Tale of Four

Tristan frowned and sighed, realising he couldn’t do anything. He already knew Anton had taken a different philosophy when it came to the family’s summons and likely believed that Matthew had to overcome any problems Dexion caused himself. It was a thought that nagged him, but one he had to accept. After all, he had no ground to stand on to argue with Anton. If what Annabell said was true about summons, then he could take a few guesses on what Anton’s spider represented, and each one was likely one of the worst parts of human nature.

The fact that he had achieved a perfect merge with his summon meant he had proven to himself that his philosophy was correct. Before he could get lost in his thoughts, a guard approached and bowed, "The king has summoned you to the council room."

"I must get his cup," Tristan said and got ready to walk off, but the guard shook his head.

"The king has summoned you not as his cupbearer today. Please follow me." Following behind, Tristan stayed silent as Annabell got comfortable on his head. Heading deeper into the palace, the halls got more lively, guards and servants more frequent as courtiers stayed close, trying to worm some influence where they could, but also hoping to have the protection of the guards.

’So pathetic.’ Tristan couldn’t help but say to himself, seeing those courtiers. Whilst he knew he wasn’t much better than they were, he couldn’t help but find all of them the worst. Most didn’t provide help in the Anton war, yet wanted his protection. Most didn’t offer anything to ease the realm’s burden, yet enjoyed all the luxury the Palace could still afford. If it was his choice, he would have let them starve, knowing they had more than enough to buy their own food, but Tristan understood it was why he wasn’t in charge.

Even if they were pathetic scroungers, the crown, making sure the quality of their life didn’t drop too drastically, still proved to the rest of the realm that the crown was strong. It was a terrible thing to him, knowing that soon the commonfolk of Everlight would begin starving when prices rose and the courtiers wouldn’t, but all Tristan could do was bite his lip and try to ignore it. After all, he had no way to change it.

Ser Bryan Halls stopped them from entering the room. Knocking three times on the door, they heard Anton’s voice call out to let them enter. Only Tristan walked forward and looked to Anton. Placing a hand on his chest, he bowed deeply. "I greet the King." Rising, he looked around and saw Mabel sitting next to two empty places. "I greet the princess."

"Just sit, Tristan," Mabel said with a dismissive voice, and Tristan nodded, taking his place at the end of the table. Looking at Mabel, she rolled her eyes, seeing him so far away. Next to arrive was Matthew, who walked forward, his head sunken into his shoulders. Without greeting either his sister or father, he sat down and slammed his head on the table.

Looking to Anton, he wondered what he would do, but the king said nothing, seeing his youngest child, letting him rest. Annabell got restless atop Tristan’s head the moment Matthew walked in, as her head darted from side to side.

"What’s wrong with her, Tristan?" Mabel asked, seeing Annabell’s peculiar state. Even Anton leaned slightly closer, wondering what was happening. Tristan stayed silent and looked to Annabell instead, who looked around as if trying to find soemthing, but was unable to.

"I don’t know," Tristan said and grabbed Annabell off his head. The dove looked around, unfazed by Tristan moving her, before squirming around to be freed. Once freed, she flew up and circled the room.

"Dexion!" Matthew twitched at the name and lifted his head. "I can feel you’re here," Annabell said with her childish voice, finally coming to a stop behind Anton, sitting atop the Cosmaton family banner. Looking around, Annabell angrily flapped her wings. "Dexion, stop being mean."

"He’s not out." Matthew said, almost inaudible, before putting his head back on the table, "I haven’t sum..." His words trailed off. Annabell huffed but flew back towards Tristan with an annoyed expression; sure, she felt things differently. Anton looked at the place next to Mabel before turning to the other free place at the table, suppressing his anger.

"We begin without Vincent," Anton said, interlocking his fingers. "Elias has sent word. He reclaimed Black Guard from Cleeve and has left a token force to continue the siege of the Waterway, but unfortunately, Cleeve escaped with the bulk of his force." Anton said each word with a blank tone. "Lord Sunflare has had to split his forces. With Lord Alkaris’ death, he does not feel safe committing everything to the Crownlands and Artlands. Despite this, he will still help with the defence of the Crownlands himself."

The room fell silent as Anton took a deep breath. "The main problem is, Clover. With his declaration and Lord Alkaris’ defeat, they have finally got the numbers over us." Anton turned to Mabel, "Elias will be returning soon, Mabel. Whilst Lord Decaon is chancellor during my absence, I need Elias here to keep things in line. His words carry more weight than the Lord Decaons’ own, after all."

"Are you asking me to fight father?" Mabel said with a smile, revealing her large canines.

"War is not a game, Mabel. I need you there, not to lead battle or make grand strategies, but to keep morale high. No more." Anton shot down Mabel’s excitement, making her huff and cross her arms.

"Do you not trust me even now, father? You know how good I am with a blade. I am better than most." Anton narrowed his gaze.

"No matter how good you are, Mabel, you are a child at war. Do you think when I held the hills I didn’t have men with me who far outclassed you, die by my side?" Anton leaned forward. "You are good, but don’t be arrogant and think it will be all that matters. You’re a Cosmaton. Your strength lies in your summon. Don’t fight like a soilder but as your blood says."

Mabel clicked her tongue, but with a sharp glare from the disrespect, she tensed up and lowered her head. "I understand, father." Bowing slightly, Anton relaxed and nodded. Turning to Tristan, he spoke.

"You are to be on standby until required. Your strength is better suited here, but I may require you to march out."

"Your grace." Tristan felt his lip twitch at the idea, hating even the mere thought of leaving the Palace. "I can’t lead wars or battle."

"Did I say you would? If I need my family to hold important strongholds, I will use you. Make no mistake, I do not need you to lead my armies. I have men far better at that than you."

"I understand." Although the idea was terrible to imagine, Tristan could only agree. As Hank had taught him, loyalty was all that mattered. Before Anton could carry on, the doors opened, two guards opening them for the golden-haired man. His long hair was tied into a ponytail, revealing his black eyes.

Tristan couldn’t help but feel slightly uncomfortable with Vincent. Everything about him was manufactured. His eyebrows were plucked so they were perfectly even. His soft features were enhanced by makeup, whilst his skin was whitened and his lips reddened to make him look like a beautiful ceramic. He was clearly a man, his body muscular and flat, despite being hidden by his clothes, but the way he made his face flirted with the line, just to make himself look more beautiful than he already was.

Vincent circled around the table, and his gloved hand reached out, pulling a chair. Taking a seat, he interlocked his fingers and rested his chin atop them, thinly smiling towards Anton with a pleasant but fearful smile.

Anton disconnected his fingers and leaned back in his chair, his hand resting atop the armrest and fingers bouncing. Each bounce made Vincent flinch as his smile changed, turning from happy to nervous as he pulled away.

"Brother." Vincent finally spoke, trying to ease his own fears.

"I am your king." Anton coldly replied to his half-brother. "You will call me so." Each bounce of Anton’s index finger sent a shiver across Vincent’s body.

"I...I...I...I.... I’m sorry." Vincent finally got the words out, making Anton’s finger stop. Tristan couldn’t help but feel slightly bad. Out of Anton and his siblings, Vincent was the odd one out. Much younger, only a year older than Tristan, born of a different mother, when their father remarried after his first wife died in her old age.

"I sent guards to bring you, and you still arrived late. What was it that was more important than my summons? Did your makeup take too long? Or could you not find the correct outfit?" Anton said. His voice was neither mocking nor even angered, just disappointed in the being he called his brother.

"My hands," Vincent said under his breath. Anton leaned closer.

"What?"

"My hands were filthy," Vincent said seriously, not even ashamed by the excuse. It was so bizarre that Anton could only blankly stare at his brother before groaning and shaking his head.

"We are fighting a war, one I need you in, Vincent, and you worry about unclean hands." Before Vincent could say a word, Anton raised a hand to stop him. "You have always been a peculiar child, but there are limits to how much of your behaviour I can tolerate in this moment. What happened when I sent you to battle? Must we clean the field before you can step on?"

The mere idea of being sent to battle terrified Vincent as he sank into his seat, too scared to reply. "Did you think when you came to my side, you could be free from battle? You came of your own accord."

"I...I...I thought I wouldn’t fight. But be a diplomat."

"Pathetic." Anton scoffed. "Just sit silently and listen. If you weren’t my brother, I would chuck you out." Anton said with disdain. Tristan stared at Vincent, his beautiful appearance crumbling under the insults, and couldn’t help but wonder why he even came to Anton’s side. There was obviously no love between the two.