Talon’s POV

I pressed my lips together in thought, and put down my spoon. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said, “but your ‘kingship’ is an inherited position.” For once, Crim hadn’t tried to steal my food, and had actually allowed me to have a meal in peace. Rather, it seemed quite content to cuddle up by side, napping and making a soft purring noise. What a strange bird.

“It is,” Elian confirmed.

“Then it should be impossible for you to become king,” I prompted, fully expecting them to have some bullshit solution to this problem.

“Normally, but Gresha City would’ve probably crumbled sooner or later if it didn’t have some contingencies to that rule,” Elian said, and snatched away some of my spiced flatbread.

I scowled. “Really? You’d steal food from a starving man?”

“I’m hungry too.” Elian said, popping the bread in their mouth, then began to speak, spewing crumbs everywhere. “Usually the Crown-Son is the blood son of the previous king, and the current Head Priestess. But what happens if the king is impotent? Or killed before he can produce an heir? Or everyone just hates him a lot?”

“I can’t imagine it would be especially pretty,” I said, lifting a spoonful of broth to my mouth again. Elian nodded.

“Damn right it wouldn’t be pretty. Either we’d have no leader, or we’d have a dozen families and factions squabbling to put a leader on the throne before the temple can,” Elian snorted with another shower of crumbs. “So we have a process: the Crown’s Favor. Once a challenge is made, by a male Greshan citizen who’s never committed a crime, it can’t be rejected or rescinded. The challengers, or the challenger and the current Crown-Son, will perform feats of channeling. Whoever’s judged to be more impressive is stated to have the Crown’s favor, and becomes the new Crown-Son.”

I squinted, setting my now-empty bowl aside. “Elian.”

They wiped their mouth. “Yes.”

“Your channeling is better than average. But compared to myself and Nania, it’s awful.”

“Yes.”

“Gresha City channeling prizes literacy and memorization,” I continued. “You’re not literate. Nor are you good with memorization.”

“I’m not,” Elian agreed.

“And yet, you became king somehow, didn’t you?” I asked, suddenly regretting that I had just eaten. That I hadn’t pressed Elian for answers earlier, that I had let my guard down.

Elian did not answer, only ducked their head, their hair falling in front of their face. But there was no other explanation why Elian could be down here. Clearly they had not snuck down here with stealth, a servant had accompanied them with a prepared and lavish dinner. Elian was not dressed in the manner of a palace guard, and so had not infiltrated their rotations. And no guards accompanied us, they trusted him enough to leave us alone.

Or perhaps they had been ordered to do so.

“Elian,” I asked, a tremor entering my voice. Beside me Crim stirred, warily lifting its head. “Elian. Who did you channel to become Crown-Son.”

Elian let out a desperate chuckle.

Lordrin POV

A challenge for Mother’s favor. And so early, before the suns had even arisen. If I had the option, I would have laughed the challenger out of my court and my city. But to not accept the challenge would be to indirectly tell my people I believed it had some merit, that I could actually lose. While there was no written law saying I had to accept, it was in truth my only choice. If I declined, I’d be flooded with challengers who believed I had lost the Crown’s favor and was trying to avoid letting the knowledge get out.

But that was all hypotheticals. As of now, I was a king who had done nothing wrong, nothing to displease the people. It would be a nuisance, and little else. The challenge would fade into the mess of history and this day would be remembered as an unremarkable one, most likely. But if I approached it correctly and seriously, it would serve as an excellent reminder why I was the one to hold Mother’s favor.

That said. No one ever stated a Crown-Son needed to prepare in a timely manner. I continuously held power, and the city and the court moved only at my say-so. And so I took my time in making my preparations, both to consider my strategy and to eat at the nerves and confidence of the challenger. Patiently, I waited as my servants bathed me, dressed me, applied makeup, taking advantage of the time to consider how to approach this challenge. Of course, my victory was guaranteed, but this was an opportunity to show off my superior channeling before the court, and to impress upon Forya how her training had not gone to waste. Once I and the challenger had each decided upon a method of channeling, and what sort of feats we would each be using our channeling to accomplish, necessary preparations would be made in advance, so as to minimize the amount of time we, and the audience, would be left waiting, once the duel began in earnest. Of course, even then the challenge could take hours or even days. Channeling could be a lengthy endeavor, especially when one wanted to wield truly impressive magic.

No matter how long I delayed, however, the hour of the challenge did arrive, shortly before the suns were to set. I entered my throne room first, sweeping past the bowed courtiers, scribes, and priestesses until I sat upon my throne, at which point I gave the lot of them permission to rise again. After me, the challenger entered. Taking care to project only an air of bored interest, I coolly analyzed him. His face was bare of any facial hair, and his hair was short and unadorned. Alongside his plain clothes, he was overall quite unimpressive. The short red cloth informed me that he had not come from nobility, likely had no formal training in channeling, and any knowledge of the subject he possessed was in the types of channeling that the farmers and commoners used. I appreciated its usefulness out in the fields, but I knew it would earn him no favors amongst my court.

The scars upon his body, and the muscle evident beneath layers of skin and fat, did give me pause. I recalled that I had been informed that the challenger was a soldier under Menone. Clearly he was no coward, and did not shy away from a fight. This was not a challenge made in vanity or arrogance, perhaps it was an earnest gesture, even if I couldn’t fathom his reasons for it. Even if, realistically, he stood no chance. At last, I gazed on his face, taking in his expression: a schooled neutral look which even Forya would feel pride in.

Even if I failed to understand his reasons for challenging me, I could give this challenger the due courtesy of taking our duel seriously. As a precious citizen of mine, he deserved that, at least.

I cleared my throat. The room fell silent. “And what is the challenger’s name?” I asked, my voice ringing through my throne room.

The soldier ducked his head and stomped three times. “Soldier Elian, child of farmers Aren and Grenia, elder brother and protector to six siblings, challenging Crown-Son Lordrin, King of Gresha, for Crown Naruune’s favor and Gresha’s throne.” My lip curled slightly; so he knew the proper etiquette, good. My gaze passed to a nearby scribe.

“Is the challenger’s intent in this duel pure?” I queried. The scribe stood, hands fisted tightly at their sides.

“Soldier Elian, son of farmers Aren and Grenia, has never been formally accused of any major crime,” they reported, before bowing stiffly and sitting again. Then I turned to Menone, taking a moment to observe my half-brother’s expression. Curiously, he was watching Elian with a mixture of pride and rapt interest.

“And has he served his homeland well?” I asked Menone. A common courtesy, the scars on the boy’s body spoke a plain language.

Menone nodded, usually seriously for him. “The lad serves his homeland well. He is clever, driven, and amiable in the face of hardship,” he confirmed.

I raised an eyebrow ever-so-slightly. Careful, Menone. It wouldn’t do to show favor to the challenger in front of the Crown-Son. My message seemed to be received, as Menone straightened the curl of his lips. Finally I addressed Forya.

“Head Priestess Forya. On what grounds does the challenger covet the throne? What sin has the Crown-Son committed?” I could feel the members of the court exchanging glances, wondering the very same.

Forya was grim-faced as she said her piece. Though the quarrel between us was never resolved, I knew better than anyone what a stickler for traditions she was. To remove a King trained for the role from birth from the throne was unthinkable to the woman. Like a true professional she buried her feelings, and said through gritted teeth, “No sin, Crown-Son.”

“Then does Challenger Elian have any declarations to make, before Crown, Crown-Son, and court?” I asked, openly addressing the challenger for the first time. The court took this as an excuse to ogle the boy, the full force of their gaze descending upon him like crows blessed with a feast of carcasses. Either he was very ignorant or very disciplined, because he kept his eyes fixed on me and his reactions under control as he answered.

“Let my challenge speak for me,” he said. I grunted neutrally in acknowledgement of his words. A rather basic answer, giving nothing away. All it truly said was that he was either discontent or power-hungry enough to challenge me. Though it was not usually the farmers and commoners who challenged due to such motivators as ambition and greed. Typically they only rose when a large percentage of the populace was genuinely displeased with the king...but I had heard no such mutterings of revolution in my reign. Was this a reaction to my rulings not to execute or exile Candidate Nania? Was he among those who believed she was a wielder of Hell magic? It was the only thing I could think of.

Well. I supposed I would need to keep a closer eye on the commoners’ gossip mills once this was over, and see to it that Candidate Nania properly and publicly atoned. But if worst came to worst, losing a powerful asset was preferable to losing the trust and support of my city. As king, my citizens’ trust was an irreplaceable asset that separated me from a base tyrant.

“The declarations have been made. The challenger may sit; tradition states the Crown’s beloved son call upon her first,” Forya announced.

The boy didn’t so much as sit, as instead collapsed upon a bench offered to him. He seemed to take up as little space in the set as he could, while I hefted up the ax leaned against the side of my throne in both hands and stood. A servant set out the preparations I had requested—a basin of water—and I began to channel.

Even taking this seriously, it would be a simple task. Briefly I stretched and warmed my muscles, the light catching my jewels and adornment in such a way it threw glittering rays about the room, as I approached the basin. Once I was before it, I slammed the butt of my ax down on the floor three times, and began to speak.

“Many rains prior, in the last days of the war between the Sun Fiend and the Sun Falcon,” I said, projecting confidence and power, “Crown Naruune built a city. Its waters were clear and its fields were verdant. And from all ends of the earth, the people came to populate the city.” Since I had been young, the Head Priestess had given me the highest education in channeling. She had drilled me in which forms were superior to other styles, and which stories were most pleasing to the Crown. It was the belief of the Greshans that no matter how sweet a voice was to the ear, no matter how graceful a dance, channeling was, in the end, a story. All else was frivolity and flourishes. A true master of channeling was capable of bringing the gods to tears with just his spoken words. “And so it was, when it came to flourish, as she licked her wounds, that the Sun Fiend turned her envious eyes to the prospering city. ‘Lo,’ she spoke. ‘If my children cannot feast upon fresh meat and hunt under the light of the suns, then neither can the children of Crown Naruune!”

It was not just my choice of channeling that was important. The choice of story was significant too. And so I selected one of Gresha City’s oldest and most beloved epics, one which held special significance to me. The story of how Gresha’s first dynasty, along with the city itself, was destroyed by the Sun Fiend, and how my ancestor rebuilt it.

The tale was a lengthy and dramatic one, covering the stories of a large cast of figures, their own tales feeding into a grander narrative like tributaries feeding a river. But it was one I knew the insides and outsides of well, even as I trimmed some of the narratives for a shorter performance, and I performed it as an adept would, controlling my tone and volume masterfully. There was no need to even glance at the audience; I knew they were rapt. An hour in, and at last I felt the connection between myself and Mother. Enough magic had accumulated that I could begin my true display.

Slowly, deliberately, I hefted the ax from the ground, and began to proceed through a series of movements and fighting stances. As I did so, a lengthy ribbon of water rose up from my basin, following the movements of my blade. There were dozens of stories that made up the full breadth of the Reparation Cycle, I had chosen to make one piece in particular the crowning jewel of my narrative.

The tale we told to bring the rains. The story of Reane, Onaiga, and the Dragon Orioselaine. As the crowd gasped in awe, a warm pride loosened my muscles further, as I embellished my narrative, dancing and gliding across the floor. It was only when my performance brought me near the basin once again that I nearly stumbled and tripped over my own feet. Thankfully, this tale was so familiar to me that my body carried on even as my mind stuttered, sliding through practiced movements like a fish in the River Ter.

There was still water in the basin. By my estimate, the basin remained over half-full. But that was...unlikely. My form, my choice of style and story—it was all impeccable. A creepy chill slithered across my spine as I grew distracted. Mother had no reason not to favor me. Why hadn’t she allowed me enough magic to control all the water? Why?

Unless...I had done something to displease her after all? Was Nania really…?

My mind returned to me as the performance came to an end, late into the night, or perhaps the small hours of morning. One last time I thumped my ax’s butt against the floor and bowed slightly, the ribbon of water evaporating into a cloud over the audience’s head, as drops began to fall. Their applause should have drowned out the little seeds of doubt in my mind before they fully bloomed. At least none of the audience seemed to have noticed that the basin was still over half-full, but it didn’t stop me from wondering as I made my way back to my throne: had I truly upset Mother to the point she had retracted her blessing? Was such a thing truly possible?

If that was the case...did this boy, the challenger Elian, have a genuine chance? Had I misjudged the significance of this Crown’s Favor challenge? I began to observe him more intently now that my portion of the challenge had passed. And it was easy to see, I was not the only one; as he rose to his feet and stepped into the center of the room, all eyes turned to him. The court was eager to spy and pick apart any sign of weakness in the boy. Any excuse to ridicule the arrogant fool believing himself capable of rivaling the Crown-Son. But I examined him for a different reason, wondering what he might possess that had swayed the Goddess so.

The servants did away with the basin, and brought out a small, withered potted plant. None too surprising for the son of a farmer. Neither was his choice of channeling: singing. I knew it was often that the farmers would sing to their plants, lullabies that the seeds may dream of growing big and verdant yield. An echo of tittering echoed through the crowd, swiftly hushed by Menone, as the boy began to sing.

I cannot say he was particularly good. Stones did not weep, neither did the birds and wind join his voice in a mighty chorus. It was not the stuff of legends we were witnessing tonight. He was not very loud, and at times devolved to muttering to himself and humming. The boy did not raise his head to look at me or his audience, he kept his head bowed, whispering almost feverishly to the plant. His choice of story, too, was curious. It was not a recognized tale passed down and refined from generation to generation, not a story I recognized at all. A bold risk, at best.

From the bits and pieces I could pick up and put together, it was a story about...about two friends. Two friends who met the Sun Fiend, who despite training for years failed to defeat the Sun Fiend. About the oaths they made and the blood and tears they shed.

It was awful. It was quiet and disordered and rambling and dull and of absolutely no interest to the court, who were beginning to exchange glances to each other in boredom and confusion.

It was...deeply personal. Desperate. Fervent. For the first time, I felt as though I wasn’t the audience for this song. It was not a well-honed performance, polished and perfected. It was a performance of one, for one. I watched the withered plant intently as his muttering reached a crescendo.

Nothing.

While my aim was to manipulate water and create rain, the challenger’s had been to revive the withered potted plant. But it did not perk back up into viridescent growth. It stayed. Browning. Bent. The challenger mimicked it, hunched over it, as his whispers became more frantic. And so it went for over an hour. Head Priestess Forya glanced towards me; the challenge would only end when the boy stood up and surrendered, she knew. All we would do was continue to watch.

So strange. This was not the one favored by Mother? One who could not even properly wield her power and blessing? Then why did she not bestow her full favor upon me…?

A few of those watching suddenly gasped, as the boy let out a strangled yelp. The plant had caught fire, it was now disintegrating into ash. With a frantic Nononono he redoubled his efforts, but it was all for naught. The plant was gone already. Menone looked disappointed, albeit unsurprised, while on my other side a glint of confusion appeared in Forya’s expression.

I was similarly perplexed. That...did not usually happen when channeling. Upon a failed spell, typically absolutely nothing happened. Why would the plant suddenly catch fire like that…?

Wait. No. When did it get so hot? Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. I discreetly rubbed it off on my richly dyed clothes. Then there was a sudden pressure. A looming presence, which seemed to crush my very being. If I hadn’t already been seated, I would have been forced to kneel. Then with some shame, I felt the cloth between my inner thighs become sticky and warm and wet. I swallowed, cheeks burning with humiliation. But that...wasn’t right. I was the Crown-Son. I kneeled for no one but Mother!

The rest of the room was not faring much better. Forya was left grey-faced, gasping, gaping, on all fours. Menone’s face was stony as he held himself up on the side of the throne. Several priestesses and court members watching the proceedings passed out altogether. Only the kneeling challenger did not seem to notice, so taken by the burnt plant. The rising suns through the window went completely unnoticed, even as rays of warm fire and blood fell across the throne room floor in slices.

And then there was a woman kneeling over him.

A muscular and compact frame. Short, dark, and wild hair. I liked to imagine an aura of power emanated from me as I went on with my royal duties, but her aura of power was no figure of speech. It was a heavy tide of heat, living and writhing. A choking sensation that left me wondering if I was dying. Slowly the sense of heat and pressure passed, as she stood, hovering a foot or so above the ground, staring down at the boy. As if she waited for his beck and call.

There was one thing I knew, with absolute certainty. She was not a human. Who was this boy, to have a being like her at his command? Such a thing was unprecedented…

Slowly, the challenger lifted his head, eyes wide and strangely fragile. He took in the otherworldly, inhuman being before him, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then a thin and weak voice filled the room.

“I can’t believe...you actually came…”

The woman’s face broke into a sharp-toothed grin, the fiercest and most frightening of affirmations, as if to say Of course.