His Purpose

Chapter One: Silver Lining

     The pristine golden chandelier hung ornately above the dining room table, glinting in the afternoon sunlight, which poured in through the open windows that stretched from the smooth marble floor to the arched ceiling above. In the distance, the vast Cyridian Mountains wrapped along the eastern coast of Zenithrae, shielding the kingdom from the colossal ocean waves that violently crashed into the rocky shoreline. A warm summer breeze drifted in, carrying with it the sweet scent of magnolias and tiger lilies. The King, Queen, and Princess Lys sat at a grand rectangular table that seemed unnecessarily long for the little family of three.

     It had been nearly fifty years since the day the war between Drakestone and Zenithrae came to a bitter end, but despite the passage of time and general civility between the two empires, neither kingdom seemed to be willing to let up on their grudges anytime soon. By now, the two Kings who were responsible for the years of bloodshed were long gone, along with their wives, but the legacy they left behind kept their spirits alive in the absence of their physical being. 

     King Draktus had killed himself only a decade after the death of his beloved Irena, orphaning young Grimmur at the age of ten - truly a pitiful age to be crowned the King of Drakestone - and King Alaric lived out the rest of his days watching his son Malato grow into a fine young man. He died alongside his wife Faelea of old age, both taking their last breath at the same moment with their fingers intertwined. At the age of twenty-one, Malato took his father's place as the ruler of Zenithrae. 

     The sons of the two infamous kings were in the same powerful position as their fathers, carrying on the general disdain for each other from the opposite sides of Araelia.

     King Grimmur went on to have one son of his own, Prince Cinte of Drakestone. Cinte bore a striking resemblance to his father, with steely blue eyes reminiscent of the icy glaciers to the north. A mess of dark hair the color of the midnight sky hung low on his forehead, his curls stopping just above his eyelids. In contrast, the daughter of King Malato, Princess Lys, had silky blonde hair that cascaded down her back like a river of sweet honey. Her long locks framed her face beautifully, complimenting her soft hazel eyes that seemed to hold the warmth of a thousand suns. It was comical in a sense how the two were so different. The citizens of both kingdoms lovingly referred to them as "yin and yang", much to the disdain of King Malato, who seemed to have a vendetta against the young girl.

     Due to the strict laws and well-defined borders of both kingdoms, the two twenty-one-year-olds had never crossed paths. It was common knowledge that anyone who crossed the border between Zenithrae and Drakestone would be at the mercy of the ruler they had intruded upon. Princess Lys was somewhat relieved by this fact, as she had heard that the Prince was incredibly cold and lacked empathy towards anyone and everyone he met, no matter their status. Several weeks ago, a rumor had spread throughout Zenithrae that the Prince had unapologetically unsheathed his sword and swiftly sliced off the head of a Zenithraen traveler who had simply taken the wrong path by mistake, ending up in the woods between the two kingdoms, where Cinte happened to be practicing his combat skills. Whether this was true or not was of course debatable, but Lys certainly did not want to find out for herself.

     The Princess absentmindedly poked at the contents of her plate with a fork, determined to stay uninvolved in the conversation that was currently taking place between her parents.

     "If we were to move the basin further into town, it would be much less of a hassle for the people to travel to," Queen Tagatis spoke. "Pass the salt, please." Lys silently reached over, grabbed the small glass salt shaker, and handed it across the table to her mother without a word, in fear of escalating the heated discussion between her parents. Her father slammed his fist on the table, clearly tired of being critiqued by his wife.