Rise of the Blood Empress

IV: The Prince of Syred

Rhone Vassana, only son of King Jonah and Queen Suriah and heir to the throne of Syred, had been a melancholy child. He did not appreciate being told what to do. Rhone had long since outgrown the need for tutors, and avoided his advisors and personal servants at all costs. There were few people he could stand to be around, therefore, he spent the majority of his time alone. When he wasn't in his private library or drawing mournful notes from his cello, Rhone wandered the labyrinthine halls of the palace, contemplating the meaning of his existence.

On occasion, when no one was around, the Prince let himself into the throne room. There, he would sit on his father's throne and imagine himself as King, a pretty young Queen at his side, a blonde, he decided. All his life, all of the lessons and training, had been to prepare him for the task of leading his country into a new era. It all seemed to him like a great responsibility that he wasn't sure he could handle.

The crown was terribly heavy.

The midday sun shone through high windows in brilliant beams, bathing the gilded wraithwood throne in divine, golden light. Shedding his outermost layer, a plainly cut black jacket with deep purple embroidery around the cuffs and collar, Rhone settled onto the hard seat. When he was crowned, his first order of business would be to find a cushion suitable for a king. Straightening his back, he rested his forearms along the armrests and closed his eyes. He could see his life, his plans, unfolding before him. He would bring the entire world into the future. With Syred leading the charge, he would fix all that was wrong in his world.

Several long, blissful moments of silence passed before the Prince was disturbed by the creak of ancient hinges. Rhone opened his eyes slowly, his long fingers curling over the lions' heads beneath his hands, digging into their ever-watchful eyes. At the end of the long, narrow hall stood the Grand Council, chief advisor to his father, and head of the royal council by the same name. The hunched, elderly man was clad in long grey robes with two panels of dark blue running the length of the garment, a golden broach of office at his throat. He bowed low as he entered, his fingertips brushing lightly against the reflective tiles of the floor as he swept his long arm before him.

On second thought, his first official act as King would be to remove the Grand Council, and replace him with someone more to his liking.

"My Prince," he stopped before the dais, careful not to meet his dark eyes, "The King wishes to speak with you."

Rhone flexed his hands and placed both of his feet firmly on the floor, but made no attempt to stand.

"Immediately, my lord," the old man added, stroking his long, white beard, "He is in the Hall of Kings."

"Then I suppose I should go," he frowned, then his lips drew back from his pearly teeth into a sneer, "Immediately."

The Grand Council flinched, "At your leisure, my lord," he bowed again, lower this time, so that his beard grazed the floor beneath him, and excused himself.

Rhone sat for a little longer, but the moment had been spoiled. He found the bald, conniving man to be completely insufferable. With a reluctant sigh, he got to his feet and draped his jacket neatly over his arm. It had been a long time since he'd spoken to his father. Lately, the King had been spending most of his time in his chambers, the disease that ravaged his body further weakening him every day. At times, it was too much for him to even get out of bed. The best healers in the kingdom could do nothing to stop or even slow its progression. No one could say what caused his condition, or so much as speculate as to how long he had left.