[Across the South Seas]
[Southern Isles] [Throne room]
(A/N: I could not find the names of the 12princes/ brothers nor of the king.)
In the high stone throne room of the Southern Isles' palace, daylight streamed through narrow arched windows, casting slender beams across the mosaic-tiled floor.
It was a royal chamber of formidable grandeur, pillars carved with ancient sea serpents, tapestries depicting historical naval victories, and a monumental throne of dark granite inlaid with seashells and pearls.
On this throne sat the king, his lean, aged frame clad in ornate robes of crimson and gold.
Jewellery adorned nearly every finger, and chains of red coral and black diamonds draped across his chest. His crown, spotted with rubies, rested heavily upon thinning hair, and his pale blue eyes held the calm of an unwavering tide.
Flanking him on both sides were his twelve other sons, standing tall in matching regal attire. Their expressions were a mixture of stoicism and anticipation, eyes fixed on the sole figure remaining between them and the throne, the royal messenger.
His royal blue uniform, trimmed with silver—a mount immediately recognized by every reading officer in the Isles—was decorated with the royal seal. His face was gaunt; fatigue and tension were etched into every line.
"Your Majesty," the messenger began, his voice steady but timid, as though prodding the embers of a dormant volcano.
"Forgive the tardiness." He paused, bowing deeply, then straightened. "I bring word from scouts along the northern border. Prince Hans…"
He drew in a breath, and that single beat of silence rippled through the chamber like ice forming on a still lake.
"…has been slain. By the prince of Eldoria."
The words hit the chamber like a crashing wave. A hush fell. The assembled court swallowed collectively; even the smallest bird-on-the-wall seemed aware of the tension.
The king remained still. His eyes narrowed only slightly. The faintest turn of his head toward the messenger was enough acknowledgment.
Prince Joachim, the next in line and eldest at twenty-seven, took a small step forward. "So… Prince Hans is truly dead?" His voice was cold, precise. "His death is not… rumour?"
The messenger nodded, swallowing. "The scouts witnessed the event. Eldoria's prince struck him down. It was easy to identify the body, as the young prince was there for 'official' business."
Joachim's jaw clenched invisibly. To the west, a couple of the younger princes exhaled sharply, their fists tightening at their sides.
At the front of the royal line, Prince Ludovic, royal heir after Joachim, stepped forward, expression taut. "What makes us wait, Father? I've already stationed our war galleys in the channel. Shall I give the order?"
The chamber stilled again. The messenger stifled a shuffle, eyes flicking between Ludovic and the king.
The king's voice, when he spoke, was quiet—but laden with brittle steel.
"Silence," he commanded. One word, yet it stilled even the birds beyond the windows. "My son is dead, not by treachery of our own houses, nor the honour of war, but by the hand of an outsider."
He fixed Ludovic with a cold gaze. "Weak wills bring death. Weak swords find no honour."
Ludovic swallowed. "So… no retaliation?"
"No." The king leaned forward slightly. "At least, not for this."
The court trembled as the king set the course of policy in a single breath. The tension eased slightly, no rebellion, but all were on edge nonetheless.
Prince Fabian, slender and quiet, spoke up, lips white with resolve. "Your Majesty, while I understand your meaning—"
"A fabric ring," the king said, voice like stone sliding across stone. "Hans died because he was weak. He could not defend himself. That marks him unworthy of defense ."
A ripple went through the princes. Some nodded in agreement. Others tensed with indignation. None dared to challenge the king's right.
Joachim swallowed. "So we accept his death?"
"Yes."
Prince Constantine, 3rd in succession, his broad shoulders stiff, said carefully, "But what about compensation? A blood price?"
The king shook his head, robes whispering. "Compensation is for wert-less lives. We bleed for each of our own. He died a weakling."
"It paints us as weak," a younger prince whispered, voice shaking slightly. "We'd appear passive—"
"You force us to fight," the king said, a grim edge in his tone. "And that's his lesson to us. That only the strong—" He leaned even forward so his eyes glinted like sun on obsidian. "Only the strong are safe."
A quiet murmur went through the princes. The now-youngest of them, Prince Ambrose, lowered his eyes. He was unsettled, not by blood, but by the court's cold air. Hans was his favourite; to see such callousness for a brother's death disturbed him.
The king turned to the messenger. "Your duty?"
To convey the king's decree, silence dripped in every syllable. "The border remains as is. There shall be no retaliation. Return my son's body with dignity."
The messenger bowed again. "Yes, Your Majesty."
He passed between the rows of princely figures and left the chamber. The heavy doors clanged shut behind him, echoing like distant thunder.
Silence settled over the court like a fallen veil. The princes faced each other, eyes shifting. They sensed the tide had turned; the line would move forward with unflinching strength.
The king straightened and stood, cane tapping gently across the floor. The veins in his hands, white as lily stalks, flexed on his sceptre.
"Gather yourselves," he said. "We will grieve for Hans in a week's time. We give no funeral parade nor will there be mourning banners outside my palace gates. That is luxury of weakness."
Joachim swallowed, conflict in his eyes, but nodded. Ludovic gave a stiff exhale of resignation. The younger princes straightened themselves, lifting pride to masks. Fabian looked away.
When the brothers dispersed, some gathering near windows, others standing by quiet statuary, the king remained seated but raised his sceptre deliberately. His voice resounded with the same steel of carved granite.
"Remember this: we are the bloodline of the Southern Isles. We claim the ocean's favour… but do not expect mercy. Our legacy is one of strength, resilience, survival of the fittest." He paused.
"Now go on. Let those who seek a war know this: we strike only if Domination demands it. But we will not cry for our dead."
One by one, the princes filed out—Joachim first followed by the rest. The ordinary courtiers and guards retreated quickly but respectfully, leaving only the throne room's echo of stone and memory...
...
***
[Elsewhere]
[Random Kingdom]
The sun sat high over the moss-coloured walls of Alderrest, casting a golden sheen over the cobblestone streets that spiderwebbed out from the heart of the city.
A chorus of clangs, chatter, and chaos filled the air—familiar sounds that gave Alderrest its distinct pulse. The kingdom was neither grand nor poor, just sizable and strange enough to have something happening at any given moment.
The guards on patrol marched in rhythm, heavy boots thudding on the stone roads. Their armour clinked softly, the sound subtle under the din of street hawkers and gossiping townsfolk.
One of the younger guards, barely twenty and still peach-faced under his iron helmet, kept looking left and right with wide eyes, gripping his spear like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
"Relax, Luken," muttered the older guard beside him, a grizzled man named Halric. "If you keep twitchin' like a ferret on fire, someone's gonna think you've got coin to spare."
Luken gulped. "Sorry, I just...this is my first route through Silverback Alley."
Halric grunted. "Then keep your hand near your coin pouch. And if you hear someone yell 'Thief,' don't just run after them like a fool. Not unless you're ready to lose your boots."
Right on cue, a woman's voice screamed, "Stop! That boy took my purse!"
From between a narrow gap in the crowd, a flash of movement, bare feet, dirty clothes, maybe fourteen years old, dashed like lightning, weaving past stalls and shoving past shoppers. Luken, like he had no ears for warnings, immediately gave chase.
"Bloody idiot," Halric sighed, but followed anyway.
The chase zigzagged through the market. Luken bumped into a barrel of apples, sending fruit flying in every direction and a merchant screaming in protest.
The boy thief scrambled under a vegetable cart, grabbed a potato mid-sprint, and took a bite as if mocking his pursuer.
Luken, panting, tried to keep up but stumbled into a baker who swung a tray at him in reflex.
"THIEVES!" shouted another man across the square this time not about the boy. Two grown men wrestled in front of a weapons stall, each one accusing the other of lifting a dagger.
Their shouts turned into punches, then punches into a full scuffle, knocking over swords and spears from the rack. The guards nearby hadn't noticed yet, they were busy breaking up a third fight that had erupted between rival delivery carts blocking each other's path.
One cart driver pointed a sausage at the other, face red as a beet. "You block my wheels again, Jorvin, and I swear on my mother's teeth I'll gut your horse!"
"You don't even own a mother!" Jorvin roared back.
Down another street, far from the bustling marketplace, a very different kind of drama was unfolding. In the quiet courtyard of a small inn, a man dropped a basket of fresh bread when he saw what lay beyond the open window of a modest house.
There, half-draped in sheets, was his wife.
And beside her? Not him.
The woman gasped, covering herself with a quilt. "Milo! I—it's not what it looks like!"
The man she was with, a wiry merchant type, bolted out of the bed and dived for his clothes.
"Oh, then my eyes must be deceiving me. Its exactly what it looks like, Carenna!" Milo barked, kicking the basket aside as he marched toward the door. "You told me you were going to your mother's!"
The man trying to get dressed knocked over a candle stand and nearly fell out the window in his panic. Milo, seething, pushed open the front door just as the man escaped out the back.
"Pray that your little lover doesnt cross paths with me," he said, voice trembling. "Or something unfortunate might just happen to him. Ungrateful bitch"
Back near the centre of the kingdom, children played freely, unaffected by the whirlwind of adult drama. A pack of them chased each other through the alleys, playing "Knight and Ogre," wooden sticks clashing as they yelled pretend magic spells and ran in circles.
A little girl stood proudly on an upturned crate, holding a tin lid like a shield.
"I am Lady Belitha the Brave!" she declared. "All ogres shall fall before my sword!"
"Not if the Ogre King casts Fart Mist!" yelled a boy named Renric, leaping out with a puff of dust.
"Your reign ends here!" shouted another, hurling a mudball that knocked the bucket sideways.
The others cackled, piling on him until they were just a giggling heap of arms, legs, and dirt. A mother yelled from a window above, "If I find any of you tracking that muck into my house, I swear I'll feed you to the goats!"
"Sorry, Ma!"
But they kept playing anyway. Laughter echoed down the alley like music
However in another shadowed corner of the city, less laughter echoed. A man pinned another against a wall with a knife pressed into his ribs.
"You weren't supposed to tell anyone about the dice game," hissed the mugger, his breath hot and stinking of ale.
The victim trembled. "I-I didn't! I swear! I—I just mentioned the warehouse by the docks to—"
"To who?" the knife pushed in slightly.
"T-To a barkeep! I didn't know he was one of—!"
A sharp shove, and the victim slumped to the ground, clutching his side. The mugger vanished before the town watch could hear a sound. In Alderrest, old grudges died slow—and some didn't die at all.
Speaking of grudges, back in the tavern known as The Silver Tongue, an entirely different kind of brawl had just erupted.
"You call that a song?" a drunk bard with a feathered hat bellowed at the top of his lungs.
The other bard, slightly more sober and with far fewer teeth, stood on a table holding a lute like a weapon. "Better than the pigsqueal you sang last night, you walking insult to wood!"
That's all it took.
At the center of the madness was Big Maura, the bartender, who had the patience of a saint and the fists of a war god.
"NO FIGHTIN' TILL AFTER I'M DONE POURIN'!" she shouted.
Mugs flew. Chairs overturned. One particularly drunk dwarf bit someone on the shin. The barkeep, a heavyset woman with arms like tree trunks, lifted a barrel over her head and shouted, "If one more of you sings anything, I'll personally make sure your next song is your death rattle!"
A man crashed into the table near the fireplace. Another flung a spoon with pinpoint precision and struck someone's nose. By the door, an elderly man simply sipped his tea as chaos brewed around him.
"Tuesday," he said with a sigh, setting down his cup.
Someone punched someone anyway. The man went flying into a table. That table snapped. That snap sent three full mugs flying onto a nobleman's coat.
"Oh," said the noble. "Oh no."
He stood, removed his coat carefully, and folded it… before slamming a chair over the head of the closest person.
"Woooo!! Finish him!" Someone screamed.
A tiny gnome crawled out from under a barrel and said, "Welp, time to move towns."
Above it all, Big Maura cracked her knuckles, rolled her shoulders, and dove into the crowd like a gladiator entering the arena.
...
Outside the tavern, a tall robed figure with a hood walked through the city unnoticed, observing everything. They passed by a crying child holding a broken toy, and without a word, the figure knelt down, muttered a few words, and the toy mended itself.
The child beamed. The robed one said nothing and walked away.
At the stables, a horse had escaped its tether and now ran freely down the streets, dragging a wagon of hay behind it. The stableboy gave chase, tripping on his own feet, yelling, "Buttercup, no! That's for the Duke's dinner party!"
Not far from there, a noblewoman lost her temper in a fabric shop when the merchant sold her velvet roll to another buyer. "This is outrageous! I shall inform the Queen herself!"
The merchant, unbothered, crossed his arms. "You said you'd return in an hour. It's been two days."
The woman threw a spool of thread at him.
Meanwhile, in a temple atop the hill, prayers were being offered. But even there, the peace didn't last.
Two monks began arguing over the placement of a ceremonial candle. A sacred goat bleated in disapproval and headbutted one of them into a basin of holy water.
Down at the docks, ships came and went, fishermen argued about the tide, and a crew of sailors struggled to drag a giant fish out of a net, only to realize it was a half-rotted log covered in seaweed. They laughed anyway.
Because that was Alderrest.
It was messy. It was loud. It was occasionally violent. But that was life. A place where every hour held a new story, a new disaster, a new miracle.
A kingdom full of life, both ordinary and strange. And just like the sun rolling across the sky above it, Alderrest never truly stopped moving.
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