"Tell me, Izaac..." Father said slowly.

When I shifted my eyes toward him, he was towering over me with a mixed gaze. On the surface, it was one of concern and curiosity, but beneath it was something I was all too familiar with: venom. "Was there anything odd about your Gift ceremony that you wish to tell me? If so, perhaps I can help you with your delayed awakening."

The woman's voice in my head immediately came to mind. This doesn't feel right, though...

"Well the guests' apparal was a little tacky," I replied with an unmoving stoicism, "and some of them wore those expensive masks that I could've probably crafted with cardboard and paint, I found that the strangest."

"You've always been a bit of a smart ass, haven't you?" Father looked at me a moment more before turning to look at the courtyard. "Never mind. Just let me know when you've made progress with your Gift."

"Of course, Father. Now, excuse me."

I left him in the room, undoubtedly deliberating my deflection to inquiries he likely regretted putting forth. Unbeknownst to the two of us, this was the start of history's greatest upset.

BEAUMONT PALACE: Cormac II grew up a driven boy, willing to crush others underfoot to achieve greatness. It was because of this drive that he was such an effective ruler; in a world of democratic popularity, he somehow managed to efficiently sustain an authoritarian power over his subjects under a monarchy. Unlike past momarchies, Cormac didn't have a group of old, traditional men advising him about his actions, but instead had them take part in activities Cormac approved of.

In his words: "Why have synergy when you can have control?"

This concept was looked down upon by the world, but the nation he had constructed using it as his foundation was admired by the globe. Before anybody knew it, Cormac II was a household name that would be studied for years to come.

A man like him was ought to have more secrets than truths to his name, one of them being a strange contraption built into the wall of his office, one of the few rooms the maids weren't allowed to enter.

Within a wall of fine wooden columns, a metal mold in the shape of a human figure glowed, its cyan emissions of light encouraging Cormac to come forward. The emperor relented, turning around and stepping into mold, his arms spread out. The metal machines surrounding him compressed until they were snug around his frame.

His mind drifted into a sea of descending darkness, manifesting his body as its host despite its wandering divergence. Cormac's self image stood on an intangible plane, a void infinitely traveling down the shade spectrum into a wonderland of sightlessness.

In front of him, a looming bronze gate stared down at him, two solid walls meeting at a point between. He stood facing the point, admiring how its surrounding walls expanded into both the left and right horizons, no alternative path to the other side to be seen.

Cormac walked up to the gate, placing his palm on the unmoving structure. He bowed his head, and spoke.

"Years ago, you told me of a tale," his deep voice muttered, "a tale that is to inevitably befall a level of truth onto my family."

He made a fist as he began to shake. "You leave me with this burden, and you have the nerve to SHUT ME OUT!" He struck the gate, its metallic composition resonating.

"You spoke of a Gift," he continued, "one capable of flipping everything onto its head, a Gift capable of truly embodying what the Beaumonts stand for, but for a price... A price I absolutely cannot pay.

You gave me vagueness when I asked for clarity, riddles when I asked for answers, neutrality when I asked for allegiance!" He faced up at the gate, his teeth bared at the object with a bitterness only susceptible in personal experience.

"I WILL STAND BY THIS WORLD'S FOLLY NO MORE! YOU WILL GIVE ME THE CLARITY THAT I SEEK, THE ANSWERS THAT I REQUIRE, AND THE ALLEGIANCE THAT I DESERVE!

MY YOUNGEST SON WILL NOT BE SOME COMPONENT IN YOUR PROPHECY! YOU WILL SEE... I WILL MAKE SURE OF IT!

... Even if I have to put him down myself."

He kept his eyes on the gate once more, its expressionless dominance restraining Cormac from asserting his omnipotent frame as he usually can. Right now, Cormac was a mere subject, a spectator for this strange construct.

Whoever he spoke to didn't reply, forcing him to wallow in the silence of rejection, before turning his back and sulking away.