The young man sat at a sturdy oak study table.
His back was straight, but his pale shoulders were tense, his thick, crimson-red hair, in fine, wavy strands, fell freely over his neck and shoulders, creating a sharp contrast to his porcelain-white, almost translucent skin. He wore the unadorned, dark linen robes of a high-ranking seminarian, a stark contrast to the luxurious silks and velvets worn by courtiers. Before him, lay thick leather-bound manuscripts written in the sublime sacred language of a bygone kingdom.
The tip of his quill dipped in black ink as he translated complex treatises on moral ethics and canon law.
The air in the chapel always smelled of dry lavender, cold marble, burning candles and ancient parchment. For eleven years, this was the only world this man knew. Lucian Sol Veridian.
While the majestic towers of Veridia's Imperial Palace buzz with lavish feasts, political intrigue and the whispers of high nobility, the realm of Oakhaven, no more than a day's journey by horse, remains a sanctuary untouched by the hustle and bustle of the outside world.
The region with the highest religious activities in the country of Arboris, where ancient churches are located and all religious services take place. The people here all worship the same God, pray and believe the same things.
That's where the Crown Prince grew up.
At the age of twenty-one, Lucian was in the midst of his formal theological education. His days were not spent practicing swordsmanship or studying imperial tax regulations, but rather absorbing philosophy, classical languages, and the tender art of pastoral care. He learned how to minister to the poor, comfort the sick and hear the confessions of broken souls.
Beside him, an elderly man with striking, gleaming white hair, falling in loose, textured waves across his forehead, was meticulously trimming the wick of an oil lamp. Thomas had been Lucian's governess, tutor and sole caretaker since the day King Caelum had shut himself away in grief, leaving his only son in the loving care of the clergy.
"Your Highness, you are pressing too hard on the nib," Thomas murmured softly. His voice sounded hoarse yet smooth in the silence of the room. "The scriptures demand a steady hand, not a tense one." Sharp, blue-grey eyes glinted beneath firm, dignified brows as if assessing Lucian in the dim light.
Lucian paused, breathing slowly while his hands trembled. He put his pen on an ink-stained table. His long hair fell past his ears, shading a pair of pale, anxious eyes that rarely dared to look directly into another person's face. Since he was a child, he had always been told to not look people in the eye.
"I was translating the passage about absolute sovereignty versus divine mandate, Thomas," Lucian whispered, his fingers fiddling restlessly with the sleeves of his heavy scholar's robes. "Ancient scholars wrote that a ruler who pursues power for his own selfish purposes is like a shepherd slaughtering his own flock. That sounds incredibly frightening to me."
"Cherry," Thomas murmured, his gaze softening with profound affection. "The mind of a Crown Prince is indeed worthy of grappling with such heavy truths. But a prince who will one day govern must also learn how to shield himself from the world outside." Said Thomas as he put down his brass scissors, his gaze gentle and full of deep affection for the Crown Prince whom he had cared for very well since childhood.
"His Majesty's condition is growing weaker by the day. People in the palace are whispering about his worsening health. I'm sure that soon—"
"That time will never come, Thomas," Lucian cut in quietly, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table. His voice trembled, betraying a fragile anxiety that was all too familiar to him.
The unpleasant feeling crept into him without permission after what Thomas said.
"It's the High Council that runs the government. Father never even looked at me after mother left. I'm just a student of the holy books. My place is here, surrounded by books and prayers. In this quiet place."
He didn't want the world outside those tall, arched windows. It was noisy, frightening and full of sharp, judgmental stares at his stuttering thoughts about the palace, about being a Crown Prince, let alone a King.
He was awkward. His posture always looked timid.
Here, while translating ancient doctrines and studying shepherding ethics, no one demanded he become a savior or king. Here, he felt safe. Most people, who didn't know he was the Crown Prince, acted casually around him.
Those eyes, which had looked down on him since he was a child, were never going to make Lucian want to return. He would never go back to Veridia's palace.
Thomas lowered his gaze, bowing deeply before Lucian. He didn't want to say anything else, as if whatever came out of his mouth would immediately become reality. He knew best what Lucian was feeling, and like the Crown Prince, he thought that a life as a priest might be better for Lucian.
However, that dream eventually crumbled.
Cruel fate has never listened to the prayers of those who are scared. It started with a vibration under their boots. A deep, resonant hum that made the heavy stained glass tremble in its frames. From the mountain pass below, the sound of horses' hooves could be heard.
Then….. The bell rang.
It all began with a tremor running through their feet, a heavy, resonant hum that made the thick stained glass tremble violently. From a distance, the sound of more than one horse's hooves could be heard. And a second later, a massive bronze death knell began to toll from the top of the Great Citadel.
CLANG.
The sound echoed across the capital like a thunderclap, heavy and oppressive. It wasn't the light, rhythmic chime that signaled the daily prayer time. It was the slow, agonizing toll of a death knell. Thomas dropped his lamp wick clippers. His face paled instantly.
"No…"
CLANG.
Lucian rose from his desk in a hurry, his heart pounding against his ribs as his parchments scattered across the floor. It was midnight and the sound of the death knell was anything but normal.
The silence of the room was suddenly shattered, a foreboding echo vibrating deep within his chest. Before any of them could speak, the heavy oak doors of the inner sanctum were violently thrown open. A dozen imperial guards in gleaming silver plate armor stormed into the main chamber, their heavy boots clicking loudly against the polished stone floor. Leading the line of guards was The High Alchemist Malakor.
Malakor was a tall, gaunt man clad in a high-collared robe of emerald green and gold. His deep-set eyes held a cold, cold gaze. Lucian shrank back until his back was pressed against a tall wooden bookshelf, his hands trembling violently as he clutched his scholar's robe.
"Th-Thomas…" he whimpered like a frightened mouse deer being devoured by a predator. As he stepped behind the old man, sweat dripped down his face.
Thomas stepped forward instinctively, stretching out one arm to protect the Crown Prince.
"High Alchemist Malakor. What is the meaning of this breakthrough? This is a sacred study—"
"Thomas Lightvein," Malakor interrupted, his voice soft yet deadly, like poisoned silk. His gaze shifted from Thomas and was now completely fixed on the trembling figure of the young man among the scrolls.
Malakor raised his hand and two armored guards stepped forward, grabbing Thomas roughly by the arms, dragging him away. Despite his strong frame, Thomas was still dragged away from Lucian.
"Thomas! Let him go!" Lucian shouted, his voice cracking with panic. He tried to reach for his valet, but his legs gave way from the overwhelming fear, causing him to fall to the cold marble floor.
Malakor strode gracefully until he stood directly before the young scholar. He pulled a velvet cushion from the old box which had been brought by one of the guards. Atop it rested the Great Crown of Veridia, a heavy, black iron crown set with a shimmering raw emerald core.
Malakor kneeled on one knee, but his back remained straight.
"Crown Prince, King Caelum has breathed his last," Malakor announced, his voice echoing beneath the high ceilings of the chamber. "The throne is now vacant. The Mother Tree demands a ruler to preside over the rituals of the next decade."
Lucian shook his head frantically, his back pressed tightly against the base of the bookshelf.
"N-no. You've got the wrong person. I only know canon law and theology! I've never read a military record, I've never held a sword!! Summon the High Council, summon—"
"There is no one else, Your Majesty," Malakor interrupted, his lips curling into a terrible, hollow smile.
Lucian's body trembled with fear, the corners of his eyes reddened, tears welling up in them. Before Lucian could escape, Malakor reached out and gripped Lucian's wrist as tightly as iron shackles. The grip was excruciatingly painful.
Malakor forced the heavy crown onto Lucian's head. It felt cold, far too large, and felt like tangible chains binding him to a nightmare.
"Rise, Crown Prince Lucian," Malakor whispered, his face mere inches from the young man's pale, tear-stained cheeks.
"Stop your play as a young priest, it's time to end your education. The empire needs a new leader and you are the only child born to the late Queen Seraphina. No one deserves to wear that crown more than you."
The guards pulled Lucian to his feet. He glanced back desperately, catching a glimpse of Thomas being held by the soldiers, the old man's eyes filled with helpless terror. As they dragged the terrified twenty-one-year-old scholar out, the death knell continued to toll.
"With great sadness, the palace announces the passing of the king."
The voices from the palace were loud, expressing their grief.