Alca was all too familiar with. He then lifted the scroll and Alca instantly knew it was the Royal Crest.
Gerald, his valet and only servant, looked profoundly put-upon as he showed Alca the letter. He made note that delivering news of royal importance was a major inconvenience because it was cutting into his nap.
"Letter from the capital, sir," Gerald said, his voice flat. He broke the seal without ceremony and unfurled the parchment.
"So, what is required of me?" Alca asked nervously, setting down his sewing kit. A cold knot was already forming in his stomach. "Was it only the scroll? There aren't other 'gifts', no?"
"No, sir. Just the scroll." Replied Gerald in a monotone.
"I thought they wanted to poison me." Alca patted his chest in relief. "Or drink poison, actually."
"I don't think the Royal Messenger will hike up a desolate forest to deliver a poison kit for that matter, sir. It would be much cheaper to hire bandits to dispose of you." Gerald replied without a hitch again.
Alca narrowed his eyes and then waved his hand dismissively. "Just, you know. Please just read the letter."
Gerald cleared his throat. "It's from the Lord Chancellor. He says, and I quote, 'It is with a heavy heart and a profound sense of administrative inconvenience that I must inform you of the demise of the entire royal line after the passing of His Royal Majesty, thereby placing the crown upon your head, Your Serene Highness.'"
Gerald suddenly paused. His eyes scanned it, and his expression, already one of terminal boredom, shifted to something akin to bewildered contempt. "He lists the circumstances."
Alca's hands went very still. The entire royal line. All six of them. He felt the knot in his stomach now tightening into a fist or ten knots. Either way, it was not good news.
"It's a remarkably interesting turn of events, sir." Gerald said, his eyes still on the parchment. "It appears the chain of events began with His Royal Highness, Prince Cassian. I suggest you might want to listen to this."
"Cassian. That rat." Alca exhaled. The sixth sibling. The paranoid one who had framed him for some far-fetched conspiracy, who had whispered poison into their father's ears. And good o' father, fat and deaf, with the sense of a gold fish, the mind of a walnut whose only thinking ever was done with his short, wet dick, believed his beloved Cassian.
He recalled that Cassian had that kind of sneer on his face when Alca left for the outskirts. One that suggested Alca ought to be thankful that Cassian did not pursue the matter further, instead of outright trying to murder Alca in bed.
Alca then thought that idiot did not have enough evidence to sustain his claim. Otherwise, he would have Alca on the guillotine, executed for treason.
"That paranoid fool was found dead in a panic room he had built, having forgotten to install an air hole." Alca rolled his eyes.
Gerald's eyebrow twitched like he was trying to stifle laughter. "No, sir, you have to listen from the start! According to the Chancellor, Prince Cassian hired the infamous Crimson Dagger — the so-called reown guild of assassins — to eliminate Prince Leonhart, his primary rival and the First Prince. However, the assassin they sent was not a very skilled rookie, and was spotted by the nephew of the captain of Prince Cassian's guard when he was sneaking in near the palace's forest."
"The nephew, attempting to warn his uncle, tripped while sneaking through the stables, dropped his crossbow bolt, and startled Prince Leonhart's prized warhorse. The skittish beast, also known as The Great Imperial, bolted. It crashed through the paddock fence, trampled on the nephew, and ran directly into the path of a herd of starving wild Ironhide Aurochs that had been recently driven south by the drought."
Alca stared at Gerald. "Ironhides? Near Solieus?"
"Yes, sir. The Ironhides stampeded upon being aggravated by Imperial Bane. They tore through the royal hunting grounds where Second Princess Elowen was holding a clandestine diplomatic meeting with a delegation from the Empire—a meeting she had not informed the late King or Queen about, as she was attempting to broker her own peace and claim credit."
Gerald's voice remained utterly deadpan. "The Ironhides trampled the delegation and her entire retinue. Princess Elowen, attempting to flee on horseback, was reportedly unseated by a low-hanging branch that had been weakened by a fungal blight and fell low as she was riding away - the same blight that is now the upcoming epidemic at the borders, apparently - and broke her neck. She died immediately. The assassin who was attempting to flee was eaten up by a passing Direwolf, who was rudely awakened by the noise and stampede."
Alca's mouth was slightly ajar. "A Direwolf. Near Solieus?"
Solieus had not seen an Ironhide or Direwolf roaming about the land for the last century. Monsters of these levels of threats were often found much further away from the capital. To witness one- as the Witches would often forewarn- meant an ominous sign and that a great calamity was brewing.
Gerald continued without a hitch as if he was reading the breakfast menu.
"That was just the first afternoon, sir," Gerald was turning the scroll over. Alca felt sick. "The Ironhides, now in a frenzy, continued their rampage toward the main palace. Prince Leonhart, who had now been alerted to the threat of the Crimson Dagger by his guard, had barricaded himself in the grand throne room with his personal cadre. Upon hearing the thunder of hooves, he believed the assassins had arrived with siege engines on horseback. In a strategic manoeuvre, he ordered his mages to collapse the eastern corridor to create a choke point. The mages succeeded. Unfortunately, the eastern corridor was directly beneath the royal aviary, which housed the late queen's prized —and notoriously aggressive — fire-breathing pheasants. She had told no one that she reared these mutant creatures and the collapse freed them."
Alca buried his face in his hands.
"The pheasants, sir, ignited the corridors near the grand throne room. Everything caught on fire, the tapestries, the wooden beams and even pheasants themselves were on fire. Prince Leonhart and his men were trapped between a firestorm and the stampeding aurochs that had now circled around the collapsed corridor. He perished when a burning beam fell on him." Gerald turned the scroll again. "It goes on."
"On? It's not over yet?" Alca whispered, his voice muffled by his palms. He then saw the snaking parchment that had reached to the floor and Gerald was a man of good height. "Alright, continue."
"Yes, sir. Princess Isolde, who was in the middle of a coup attempt against Princess Elowen — a fact only discovered after her death — were having her usual weekly progress plannings in the royal wine cellars with her co-conspirators. The stampede and the firestorm caused a structural collapse of a huge part of the palace. A massive vat of a decade-old commemorative wine that the late King loved, henceforth broke open. As a result, Princess Isolde and her followers drowned in the cellar basements."
"Drowned in wine," Alca said, his voice hollow and in partial disbelief. "What about Marcella?"
"Yes, sir. As for the Seventh Princess Marcella, she had died much earlier. Three years ago, five months after you had left the palace. She attempted to poison Princess Elowen. However, she mislabeled her own vials and drank the wrong tea. She wasn't very bright as you always knew."
Alca rapped his fingers on his lap. "Well, I didn't think she would… Actually, she would." She had always thought she was a know-it-all, but all her information came from gossip tabloids and she was easily tricked by her cunning servants.
Gerald paused, scanning further down the scroll. "Now, as for Prince Cassian, sir…"
Alca's hands dropped from his face. He looked a little calmer and Alca acknowledged this tiny part of him that had vied for his death. He tried to hide his sneer as he spoke. "Finally. The architect of this farce. How did the paranoid fool meet his end? Hiding in a wardrobe? Stabbed by his own valet?"
"No, sir. According to the Chancellor, Prince Cassian observed the chaos from his private tower—a tower he had fortified with seven locked doors, a moat of oil, and a personal contingent of crossbowmen. When the Ironhides stampede, the firestorm from the fire-breathing pheasants, and the palace collapse converged, he became convinced that the growing Varkhessian Empire had launched a full-scale invasion using fire-breathing siege beasts."
Alca nodded without expression. It was not surprising. Cassian has been paranoid till he saw visions. That person even claimed he saw a headless knight by the gardens, and refused to step foot in it since that day.
"In a fit of paranoid genius, he activated his tower's final defence: a series of alchemical explosives designed to collapse the tower's base, sealing him in an impregnable bunker below."
Alca blinked with a small hint of admiration. "That's quite a machination."
"The alchemical explosives functioned perfectly. They collapsed the tower's base. Unfortunately, the tower was also directly above the main sewer outflow. The collapse opened a channel to the methane pockets that had been building up for decades. The subsequent explosion launched Prince Cassian, still seated on his fortified throne, through the ceiling of his bunker, across the outer bailey, and into the royal fountain. He survived the impact but ultimately drowned. In three feet of water as the fountain's statue fell on his head."
Alca looked away, his breath a soft laugh. "He drowned and broke his head. In a fountain. Strapped to a chair."
"Yes, sir. The Chancellor's note adds that the throne was recovered. It is now considered a national treasure and a pioneer of engineering." Gerald squinted his eyes as he read the fine print.
"Ingenious." Alca said sardonically as he rolled his eyes.
He finally lowered the scroll.
"And Prince Antonio? You haven't mentioned him." Alca said. "Please don't tell me Antonio choked on a cake and died. He was a glutton, but he wasn't that stupid like Marcella. He must have been assassinated by the Empire's agent, a clean kill."
Gerald's face, for the first time, contorted into an expression of pure distaste. "Well, sir. He actually choked on cake while doing… cake-play sex two years back. With a lady of the court, a baker's daughter, and a troupe of fire-eaters. It's the new thing for royals, apparently. The Chancellor's letter described it as 'a sybaritic confection of such staggering depravity that the gods themselves intervened via pastry.' He made a note that the cake was a seven-tiered replica of the Imperial Palace, and the marzipan Emperor figurine is what lodged in his throat and resulted in his demise."
Alca sat in silence. The scent of herbs seemed a universe away. The quiet life he had accepted and carved out, it all seemed to crumble to dust. And no one died with a shred of dignity. It was a fitting end for all of them, but Alca? He recalled he played no part in this entire farce.
"So let me understand this," Alca said, his voice thin. "Six of my siblings are dead because of a cascade of incompetence, treachery, and—" Alca coughed. "-cake-play, and the crown now falls to me."
"I supposed it is what the contents dictate, sir."
"There's rumours of a civil war. The court is corrupt. The Varkhessian Empire is a growing threat. There's a famine, a drought in the south, and a looming epidemic at our borders. And they want me, to be king?"
"Yes sir, for the second time."
Alca stood up slowly. His chair clattered backward. He walked to the window, stared out at the dusty fields, the pathetic vegetable patch he had been so proud of. Then he turned back to Gerald, his rubellite eyes wide with something akin to a mix of realisation, horror and anxiety.
"What about my small, quiet, plan never, ever setting foot in that nest of vipers again? It is clear! They want me as scapegoat!"
Gerald shrugged, a gesture of profound sympathy wrapped in laziness and his emerald eyes held something of pity in them. "You were exiled on terms for potentially harming Prince Cassian, who was the favourite son. Now that the favourite son has died, the King's Will dictates that all of his children are viable for the throne. And you're like the only Royal Blood left."
Alca just looked at him like a barn owl.
Gerald continued, as if the casual words never left his mouth. "The Chancellor's letter also mentioned that your coronation is scheduled for next week, sir. He strongly advises you not to be late."
Both him and Gerald knew it just meant that they wanted a shield on the throne as soon as possible, to halt the uprising for a little more.
Alca then smiled weakly at him. He let out a sound, something in between a half laugh and a half groan, and slumped heavily back into his chair, gripping his head with both hands.
"Oh." he whispered to the dusty floor, to the vegetable patch, to the quiet life that had just been ripped away from him. "My. Goddess."
Gerald nodded slowly, rolled up the scroll, and tucked it under his arm. "I'll start packing, sir. If you are going to be king, I think I am also due for a pay raise-" He rambled on as he headed outside and Alca heard nothing of it.
He was now left alone with the ruins of his peace and the appalling truth that he was now the last, most unlikely king his blood-soaked dynasty and wretched kingdom had ever produced.
"You think it's a little too late to change my religion now?" Alca asked weakly to himself.
Meanwhile, the birds in the trees continued chirping merrily.