The Storm King

A week passed in relative silence after the King awoke.  The capital remained largely under lockdown, despite all military forces save for the 1st Legion departing the city to return to their assigned positions.  The noble armies were disbanded and ordered to return home, the most rebellious of the nobles were arrested, and all-in-all, a period of relative peace settled in.

While that was certainly a cause for celebration, the capital was still shrouded with a heavy and somber atmosphere as the King and his ministers did their best to restore the bureaucracy and get the Kingdom functioning again.  It didn’t help matters that the noble district remained desolate, with only about a quarter of those who owned property there still in the city, and vast swathes of more affluent common neighborhoods being devoid of people, as well.

The Kingdom’s economy had also taken a serious blow as trade—both internal and external—slowed when hostilities began.  Food stopped flowing from the fertile west into the more barren north and east, while many smaller merchants in the south went under when foreign ships stopped coming.

Perhaps the most serious issue, however, was what to do about the Princes.  The King focused mostly on bandaging the wounds of his Kingdom and healing his own injury, leaving him with little time in the day to devote to dealing with August and Octavius.  At the very least, however, his other children came to see him regularly—even Herculanus was able to tear himself away from his duties as a blood priest of Lineage Hall to see him.  Stefania and Cristina also returned home, and in an attempt to apologize for being gone so long and, by extension, preventing Cristina from being presented to the Court, the King didn’t require her to return to the harem.  Instead, she was given opulent apartments in the palace proper, though she still wasn’t allowed to leave the capitol island just yet.

By the time that week was over, the King had managed to rise to his feet.  He was an eighth-tier mage, now, and as terrible as the injury to his soul realm had been, he still made a rapid recovery thanks to his power and the skills of the doctor that August had hired.

He wasn’t the steadiest on his feet, though, so when he finally left the villa, he did so in a specially-made chariot that would allow him to sit as he was driven around the capital by Penitent, while also letting the people see that their King had returned and was back in charge.  Unfortunately, he didn’t have the energy to spare for a long tour, so he and his escort stayed on the main thoroughfares so that they could return to the Royal Palace in good time.

After that tour came a more important duty—the King had spoken a great deal with his former High Ministers, who had all been reinstated, as well as with the High Arbiter.  He had a good idea of what had happened during the time he spent comatose, and as a result, he went to go and see Octavius first.

The Second Prince was being held in the dungeons.  His cell wasn’t as bad as the one he’d briefly imprisoned August in following the trial, but it was far from the splendor and majesty that he was used to as a Prince.

And yet, when the King managed to hobble down to the cell and look in through the window on the door, he found Octavius just sitting on the cot, staring at the wall, not doing anything, least of all raging at the guards about his accommodations.

“Give me a moment,” the King said to his entourage.  He had several dozen guards with him, along with an equal number of his higher-ranked ministers, and both the Bronze and Penitent Paladins.  Everyone but the Paladins immediately obeyed his command, retreating from the cell to give the King and his son some privacy.  The Paladins hesitated to leave, but when the King nodded to them, they left accordingly.

That left the King and his son alone, with only a heavily enchanted steel door between them.  But the King could see through it easily enough.  He could see the bare walls of gray stone, completely seamless in construction and so well-enchanted that Octavius was completely unable to use his magic.  The floors were likewise bare stone, but there were a few pieces of furniture that ensured the Prince wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.  The cot was far from being a proper bed, but a few blankets and fine linens had been provided for him.  There was also a small table and a chair, along with a toilet and sink in the corner.

“Octavius…” the King murmured, his voice having regained most of its deep, authoritative rumble in the week he’d spent recuperating.

There was no way Octavius couldn’t have heard his voice, but he didn’t react at all.  He just sat there on his cot, his back pressed up against the wall, staring at nothing.

“Can you hear me, my son?” the King asked.

Again, Octavius didn’t seem to react, though the King did notice a few slight twitches that showed it was just a front.

“Speak,” Julius commanded, his patience wearing thin.  “Your King commands you to speak.”

Octavius’ eyes flitted over to the small window in the door, barely large enough to show the King’s eyes and a bit of his nose.

“My King…” the Second Prince scornfully muttered, making no attempt to stand up or follow any of the proper ceremonies that were expected in the King’s presence.  “Is that all you are?” he asked contemptuously.  “Just my King?  Here for no other reason than to punish a traitor?  Might as well get it over with.  I had Uncle Trajan killed and started a civil war.  Send in the headsman and put me out of all of our miseries.”

Julius’ stern demeanor cracked just a little in both rage and pity, and he asked with a strained voice, “Is that what you want, boy?  A swift end on the headsman’s block?”

“There are worse ways to go,” Octavius replied in resignation.  “One swing and everything goes dark.”

“After everything you’ve done, you think you’d get off so easy?” the King responded.  Octavius had just admitted his guilt to him, and it infuriated him.  Julius loved and idolized Trajan, and the only thing stopping him from breaking the door down to wring his son’s neck was the fact that it was his son’s neck.

“I can hope,” Octavius replied, his tone light and detached, as if they were discussing something as inconsequential as the weather rather than his impending execution.

The two were silent for a long moment, with Octavius content to sit and wait while Julius had to restrain his anger.

“… Why?!” the King demanded to know.  “Why do all of this?!  You would’ve been King after me anyway!”

Octavius finally deigned to level his gaze toward the door and hold it, his eyes narrowing in fury and righteous indignation.  His voice, however, remained deathly calm.  “Oh?  Could’ve fooled me when you forced me to share power with that underage bastard!  Or, I suppose, you did fool me.”

“He was your brother!” the King roared back.  “You were supposed to be his mentor!  To show him how to wield real power!  He was only fifteen and your blood had been awakened, and yet you felt so threatened by him you abandoned the capital!  I suppose it only serves to prove your fears true, you didn’t and still do not possess the qualities of a good King.”

“And whose fault is that?!” Octavius retorted, his voice rising in pitch and volume.  “When I was a boy, the only one of us you ever had time for was Herculanus!  You moped around the palace like an abandoned dog when your firstborn son ran off to join the blood priests!”

Octavius suddenly stopped, taking a moment to check himself.  The King did likewise, recognizing that his anger wasn’t going to help these matters.

The Prince, after steadying himself, continued, “Even back then, I was never good enough for you.  None of us ever were.  Why do you think Antonius left to become a scholar, and Stefania quit politics altogether to do… whatever the hells she does.  If you want to know who to blame for all of this, look no further than the fucking mirror, old man.”

The King glared through the window at his son, his heart beating madly in his chest as adrenaline freely flowed through his body and his primitive instincts demanded that he go into the cell and punish his son for challenging his Royal authority.  But he was almost two hundred years old, and blood of the Sacred Bull or not, he was just too old and experienced to let his anger get the better of him.

Instead, he took a deep breath and said, “Whatever your problems were with me, they were with me.  They do not excuse the murder of Trajan.  They do not excuse the damage you’ve done to this Kingdom and its people, the lives you’ve ruined, the people who’ve died because of the actions you took.  You are a traitor, and you will be sentenced as such.  Your trial will be in several weeks.  I have to work on fixing all of that damage, otherwise this would’ve been your trial.”

The King moved away from the door, but as his face disappeared, Octavius suddenly asked, “Wait!  Father…”

The King paused, wondering just what his errant son wanted.

“What about… what about Sapphire?”

The King briefly frowned as he thought about all of his Paladins.  The way he saw it, he only had three left—Bronze, Penitent, and Brimstone, and even the last one was tentative.  Roland was too weak and Julius had already stripped him of the title.  Roland had been refreshingly gracious about it, but Sapphire was going to be another matter.  She was just as much of a traitor as Octavius, and Julius wasn’t entirely sure what to do with her.  He only counted himself fortunate that Leon had killed Earthshaker a couple of weeks ago, otherwise, he might’ve found himself hesitating to punish two Paladins rather than only one, despite the crimes Earthshaker was responsible for, both recent and old, that would’ve seen anyone else made a head shorter.

“I haven’t decided.  Your Queen might just be following you to the headsman’s block regardless of what the loss of a seventh-tier mage might do for this Kingdom.”

Octavius was silent for several long seconds.  Finally, just as the King was about to leave, the Prince said, “If it’s not too much trouble, could you tell her that I’m sorry?”

Julius didn’t immediately respond.  The audacity that Octavius was displaying had already boggled his mind, but this was straining his already taxed patience.

“Out of everyone you could’ve asked after… you wanted to express your sorrow to the Paladin you made unfulfillable promises to?  The one who assisted in murdering my brother—your Uncle!  The one who subverted the rule of law in this Kingdom and helped you start a civil war that has left hundreds of thousands dead?!”

The King’s tone wasn’t so much anger as it was disbelief.  Octavius had, by this point, already blown right past his ability to be angry and the King couldn’t even be bothered to raise his voice beyond ‘mildly miffed’.

“I notice you haven’t asked after your sisters,” Julius observed after a few moments of silence.

“They’re not my sisters,” Octavius replied.  “We may share the same father, but not the same mother.  Stefania and Cristina are nothing to me.  Then again, I suppose Cristina would’ve been useful for a political marriage, but that hardly changes my personal feelings.  I care far more for the woman who would’ve been my Queen than those so-called sisters.”

The King had no words with which he could respond.  After that declaration, as far as he was concerned, he and Octavius were done.  They had nothing more to talk about, and their relationship was essentially nonexistent.

He closed the window and began hobbling away with as much dignity as his weak body could muster.  He didn’t end up making it that far, but it wasn’t because his body failed him; rather, it was because he lost himself in thought and needed to take a few minutes to think things over.

Octavius wasn’t entirely wrong, in some respects.  The burdens of Kingship were heavy, and Julius rarely had much time for his family.  Perhaps that was why his children weren’t particularly familial, despite their shared blood.  The only sibling Julius had was Trajan, and Trajan was decades older than him.  Julius’ father didn’t have any siblings at all, so Julius had little idea how to be a part of a real family.  That he had six children at all was practically a miracle; even more so since they were all born within half a century.

Julius sighed.  He’d have to meet with August.  His youngest would undoubtedly ascend to the throne after he retired, that much was already certain.  This war hadn’t made August King, but it had made him the unofficial heir.  As a result, Julius was going to have to get on the same page as August, and that probably meant taking on some of his proposed policies.

At the very least, most of those policies were influenced by Trajan and Julius himself, so Julius was hardly chafing under these circumstances.  He even lightly smiled as the thought that this war had given him the excuse he needed to start revoking titles from the landed nobility.  The Bull Kingdom had almost forty Dukes, twenty-one Marquises, more than a hundred Counts, and thousands of Barons.

There were about to be a lot less of all of them.

He’d also have to deal with his Queen.  She hadn’t set foot outside of the Royal Harem in years, but that didn’t stop her from being at least partially responsible for some of what had happened.  Octavius didn’t use his connection with her to get to her brother—Earthshaker—and her father—Duronius—without consulting with her.

‘Hells… I’m probably going to have to clean out my entire harem if I’m to oust that woman…’ the King thought to himself.  ‘Ancestors help me…  I wish you were here with me, Trajan, Kyros…’

---

The day after Julius visited Octavius was the first day he managed to return to the Court and take the throne since he awoke.

The throne room seemed much bigger than he remembered, but since almost half of the nobles who were normally a part of the Court were either in prison or under house arrest, and many administrative posts yet remained unfilled, this made sense.  The throne room was much less filled than it should’ve been.

Notable for their presence, though, were both Leon and August.

Leon was there dressed in simple gray and white, though he stood with so much dignity and bearing that he appeared nobler than those who decked themselves out in gold and silkgrass.

Of course, that dignity and bearing may have had more to do with his aura and the gorgeous red-haired woman at his side than the way he held himself, but regardless, the King was happy to see him, even if he and his lady were off to the side watching everything from a relatively secluded alcove.

August, meanwhile, appeared much less humble.  He was dressed as a Prince ought to be, with the deep greens and sparkling golds of the Royal House, and a dozen well-dressed knights at his back, including Roland.  With his blood awakened, his body was now tall and tremendously well-built.  His aura was stable and dense, well on its way to the sixth-tier, and he carried himself with neither a sense of arrogance nor servitude.

All of this combined made for an arresting sight, and August drew almost as many eyes as the King himself once Julius walked into the throne room.

The palace seneschal drew everyone’s attention, and they all genuflected as was appropriate —even Leon, the King was amused to see, though his bow was token and shallow.  The King, feeling a little run-down and ready to get this business over with, spoke no words until he sat upon the grand silver throne.

He took some comfort in the mural above the throne that depicted the First Bull King standing triumphant after forging the Kingdom in the fires of war.  However, his mood quickly soured again as his eyes drifted to the side and landed upon the Raime, the last Thunder King that had surrendered during the Bull Kingdom’s formative conquests and been named the first Archduke of the Great Plateau, at the First Bull King’s side, tearing at the hole that Kyros left in the King’s heart and a reminder that Leon was not going to stay.

With a sigh, the King sat upon the silver throne and said, “Let’s get this over with.  Bring them in.”

If anyone in the Court was surprised or offended at his curt attitude, they didn’t let on.  They could all see the linens on the ground in front of the throne that were specially enchanted by the blood priests to absorb blood, and the block upon them.

Only a moment later, a host of guardsmen came marching in, all of them at least fifth-tier, dragging a dirty, weak person between them.  As the guards parted, the aged figure of Duke Duronius, trussed up in chains and a gag over his mouth was revealed.  Captivity hadn’t been kind to the old man, even though he’d been afforded as many luxuries as his rank demanded when under arrest.  Julius took some small amount of satisfaction in that.

The seneschal wasted no time laying out the crimes of the Duke for the entire Court to hear, but the room was deadly silent.  It was if no one was sure that Julius was going to follow through on what he was obviously intending.

Julius noted that Leon’s golden eyes stayed locked upon Duronius even as the seneschal spoke.  Similarly, he noted Dame Minerva’s hawkish gaze locked upon the chained Duke.  From the unspoken promises of violence that the King read in their eyes, he suspected that if he were to pardon the Duke for whatever reason, Duronius would find himself dead soon after, anyway.

But Leon wouldn’t get that opportunity.  As soon as the seneschal finished, it was the King’s turn to speak.

“I sentence you to death,” the King rasped, hatred and antipathy constricting his voice enough that he could barely form the words.  Duronius was one of the leading minds behind the civil war, and he was about to learn what the King’s justice was.  His rank wouldn’t help him here.

From off to the side, Bronze stepped out into full view of the court, his dark brown armor glistening in the light shining in from the windows.  In his hands, he held his massive bronze ax, and as he approached the Duke, the guardsmen forced Duronius down onto the block, right into the perfect position.

Bronze didn’t hesitate, nor was Duronius ever given a chance to speak.  In only a moment, Bronze separated the Duke’s head from his neck with a single, clean stroke.

“The Duchy of Valencia and all other titles that were held by the former Duke are hereby revoked,” the King intoned, his voice gaining strength now that the deed was done.

The guardsmen quickly removed the Duke’s body, and the doors opened again, letting in another group of guardsmen enter with a second chained figure between them.  Quite a few landed nobles had been taken prisoner who were guilty of too many crimes to be forgiven, even if their lands were taken.  Duronius was only the first of many.

The King sighed again.  It was going to be a long day, but the Kingdom would be immeasurably improved by the end of it, even if the administrative burden these new lands would place upon them compounded their existing problem of a hollowed-out bureaucracy.  The King proceeded undaunted, dealing out justice to those that most sorely needed it.