Path of Dragons - A LitRPG Apocalypse (BOOK TWO ON KINDLE SEPT. 2)

A hundred guards, fifty to a side, lined the throne room. Each one was immaculately dressed in their formal, blue-and-white uniforms. Their boots had been glossed to perfection, and there wasn’t a thread out of place. Their hair was all identical – male and female alike – and each was armed with a gleaming saber. Being assigned to the throne room was an honor, but one that came with a steep price: conformity and perfection. Anything else would invite the ire of the Lord of Easton.

No one would welcome that.

For his part, Roman barely noticed the men and women who were tasked with keeping order. To him, they were little more than decorations, no different from the elaborate tapestries on the walls. Those bore the sigil of the city – a lone, blue tower on a field of white – and they represented the excellence Roman expected from everyone who served him.

And they did serve him, one and all. He was not the sort of misguided monarch that pretended to serve the people. Instead, he had his position because by virtue of how much better than them he was, and he refused to act otherwise. Instead, he saw his power as an example for which everyone else could strive. He was the ideal. A subject of aspiration and admiration. A hero who deserved their worship.

Roman took that responsibility very seriously, to the point that he despised even the appearance of imperfection. So, he held himself to the same standard as those who toiled at his feet.

Never did he feel that weight more keenly than as he sat on his uncomfortable throne. It was made of cold iron, which in any other situation, would have been an absolute waste of such a valuable material. However, to Roman, it gave the perfect impression. His city was rich. They were powerful. And they could afford to use one of the most expensive materials anyone had discovered for something so useless as making a fancy chair.

Of course, all that ethera made sitting in it even more uncomfortable than the flat, metal seat would have otherwise suggested. But the dizziness that came from it was a price Roman was willing to endure. After all, image was everything. He could have all the power in the world, but if he didn’t show it to the world, then his tenuous grip on authority would shatter.

He’d learned that early in his career as a police officer.

Back then, he’d often found himself outnumbered and, in certain places, outgunned. And yet, he had an entire organization behind him. He had the illusion of power propping him up. And as such, he was allowed to do whatever was necessary to rein in the savages he routinely encountered.

But that had been a long time ago. Even before the world had transformed, police authority had begun to degrade, and all because of a few bad apples. Certainly, most police had covered for those disgraceful members of the force, but that was more about self-preservation than any approval they might’ve held for the idiots who routinely made mistakes. If they turned on their own, it was only a matter of time before it became acceptable to nitpick every little interaction a cop had with the public.

And that would be disastrous.

A man couldn’t do his job if he was constantly wondering if he was going to be vilified – or worse, prosecuted – for doing what was necessary.

So, as soon as he hit twenty years in, he’d moved to Easton and run for sheriff. With his pristine track record and experience, he won the election in a landslide. After that, he’d thought he was on easy street. He had authority, but in a town like Easton, any real issues were rare. As such, he’d spent most of his time hunting or fishing.

It was like a pseudo-retirement, but without the issue of losing his paycheck.

In any case, his career had taught him the necessity of a strong reputation and the importance of public perception. So, he’d used those lessons well when he’d realized that he needed to step up and be the heroic leader the people of Easton deserved. He had internalized those lessons to the point where he couldn’t imagine living any other way.

And now, it was all about to pay off.

“You may approach your king,” said Fiona, who was standing to the right of the throne. She wore an elegant dress that befit her station as his chief advisor, but beyond noting that detail, Roman thought nothing of her. Instead, his focus was on the man striding pridefully down the center aisle of the throne room.

All the nobles – the rich and powerful of Easton – were gathered in pews on either side, and each one was dressed in their most elaborate finery. To Roman, they looked like nothing so much as peacocks clamoring for attention. But he was sad to admit that he needed them. Not to rule. He had that handled. Rather, he required their cooperation if Easton was going to thrive. If it was going to grow, they – or rather, their ethereum and influence – would be key factors.

The man before him was the lynchpin, though.

With black skin, thick dreadlocks that hung below his shoulders, and a physique that made him look like a former athlete, Laramie was the leader of the most powerful warband in the region. He’d conquered dozens of smaller towns over the past couple of years, but when he’d set his sights on Easton, he’d quickly discovered that his people, while vicious and well-trained, were not up to the task.

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After that, relations had devolved into a cold war where neither side was willing to take the fight to the other, lest they lose their advantages. However, just before the rebellion, Fiona had brokered a deal with the group of warmongers and bandits. The terms were simple – they would join forces under Easton’s banner. In return, Laramie and his thugs would receive citizenship – and all the benefits that entailed.

For his part, Laramie himself would be appointed the general of Easton’s armies. As a powerful warrior and a charismatic leader, he was well-suited to the position. However, Roman couldn’t help but wonder if he had the brains for the operation. Leading a band of howling barbarians was one thing. Heading up a real army was something else entirely. The latter required discipline and intelligence that Roman was skeptical Laramie possessed.

Still, the man brought thousands of battle-hardened fighters with him, and they would follow no one else. So, the point was moot.

At least he’d cleaned himself up and donned proper armor instead of the Mad Max getup he usually favored. In fact, aside from the hair, he looked like a proper soldier, wearing gleaming armor and a tabard in Easton’s colors.

“Your majesty,” he said, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. At least he could follow directions when it mattered, Roman thought. Getting the man to do that much had been a pain.

“Do you swear fealty to King Roman the Just?” intoned Fiona.

“With all my heart, I do,” Laramie responded in a clear voice. “May Easton endure.”

After that, the man rose and took two strides to the throne, then planted himself to Roman’s left. There, he stood, his chin held high and his shoulders back as his lieutenants all came forth and swore fealty to Roman. When the last man did, Roman was about to give his speech when something interrupted him.

No one in the throne room would be stupid enough for that, but the system itself didn’t care about his budding kingdom. A notification flashed before his eyes: