Chapter 13

To Become a King

Valen paced back and forth in his new chambers, afforded to him by the castle's custodian. It was a room previously lived-in by the noble family and came with all the amenities and luxuries of one: there were three rooms separated by hanging curtains, a proper bath, a closet full of lavish clothes, two man-sized mirrors, and a floor covered up with rugs.

Though it was still like a horse's barn compared to Valen's childhood room, it was a massive upgrade nonetheless. However, he had little mind to pay to the fanciness of the room as his mind was overly distracted by what the Prophet said. That very same prophet was, in fact, right here, sitting on a cushioned chair and nibbling away at the feast Valen had ordered for the two. He'd occasionally drink it all down with some fine, grape wine, and maintained silence all the while, as though waiting for Valen to break it. The latter, in the end, had no choice.

“Are… are you certain?” Valen asked.

“Certain?”

“That the God… that He wants… me on the Throne?”

“Oh, that. Yea, yea, yea,” the Prophet Sylas nodded. “You’re the man for it, He told me so Himself. In the end, however, it is entirely your choice; God has merely afforded you me as means and an opportunity. It is not guaranteed that we will succeed even if we try. Many sacrifices will have to be made before the journey’s end.”

Valen paused in the middle of the lavish room, bearing a contemplative look. From the bottom of his soul, he hated the crown, the throne, and all the ills that they represented. They were the things and ideas that killed his mother, destroyed his life, and exiled him to the land of the dead. The blue blood, the God's chosen, they were all the symbol of decay and destruction in the young Prince's eyes. And now… now he was being told that he was chosen by God himself to bear the burden of the crown. Was this a plight? A fate's playful irony? Or did God choose him specifically for that reason?

A thousand questions swarmed his mind but he stifled them. Instead, he glanced at the prophetic figure still casually eating and drinking; it was simple, the man’s countenance. He seemed fearless, abject, unhurried, entirely unbothered by the world itself, as though his reality was completely divorced from everyone else’s. Contrary to what all his teachings were screaming at him, Valen found the man… liberating, almost. Watching him seemed to calm the flames of anger that had begun burning.

If it was God’s will, then the choice was an illusion. He didn’t want to go back, and he didn’t want the throne… but, perchance, that is what makes a King. His Father, similarly, never wanted the throne—he told him so. Valen's uncle, late Prince Chels, was supposed to ascend the throne but he fell ill and died eight days before his coronation. In his place, Valen's Father was tasked with the toil he never asked for. And he endured for all these years. His whoring habits notwithstanding, he was a good King all this while, if a flawed man.

“Do you… can you see me as a King?” Valen asked, finally calming somewhat and sitting down, picking up a few grapes to nibble on.

“The King’s whoever wears the crown,” the man replied casually, as though it was the dumbest question in the world. “If crazed men willing to burn their own in some self-indulgent sacrilege can be called Kings… why can’t you?”

“…” Valen fell silent, realizing it was the truth. How many histories spoke volumes of crazed and maddened men and women reigning masses? Were they good Kings and Queens? No, they were loathed—by contemporaries and histories alike.

Far up here, exiled beyond the realms of men, Valen was helpless. He couldn't change anything and couldn't do much for others. And saving the castle, even if by the means of a prophetic message… it felt good. And beyond that, seeing the surviving faces light up at dawn like the brightest of lanterns during the festivals, and seeing their beaming smiles… he couldn't imagine the other outcome, the one in which God simply decided to look the other way.

Being chosen was irrelevant; for the good of his fellow men, if there was a choice and an opportunity… he had to take it. He will undoubtedly make foes ‘cross the peninsula, and there would be many attempts at his life, but he was not a child any longer. Though a fierce swordsman he was not, he believed in his heart, and his ability to touch the hearts of others.

“Very well,” determined, he pressed his lips together and clutched a fist, nodding. “I will do God’s bidding.”

“… relax,” Sylas said, smiling gingerly at him. “This isn’t something we’ll do overnight. In fact, it will be a while before we even leave this place.”

“H-huh?”

“The first course of action is winning the noble family of the castle over,” Sylas continued, still nibbling away at the food, now at the pieces of a chicken. “And ensuring they don’t send a letter to the capital to your step-mom or whatever. Until then, you and I have many chats to… have? Ah, whatever. Anyway, just relax.”

Sylas truly wasn’t in a hurry—especially considering there wasn’t a time limit on the quest. He could take his sweet time, and sweet time he was going to take. He knew next to nothing about this world at large, and before making literally any moves, he wanted to know everything. Beyond that, he was also afforded a sword-mastery-thingy, something called a 'Heartseeker', but nothing has shown up since. He hypothesized that he'd probably have to pick up a sword to see it, so there was also that.

In the end, however, he just… wanted a break. He'd died so many times in such a short timeframe and had seen so many others die awful deaths, that he needed to get away from it all for a while. Death itself as a concept had, scarily, begun to elude him. Fear, humanity's greatest motivator, was creeping away from his soul. Immortal or not, he didn't want to surrender to that reality; even if self-imposed, he wanted to limit just how many times he died. It all already did a number on his psyche and he wasn't certain just how many breakdowns he could silently endure before flying off the handle… permanently.

“As such,” he spoke in-between the bites. “Tell me about your situation, in detail. I know most of the things already, but it will best for both of us to hear and understand another perspective.”

“… yes, that is true,” Valen nodded, taking a deep breath and collecting himself. “As you know, I am, by count, the Sixth Prince of the Ethernia Kingdom. There are, in total, fourteen official Royal Children: nine Princes and five Princesses. Of the fourteen, three are children of the Queen—the Crowned Prince, the Fourth Prince, as well as the Second Princess. Of the remaining eleven, ten are born of the King’s official concubines and then, well, there’s me.”

“…” Sylas listened patiently. After all, any one of the details given here could determine the success or the failure of the quest in the long run, that much even he knew.

“Before the exile, my relationship with the siblings was… complex. There’s hardly any love among us, even me notwithstanding. Our whole lives are just a massive competition and, since our early childhoods, we are taught to view others, both our siblings as well as the noble children, as potential competitors. Nonetheless, none of the others truly hated me, I don’t think. My best relationship was likely with the youngest Princess, Aeya. She was barely four at the time of my exile, so it hardly speaks highly of my character.”

"What about the noble families?" Sylas asked. More often than not, in the monarchies, noble families were as, if not even more, important as the royal ones.

“Hmm, their number isn’t exactly low,” Valen frowned all of a sudden. “Due to the good forty-fifty years of constant skirmishes, both with other Kingdoms as well as the Others, many have earned enough merits to be granted a title. Though most are just low-standing Baron, it still affords them a voice in the Court, however muffled.

“When it comes to the major families, however, there are really only three, centering around the Kingdom’s three Dukes—Varaj, Serog, and Fakhtal Dukedoms. The three hold the largest chunks of lands as well as armies, but what makes them unique is that they don’t participate in any fights for succession. At least not on the surface.”

“They don’t?” Sylas asked, arching his brows.

"No," Valen replied, shaking his head with a sigh. "They are loyal to the throne more so than whoever sits on it. The three Dukes are charged with defending the Kingdom from external threats and they rarely, if ever, look inward. In charge of the court are the eight Counts and the lesser houses. If I want to become a King, though I can’t exactly just disregard Dukes, Counts is where I’ll have to make my friends.”

“…” Sylas fell silent and contemplative. He didn’t know nearly enough about the basic politics of monarchy to draw up any conclusions. Most of his knowledge was derived from the fantastic versions of medieval events updated for the ‘modern audiences’ as well as some novels he’d read in his youth. Beyond that, there was a major gap; he understood modern society, as well as individual people, rather well, but that knowledge didn’t really translate into knowing how the Royal Court and whatnot worked. Because of this, he knew, he’d have to heavily rely on Valen’s knowledge. Luckily, as the Kingdom’s Prince, it was likely that his knowledge was a well that ran deep.

“Beyond that," Valen continued after a momentary pause to drink some wine. "There's also the Church. Although it officially doesn't tangle itself with the Court and whatnot, that's only on the surface. Their word can, effectively, bless or condemn a figure in the commoner's eyes. In many ways, for the latter, the Church stands even above the King as the representative of God upon this world. With you by my side, however, I figure we can easily sway the Church our way."

“If they discarded their mantra not to tangle with the politics,” Sylas said. “And sound as though they can be bought to condemn a man, what makes you think they’ll accept me? They could just as easily label me a false prophet and execute me.”

“But if you show them your—”

“That’s irrelevant,” Sylas immediately interrupted. He wasn’t, in fact, a prophet; he was already quite uncomfortable playing the role just for the Prince, but if he went and convinced the church to the same idea, won’t he have to be a prophet for a lifetime? That sounded like torture. Beyond that, however, he just didn’t want the spotlight. That belonged to Valen and not him. “We’ll worry about that later. For the time being, there’s only one thing we need to focus on: the noble family holding this castle. Now, tell me everything you know about them, and spare no details. All our hopes depend on it.”