His Challenge

Tained. Soiled. Damaged.

At the sight of King Mayard, Kyro can't help but heave an exasperated sigh.

"Where have you been?" the king questions, the deafening boom of his voice echoing in the large entrance and instantaneously demanding attention and respect. Kyro has heard his thunderous voice one too many times to feel the effects of it anymore, and instead of bowing his head, he shouts back, "Where I always go."

"So you run off to Earth instead of preparing for tonight?"

Kyro nods his head as his answer, now making his way up the stairs to meet his father.

"Why must you be like this?" his father asks. "Why must I have you for a son, a useless piece of flesh with no brain? No motivation. No right to claim this land or these people as yours."

Kyro now stands directly in front of his father, and it's then that he notices the wrinkles plaguing his father's face and the dark circles under his eyes. It's then that he notices the weakness of his father, although King Mayard's voice would never give it away. He stares at his father for a moment before responding.

"I never asked to be your son, either. If these people shouldn't be mine, and if the crown on your head shouldn't be mine, then by all means, hand it over to Kip."

Kyro keeps his voice cool, even. Back then, his father's words would hurt, like a knife constantly tearing at his heart. Now, his father's words are merely that: just words. The knife so overused that it was now too dull to cut anything apart. Back then, Kyro would have done anything to satisfy his father: apologize, beg for forgiveness, stand on his knees outside for hours as it poured and the cold had him shaking, all so his father would leave the confinements of the throne room, help Kyro stand up, and tell him all is forgotten, that he is once again his precious son.

Now, years after realizing he can do nothing to appease his father, Kyro leaves and comes as he pleases, does everything he enjoys, and makes his life one of constant sin and pleasure. Now, Kyro feels free: of his father, of responsibility, of everything but the things he chooses not to be free of.

His father clears his throat and coughs violently, taking out his white handkerchief and facing away from Kyro, refusing to allow his son to witness any of his vulnerability. When King Mayard finally stops coughing and pulls the handkerchief away from his mouth, Kyro instantly notices the change in color: red.

King Mayard turns back to Kyro, quickly folding the fabric and keeping his hand behind his back, unsure whether Kyro saw the blood or not but refusing to address it either ways. "Kyro, you are no longer a kid. You will have to wear this crown soon. So for the life of me, please, start acting like a proper king."

Without giving Kyro time to respond, King Mayard issues another order: "Now go get dressed for the ceremony."

Kyro walks away without responding, making his way down the long, narrow corridor and past all the other empty rooms. He finds himself in front of his bedroom, opening it and quickly entering before shutting the intricate wooden door behind him and resting his back against it. He closes his eyes, taking deep breaths in and out.

His father's time is running out.

Kyro was originally unsure what tonight's ceremony was for, not that he had cared much, but now, he knows: the council would present Kyro with his challenge, the one he must pass in order to gain the crown. The one he must pass so that Kip doesn't end up with the kingdom.

Kyro opens his eyes, pushing himself off the door and throwing himself on his bed, as he had initially planned to do. But instead of thinking about the girl in the warehouse and the blood and the entrancing screams of horror, his thoughts are filled with the possibilities of tonight. Thoughts of what his challenge would be. Possibly a challenge of wit? A challenge of strength? A challenge of...

Kyro can't think of anything else. All he's ever heard of are those two categories. Wit or strength. Kyro has both, so why does he feel the nervousness in his stomach, a feeling he hasn't experienced in what seems like forever? Why does he feel as if nothing awaits him but impending doom?

Then, Kyro looks up at the ceiling, and in an instant, everything changes. He smiles, pushing down all emotion. That vicious grin, half-closed eyes. He is Kyro, son of Mayard and future king of the Kingdom of Vaelo. Why should he feel anything other than confidence?

Kyro wastes his time, laying aimlessly on his bed before the servants rush in and start dressing him. They pull the most extravagant robes out of his closet, which covers an entire wall in the furthest edge of his room, the most elaborate jewelry to adorn his neck with, and of course, the Crown Prince's headdress, an icy white cylinder with shining diamonds that hides the entirety of Kyro's head. He stares at himself in the mirror, watching the striking beauty of the red of his eyes, the green of his robe, and of course, that white crown.

Pure. Untouched. Unharmed.

Tainted. Soiled. Damaged.

Then, the servants rush him out the door and away from the mirror, and Kyro's thoughts turn towards the whispering of the maids: Kyro would be late and they would once again be blamed.

Kyro makes his way down the stairs and past the kitchen where the servants rush to bring out all the dishes in time. He walks past the circular meeting room, full of the easily recognizable council members, and down a corridor leading to the largest room in the palace: the ballroom.

At the sight of the prince, the palace guards rush to open the 10 feet tall door of the ballroom. In lieu of the large crowd Kyro expected to see in the room, there stands one lone soul: his father. He waits for him in the center of the ballroom, hands behind his back and a solemn look on his face: disappointed, as always.

"I told you to get ready and you wasted time, as usual. But tonight's event is not something you can afford to be late to." King Mayard takes a step closer. "The ball doesn't start for another hour. Take a seat and wait."

King Mayard always believed that he hides his wrath well, but the grinding of his teeth and the sharp motions of his arms, as he points to the two guards outside the door, scream of his rage. The guards enter the ballroom and bow their heads in respect, already agreeing to the unspoken order: don't let him leave.

The entire time, Kyro stays quiet, his anger boiling and his heart wanting to unleash the poison of rage within him. He studies the guards, both of whom are still staring at the ground, waiting for King Mayard's permission to relax, and tries to gauge if he can possibly fight them both and make it outside before the rest of the guards come rushing to find him. He decides it's impossible. Even if he makes it out the ballroom, the second set of guards would be waiting for him, and all the other guards littered around the palace would soon find their way to him: the criminal who escaped. No matter how much he hates being caged in like this, at least it isn't his first time. At least he isn't five anymore, alone with the unknown in this gigantic, dark room.

No, he's certainly not five. So why does he feel the pangs of panic rising up his throat as the doors shut behind King Mayard?

Kyro rushes over to his throne in the front of the room, overlooking the entirety of the chamber. He climbs the several steps leading to the king and queen's thrones and throws himself onto the smaller chair behind the king's: the crown prince's place. He clenches his jaw in anger. Deep breaths. In. Out.

And just when any bystander would have assumed Kyro successfully calmed down, Kyro reaches for the vase of black roses next to him and hurls it violently across the room, watching as the glass shatters into a million pieces. He slowly rises from his chair, walking over to admire his artwork of dead roses and demolished glass, and picks up a broken shard. He turns it over in his hand, examining its sharpness, before allowing it to cut him. He doesn't feel the pain of the cut, but watching the dark red of his blood pour down his thumb, palm, and into the sleeve of his robe makes him feel something.

He drops the glass, makes his way back to his chair, and waits for the visitors to arrive.