Chapter 51: The King
The capital was still healing from the archmage’s attack. She still wore the wounds of it, multiple buildings reduced to rubble, their remains yet to be cleared. Mages were incredibly powerful, archmages moreso, but even they were no match for ten seasoned cultivators. The threat had been contained and destroyed, but it would not be the last of Combec’s infiltration. If one mage could wear the skin of a powerful figure like Maekin and blend in so convincingly, who was to say there were not others already inside the kingdom, giving the king counsel while he suspected nothing?
King Astadan lay on his bed, unclothed, with several bodies sprawled around him. Angelic bodies whose sole purpose was to satisfy the king’s appetite. His harem. It was morning, and the royal rooster had crowed more than once, pulling him from his sleep. He rose from the rest of them and walked to his window, yawning into the back of his hand.
Astadan was a powerful king, and the capital Faekinerg told of the might and riches of the great monarch in every stone and spire of it. He could have anything he wanted, any item, any woman. He was the king. But war? Nobody wanted that. Nobody except Combec. They had been bold, and failing to strike back would be read as weakness. Maldrin could not afford to appear weak.
He looked out through the window. The palace was enormous and sprawling, but Astadan’s skill granted him sight far beyond its walls, as though his eyes could drift freely through the open air like a bird unmoored.
He was the youngest sitting king in history at twenty-six. Daidawn had been younger, but Daidawn was a fool, a puppet who was killed not long after ascending, and he did not count. Astadan’s hair was long and roughened from the night’s activities. He was pale, and aside from his brows, his face was bare of hair, which made him look younger still. With youth came virility, and Astadan was as active as a king could get.
But being seen as the youngest king carried its own weight. People expected even more greatness from him as a result. With him on the throne, no one should dare attack the kingdom. The citizens believed him to be strong and calculating, but beneath all of it, Astadan was a tired man who maintained a cold and distant front because the alternative was worse. He bore the lives of an entire people in his hands.
*Should I declare war?*
He let out a breath and stepped through one of the doors at his side, entering a large steamy room with a pool of water at its center. The royal bathroom. He refreshed, donned his robes, and headed to the throne room with his entourage of advisors, concubines, and servants trailing behind. He was receiving powerful men today. The fate of the country would be decided in that room.
The throne room was ornate and magnificent. It was immense, as though the space itself had been designed to reflect the king’s presence, the idea that a man of such stature required a room vast enough to contain him. Tall pillars lined the walls, painted in bright red and gold. Between each pillar hung gold tapestries bearing the sigils of great houses, those who had pledged their allegiance to the throne.
His council bowed as he walked in with measured poise, his entourage following close behind. He took his throne. The entourage dispersed, all save one, Astadan’s most trusted advisor, who remained at his side.
"My lord. My king." One of the councilmen began.
"This attack is an affront to our nation. We may be at odds with Combec, we may have dissolved our security treaty, but an attack on one of our cities is evil, and evil must be made to pay. The gods repay evil with death from our hands." The rotund aristocrat delivered his speech and stood upright. As expected, others followed.
"Lord Zoku is right, your highness. The lords and ladies may have been protected, but what of the commoners whose lives were lost? The properties destroyed? They must be avenged, my lord. We have to declare war." This was Mapis, one of the most powerful men in the room and the most outspoken. It was like him to skip the preamble and go straight to the heart of it.
The declaration of war. Astadan quietly wondered how many others would be willing to say those same words plainly. Powerful as these men were, they were cautious. They would speak boldly about striking back, but many would hesitate to say outright that the nation should march to war, even when that was exactly what they meant. Wars had a way of becoming unpopular over time, and most nobles preferred to stay well clear of the political weight that came with them.
"Yes, my lord. We must declare war on Combec. We must show that we do not tolerate such acts, and any end to this must come on our terms." Lord Fig, another powerful figure, and this time the words were plain.
Astadan sat on his throne, his eyes drifting across the faces of the men before him. He tried to read them, to see beneath the surface, but it was no use. He could see far distances, yes, but the insides of people’s minds were a distant prospect for him. His grandfather, Doyogonis the Wise, could read minds, according to the records. At times like this, Astadan wished deeply that he had inherited that gift.
Seers were positioned throughout the palace. No mage wearing a concealment spell could enter the throne room without being ambushed by cultivators. The king was assured these men were who they appeared to be.
"What of the Erindle household and the Maekin house? Have they found any leads?"
"No leads, my lord. Unfortunately, all of Maekin’s household were slaughtered by the mage before he was stopped. The Erindle household appears to have no knowledge of the mage or of Combec beyond what we already know. We believe Lord Maekin and his house were not part of this conspiracy."
Nothing he did not already know. He nodded slowly.
it was always going to come to this, wasn’t it? He needed to put the mages and the sects on alert. He needed to get the army off their heels and ready to march. He was going to have to make a great many people despise him for it. But that did not matter. The only thing that mattered in this wicked world was winning, and with him on the throne, Maldrin would win. Or at the very least, it would believe that it could.
He inhaled deeply and rose from the throne. Every person in the room leaned forward instinctively, drawn by the weight of what was coming, the words of the one man whose voice answered only to the gods.
"I declare war against Combec."