“I don't understand. That does sound like exile.”

“At first, that was what I had thought, too. Day after day, I searched for a meaning. For why she had handled her troubles the way she had. And eventually, I realised she was right. The letter was as heartfelt and sincere as it gets coming from someone entangled in politics.”

“The point being,” the Empress said, her voice indistinguishable from din due to her strange alignment with a loud voice as a quality of being a sovereign and speech intonation to match the story clashing with each other, “in the end, she was successful. To me, this throne is not only Lucifer's throne but the throne of Khevreg.”

“You sound just like the brat now. What am I supposed to get out of this? The beauty of poetry?”

“This is a tale from when I was a princess. It is not fiction. And poetry is different altogether.”

“So? It's all the same headache to me.”

“See, Jim, this is exactly why you will not share the same fate as me. Not only are you not fit for the throne, but you are not fit for the life of a prince, either.”

“...wait, am I getting executed?”

The Empress paused. She guffawed merrily and wholeheartedly. A smile so genuine it caused the Throne Room to react in itself to the Empress’ exhilaration. The candles on the chandelier changed colour as if they were disco balls. The scene, however, was more extravagant than just a nightclub. It was as if an Aurora Borealis had garnered a presence within the Throne Room. 

The Empress’ eyes gleamed in the grand scene painted by her overflowing emotion alone. She hadn't needed the spotlight to captivate, but underneath one, she was nothing short of pulchritudinous. With the aurora enhancing the already lavish grandeur of the regal Throne Room, the panorama was as ecstatic as some of the biggest celebrations Khevreg had ever seen. It was full of vibrant colour, so vibrant it felt like the Throne Room itself would sprout arms and legs and formally introduce itself as one of the four intelligent races.

The High Prince had partial knowledge of the Throne Room potentially being a living entity from his previous experiences of being summoned here and suffering a fate far more odious than the one of the Little Prince.

Considering the High Prince's personality, I would assume at that time he wanted to scream “hell yeah!! ” and start breakdancing on the floor. Instead, he installed self-control by exerting physical strength on the throne. He squeezed his hands harshly to cause a tear in his muscles. The pain motivated him to keep his composure and suppress his urges.

The Empress’ state of euphoria lasted for several minutes and came to a halt with a simple, “No, no. Of course not! That would be too merciful.”

“Since when is murder and mercy one and the same?”

“Inasmuch as the insolently juvenile like you perpetually exist, it always existed and always will.”

“Mom, can you stop being overdramatic? Just cut to the chase.”

“Ah yes, my mistake for trying to reason with you,” the Empress abhorred, “let me speak in a language you understand.”

Eorhtenninsyzona.

The Empress vanished as if she combusted on the spot with no remains of existence. Not even a trace remained.

The High Prince had not known the spell itself but knew enough Demonian to understand what she had done. The most reasonable course of action would have been to predict where she would appear but he had no clue. Instead, he jumped on his feet and looked around.

“Pointless,” the Empress remarked. She delivered a swift kick in the High Prince's back, causing him to roll down the stairs violently. “A brain which functions via muscular capability like yours is too incapable to predict my movement.”

The High Prince got back on two feet and heard the crackling of chains airborne. The chains of chandeliers were disassembled. Before it could untangle and let itself free, the fire from the candles kindled with relentless determination. They burned brighter than the Aurora Borealis that outshined all light a few minutes ago.

He stepped back whence the chandelier came crashing down. “Why?” he yelled. “Are you finally realising it is worthless trying to discipline me?”

“You could say that,” the Empress approved. At the same time, the fire of the candles only shined brighter. They intertwined, conjoined and fixed themself straight in a line; a wall of flame tall enough to leave no space from the floor to the ceiling. “But if I were to word it myself, I'd say that you, too, will go on a journey like I once have. You two, however, are actually getting banished from the Kingdom. And you are not to return until I find you worthy enough of living under my wing.”

The High Prince had felt pressured by the wall of flame moving towards him. 

“Johnathan, too, is banished along with you, although I do not know if that's good news for you,” she said, cockiness audible from her tone, “Now leave. I don't care if you talk to your brother or not, but in 2 days, both of you should be out of Hjelmstad. If you do not heed my behest, I'll kick you out without your belongings.” 

The High Prince wanted to answer but the fire kept coming closer and closer. He mulled over and over yet he could think of no solution. He could not just conjure water, no, that'd be too troublesome. He wasn't as interested in magic as his younger brother, and he wasn't an Elemental, either; he had no means of countering. Brute strength was of no effect on fire, either, so he was out of ideas.

He was sick and tired of being belittled and tortured. This had not been the most brutal one, but it was still too significant for him to brush down the list. He was so confident she could not tame him because he was so brave, and therefore, never considered being exiled ad infinitum.

Maybe it could have been beneficial for him. Exile would have meant that he would not have to endure his mother's inhumane methods of disciplining any longer. The illusion of choice should have excited him, and yet…

He managed to force the door open before burning to death. He had not broken the door, but somehow, while pushing, the door budged. There was a narrow gap in which he slipped his foot in. A door of that size couldn't be opened with such mundane tricks, no wonder, but the ability to apply extra pressure through pulling and pushing simultaneously had helped greatly.

With a small window of opportunity between immense grief and survival, he managed to enlarge the gap big enough. He fit through and streaked across the hallway. 

His mind was dissipating with adrenaline in his veins. He was bewildered, he wanted to shout, to shriek in agony, to vent his anguish and roll the boulder burdening him down a hill. Everything could burn, vanish, dissect and implode; if the boulder was going to flatten someone, why would it have to be him?

He was the one to raise a flag in a disputed territory, to commit rebellion. He was the one, who, ever since his little brother was born a century ago, had been helplessly forlorn that he committed every act of treason he could muster. From a logical viewpoint, it was not draconian for him to be quelled.

Now, he was to be sent on a journey across the world with the little brat. Was he supposed to feel pity for him being punished for something he had done? But he had not forced him to tag along, so why must he be the one to bear the burden? Just because he is older, was he meant to be an archangel who blesses people not by behest but by the grace of his heart?

It did not make sense. Just because by a long stretch he is his creation meant he would have to be just as sanctimonious? Then, maybe this is not about him, but the Empress making the call. Not that a dead person even exists anymore, let alone make a decision. But it was the individual that vanished, not his ideals, no?

Alas, it could not hold the tears back. Overthinking to lull oneself must have been the greatest hoax he convinced himself. Not only was he bawling like a little baby who had just been born, but he was angry. Not frustration directed at someone, or somewhere; madness that existed just to stir his insides and boil whatever liquid he had in his body.

As massive as the castle may be, it was not vast enough for amorphous thoughts to be sorted while traversing at high speeds. His inner confrontation, or maybe it was a complete and utter breakdown and he completely lost it, it is hard to tell without being able to see inside one's mind, was forced on break. He arrived at the physician’s office, where he found the knight waiting next to the bed where the Little Prince was put to rest.

He wanted to asphyxiate his younger brother then and there. Just two hands at full throttle for sixty seconds. Maybe it could take longer. Maybe a Demon is resilient against a lack of air as well. Had anyone undergone testing to confirm it? No, it was not necessary, he could do it himself., he could do it himself.

But the knight was there. That was no different than his mother being in the room with them in the flesh. When he tried in times of yore, he remembered she was not fond of the attempt. 

He barged in without care. He sat on the floor beside the knight of Essence. The inner tranquillity that he could not satiate was of higher priority. He pulled his knees, hugged them and buried his head in them.

Was there a name for what he was feeling? Sorrow? Grief? Could it be jealousy? It would explain why he condemns the Princess along with his brother. The Princess was even worse, he would argue, she was just entitled with no other descriptive adjective.

Sorrow, then, maybe it was that. But that would be tragedy in the form of an emotion. Why would he be sad? Those who succumb, rather than trip, would not cry, would they?

The High Prince cried and cried. The voice was soft but his emotions were not. The voice often changed in intonation; it became higher pitched, then lower-pitched; over time, his eyes and throat both felt sore, and his voice turned hoarse. Yet the water pouring out of his eyes refused to cease. It had no end.

Overflowing emotion overwhelmed all of his senses. He felt the tears on his cheeks. It should have been the boulder symbolic of his burden, and yet, all that rolled down were tears. He could see stains on his cheek with the corner of his eyes, albeit blurry. He could nonconsensually taste his tears because there were just too many some of them flowing inside his mouth.

It was not a pretty sight. His regular imperious personality was tarnished. All that the eye noticed was snot, mucus, body fluids coming out of the eye and muffled sounds from his head he buried in his knees in shame.

This went on until the knight placed his hand on top of his head. This strange sensation of pure Essence was now spread all over his head. It was surprisingly light for a knight. It was unclear whether it even had any mass to begin with. 

The High Prince felt this dull, barren thing with no apparent texture patting him, and that was all.

It was strangely comforting. This creature that may not even have a thought process was trying to tell him that he had done, that he should let it all out.

The caressing of his hair felt heartfelt despite coming from this strange creature. 

Or maybe it didn't come from the knight itself.

Maybe the knight was as soulless as how his touch had felt.

But that would mean someone was the puppet master behind the scenes…

Either way, it was relieving.

The High Prince cried to his heart's content.