“Come now, Lord Ishvara, disarm yourself,” Lady Mundus quickly insists, motioning her hand up and down as if signaling the elderly lord to ease up. “ I trust you’re well-informed on Alverra’s significance to the Imperial Kingdom, correct? It bears not only territorial value, but financial and economic value as well. The Alverrians and their fool pretender-king are a primitive people, ignorant of the cornucopia of resources they are seated upon. Exotic, precious metals and gems seldom seen by Solasúian eyes—the kind that many would pay a fortune to behold. If we seized control of Alverra, not only would we reunite our race for the first time in over a hundred years, but we would pave the way to Utopia itself.”
“And at what cost?” Lord Ishvara rebukes, receiving then a blistering glower from Lady Mundus. “Have you already forgotten that we’ve only just escaped the clutches of war—a war we lost, need I remind the council. We lack the coin to pay off our own debt, let alone to fund yet another war.”
Lord Kórakas hangs practically on the edge of his chair, truly enticement by the concept of war. Yet the warrior-lord approaches the discussion with evenness and composure, leaning over the table with elbows up and hands tied together.
“If Alverra is as affluent as I expect it to be, then there’s plenty of opportunity to plunder what we conquer,” Lord Kórakas adds, yet his words are as oil meeting an open flame. “Why not simply utilize the riches that we seize? There is former nobility of the Imperial Kingdom amongst the savages after all.”
“…Kórakas are better left only questioning what body their spears must pierce and not the affairs related to it,” Lord Decimus Ishvara growls.
The furor beneath Lord Ishvara’s tongue tempts out another smirk upon the battle-tried visage of Lord Kórakas. A grin superior and overbearing, of thorough, unadulterated satisfaction; the kind he sheds only while watching his enemies felled by his spear writhe at his feet. All voices halt production for a moment or two, breeding an unusual and sudden quiet. The silence becomes empty static, yet the Solasúians could make out the sound of a very busy quill.
Begotten in the furthest corner of the room is a unrecollected ghost, a ghostwriter of history of sorts. A girl sits with unflinching focus. Her slender frame squats behind her desk, ignoring even as the council she recorded had gone completely silent. Instead, a feather dripping with black ink remains in her faultless grasp; the parchment afore her the canvas to a wordy portrait of history. She tucks a stray strand of hair as dark as the ink on her quill behind her ear, having fled from her otherwise well-kept braided bun. She is Transcriptor Methea Mayne of House Mundus, the adopted daughter of the renown Martellus Mundus, father of Lady Mundus and the queen.
As young Methea minds only her work, she then becomes the target of a pair of glowing, cerulean eyes. Her adopted sister, the extravagantly dressed Lady Metis, directs an unyielding stare upon the young girl, and with earnest, speaks, “Methea, do not record that last entry by Lord Ishvara.”
Methea’s quill, hearing her sister call her by name, comes to a stand-still like a malfunctioning printing press. The young girl’s dark blue eyes peek over her desk, observing as her adopted sister’s scowl takes aim for Lord Ishvara. Lady Mundus, having heard Lord Ishvara’s words, shakes her head in rejection, reminding him, “This is an official, recorded meeting of the Ruler’s Council, Lord Ishvara. Do mind your tongue.”
“Hmph, very well,” Lord Ishvara relents with an unruly grumble, stroking his long, silvery-white goatee as if to calm himself. “Then how else would you like for us to—”
In the midst of Lord Ishvara’s words as they come into fruition, yet another unexpected sound rattles the soundscape. But this one is louder, more abrupt, as though a door becoming recklessly agape. It swings with urgency; not with the politeness and casual nature of Lord Kórakas’s entry, but as if unhinged. The eyes of the council draw westward, but more particularly does Achernar’s eyes dart in haste. It is then that he finds himself compelled, for the mute brilliance of twilight upon her reminds him of her spellbinding beauty. The curly, umber brown strands of her hair—bound partially in an elegant bun—rest exquisitely along her breast. Her fair skin absorbs the setting sun like a field of marigolds. The azurite blue of her eyes dazzle like virgin gems plucked straight from the earth’s bosom, and their natural glow heighten their allure beyond compare. Truly, in the mortal eyes of Achernar, she is like a masterwork painting made into reality; as close to perfection as mortally possible.
“…Your Grace,” Achernar’s voice finally summons the strength to address her, speaking her title with utmost veneration.
Yet something is wrong. Something is horribly wrong. Meliora’s expression wears not the same softness nor pleasantness he has come to know and enjoy from his precious friend. It’s bleak and darkened with solemnity, as if something truly terrible has occurred. As his eyes fall southernly, they broaden with shock and horror. Tattered cloth dangles loosely beside her exposed left arm. But moreover, she is covered in blood—from the crimson red trickling from her fingertips, to the dried blood up her forearms, and the abundant amount of blood stained into her exquisite, lilac dress.
Like their own chairs conducted their shock, the council whole swiftly bolts out from their chairs. The power of the sight scares away all the oxygen out of the room. The collective throat of the council stiffens without resistance, their jaw dangle ajar, their eyes notably broaden. Not a soul knows what to make of the sight, yet there their queen stands, with her protector Daevarro close at her side.
Meliora's mind, however, focuses not as the council members gasp, speak their concern, or demand answers. No, she does not even pay them a single bit of attention as though they aren’t even there at all. Her eyes become a precise, singular azurite beam, seeking out only the attention of her dear, beloved Opposite, King Raphael, who is the only one who remains seated. She stares solely on him, and he stares solely on her. His face is riddled with shock as like all of the others, yet something else dwells behind those amethyst irises of his.
“…S-sister!” the ghost, Methea, sharply cries, leaping from her cramped corner of the room and rushing to the side of her adopted sister.
“Are you all right, Your Grace?!” shouts Achernar, blasting out from his chair to be by her side. “What has happened?”
“…I was attacked,” Meliora answers the question upon the collective mind of the council.
“By who?” Achernar presses, then quietly, as a friend to another, he speaks then, “Meliora, please… Who did this to you?”
“It was a group of people… I know not their number nor affiliation, but…Lord Delmos was among them.”
The moment Meliora utters that name, her eldest sister, Lady Metis, steps away from her seat. Bemusement and disbelief shrink her visage, as her jaw dangles broken, and her eyes lay bare as if without lids to close them.
"…Eleius?” Lady Mundus names in a single, shocking utterance.
“There were others, stationed atop a rooftop nearby,” Daevarro adds, speaking for his stunned queen. “Two of them, one with a crossbow and another as his spotter."
“Did you…get a look at them?” suddenly, Lord Caerus Alcain Kórakas—one of the would-be assassins—spurs a question, attempting to add to the hysteria.
Daevarro thoroughly and disappointedly shakes his head, admitting, “No, they were too far away…”
Lord Kórakas, in a sigh more of relief than dismay, laments then, “Oh, that’s quite unfortunate…”
As the queen, Daevarro, and all of the council members attempt to gather their wits in regard to the current events which have unfurled, the king himself sits, unsettled. His fingernails, like the claws of a beast, burrow furiously into the mahogany flesh of the table afore him. His face contorts into a grimace of immeasurable displeasure. As the frantic talk about the situations grows in earnest, the collective vocal cord of the people would be petrified by one single, thunderous voice.
“Leave, all of you,” Raphael's booming voice shudders airwaves, barely capable to contain its wrath over the situation as a whole.
Yet one stands in protest, for the worried friend Achernar opposes, resisting, “My Empyrean, with all due respect—”
“
Leave!
” Raphael then loosens his anger, effortlessly tearing through Achernar’s voice like paper-mâché.
Achernar stands, paralyzed and silent. He racks his brain to try and figure out something clever to get what he wants, but the circumstances keep him away. Fraught with sorrow and visible anger on his part, Achernar reluctantly submits to his king. The council whole acknowledges their king with a bow of their heads. They then begin their exodus, departing the constricting presence of their emperor and the civil coliseum through its gilded, double-sided jaws.
Achernar halts just before completing his departure, glancing back at his queen with eyes ill at ease. He means to speak, but his voice shrivels, for not even the sight of him lingering in the doorway could break her gaze. Meliora stands like on a shrinking isle yet hides it admirably beneath her distinguished disposition. Without so much as a whimper, Achernar begrudgingly takes his leave.
Darkness begins to descend, emphasizing the natural light exhaling from their irises. Yet the fiery light of twilight remains persistent, for the sun peeks over the horizon ever-so-slightly like a curious onlooker not wishing to be caught. The moment the door thuds and clicks to confirm its closure, Raphael removes himself from his seat. Without rest or word, his legs push him closer and closer to his Opposite—she who he is bound by blood to. Meliora then finds herself tenderly wrapped in the arms of her dear king. Raphael warmly embraces his queen, tempted almost to never dare let go. As they stand there, body-against-body, breast-against-breast, heart-against-heart, the queen can feel as Raphael’s body shakes with sorrowful rage. Indeed, the bloody image of Meliora—mother of his child—grips him with as much angst and heartache as it does malice and ire.
Moments later, Raphael forces himself to shear apart from his queen. His eyes gander upon her, unable to discern whether she is wounded or not. With a single, trembling breath, Raphael seeks his answer, asking, “Are you hurt?”
Meliora shakes her head. “No, my love,” she responds without pause. “None of this is my blood.”
With calmness and assurance, Raphael faces the queen’s devout guard Daevarro, a man he had a history with longer than even his history with the queen. Raphael and Daevarro were once brothers-in-arms after all, comrades who once bled together upon battlefields during Raphael’s rebellion and eventual coup. Without question, Daevarro is a trusted companion and an unyielding ally to Raphael.
“Thank you for protecting her,” Raphael expresses genuine, sincere gratitude to his dear friend.
Daevarro bows his head to Raphael, responding, “With my life, My Empyrean.”
Upon the conclusion of his ally’s words, the serenity upon Raphael’s face fades. His even expression slowly falls as a stone sinking into a lake of disapproval and furor. A king, nigh of bearing teeth, settles his sullen eyes upon his queen, who stands almost at the ready for war. Indeed, the atmosphere completely falls upon its head; a tone neither of bliss nor relief, but of open combat. Daevarro, caught in between of two enemies about to do battle—his dearest friends—stands with a heart bleeding, shuffling his eyes between the two.
“…What the hell were you doing walking amongst them?" suddenly, Raphael strikes first, the first stone in the armada still to come. "Have you lost your mind!?"
“Of course not,” Meliora reacts, shaking her head. “You’ve not heeded my words. This was the only way…”
“The only way for what, Meliora?”
“…To get your ear,” the queen answers, presenting herself with her unnatural steadiness. “What I laid witness to this day was far too coordinated for a simple attack.”
Meliora’s words brush across Raphael rather abrasively. His face feverishly takes up a glower, yet it mimics the sense of one rolling their eyes. There lies a hint of annoyance, of irritation, in this visage of his, as though unable to see his queen as a solemn contender in this battle.
“Not this again…” groans Raphael, turning his head away.
“They had knowledge of my route, enough even to position a marksman above. There was a little one amongst them, a girl who spoke of an unknown collective before the marksman assassinated her… How else can we interpret it, my love?”
“Fanatics and madmen,” Raphael dismisses with stern swiftness, visionally alighting the determination and urgency in Meliora’s disposition. “I have enemies. I have always had enemies. Lord Delmos had desired vengeance ever since his brother died in my capture during the war. He would have knowledge of you and whatever path you tend to travel.”
“This is more than a simple act of retribution, Raphael. These are the actions of people who seek to destroy us!”
“Of course. Fourteen years ago, I took everything from them—their slaves, their wealth, their precious Hero King. Why would they desire to live in my Utopia?” Raphael answers without falter. “These are not the sorts of men who’d declare open war upon me. No, they are as vultures who strike only when the opportunity presents itself… Such as when my queen so recklessly steps out from my protection to take a stroll upon the city streets.”
“Those city streets speak in a language different from the hissing of vultures,” Meliora persists, the emotional charge of her determination enduring her dear Opposite’s words. “I can’t quite put it to word, but Governanti speaks differently now. Its air bodes with strangeness and uncertainty, and our people are spreading reprehensible rumours with frightening fervor as if something to believe in. I tremble at the thought of us—of our precious city—if we simply disregard the word of our people as mere gossip.”
Raphael sighs a sigh of deep, exhausted frustration.
“They are
phantoms
, Meliora,” he denounces with ireful conviction, “phantoms teasing us from the corner of our eye, conceived by those who watch in delight as the world reacts. I will not entertain such deplorable actors.”
“
Gaze upon me,
Raphael,” Meliora demands with unusual vigor, spanning her arms beyond her as if to showcase herself. “…Is this truly the work of phantoms?”
A break, a moment of ill-boding silence so forlornly enshrouds the room. The muffled sound of footsteps upon cloth then fills the disheartening hollowness. Raphael’s body grows on the move, heartlessly turning his cheek to his queen. The swift barb of the king departs his lips like the projectile of a catapult, crushing Meliora’s fortitude. The resolute arch of Meliora’s brow weakens, shriveling as if in defense against his attack. As her composure begins to crumble like a city wall bombarded, she echoes her dear Opposite, distraughtly muttering, “…Foolishness?”
Raphael faces himself and the dwindling twilight, standing afore the smoothened glass of one of the towering windows. But the reflection of himself is not what bewitches him, but the violet-colored reflect upon his eyes. It calls upon him, his very soul, like a mission from a god. He pursues it; a dream beyond his men, beyond his kingdom, beyond his very soul. Towering, broad mounds of hardened earth piercing the western heavens, the mountains which reach into the celestial body. Calmly, his arms pull behind his back. His hands clasp together; one folded over the other. A deep, earnest pocket of air rolls out from his nostrils as he becomes fixated solely upon the image of Alverra ahead of him.
“Make no mistake, it was a tragedy," Raphael relentlessly proceeds. "Because of it, several of my people now lay dead upon my city streets. However, what occurred upon those streets was not the fruition of a grander scheme to come, but the consequence of your foolishness.”
Meliora quickens the process of rebuilding her collapsing composure. She rips out her anxiety and shock, exhaling it from the deepest pit of her chest. Her hardened will forces her back to stiffen faultlessly vertical. Her eyes, forced peerlessly forward, ignores her protector Daevarro’s sinking expression.
“Perhaps I was foolish—imprudent, even. But after months of listening as murmurs become shouts, I had little choice. You yourself acknowledge these enemies who seek to destroy us. Well, those enemies have chosen to act upon their phantom-machinations, even so earnestly as to make an attempt on my—” Meliora speaks, yet suddenly…
“Because
you yourself
invited these vultures to the feast,” Raphael thunders through Meliora’s keen, yet reserved tone. “They are the same cowards who praise my name, gravel at my feet, and beg my charity day-in-and-day-out. And they will continue licking my boots ‘til the day they fall off the feet of my rotting corpse. They have not the spine to act upon anything less than the broadest of opportunities.”
“If we do nothing, then that will only embolden their efforts,” Meliora stands firm; fists clad in iron. “If we do not weed these enemies out from root to stem, they will germinate. They will grow in power, become more brazen, and their schemes will fall like fruit into the hands of all who oppose you. They will rise against you as you once did against them.”
The words of Meliora hit Raphael as if a knife ran through his back. A disturbing silence—the quiet before a most violent storm—suddenly fills the room, yet the knife still hangs from Raphael’s back. The air reverberates then with heavy breathing as Meliora’s eye catches her dear Opposite’s dangling fingers angrily curl into his palms. Raphael’s pupils burn as if two burning coals as they glare back upon Meliora from the side. Truly, in this sight of his, she across from him scorches alive; a helpless soul in the flames of a dragon. She couldn’t capture Raphael’s face in its entirety, as it faces her only partially. Yet the little she beholds is a jarring sight, for a smoldering, vehement scowl twists and contorts this visage once of a man.
“Do not
dare
compare me to those tyrants!” Raphael virtuously demands, fastening his teeth in a menacing fury.
