Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Mister Wolf and the little warrior 4

Callan arrived at his study in a cloud of black. Before the shadows even dispersed, he was aware of a presence in the room. He didn't have to turn to know who it was.

The figure sitting on his desk was a familiar sight lately. Dark head of hair hunched over the desk, quill in hand rapidly flying over a parchment. He stilled when Callan appeared and turned.

A lopsided grin welcomed him. "Boss man." He tipped his head in acknowledgement and turned back to his work, where he continued to furiously scribble away.

Callan bit back a smile. No one else other than Aedion would dare call him Boss Man. He liked him for that exact reason. All the others quivered and bent their heads and filled him with simperings and hollow platitudes. Aedion's cheekiness was a breath of fresh air.

Despite the earthshattering changes in Callan's life, it was somewhat comforting to know that some things had remained the same. Constant. Work, for one, hadn't changed.

The first few years without Minna and Finnian, he'd taken solace in his work. Gods knew he had more than enough of it to fill his time. It was tedious and droll, but it was time-consuming, and that was what mattered. No one had time to throw pity parties when under mountains of responsibilities.

In a way, it had worked. Gerrathea had flourished--He'd finally been able to subdue the orc risings enough to negotiate peace terms with the more amenable tribes, the Lords continued to be a pain, but he'd managed to control them, and commerce was booming, thanks to the established trade routes he'd managed to secure. By all means, his reign continued to be a success.

This success, of course, came with even more duties. Duties, Callan had to admit, required extra help.

Well, he hadn't wanted to admit it, if he was honest. Callan was efficient to the point of being monkish. He lived and breathed his duties as King. He was also, as Zella liked to tell him, bullheaded as Mydar.

Zella also knew he was a surly, surly man. Callan didn't like help, if that's what it could be called. People whined. They complained. They made avoidable mistakes and mewled when they were rightfully corrected. They had enough excuses to fill the entirety of the aether. Callan thought that if they used the time they allotted to making half-baked justifications, they might just get half of their work done properly. Maybe. He didn't hold out much hope.

He was also deeply bothered by most people. He despised having people in his surroundings, touching his things, mouth-breathing near him and attempting to make dull small talk about inane things. Finnian had often said Callan's foul mood and his even fouler expression could turn a troll into stone.

Then again, Finnian had been lovely. A cheerful fellow who managed to make even the sourest of people laugh. Callan, point blank. He'd been the visible face of the monarchy. The one who effortlessly connected with people. The one who could sweet talk the nobles, and charm his way into deals. The one who dealt with the diplomatic meetings and treaties and monotone parties, whilst Callan managed finances, military, budgets and harsher questions. They'd been the perfect duo.

The kingdom had lost a beloved ruler. The people had loved Prince Finnian, with his affable nature and his love of joining in on parades and festivities, spending time with their people like one of their own. Callan loved his people too, but he miserably failed to connect with them; with anyone, really. He scared the living daylights out of them, even when he tried.

Finnian had often said Callan's attempt at a smile was like watching a dragon scowl. Enough to make anyone shit their trousers, in Finnian's own colourful words.

After trying for many, many years, Callan had conformed himself to showing his love for his people the way he could--making sure they were well-fed, prosperous and happy. They might fear him and his murky reputation, but he would keep them safe and sound.