Heldraht Palace on the northwestern corner of Methrangia had a grand gilded marble façade and soaring undulating violet glass towers at each corner, but inside the residence of the Crown Prince of the Methrangian Empire it was a shoddily appointed disgrace in the eyes of most of the imperial court. Crown Prince Rohmhelt had never expended his royal allowance on furnishings and renovations, though the centuries old palace was badly in need of them. Many in the capital considered the state of the palace under the administrations of the Crown Prince to be a scandal and Rohmhelt relished their disdain.

For him, the expenditures were a horrible waste when close to half of the two million living within Methrangia dwelled in squalid conditions under the shadows of the glorious Solnaht Citadel. Emperor Covifaht, his father, often told him that while it was the duty of the imperial family to look after the less fortunate within the empire, they had to maintain their regal appearance for their own legitimacy.

“Our right to rule comes from the willingness of the people to follow our edicts. The willingness of the people to follow our edicts comes from the respect we are given. The respect we are given comes from how they see us. If the people see us as derelicts, we’ll be treated as such,” Covifaht would chide his eldest son. “And then that’s that.”

In addition to not spending lavishly on his principal residence, Rohmhelt had turned away the vast majority of the attendants tasked with tending to his personal needs. Those were duties he could attend to himself. Despite maintaining a manageable household staff, the Crown Prince rarely conversed with any of them. His limited ring of regular contacts centered on his chief advisor, the shrunken old former merchant Lohsandrord, known by all as “Lohs.”

Rohmhelt’s usual routine was to invite Lohs to his dressing room as he prepared his wardrobe for the day to hear the usual litany of affairs of state and courtly intrigue.

That day, Rohmhelt was in an especially foul mood as he had to struggle into the high formal clothes for a full audience with his father and then the whole of the imperial court. Lohs sat on a dark red wood chair behind Rohmhelt as the Crown Prince did battle with each ridiculous bit of ornamentation that had to be placed, pinned, or tied just so. Rohmhelt saw the bald old man chuckle in the mirror while he tied off the golden sash over his puffy indigo tunic.

“Will you get on with it?” Rohmhelt snapped as he pinned his various ribbons onto the sash. He could scarcely remember the order. The order mattered, or so he was told, for reasons that made no sense to him. “It’s bad enough that I have to go to this, but I would at least like to know what it is.”

Lohs placed a finger below his lips and chuckled again.

“Alright, alright. I’ll tell you what I know. The word in court is that your father intends to announce a partition of the empire,” Lohs seemed to try to speak so quickly that it would escape Rohmhelt’s notice.

The Crown Prince jolted his head around at his advisor. His eyes bulged out of his head.

“A partition? What?!” Rohmhelt gasped.

“Well, not formal. I should say it is dividing it between you and your brother for certain duties while your father rules over the whole of it. Kings in your regions, but your father as Emperor. He feels that…” Lohs attempted to explain it calmly, but Rohmhelt cut him off.

“I suppose I shall be left with the west, then,” Rohmhelt scoffed, turning his attention back to the mirror. His focus turned toward his thin, weak face, which was crowned with a robust head of unruly bluish green hair. Escaping the constant rumblings and gossip that he was not suited to succeed his father, that he did not have even the appearance of an emperor, was impossible. His own mind echoed those voices at all times. His younger brother, Duronaht, inherited all of the strong, handsome features of their father.

“Your father himself has said that the west is the future of the empire and…”

“What of the ceremony itself? What nonsense… What am I to expect?” Rohmhelt urgently tried to change the subject while he brushed his hair.

He saw Lohs lightly nod and fold his arms in irritation. Rohmhelt meant no offense and he knew Lohs would forgive it before long. They’d known each other long enough.

“The ceremony will follow a private audience between you, your father, and your brother in which your father will inform you of his decision. It will be held in the grand hall where you and your brother will sit in lesser thrones on either side of the Emperor’s throne…”

“So that’s what they have been working on,” Rohmhelt interrupted, almost pricking himself with a pin to one of the heavier ribbons as he straightened it.

Lohs nodded.

“Then, your father will deliver a speech announcing the decision to the hall, followed by speeches from you and your brother to…”

“What?!” Rohmhelt dropped his crown on the table in front of him before he was able to put it on his head. “A speech? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Sighing, Lohs straightened his ostentatious gleaming gold and red robes.

“I informed you as soon as I knew myself. Anticipating this, however, I have drawn up some written remarks that you can deliver if you’re so inclined,” Lohs said, reaching into his robes and withdrawing a neatly rolled scroll, wrapped in a silky lavender ribbon.

Relieved, Rohmhelt picked up the crown, a thin, but heavily jeweled band of platinum and nestled it into his thick hair, straightening it several times until at last it appeared presentable.

“Up a bit,” Lohs laughed, motioning with his thumb.

Rohmhelt sighed and pushed it up further in his hair. Lohs was right. The crown looked better that way. With the finishing strokes completed, he stood back to fully examine his ceremonial attire in the mirror. He noted various minor problems, but nothing that would be so scandalous as to occupy the court’s attention. Lohs stood from his chair and bowed.

“You approve?” Rohmhelt grumbled.

“It’s very good,” Lohs said, bowing again.

Rohmhelt forced a smile.

“Alright, then. Let’s be done with this,” Rohmhelt sighed and walked to leave his dressing room.

~

Some ten magnificent raised arched white stone bridges vaulted over the lower levels of Methrangia to converge on its center at Solnaht Citadel. They rose from various points of the city and coverged on the city center, which was embraced by two branches of the Keldras River. While the architects argued that this grandiose arrangement provided for a strong defense of the citadel from the empire’s enemies, all knew that it was simply an opportunity to display Methrangia’s remarkable engineering prowess. In truth, it was the angels who built it all.

Traveling from the northwest, Rohmhelt’s carriage rode fifty feet above the most deeply impoverished sections in the city. There the empire’s newly added races had migrated to the capital and settled in the squalid conditions allotted to the less desirable elements. Varanians, spindly scaly reptilians as tall as a man, joined destitute members of Rohmhelt’s own Nimorosian people among dozens of other peoples. Rohmhelt glanced out the window of the carriage while riding to the citadel, lamenting the cramped and disgusting streets.

“Is Duronaht bringing Parlon with him?” Rohmhelt asked as the carriage hit a bumpy stretch of the bridge. More than any simpering member of the court, the angel Parlon, patron angel of music, held an especially low place in the Crown Prince’s esteem.

“Yes, unfortunately. Your brother has a strong affection for him,” Lohs grumbled in a distant voice, clearly distracted by what he was reading. “Actually, I believe he will sing for your father as part of the ceremony. You will have to attend that bit, you know.”

Heavy dread swept over Rohmhelt. He could imagine Parlon, bombastic and belligerent, sweeping across the throne room, singing beautiful, yet haunting melodies at deafening volumes. The Crown Prince often wondered if he was the only soul in Methrangia who found Parlon a nuisance. In the same vein, Lohs had commented in the past that Rohmhelt must have been the only mortal born who did not appreciate the glories of music.

“I can’t feign illness?” Rohmhelt at last opened his eyes and looked at Lohs.

Lohs put down his scrolls, smirked, and shook his head slowly.

“Not this time. Ambassadors are one thing. Angels of Ceuna are quite another,” Lohs laughed.

“Quite,” Rohmhelt mumbled.

The bridge hooked from south to east, sliding past the north end of Solnaht Citadel before descending into the citadel grounds. Even in the midst of the grandeur of central Methrangia, with its massive glistening silver and amber marble buildings, Solnaht Citadel stood as an awe-inspiring structure. Fourteen smooth black stone towers rose some hundreds of feet at regular intervals around the citadel’s periphery, each topped with giant and beautiful glass orbs of differing colors. A series of eleven nested emerald stone domes forming the emperor’s keep soared from the citadel’s center, towering well above the peaks of the towers surrounding it. A twelfth dome sat atop the others, shaped like an egg laid on its side and comprised entirely of resplendent shimmering blue crystal. The keep’s crowning jewel served as the Emperor’s grand hall.

As the carriage descended into the citadel’s north courtyard, Rohmhelt quickly unfurled the speech Lohs had prepared for him and read it over. He smiled at its brevity. Terse, yet worthy of the occasion. Lohs had a particular talent that Rohmhelt could never fully comprehend.

“I think I can speak this from memory when the time comes,” Rohmhelt smirked. “Thank you.”

“Well, I knew you would have other things on your mind. Can’t have things too crowded up there, can we?” Lohs giggled.

“Besides, it feels like this thing is crushing my brains out,” Rohmhelt grunted, poking at his crown.

“I’m sure your brother would be more than happy to see you give it up,” Lohs said dryly. The Crown Prince rolled his eyes and sighed at the joke.

Once in the courtyard, the carriage came to a sudden halt. A trotting squad of guards donning amber-hued metal plate approached the carriage and formed two columns on either side of the path to the keep. The Solnahtern, guardians of the citadel, were merely ceremonial, never actually trained as serious warriors. Rohmhelt often joked with Lohs that his father’s kitchen staff was more adept at wielding dangerous implements than the Solnahtern.

Rohmhelt and Lohs walked up the lane of soldiers toward the northern entrance, from which Bolgrelt, Emperor Covifaht’s Minister of Court, emerged to give the crown prince a warm, if forced and perfunctory, greeting. The ancient, yet vibrant Bolgrelt was a sight to behold at 83 years. Still with a full head of silver hair and a podgy wrinkleless face, he added to his dynamic form with bright blue robes decorated with whirling patterns in gold thread. Endowed with the energies of a man sixty years younger, Bolgrelt made Rohmhelt feel exhausted in comparison.

“Your grace,” Bolgrelt said, bowing rapidly. He then pivoted and bowed slightly to Lohs. “My friend.”

Rohmhelt saw Lohs smile painfully at Bolgrelt. Theirs were always awkward encounters.

“Minister, I am prepared to see my father,” Rohmhelt quickly said to put an end to any uncomfortable silences.

Bolgrelt nodded sharply in recognition of the crown prince.

“But of course, Your Grace. The Emperor awaits you in his private chambers. I will escort Your Grace to the Emperor, if your grace finds that agreeable,” Bolgrelt chirped, offering an open hand.

“It would be. Thank you,” Rohmhelt said. He dreaded the inevitable slow ride on the lifts to the eleventh level of the keep with Bolgrelt’s constant praise of Duronaht. That the Minister of Court favored the younger of the Emperor’s sons, along with most of the rest of the court, was a poorly kept secret, so much so that Rohmhelt had begun to suspect Bolgrelt made it so obvious just to annoy him.

“It will be my great honor, Your Grace. Your brother has already arrived for…”

“If you’ll forgive me, minister, I must apologize that we came a little later than planned. My fault, actually, but I think you should get on with it to make up for the lost time,” Lohs interrupted, doubtlessly to stop what would have been obnoxious praise of Duronaht.

Bolgrelt gave a cutting forced smile in Lohs’s direction.

“Oh, of course,” he said, dripping with sarcasm. He bowed again and motioned toward the doors. “Please, Your Grace, follow me.”

~

Solnaht’s lifts were an irritatingly slow, but necessary means for traveling through the immensity of the keep. Teams of workers ran the pulleys up the keep’s core at the commands of the guards. Rohmhelt often wondered how miserable the days of the hidden multitudes of laborers were for such grand events as the looming reception. Hours of ceaseless operation of the lifts likely left the crews on the brink of death, crews that never had the opportunity to view the splendor of the ceremonies themselves.

The lifts’ platforms were dark, lightly polished wooden structures, uncomfortably cramped with room for only five or six souls at a time. Worse yet, Bolgrelt decided to stand uncomfortably close to Rohmhelt.

“The Emperor wished me to inform Your Grace of his decision prior to your audience with him” Bolgrelt said after a long silence. Rohmhelt did not acknowledge him. “The Empire will be divided into three kingdoms. The west, centered on Karmand, will be yours. The east, centered on Zarmand, will be your brother’s. Finally, Methrangia itself will hold the center of the empire and will be ruled directly by the Emperor. The Emperor feels that…”

“Thank you, I understand,” Rohmhelt mumbled. It was exactly as Lohs had said.

“Your Grace, I did promise the Emperor that I would finish, no matter your protests,” Bolgrelt sighed. “The Emperor feels that the present empire is unwieldy and impossible to rule from Methrangia alone. The Emperor believes that you and your brother will strengthen the empire as kings in your…”

“Father’s logic is self-evident,” Rohmhelt interrupted, annoyed at the waste of time in listening to Bolgrelt. He turned to face his father’s Court Minister again, noting an odd amulet hanging from Bolgrelt’s wrist. It was a crisp and striking violet hued metal engraved with a familiar design of a golden lute. Rohmhelt knew this to be a commonly used symbol for adherents to Parlon’s teachings, which, while not entirely divergent from Forynda’s, nonetheless met with suspicion among the priests of Methrangia for certain heterodox tendencies.

“Please, Your Grace, since you do seem to have such a firm hold on the Emperor’s mind, you can probably explain the logic better than I can,” Bolgrelt chided the Crown Prince. The Court Minister had a such smooth, deep, and oddly seductive voice that, even when condescending, was calming.

Rohmhelt looked up the shaft of the lift and saw to his dismay that it would be many more minutes until he ascended to the eleventh level.

“I shalln’t waste your time on this any more than you should waste mine by discussing things that we both already know,” Rohmhelt said, staring Bolgrelt down.

“Certainly,” Bolgrelt sighed with annoyance.

When at last the lift arrived at the eleventh level, it jarred violently as it pushed into place. Rohmhelt swiftly stepped under the archway and into the brightly lit, bright golden marble reception chamber while Bolgrelt trailed behind.

Near the far wall, Rohmhelt saw his brother, Prince Duronaht, slowly pacing, holding his arms loosely behind his back. Duronaht, as always, gave every outward appearance of the Emperor's true heir. All of his regalia was impeccably arranged, unlike Rohmhelt’s shoddy effort to dress himself. He had inherited his full green blue beard and square, strong facial features from their father. His prince’s crown sat naturally upon his head, as though it had grown around his skull since birth.

“Brother!” Duronaht exclaimed and ran toward Rohmhelt. Duronaht embraced his older brother harshly, slapping his back many times.

Rohmhelt pushed away as he felt his loosely attached ribbons coming off his sash. To his dismay, the burgundy and gold frilled ribbon representing his nominal title as Marquess of Ibdern, a small city on the far northern border, became dislodged and he fiddled in a panic to mend it.

“Yes, I’m happy to see you, too,” Rohmhelt mumbled unhappily while he continued to try make the ribbon presentable again.

Duronaht smiled and pushed Rohmhelt’s hands aside to effortlessly repair the damage himself.

“You must tell me who prepares all of this for you. They do a splendidly miserable job of it,” Duronaht laughed, his hazel eyes narrowing.

Rohmhelt gave a hostile smile back at his brother as he heard Bolgrelt shuffle in behind them.

“Your Graces both appear marvelous today, truly superb for the occasion!” Bolgrelt chirped and bowed before each of the princes. “I shall inform the Emperor that you are both ready to see him.”

After Bolgrelt closed the doors on the far side of the chamber, Rohmhelt struggled to think of something to say to his brother. He could see Duronaht amusedly observe his unease. Reluctantly, he settled on trite pleasantries.

“How fares Princess Torhess?” Rohmhelt asked with perfunctory courtesy. He realized he had not seen Duronaht’s frequently ill wife for the better part of a year. Rumors often swirled of her demise.

“As beautiful and gentle as ever,” Duronaht said proudly. “How fares… Lohs?” he asked with impish delight.

Rohmhelt rolled his eyes, sighed, and did not respond to the predictable jab. Despite his irritation at graciousness being met with discourtesy, he buried any desire to retaliate with ease. Patience had been something he learned to develop from a young age as Duronaht’s brother.

The doors flung open again and Bolgrelt swept into the room, bowed, and motioned for the brothers to enter. Rohmhelt offered to follow Duronaht, but his younger brother stubbornly insisted that Rohmhelt enter first. Reluctantly, the crown price led the way. He had hoped to slink in behind Duronaht to avoid the usual oppressiveness of his father’s greeting.

Even after the better part of a thousand audiences in the Emperor’s private chambers, Rohmhelt always took a moment to appreciate the humbling ornamentation of the room. Its floor was comprised immaculate platinum-hued marble and its ceiling a magnificent fresco depicting all of the angels of Ceuna with the majestic Forynda and the wise Vorlan at its center. Gilded emblems and marble statues covered the walls on all sides. At the opposite end of the room the Emperor’s imposing throne towered behind an opulent gold and glass table.

Emperor Covifaht II, patriarch of the House of Trundov, stood to the right of his throne, draped in bright emerald and indigo regalia and wearing his jewel-inlaid golden crown. Tall, muscular, and with a thick greying beard, Covifaht projected the appearance of everything the people pictured for an emperor, but Rohmhelt and a close circle of advisors knew that his robust façade had always concealed a number of infirmities, both in his mind and body. Spectacular bouts of pain shooting all throughout his body frequently struck without warning, sometimes for days without end, rendering him incapable of managing the affairs of the empire. Worse were his intractable spells of melancholy. Then there was also his mania.

That day, Rohmhelt knew which to expect.

“My sons!” he yelled, bounding forward with a manic smile. With a crushing embrace, he lifted Rohmhelt off the ground. He then dropped the crown prince almost carelessly before similarly squeezing Duronaht, who, to Rohmhelt’s amusement, was a touch too heavy to be lifted. The Emperor stepped back from the princes and approvingly nodded at both. “Today is an especially great day for both of you.”

“I am glad that…” Rohmhelt began, but was cut off.

“Both of you!” Covifaht exclaimed happily, seeming to fight back joyous tears. “Bolgrelt told you?”

Rohmhelt and Duronaht both looked to the other and nodded.

“He did and I must say that I…” Rohmhelt attempted to respond in a choked voice, but his father interrupted again.

“In an hour you’ll both be kings. You never expected that, I’m sure,” Covifaht bellowed and lunged forward to grab each by the shoulder.

“You’ve always been generous, father,” Rohmhelt said graciously while only sheepishly meeting his father’s eyes.

Covifaht pushed off and sprinted back to the table while his sons stood stunned. He returned swiftly with two silver metal boxes, each encrusted with intricate patterns of sapphires and rubies. Without saying a word, he forced one into the hands of each of the princes. Both Rohmhelt and Duronaht eyed the boxes and each other curiously.

“Oh come now, open them!” Covifaht blurted.

When he did, Rohmhelt saw a sleek metal ring black as night with silvery streaks swirling across the full circumference. Duronaht’s ring, by contrast, was cast from an enchanted blue-hued metal with an oddly watery texture to it. While he had heard of such creations, he had not seen anything like it. Even by the standards of ostentatious imperial Methrangian jewelry, these rings appeared peerless.

“I had these made uniquely for you, both of them from where you’ll reign as kings. That’s Karmandian black iron, that one. Oh, and plenty of platinum blended into it. Marvelous thing!” Covifaht said proudly. “And yours, that’s Zarmandian wetsteel, more valuable that ten times as much gold. Be careful not to crush it or bang it against anything. It’s a bit delicate, so keep it safe. The angels made it to be looked at more than anything, it seems.”

Duronaht thumbed the band with a quivering thumb while Rohmhelt simply slipped his onto the first finger of his right hand unceremoniously. Its inside was not nearly as smooth as the exterior and it ripped away flakes of skin. Glancing up from his ring, Rohmhelt saw Covifaht furrow his brow at Duronaht’s hesitant reaction.

“Is something the matter?” Covifaht asked.

Duronaht grimaced and grudgingly slid his ring on as well.

“I hope that I can speak plainly here, father,” Duronaht said, not raising his eyes to meet his father’s.

“You are my son. When we are alone, you both are free to say what you wish.”

Duronaht sighed again and ran a finger over his new possession.

“I know you do me a great honor granting me reign over the east, but in my heart I had hoped for the west,” Duronaht said.

Covifaht huffed in plain disbelief.

“I make you king of the east, our old heartland, our wealthiest lands, and you are disappointed?” Covifaht threw his arms into the air and turned his back on Duronaht. “Please, just and fair Forynda, descend here and shield me from ingratitude!”

Rohmhelt laughed behind his lips, which drew a sharp stabbing glance from Duronaht. His brother’s face only darkened at the insult. Rohmhelt shared his father’s incredulity that Duronaht would show anything but overflowing affection at being granted such an honor.

“Father, in the court, the whispers are that he who rules the west will rule the empire once you are gone. You’ve said yourself that the west is the future of the empire. Surely…” Duronaht attempted to approach the issue in a guarded tone, but was cut off.

“Your brother’s Crown Prince, is he not? Under the traditions of our family, he will rule after me, won’t he?” Covifaht turned about and sternly gazed at Duronaht.

“Yes, but… Father, we all know, even you, brother, that…”

“We won’t return to that topic again, now or ever!” Covifaht interjected, swiping is hand through the air as if to knock Duronaht’s words away. “If we ever descend down the path of yielding to every twitch of the court, angels save us. The court has its functions and none of those involve ruling! If, and I say if, I ever change the order of succession, it will only be because the situation merits it,” Covifaht paused and shot a glance toward Rohmhelt. The Crown Prince swallowed hard under his father’s intense gaze. “Be thankful that I have done this and be quiet!”

Duronaht and Rohmhelt stood shaken and silent after their father’s outburst. Observing this, Covifaht turned from a stern stare to a joyous smile, thrusting his heavy paws on his sons’ shoulders again.

“Come now! Let us eat. It’ll be a long day at court,” the emperor chirped and pushed off. “Lunch!” he bellowed toward the doors on the opposite end of the room. Insulted that he hadn’t been heeded straight away, he strode toward the doors and shouted louder. “Bring it in! Bring it in!”

The heavy doors on either side creaked open and a stream of servants crept through, carrying dish after dish. Without saying a word, the swarm of servants arranged the platters on the table before the Emperor’s throne. Smells of seared meat and fresh fruit overwhelmed the chamber.

“After you, brother,” Duronaht motioned lethargically to Rohmhelt.

With the thought of a miserable day at the court ahead of him, Rohmhelt had almost no appetite, but struggled through the meal.