Leander

The Palace is crawling with royal advisors. I am swept from the entrance hall up the grand staircase and into the King’s chambers, gilded and tapestried and in dire need of modernisation.

Here awaits my glorious family. My mother, Queen Margot, is dressed head to toe in black. She’s found a veil from somewhere, clipping it tightly over her blonde hair. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but her expression is hard. She clutches a lace handkerchief in her hand, dabbing at her eyes gracefully.

Beside her is my uncle, Duke Aurel. I’m surprised he’s come. My father never truly saw eye to eye with his hot-headed younger brother. It was my mother who always sought out Uncle Aurel for advice, admiring his staunch traditionalism and steering my father’s rule behind the scenes in a more orthodox direction.

“Long live the King.” My mother takes my hand and kisses it.

I don’t know how to respond to that. In any other family, you would be greeted with a ‘sorry for your loss’ perhaps, but not mine. I am left with nothing to respond as my mother drops my hand from her own and dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

“There are some formalities that we must take care of after you have said goodbye,” my uncle says, stepping in front of my mother and kissing my hand.

He has the same black hair as me, the same pointed jaw. My grandmother was a great beauty, or so I’ve seen from the portraits. My uncle and myself have inherited her thin face and more delicate bone structure. I look more like my uncle’s son than my father’s, who was thick-set and heavy.

Breaking contact with my uncle, I walk to my father’s body. He doesn’t look like he’s asleep. His eyes are open, his mouth too. I suppose that no one has dared touch the royal corpse yet.

What I am supposed to do? There is a strange, yawning emptiness in my chest that suddenly makes it hard to breathe. It doesn’t feel like sadness though, nothing so simple as grief. It feels like fear.

I take my father’s hand. It’s cold. I let it go immediately.

“Perhaps the young Prince is a little overwhelmed by the unexpected news?” Uncle Aurel suggests, and I am immediately grateful to him speaking up and saving me from having to make any spectacle of myself here. “We could perhaps adjourn to another room and allow the undertakers to come in and take care of the King?”

I nod my head. My mother regards us with a clear expression. She knows the truth of it. She knows I am not about to start beating my chest or tearing at my hair as an expression of grief towards a father who spent more time stamping documents than with his own family. That spent more time hammering his son into someone who might be fit for rule rather than facing the ironic truth – that the Prince of Svaltova was useless for anything, except frivolity.

“I will let them in,” my mother says finally and bows her head to me.

That’s my mother. Cool, collected, elegant in the face of any problem. Her husband lies dead, herself taking the title now only of King’s Mother, her role reduced to a bit part in my father’s obituary and eventually in mine. But she rises above it, conducting herself in a way that befits a true Queen.

I follow my uncle out of the chamber and into the adjoining office. It was my father’s private study, but now it is filled with people. I can see the Archbishop stands by the window; his hands clasped before him. No doubt praying for the soul of the King. God knows, my father needs all the prayers he can get.

There are a few younger people in here as well. Clyde stands in the corner. Jack too, appears to have made it back just after me. He is only an Earl’s son, barely of any importance at all, but I am grateful that he decided to come. It means that I might be able to at least have a drink with a friend later.

Finally, there’s a young man. He’s wearing thick glasses. His clothes look store-bought, so I know he’s not an aristocrat I’ve forgotten the name of. His brown hair is too long to be fashionable, and unbrushed as well. He’s thrown a muted green sweater over a shirt, and it doesn’t look like he’s even heard of an iron. He’s clutching a large, leather-bound book.

I assume he’s just here to officiate the rules. I can’t see any other reason why someone like that would be present.

“Your Highness,” the Archbishop greets me, bowing and kissing my hand. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Archbishop,” I say, because to remain silent would seem strange. Weird how I longed for those words earlier, but now I’ve heard them I realise they make me only feel emptier. “Let’s get on with it then.”

“Perhaps a moment to go over-” the Archbishop begins but I shake my head.

“No, let’s just get this over,” I interrupt. I don’t want to spend a moment longer in this sombre room, surrounded by my father’s things.

“Very well,” the Archbishop says. He gestures to the scruffy young man, who quickly moves forward, opening the large dusty tome to a page somewhere near the back and holding it open for the Archbishop to read from.

“Do you, Prince Leander Richard Dorian Mediean, accept the roles and duties of the Crown, to uphold the sceptre of your people, and to guide your nation to a fruitful and glorious future?” the Archbishop intones, squinting at the book as he reads.

This is ridiculous.

“No, I was intending on giving the throne to him,” I say, rolling my eyes and gesturing to the scruffy boy beside the Archbishop.

It is in the sudden paling of the Archbishop’s face that I know I have made a terrible mistake.

“And so, Prince Leander has abdicated the throne, nominating his successor… er… What’s your name?” the Archbishop asks the scruffy boy.

My heart is hammering in my mouth. This must be some sick joke.

The scruffy boy looks just as shocked as I do.

“B-Bram Petter, Your Worship,” he replies, his voice soft and hushed.

“Wait a minute, what are you-” I begin, but it doesn’t seem to matter what I say.

“-Nominating his successor, Bram Petter to claim the throne for his own. Long Live the King!”