Three days later, inside Baerysian’s capital, physicians to Emperor Morpheus poured through his main chamber in a storm of blue cloaks and leather poulaines. While there might be twenties or so servants squirming around throughout the castle, worrying about their dying emperor well-being. The head practitioner and advisor, Francis Antedo, however, was the only one leaning silently outside Morpheus’s bedroom door with his head down and arms tucked in solitude for the past hours. On most surfaces, he seems hopeful, even rational, but in truth, the advisor knows they will never find the cure for this illness that had struck its last remaining hours.
Earlier, he had stormed into a room that smelled of blood, and resinous incense when Francis sees the sorcerer standing by the emperor’s bedside, hovering both her hands wide to cascade a calming blue aura over the feeble man lying in agony.
Francis could see hints of fatigue under the woman’s eyes as her power weakened every seconds she emit those luminance lights.
“Please give us a moment, Fraya,” he nervously said striding forward.
The sorcerer wearing a thick black cloak hesitated before slowly gathering herself toward the door when she turned around and warned him in a whisper. “I’ve never seen someone be sicken so quickly I’m afraid it might even be over before dawn.” She pressed, “I’ll be back once Leon gets here, but an advice to not rile him up Francis; spare that man an earful.” She said, waiting for his nod in approval of her little spew with a stricken look did Fraya finally leave.
“Damn it, Morpheus!” Francis yelled when they were alone in the room. “You knew all along this would happen, yet you still trusted that bastard. Now look what he has to repay us.” The man aggressively lowers himself to the emperor’s bedside. “An emperor killed by his own kin.”
Morpheus finally let out a slight laugh at his brother’s weird expression. He joked, “Must you be so hurtful?” His laugh turned into a grunt as the pain hit him.
“What hurtful is his unforgivable crime, not my words.”
The agony was written too plainly across his face; “Isaax only did it because he had to. I won’t blame him for wanting me dead.” Morpheus said, even in his final hour, the dying emperor bear no ill will.
“Morpheus…” The Black Seal is long gone with Isaax; everyone would be good as dead before your death anniversary even arrives, he wanted to say, but the words would not come out. Has the moment between life and death can change someone so greatly, even a unsentimental person like the emperor would say such bittersweet words.
A lock of shiny white hair fell across his eyes as the man looked up. “Francis,” Morpheus cried out, moving very slowly as if he were still dreaming. “Leon…standing will falter as a bare king, only his courage can shield the realm from the darkness to the three lands, upon my death… to rule in my stead…help my son, Francis. Only you know what a wretched emperor I’ve been. Make him be better than me.” His voice had been faint as a whisper. “You and Fraya will be his last standing piece.” Morpheus winced.
“Are you certain?” Francis asked quietly, sitting on scorching fire at the edge of the bed.
Morpheus hesitated. He wanted to say something else but instead lifted his hand, the gesture pained and feeble. “Leon is the last heir…but The Rebels, it’s all in the past now, Catherine’s right... don’t go after them anymore…their children…those kids are innocent, leave them be.” He said; the agony was written too plainly across Morpheus’s face. Those words twisted his gut like sharp daggers. “Promise me,” Morpheus pressed.
The advisor smiled thinly; “Do I look like a liar?”
As they both shared a small laugh, he repeated, “Promise me, Francis.” The spell had taken hold and fogged Morpheus’s mind. He lowered himself to the bed; only when Francis gave him his word did the fear go out of Morpheus’s eyes. May heaven… be with you all. When those final thoughts escaped his trembling lips, Morpheus softly sagged himself into the pillow, and sleep took him.
After that, the disquiet advisor remembered nothing. His steps became weary, and he slumped to the side as he called for the servants and physicians. Outside the door with his head lowered in contemplation, waiting for some sort of miracle to happen if he would just close his eyes and walk away from the room reeking of death.
Heavy chains jangled softly as a royal knight came up to him. “Headmaster, the prince has arrived.”
He hesitated before nodding in approval for the guard to leave. Remaining still in a pose, Francis soon saw a tall figure emerging from the steep stairwell. His striking short hair was as white as snow, and through those fierce greyish-brown eyes gazing straight ahead into the darkness carried deep hints of sorrow. Upon closer look, large ink stains splashed all over the man’s velvet cloak lined in yellow silk brocade around the hem blowing in between each step he took, spreading a more ominous aura around him.
Leon stops in front of the door, unable to let himself step inside just yet. “How is he?” his voice grows impatient. He has only to look at the advisor to know that something is dreadfully wrong.
“They’re doing everything within existing power, but the curse seems to have already taken a toll on him. We have tried to lessen his suffering, but only a miracle can heal what’s left.”
“How long?” Leon asked.
“By rights he will not live past the night; neither the physicians nor Fraya know for certain, but only the dying man can tell how much time he has left.”
Leon knew right away when a strange chill went through him, and without a word, he made his way toward the frigid coldness of the chamber. His jaw clenched with uneasiness before turning the door handle ever so slightly, his heart pounding rapidly when the advisor suddenly placed a hand on Leon’s shoulder, gently nudging him backward.
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“Leon,” Francis said as though trying to comfort him.
But Leon’s face was strangely empty of expression as he spoke frankly, “Don’t let any servants disturb his rest aside from Fraya. And for certain, no one can know Isaax is responsible for this, at least not until I can find him back alive.”
“What about the Black Seal? The empire’s protective veil is already weaken as it is.”
Thinking in quick cleared thoughts he said. “Tell Atlas to send out an order from his majesty to find sorcerers across the land and gather them at the capital, I want every single one of them, if they refuse, offer whatever it takes for their forthcoming. Keep this matter in discreet until the seal is found; those creatures aren’t going to wait around any longer.”
The advisor gave him a definite nod; “At your command, My Lord.”
When Francis left him, the perfect evenness of Leon’s temper, a rare and valuable quality in a sovereign, held no restraint.
i.
That winter, a grand funeral for the emperor commenced for three days straight in the palace. A coffin covered in glitter and gold felt unlike the man lying inside being carried by twenty-one knights in shining armors, and hundreds of nobilities making way to the House of Prayer. The street capital was filled with people throwing golden Aemion flowers across the pathway, and for the first time in years, the golden castle bells rang like a sorrowful song for the death of their leader.
Leon was present from the embalming to the burial; the moment he saw the silky fabric of the radiant sun symbol covering the hollow-out face of his father, a certain unpleasantness ran through him. Even worse, Francis had told the prince he was supposed to cry. No one knows if it is because of the drugs the young prince has taken to reduce his insomnia or if he is genuinely dead inside. Still, those tired eyes have yet to shed any ounce of sympathies.
Inside the house, Francis, who was standing at the side, whispered closely to Leon, looking out toward the crowd of judging eyes as the Arch Pheonix recited deep prayers to the entire capital on a massive altar.
“Apparently, only one captain has made it back to shore in Clereta; five of their ships have been hijacked; their sailors tortured and hung by pirates across Aldebaran’s territory.”
Leon had a bitter taste in his mouth. Hands clutching on the sword strap beside his waist. “What else?”
Francis looked apprehensive. “Xodon said he saw them hoisted King Aldebaran’s banner for a peaceful turnover. Considering this as a warning from Arthur, once you’re crowned, I suggest we should postpone your enthrone till we learn about your brother’s whereabouts.” He did not wait for a reply. “You are his last threat, Leon. If anything happened, it would be your blood that shed these halls.”
“My death should be the least of your worries. Every moment we delay gives that man another chance to be prepared, and by the time we find Isaax, it may already be too late…for all of us. Then there won’t be any blood left to shed.” As he took a breather, staring intensely at the stained glassed window illuminate by sunlight sweeping through the white palace, Leon turned to look out into the sea of nobility sitting among one another across ten rows of painted wood pews. He took a glanced at the familiar middle-aged man who seemed to be sitting on the edge of his seat before leaning over to whisper quietly into Francis’s ear.
Only when the Arch Pheonix concluded his speech, marking an end to the day of interment, did a sudden relief hit the atmosphere in Baerysian’s capital. Outside, between the crowds of people slowly exiting the sanctuary, the man from before lingers inside the narthex with a slight seriousness protruding across his face. He taps his foot against the pavement and anxiously waits for Francis to emerges last out the door.
As though seeing the right person he has been yearning for, the man exclaimed in excitement.
“Francis!” He called for the advisor, “A moment, please, if you would be so kind.”
The advisor stopped. “Lord Bartton, shouldn’t you be on your way to the banquet?”
“I was…” Bartton hesitated, eyeing down the guard in front of him.
Following his eyeline, Francis quickly understood and unsurely gestured for the knight to back away. Only then did the man continue his word without glancing warily among his surroundings.
“Morpheus was never a man to leave his throne so easily; it has come a surprise to us that this would be his end of the rope.” He leaned closer. “Has he named you the new sovereign?”
“Lord Bartton, this is not an appropriate time to discuss such matters.”
“By that, he must have already placed Leon as the next regency; if that’s true, then this is our time, Francis.”
Francis frowned. “Our time?”
“Strike! Now, while he still trusts you.” Lord Bartton looked around again and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I know your nephew like the back of my hand, and I doubt the boy knows what he’s doing for god-sake.” His words fit like a perfect glove to what Leon had told Francis upon the alter after he saw Lord Bartton in the massive crowd. He is a headstrong tiger but holds no value in being merciful when seeing a lost deer in the wild.
“I see.” Francis turned away and walked slowly down the endless hallway, following closely from behind was Bartton continuing in a whisper.
“You’ve always been a follower, Francis; take a stand for a change so he will do anything you say, drag him by the nose, whatever you must do to get upon the throne by rights.”
“You’re talking about an uprising inside the House of Prayer sire. Aren’t you afraid the gods might not spare you?” Francis let out a slight laughter.
Bartton took a step back and hissed under his breath. “Gods or not, the man who holds the emperor holds the empire; this heaven on land would be wasted in the hand of an incompetent soon.” He continues. “You’ve already gotten the upper hand; without your help, he will never sit on that throne. A wise man like yourself should always think for your own benefit; make certain of Leon’s success and confine him as your sword.”
Francis gave him an enlightened look and nodded. “I’ll seek to your aid once the day comes.”
“You must keep your word. I’ve got the Marquess in Clereta by command and personal guards at the ready; a king of any land should be afraid of us. All you need to do is nod your head, my ward.”
“The Marquess? I thought the Ashcroft bare no taste for such intrigues.”
“They didn’t until the title was passed down to his son-in-law after that massive fire. The poor boy had just gotten back from Bennyport when he heard the news of his wife’s death. When I last time saw him, Augustas hadn’t slept for days trying to find what’s left of that family ashes.” Bartton shook his head in grievances.
“What seem to be the cause?” Asked Francis narrowing his eyebrows.
The man gave him a weary nod; “You know Arnell had always planned for his son to become the head, but coincidently for that bastard, the Ashcroft’s family guard had already done them an even bigger favor, no goods were stolen, but that man had already fled the country. I’ll be damned to assumed he had already been eaten by Wasteland creatures outside the border, even if anyone can escaped past among those red thickets, The Rebels won’t let them live.” He continue as they both walk past each column before fading into the distance.
By the time Lord Bartton bid farewell to Francis on his carriage, the guard being sent away earlier could now be seen standing quietly behind a giant pillar. Under the heavy dark mask covering part of his solemn face was Prince Leon. He felt weary, even heartsick, and found himself wondering if a title was the only thing to stand between life and death among beings. For a second he thought of his mother whom traded her own lives the other hundreds looming at chance to strikes back. So why does he have to be the good guy?
