The Enlightened God looked down upon Stefan with His large, black eyes. The gaze of the Enlightened God approved of him, Stefan thought. After all, Stefan was the chosen one of His younger brother, Prince Anios. He was Anios reborn, despite his flaws. Despite his Menti powers. That was what he must concentrate on in this most sacred position.
Yes, Stefan was the chosen one of the Enlightened Faith and the Enlightened God looked upon him from the ceiling of Nesra’s Keep with approval. The fresco stretched almost halfway across the long ceiling of the throne room, an anomaly of monochrome amidst the colourful depictions of old King Mithrin defeating the last dragon king. The Enlightened God was dressed in white robes, his eyes and hair black, and the lightning bolts in blue across the belt. Stefan kept his eyes focussed on the Enlightened God, instead of the bright yellow, orange and crimson of the fresco of King Mithrin and the last dragon king. Stefan wanted to be reminded of why he was here.
But he was monstrous to look at since his battle with his brother, Prince Luca. While Stefan was a dragon, his brother was a fire wielder, and had left him scarred from scalp to neck. The burns were not as red or blistered as they had been, but they had left his skin a mess of scars, all dimpled and raw, like stretched bread dough.
He glanced to his left where his wife Maria sat, a woman he knew could not stand the sight of him. She was as timid as ever, shrinking down into her throne. The crown sat uneasily on her head, tilted slightly to the side. Every time Maria moved, the crown wobbled a little more to the left. Stefan gritted his teeth to force himself to ignore it. While he had affection for his mousy little wife, there were times when her apparent obliviousness to her surroundings embarrassed him. But at least she looked fine in her white and purple dress. Stefan wore a matching doublet with a rich purple cape made from the finest velvet, embroidered with the lightning bolt of the Order of Insight.
There was no crown atop his head.
Stefan’s eyes moved towards the aisle between two rows of seats. In those seats were the men and women of the court. Ladies, lords, generals… princesses. As the choir music swelled, he picked out the face of his older sister, Serena. She was still dressed in black, in mourning for their father and their brother. Stefan had asked her not to wear black, to instead wear a more suitable outfit to celebrate the coronation of her brother as king, but Serena had defied him. That could be a problem.
Serena sat next to her mother, Queen Marianne, his father’s second wife. She would be no problem. The woman was aging, greying, and sagging. She hadn’t opened her mouth for a decade. Anios knows what his father had seen in her. The woman was a shrivelled-up little shrew. His younger brother Alberto sat next to Carolina. Alberto would be seven this year. Any older and Stefan would worry about his enemies siding with the boy. Perhaps in a few years Alberto would benefit from an important post in the king’s army away from court. Princess Carolina could continue on playing with her dolls or whatever else it was she liked to do. Then he would find her a husband. Serena was the real concern, as the oldest sibling.
On the other side of the hall, sitting in the front row of the audience, was his mother, Queen Christina, the first wife of his father. Now, she was how a queen should look, despite being older than Marianne. His mother still wore a golden tiara atop her neatly coiled brown curls and a regal black mourning dress embroidered with gold thread on the sleeves. Stefan nodded to her, but his mother turned away. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. She had always been devoted to his father, and to his older brother, Matias. He frowned and redirected his gaze back to the Enlightened God.
Stefan sniffed. This blasted cold. He had suffered with it ever since returning from Xantos. Brother Mikkel had given him a potion to help cure the ailment, as well as bouquet of herbs to help him breathe, but Stefan’s illness would not abate. He forced himself to lift his chin, fighting against the urge to drift into a gentle slumber as the coronation continued.
He busied himself by picking out more faces in the crowd—supporters of his father. They would need to be weeded out of his court. He would not have dissent. Some of those people would soon be travelling to distant seas on important diplomatic missions. Perhaps he could find a similar occupation for his sister Serena. Or even better, a husband.
As Stefan regarded the crowd for a likely candidate, the doors to the throne room swung open and in stepped his closest advisor, Brother Mikkel, a member of the Order of Insight. The choir swelled so that the entire room filled with song. The crowd got to their feet.
Through the crowd walked Brother Mikkel with his head bowed. He held aloft a cushion of fine purple velvet, made from the very same material of Stefan’s cape. The traditional cushion had been threadbare and unfitting for a king such as himself. Stefan leaned forward, forcing himself to keep his head held high rather than allowing his chin to droop. His head was heavy with cold, but he gritted his teeth and fixed his gaze on the object sitting prettily on the velvet cushion held aloft by Brother Mikkel’s hands. There it was: the one thing he had coveted his entire life.
His father’s crown.
The gold peaks glittered as the sunlight filtered in from the stained glass windows of the great hall. The rubies sparkled, sending dancing red dots around the walls. There was an ache in Stefan’s belly as he watched the crown come towards him. It was everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dared to want, and now it was going to be his. At last.
It was an agonising wait for Brother Mikkel to reach him. Each step took so long that Stefan’s lips began to move, mumbling for the Brother to hurry up, though Stefan did not even realise what he was doing. Next to him, Maria cleared her throat in order to break Stefan from his spell. Stefan realised the entire court was watching him, so he leaned back in his chair and stretched out a leg, attempting to display nonchalance. But that was not the right tone for such an event, which meant Stefan fidgeted yet again in his seat as Maria sternly watched him, stony-faced and unimpressed.
Just give me the crown and be done with it, Stefan thought. He had been anticipating the coronation for weeks, but now he was far too self-conscious about all of his actions, and he felt his face reddening with embarrassment. Was Serena laughing at him from the first row? He glowered at her.
Finally, Brother Mikkel bowed at his feet. The choirboys’ song lilted up into a crescendo.
Stefan leaned down and whispered, “What took you so long?”
Brother Mikkel rose, and lifted the cushion with the crown. “It is a sacred ceremony, Your Majesty. It is not to be rushed.” Then he turned and lifted the crown higher. The music stopped. The crowd hushed.
Stefan waited with bated breath as the silence stretched on in that long room. He could hardly bear it. Then the silence was punctuated by a cough. And another one. And then a sneeze. Stefan could hardly believe that people could be so rude during this—as Brother Mikkel had called it—sacred ceremony. He watched, aghast, as Lady Zimin blew her nose. But when he allowed his eyes to trail over the faces of the crowd, he realised that many were either ruby red or ghastly pale. Half of the court were sick. Whatever his illness was, it was spreading to the others.
“In the presence of the Enlightened God,” Brother Mikkel intoned, “who showed us the path of enlightenment out of the darkness of wicked sorcery, I crown Stefan Romano Sarinthi as King of Estala, ruler of the realm, guardian of the faith, and leader of the Order of Insight.” Brother Mikkel turned. “For you, sweet prince, Anios personified.”
There was a ripple of murmurs spreading through the crowd as Brother Mikkel slowly placed the crown atop his head. Stefan immediately felt the weight pressing down on his skull, and he panicked for a moment when neither his head nor the crown felt stable on his neck. A great throbbing pain emanated from his forehead, working its way around to the back of his skull. When the crowd cheered for him, he winced, and not just because their cheers sounded half-hearted even to him.
“You must speak, my king,” Brother Mikkel prompted.
Stefan had almost forgotten. As the newly crowned king he was to stand up and address his court. He had prepared a speech. He had spent many hours reciting the speech in the looking glass of his washroom, until the words were embedded in his mind. But now those words had left his mind altogether. He was blank. He could not even remember the beginning. As the cheers ended and the crowd waited, Stefan swallowed, trying desperately to recall what he was supposed to say. Brother Mikkel turned and nodded to him.
Stefan rose to his feet, feeling unsteady. He almost lifted a hand to ensure the crown did not slip from his head, but he did not. He forced himself to keep his balance. He glanced nervously around at the faces waiting expectantly for his speech. Serena’s lips were pursed together, making Stefan wonder if she had already decided to dislike what he was going to say.
He cleared his throat. Where was the coughing and sneezing now? You could hear a silver sofia hit the floor in that great hall. He glanced across at Lady Zimin, hoping she would blow her nose again.
“Lords, Ladies, Generals, and Brothers,” he began. His mouth was dry. How was he supposed to speak with his mouth so dry? “Th-thank…” Stefan paused and licked his lips as the faces in the crowd stood there staring at him. He changed tactic. “My father was a good man and a good king. We all mourn his passing. But I cannot deny that I am proud to be standing before you today as your king. My father was a good man, but I am a great man. I am the personification of Anios, a ruler of men, and the protector of the faith. Estala has been blighted by the Menti uprising, but no more.” Stefan paused and tried to stop himself from reeling back. His head felt heavy and stuffy. It seemed like there was no air in the room, despite its vast open space. But he knew that he could not appear weak, not now. He ignored his dripping nose and continued. “I will rid this country of the Menti. There will be no more magic in the realm during my rule. Menti sorcerers will be put to death, and Estala will be cleansed of evil sorcery.”
Stefan smiled to himself. Despite forgetting his speech, he had delivered exactly what he had wanted to say. But he could not figure out why the court were not applauding and cheering at his words. Eventually, after an extended silence, a limp ripple of applause broke out through the throne room. Stefan meet Brother Mikkel’s gaze, who nodded with approval.
Still attempting to hide his disapproval at the crowd’s reaction, Stefan turned to his wife and offered her his hand. For a brief moment, she looked at his hand with utter disdain, before seemingly remembered that she was married to him, and therefore obligated to take it with her own.
“You are queen now, my dear Maria,” Stefan hissed through his clenched teeth. “You might act like it.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she replied, avoiding looking at his scarred face.
Stefan hated her habit of addressing him in such a formal matter, but at the same time he was relieved that he had not married a disobedient woman. She smiled as he gently raised her out of her seat and led her down the steps from the dais to where the audience stood before them. The lords and ladies clapped softly as he led his queen down the aisle between the chairs. He glanced across at his mother, who was clapping, but staring disinterestedly across the hall to a portrait of his father hanging between two large arched windows. Stefan frowned, and turned towards his sister, Serena, who was clapping hard, and looking his way, but there wasn’t even a hint of a smile on her lips.
He continued on down the aisle, smiling and nodding to the audience. Stefan put the thought of his mother’s expression out of his mind and instead thought about the king he was looking forward to becoming. A hard king. A ruthless king. Someone to be feared and respected. Respect always came with fear, his father had taught him that. His father knew all about fear, especially when Stefan pushed him out of the window and watched him plunge to his death.
With a faint smile playing on his lips, Stefan continued down the aisle to the great wooden doors, which were promptly opened by the guards. As Stefan made his way out of the throne room, the guards bowed to him. He could get used to this, if he could just keep the crown from falling off his head. He was aware of the stiffness of his gait as he walked out of the throne room, leaving the great swathes of purple banners celebrating his coronation behind. He walked down the corridor, treading softly over the mosaic tiles, with his crown balanced precariously on his head.
The audience followed him as he marched on through Nesra’s keep. Stefan sensed Brother Mikkel not far behind him, the ever faithful Brother, and his closest confidante. He gripped hold of his wife’s hand, even though his palm was clammy and slippery. It was not far now. The balcony was coming up. On the balcony he would wave to his public for the first time. He would show himself as their king.
His heart beat faster, alarming him. It was a palpitation, nothing more. He had to keep going despite the feeble state this illness had left him in. There was no showing weakness as king, no matter how ill Stefan felt. The coronation came first. His show of strength came first.
Finally, he saw the balcony up ahead.
The scent of the sea air hit him first. His mind flashed back to thoughts of the sailor he drowned in the Sea of Kings. He remembered pushing his face into the waves as the man struggled. Stefan closed his eyes and opened them again. No. He must concentrate. He took his first step out onto the balcony, aware of Brother Mikkel and his guards behind him. It would be so simple. It would only take one push and he would be gone, just like his father. No one would dare to push him. Would they? Stefan resisted the urge to check behind him as he moved closer to the balcony balustrades.
His heart skipped a beat as he gazed over the barrier to the crowds below. He knew the people were wary of him. There was his ridiculous nickname, and now there were his scars, too. When he leaned forward, for a horrible moment he thought his crown would slip down and tumble into the people below, but he managed to balance himself, and his hand flew up to his head to steady the crown. Serena sidled next to him, grinning at his misfortune. Stefan forced the frown off his face before it marred his first appearance to the public as king. He hated the way Serena looked so much like her mother, with tanned skin and deep brown hair. Those amber eyes mocked him. But at least with her looks it would be easy to find a husband for her.
He forced himself to ignore Serena. He had his queen by his side—his mother, too, though she was as distracted as always—and he was king.
“Mother, it is a grand crowd, is it not? More than I could have hoped for,” Stefan said as he waved to the people below.
“Yes,” she replied automatically. Her sombre eyes were cast down and she picked at a loose gold thread on the sleeve of her dress.
“And the purple banners. Look, some even have the lightning bolt of the Order of Insight. Brother Mikkel, look.”
“It is true, Your Majesty. Your public adores you.”
Stefan smiled down at them. They were like ants down there, so tiny and insignificant. He could crush every single one of them.
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