Tale of Four

Lords across the entirety of Veston all sat in neat rows within the Palace of Everlight, each in silence, looking ahead, with a mixture of emotions. The snapping of flames crackled underneath the sound of clergy walking up and down the rows, waving censers, speaking an ancient tongue, purifying the ground.

From across the room, the Magi of the Mad House stood keeping a distance away from the clergy, eyeing them with disgusted gazes, getting ignored every time they snubbed their noses towards the religious fools. Chandeliers above replaced the sunlight of the windows, which were draped with dark curtains.

Just below the steps of the throne, an old man with closed eyes stood before a table, on which were two small pillars, the left one holding red rocks, the right green. Only when he reached into the bag would he open his eyes, look at the colour of the rock and drop it either left or right, before closing his eyes again and repeating the process. The sound it made was quiet but barely able to be heard over the hymns of the clergy, but to everyone it was the loudest sound.

It was a rare moment in Veston history, the second of its kind. The King had died, his heirs all dead. Whilst the throne should have gone to his eldest brother, the realm was divided between numerous candidates. To avoid civil war, it went to a vote, one which all lords of Veston could take part in. After two months of voting, the old regent finally had enough and selected the two most popular.

Every lord who wished for their chance to choose the next King had all come, with only a few sporadic gaps among the lords of those who refused to take part for whatever reason. The old regent placed his hand in the bag and opened his eyes. Looking down at the soldier, who was wearing heavy gold armour, he nodded before dropping the final red stone.

The golden knight, one of six, walked down the centre path, ignoring the stares of the lords of Veston and left the Throne room. Minutes passed before he returned, the tension slowly eating away at the lords who knew what was coming. The double doors opened once more as the Golden Knight stepped in.

”Now Arriving, The Princes, Princess and Princelings of the Cosmaton Dynasty.” The lords all rose and rested their hands on their chests, deeply bowing their heads. Those in the back bowed deeply, nearly falling over themselves, whereas the lords at the very front bowed deeply enough to show courtesy without full humility.

Tristan followed behind his second aunt and looked around at the lords. The line of quiet royalty all walked. The majority carried the features of the first King, their golden hair brighter than any light, with deep black eyes that sat underneath. Very few sprinkled in didn’t carry the features.

’Most Lords have come.’ Looking at the crowd, Tristan held his head high, despite not wishing to be there. He knew he wasn’t in the running for the throne. When the first count had even happened, he had only received two votes from the lords of Veston, those coming from families who didn’t wish to fully commit to any candidate and chose at random. At the head of the family, two men walked.

His second uncle, the previous king’s eldest brother, and his third uncle, the king’s second brother. Both carried a deep gaze, yet with different looks. His second uncle, Brandon, was like a scholar, with deep wisdom nestled in his gaze, which made one believe he could see through any scheme and understand the truth of the world. His third uncle, Anton, was different. A gaze built on a deep chill that had seen hundreds of wars, that had reaped an immeasurable amount of lives.

Compared to them, Tristan couldn’t help but feel inferior. He had always kept to himself growing up, especially after his parents’ death. He didn’t fear being killed by either uncle, no matter which one took the throne, knowing he was hardly a threat to them, but it still didn’t get rid of the pit in his stomach.

Walking through the rows of nobles, he wondered how his baby cousins didn’t begin to cry, the tension in the room coiling around his throat, making it hard to breathe. Were they so terrified they chose not to make a sound, or did they know what the moment entailed and refused to? Tristan didn’t know and pushed the thought out of his mind as he arrived at the front seat.

Before the empty row reserved for the Royal family, the seating of the Great Eight Lords of Veston. Lord Clovers of the Flower Palace sat on the edge, next to him, Lord Sunflare of Helios. By his right, the empty seat for the Lord of Last Hope. On the left side, Lady Blackwell of the Bridgeway, next to her Lord Alkaris of Epton, followed by Lord Elvissia of The Judicary, Lord Carter of Kript and Lord Makepiece of Hampton.

Each one wore their family sigil proudly on their clothing, hiding their contempt, ambition and loyalty behind shrewd gazes.

Tristan passed a glance over them for a moment before looking at the empty seat of the Lord of Last Hope, unsprised by their no-show. The Northern Lords rarely involved themselves with the matters of the other Great Lords or the throne, to the point where no one even knew if the current lord was a man or a woman. The isolation only added fuel to the fire, with rumours of an undying creature ruling the dreaded lands rather than a human.

Shaking his head, he took a seat and stared at the counter. The two candidates didn’t sit, instead taking a place before the throne. The old regent looked at the two and raised his hands to silence the hymns of the clergy that had never ended.

”On 867 AU, I, Elias Deacon, Fourth of my name, pronounce the new King of Veston, sovereign over the Great Lords, Protector of the People, Chosen of Lord of Creation.” The old regent climbed the steps, his old legs shaking as he did. Yet with his frail body, he didn’t lack dignity, as he lifted the crown of steel, a dirty crown that looked woven on with thin steel, fitted with a single silver gem at its centre.

Climbing back down the steps, he walked before Anton and held the crown up for all to see. Triants could feel the gazes of the people behind him, some in shock, others delighted, and a few angered by the choice. Despite the feeling, no one dared to voice their opinions on the voting, trusting the honour and integrity of the Old Regent, knowing he had served the realm longer than some had lived.

Anton gracefully lowered his head and allowed the crown that looked made for him to be fitted on his golden hair. Unbothered by his hair being messed up, he calmly climbed the steps, staring at the ivory throne, a seat said to be made of the bones of a dead god.

Stoking the armrest, he took a seat and stared out at the crowd, his gaze hard and unfeeling as the Old regent climbed up, taking his place next to Anton. Above him, the family sigil of the Cosmaton dynasty proudly hung, a golden star in a black banner.

”All hail King Anton Cosmaton.” The lords all rose once more, lowering themselves. Tristan looked over his family as the old regent cried out. Some had fearful looks on their faces, bowing deeper than they needed to hide them, whereas others smirked, happy. The few like him, who had no allegiance to either, had unreadable faces. ”Second of his name, King of Veston, sovereign over the Great Lords, Protector of the People, Chosen of Lord of Creation.”

The old regent moved to the side of the throne, picking up a scoll and orb, placing them in both of Anton’s hands. His gaze never moved away from the crowd, watching them like a predator ready for battle. The expressions they showed, how deep they bowed, how long they took to return their oaths of fealty. Each individual thing was burnt into his mind.

Tristan peered up, able to see Aton already planning ahead, on how to deal with the worst of the Lords. No one doubted that whoever would rule next would have their legacy lathered in blood for the first few years. The support for both his uncles to split.

As Tristan, his family and the Lord all offered their fealty, Anton raised his hand and turned to his elder brother, the scholarly man staring ahead with a blank look, hiding what he truly felt.

”Lord Deacon has faithfully served the Royal Family for decades.” His voice was low, but powerful, without a single opening to make snide remarks, ”And for it he deserves to rest.” Anton rose and got off the throne, carefully placing the orb and scroll he held on the armrests.

Bradon watched as his brother took his place before him, the younger sibling a head taller. Looking down at him, he didn’t smile, ”And with his position of Chancellor of Veston free, my first order shall be to offer Prince Bradon Cosmaton the role of Chancellor.” There was a stunned silence as everyone watched with interest.

Many had expected a purge the moment the lords were ushered out of Everlight Palace, a number of the Cosmaton dynasty either dying or disappearing from sight. Brandon looked up at his brother, his black eyes peering deep into Anton’s own.

Brandon, with the grace of a king, stepped back and bowed simultaneously, resting his hand on his chest. ”Your will is my command.” He paused for a moment, soemthing that didn’t go unnoticed by anyone, ”My King.”