Tyrant of the Ruined Sun

“N-Nothing mother, I was just caught up in my own thoughts.” Nicholas quickly caught on to his slip up, and the face he was currently wearing, prompting him to rush to repair it with a half-hearted assurance, that none on the planet would be daft enough to believe.

Which contrary to his intention, only served to further aggravate his mother’s unease, leading her to swiftly mull over the issue in her mind, leading her to a rapid, if not entirely accurate, conclusion.

And so thinking she had uncovered the reason behind her darling son’s sudden question, and the oddly discomforted expressions he’d been displaying since she began talking, she reassuringly encouraged, with the company of her slender fingers lovingly gliding through his hair, in a calming combing motion “You need not worry about the weight of expectations that title your father and his ministers arbitrarily thrust upon you; and neither do you need to see the Ruinous Dragon as your rival that you must surpass; for you are already everything you need to be.”

Though she spoke those words from a place of unblemished love, a fact Nicholas also knew and acknowledged, she had not realized that they could be interpreted as a proclamation of his inadequacy and inability to ever measure up to those expectations his people, not only anticipated, but restlessly awaited from him.

Thus forever more planting the poisoned seed of doubt within his mind, without anyone’s notice or desire to do so.

Meanwhile, Elisabetta and I had just returned back from our clandestine meeting on the terrace, retiring to the side of our respective companies once more, and not a moment too soon, as Eve’s expert distracting scheme had all but run it’s short lived course under the calm and efficient guiding hand of the King and Queen of the Astrapi Kingdom, who all but resolved the issue with minimal fallout from the offended parties.

“Sister, where did you go?” Alina, her youngest sister, knowingly questioned as soon as Elisabetta was within earshot of them.

“I had business to conclude with him.” Elisabetta calmly admitted, without specifically mentioning my name, for she knew they had been witness to her every action, going totally against her sisters’ prior predictions, thinking that she would try to vehemently deny associating with me in such a private setting.

“And what sort of business do you have with the Ruinous Dragon?” Marika then quickly recovered and pressed on the attack, refusing to allow such a rare opportunity to simply pass with a single failed assault.

Yet Elisabetta did not rush to answer her sister, and instead turned to her father, whose piercing, frigid eyes, she knew, were already trained at her the entire time, before she then confidently held his haunting stare, and answered “I was enlisting the southern emperor’s help in combating my brother’s current crisis.”

None followed her words with their own, as they all remained frozen, trapped within disbelieving, static shells, as they momentarily even contemplated the ordinarily inconceivable possibility of their eternally stoic sister suddenly having sprouted a vapid sense of humour at this awkward hour.

“Why would you do such a thing?” Mikhail was the first to finally break the taught silence, as he asked in a tone that rolled off his tongue in unfamiliar surprise wrapped protectively within the embrace of an arctic tempest.

“Because it is the only way to allow my brother quick and safe passage back into the Banquet with the bare minimum amount of further face loss.” Elisabetta replied.

“What?! Of course not! We…” The panicked, restrained shrieking of Marika were instantly cut short by her father’s reprimanding glare, before he returned his attention to his rogue eldest daughter, who went against his orders by intervening in a matter he specifically excluded her from participating in, as punishment for her earlier failings.

“And what price did the Ruinous Dragon demand in exchange for his said aid?” Mikhail then solemnly asked, his voice buried beneath an ever expanding mass of glacial weight.

Hearing her father’s inevitable question, Elisabetta still couldn’t combat the pulse of hesitation she felt ripple through her at those words, despite her prior expectation and preparation for them.

Yet before she could answer, the hall suddenly grew quiet, as the hosts of the two hundredth and nineteenth Banquet of Concordia rose to an elevated stage, ready to proclaim the much anticipated second event.