The Witch Princess and the Silver King
The throne room is dark, with only torchlight keeping it lit enough to see the imposing tapestries of conquests led by kings past, and the navy blue carpet that rolled up to king Luther’s throne.
This throne was made long ago from the finest wood of the age, with silver filigree inlaid in floral patterns. The original seat wore down with time, now velvety cushions are laid within.
But the king is not seated upon his throne right now. His eldest daughter, second of her line, reclined upon this seat reserved only for kings. Her dark blue dress draped around her slim yet curving frame artfully, as if she was the subject of a portrait.
And what a worthy subject she is.
Her silver hair is done up with a braid wrapping the top of her head like a band and a tight bun in the back while her soft bangs are feathered just above her sharp eyebrows. Her eyes are relaxed now, shining gently in the torchlight like large sapphires. Her lips are bent in a gentle smile as she hears the heavy doors to the throne room open.
In steps the king. His cane makes steady echos in the halls as he approaches. Lucilla makes no effort to present herself in any way other than comfortable.
Eventually, he stops just in front of his throne, occupied by one of his spawn. The expressionless silver mask he wears betrayed no emotion, but the grip on his cane tightened.
“You are in my seat. Leave.”
The king’s voice sounds like gravel, the voice of a man who equates volume with authority.
It is only now that Lucilla moves from a reclining position to one that faces her father more directly.
“Leave? You already lost three children, your majesty.”
An audible growl sounds from the king.
“Do not be flippant with me, girl. It is by my grace you are permitted her at all.”
Lucilla’s eyes narrow slightly before she simply reclines again.
“You know, it is sad really. My siblings are gone, but I almost… don’t miss them. It’s funny what so much isolation does to someone.”
She looks at her father, hiding behind that mask like always. Corian would have to wear a mask when he became king as well. It was a tradition started by Loran, their first king. What need did he for a mask?
Her father had many reasons to hide behind his.
“It has been nearly a year since every. One. Of your children- excepting myself of course- has disappeared. And we are still waging war against the Beasts, to little avail. At least Corian had a plan. Lilliana had the determination.”
Lucilla sighs as she looks away again.
“And little Castella had the strength, yes. But she also had the biggest heart of us all.”
Luther’s grip on his cane tightened further.
“Out with it, you. This disrespect and slander must mean something, or you wouldn’t make such a point of this- this nonsense.”
As he gestured, his armor showed underneath. A permanent sign of his paranoia and distrust. Lucilla finally stands, positioned a step above her father at last.
“Only this; a declaration. I already know that you could care less if I ascend to the throne or not. But no longer am I the tool for your leverage. My gifts are the fruit of my labors, and I alone shall harvest them. I am no longer your tool, but the hand that holds it.”
With that, she walks right past king Luther. He turns as she holds her hand out, the air before her shattering as if it is made of glass.
“And that hand is pointing to where my heart has been all along.”
She leers at him one last time before leaving her father alone in his throne room. He simply sighs and shakes his head at her defiance and independence.
“Stupid girl. Fine, die like the rest of them. Corian could have made something of himself, but his head was too far away. Lilliana was always a blunt blade. And that girl… good riddance.”
He turned and sat down on his throne, the flickering torchlight illuminating the current Silver King as other leaders of the various provinces of marren began entering at his command.
“Now that the matter has been dealt with, we can begin.”
He waves his hand and conjures a map of Marren, with accurate elevations for the mountains and valleys. Town and encampments were drawn in soon after, each labeled my their names. The nobles take their seats before king Luther reclines into the velvety cushions.
“So: how have you all failed me now?”
