The Rightful King

Scott | 001

                Scott faced the sea of people as the elder began her speech. Her monotone voice droned on like a lullaby, a buzzing noise in his ears, but the angry faces of his citizens demanded his attention. The tension in the crowd was palpable, and the look of outrage and apprehension was plain as day. It made him want to hunch his shoulders and lower his gaze to his overly polished shoes, to fold in on himself under their scrutiny. Doing so would only confirm what they were all thinking: people like him should not be in positions of power. What was King John thinking, making him their heir? Surely, he was not strong enough to bear the weight of an entire kingdom. He couldn't have the conviction to guide the realm to prosperity, nor could his mental state be formidable enough to make sound decisions.

Scott felt like his rank was branded onto his forehead, bare for everyone to see.

Not that they hadn't known before. He had presented seven years before, on national television to boot. He could still remember how his sweet scent had seeped out of his pores, enticing every unmated Alpha in the room. Like bees to honey, they say. His father's disappointed face still haunted his dreams, his only legitimate heir was unfit for the position. The media ate it up though, and still does. He could imagine that they were having a field day now, making a new, ridiculous title for him.

"The Whore Prince" no longer applied anymore, but only because he was no longer a Prince. "The Whore King" would be an easy transition. Identifiable and familiar, but perhaps too much so. They needed to reinvent his image, something that fit his personal narrative.

The Omega King.

The oxymoron was almost enough to make him forget where he was, it sounded so absurd he could feel the laughter build up in his chest. It almost forced its way up his throat but was quickly squelched down as he let his eyes sweep over the crowd. The disbelieving outrage was enough to sober him and cut off his train of thought.

Scott straightened out his shoulders, clenching his hands at his sides that had begun shaking. He had to steel himself, there was no room for error, especially now.

He stood still for several more minutes, until he was finally instructed to face the old woman. They were about the same height, both standing at a measly five foot, three inches. He must look like a joke to everyone. The elder's irises were pale. Perhaps at one point they had been a vibrant blue, but age had washed them out, leaving only remnants of the color they once were around her pupils.

"By the power vested in me and the late King John's final order, you, Scott Nathaniel Wilkey, crowned eldest prince of Othebia, shall be named King, and ruler of this blessed land. May the Goddess bless your reign and bring prosperity to our great Kingdom." There was no hesitation in the old woman's voice as she reached up and placed the newly made crown on his dark curls.

Immediately, there was an uproar in the crowd.

Scott had watched his father's coronation video recently. It had been a sunny day, much like this one, and his father stood tall and proud, only bending down so a different elder could place the shiny crown on his head. The crowd had cried out then. The camera panned across the happy, smiling faces. They had been excited for the hope a new King promised. An Alpha King.

They were screaming now as well. It was much darker, much angrier. His citizens surged forward, nearly breaking the soldiers' ranks. What would they do if they got to him? Would they all fight to get a grab at him, tear at his clothes, his limbs? They would kill him, surely. Would they strangle him until he stopped breathing, beat him until he was unrecognizable? Would they perch his body somewhere up high, bruised and maimed, warning everyone what happens when anyone tried to break from their neatly labeled boxes?