A King of Hate

Prologue

The air of Cybil hung thick with the on coming warmth of summer. The normal bustling of the town was slowing as the orange sun fell behind the horizon; Shopkeepers were closing their doors, and emptying their stalls, mothers dragging their energetic children into their homes. The last remnants of day life slipping away for the night.

As the glow of the day dimmed, the Ergos fueled lamps hummed to life, casting a somber glow across the cobblestone paths. The bleak walls during the day had now taken on a saturated warmth. The architecture of the outer rings of town were fairly simple, each house a mere four walls with a front and back door. Even farther out, the two floor buildings wrapped in balconies descended into single level houses; here abouts the houses losing also window panes and roof tiles. Wauril thought to himself how, even though they were a short walk apart, the outer ring was nothing like the inner walls of the palace.

Wauril loved this time of night. During the day, he couldn't go anywhere without the townspeople throwing themselves at his feet, shouting a cacophony of pleas for their starving families, and cries of blind faith to his crown. Night was his time of peace. He was nobody in the shadows; not a king, not a father, not a hero. Tonight was different, however. He was not on one of his regular strolls, but on a mission of his own. He was looking for a specific ramshackled house, one he had been directed to via his intel.

The sky was nearly black when Wauril came upon a house that stood out from the others. Where most walls had been bare, this one was dripping with thick vines. A wide variety of plants and flowers decorated the window sill. Golden light that could only come from a lit fireplace shone out onto the street. After a quick knock at the door, there was a moment of silence before he heard a shuffling from within. The door cracked open less than an inch, then was ripped open, followed by Wauril being yanked inside by two strong hands. The woman who pulled him inside locked the door, then turned. She was a small figure, topped with a head of thick, curly black hair that fell just beneath her shoulder blades.

"What are you doing here....my king?" The woman had a small voice, though Wauril wasn't sure if it was natural, or only like this in his presence, faltering like most did. As she croaked out the words, Wauril was reminded of his position of power. He straightened his back, as he would when commanding the attention of a room full of people.

"I am here for a prophecy." At this, the woman's crooked smile cracked into an unsure frown. The woman standing in front of him was the Oracle, the only known person able to access fate magic. Wauril had ordered that she be housed in his palace. She requested to live here, in the outskirts. Oracle creeped over to the fireplace and sat in the chair where a steaming mug told him she had been sitting before he arrived. When he turned to follow her, Wauril got a full view of her home. The house was divided into two halves, one was the kitchen, the other was the living space. The kitchen, filled with spice racks, was adorned with more herbs and plants than Wauril had ever seen in his life. In the center of the kitchen sat a small fire pit—empty at the moment—that was stationed underneath a metal rack, which Wauril assumed was meant to hold whatever needed heating. The living half of the house held the in-wall fireplace, two chairs, and a cot tucked away in the corner. Wauril enjoyed the cosiness of the place, and how the scent of the spices and smoke filled the room. He felt oldly at peace here.

"Fate magic," Oracle said, breaking him from his nostalgia. "It is tricky work. You must understand that before I touch it, it is flexible. Unset. Once I reach out and obtain your fortune, once I pull it out of time and into our reality, it is as real as all matter is around us." She gestured her arms to the space around her. "You will not be able to change it." Wauril stared at her for a moment, before walking to sit in the other chair. If it wasn't such a small movement, he would have thought he saw Oracle flinching.

"It is better to know, and be prepared, then to spend my life unsure of what may or may not happen." Wauril said to her, voice approaching a plea. When Wauril learned of Oracle, he knew instantly he wanted his fate. He worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to win his throne. He needed to know he could keep it.

"Your highness, I-" she cut off when the king rolled off the chair, and onto his knees. He gripped her hand, eyes dancing frantically back and forth between hers.

"Please." As the word rolled out from his quivering lip, he realized he sounded just as the peasants had begging at his feet. With the realization, the king retracted his hands, stood to his feet, and composed himself once again. "As your king, I command you." Oracle released the breath she had been holding, conceding to the worlds of her ruler.

"As you wish, my king." Oracle reclined into her chair, allowing all her muscles to relax. Just as her eyelids began to close, the king noticed her eyes go pure white. He was about to lean forward and attempt to shake her awake when Oracle sat erect with a sharp inhale. Gone was the frail voice that welcomed him into her home. The next words that were spoken were full and alto, Wauril could swear he felt the voice more than actually hear it.

"On the sixth day of the sixth month, your fate will be set. A daughter, birthed on this day will bring you nothing but misery. She will grow up to despise you, and on the 18th year of her life, will take yours."

The king didn't move for a moment. His gaze was pointed at the Oracle, but it seemed to fall much farther away. Past the cot, past the walls of the small home, even past the walls of his kingdom. He was looking ahead to the future, where this woman had just told him will be his end.

As the words of his fate settle in, his heart begins to race. He clenches his fists at his side, doing his best to not let the Oracle notice his composition unfurling.

"This..." Wauril stammered out. "This cannot be my fate." His eyes danced wildly in his skull, frantically, almost as a feral animal would when caught in a cage.

"My king. I'm sorry-" the Oracle was interrupted by the raise of the king's hand. There was a moment when the Oracle thought the hand was meant to come across her face, but it was only held in the air.

"You must be getting old, Oracle." The king seemed relaxed all of a sudden, a wave of calm washing over him. His shoulders dropped, and his fist at his side loosened. "This is not my fate." The king stood from his seat, and gave the Oracle a small bow. "Thank you for your time." He placed a small velvet bag onto the table in front of him and left the warmth and smell of spices behind him.

The walk back to the palace was different than the rest. Usually, it carried the dread of returning to his duties; of his kingdom, of his fatherhood, of his marriage. Tonight, however, he thought only of his pregnant wife, and of his two sons. She would birth a third son, the king assured himself. She will give birth to a third son, or she will give birth to none at all. A smile crept onto the king's face. He was in control of his fate. There was no oracle who could tell him when and how he should die.

When the king returned to the palace, he slipped into bed, and fell effortlessly into sleep, knowing that there was nothing that could take his crown from him.