Chapter Text
Vincent Balthuman twisted the gold fringe on his red, velvet cloak. His wooden throne creaked as he pushed himself to his feet, sending an ominous noise through the towering stone hall. A black-dressed servant lurched toward him, carrying a crystal tray laden with five thick envelopes.
Vincent collected the letters and dismissed the servant with a flick of his wrist, focusing instead on the five royal couriers cowering on the red rug before him. Each was dressed in leather armor decorated in the Balthuman colors: blood red, gleaming white, and true black. Family. Loyalty. Cruelty. The values that had driven him through sixty years of war in order to become the most powerful ruling clan in Narin Kingdom.
But Vincent wasn’t satisfied with power alone; he wanted a legacy.
For that he would need a willing heir, which he was sorely missing. His only son, Quincey, had declared he would not—could never—take his father’s place on the throne. So here was Vincent, with a twenty-six-year-old abnegator for a son, and a seventy-year-old body that was failing him.
Time was running out for the Balthuman clan, and he had to do something about it.
“King Balthuman, how may we serve you?” The eldest courier folded his arms behind his back, eyes trained on the floor. Vincent gazed upon the courier’s head of lush hair and frowned. If he could suck the youth from these men, he would.
“My subjects, I have gathered you to deliver a message to the five remaining clans. I am taking a new queen.”
The courier peered up at Vincent, his shoulders tensed. “Your Highness?”
Vincent arched a silver eyebrow, smiling smugly. “You will deliver these invitations to the clans and tell them there will be three days of feasting, drinking, and negotiating.” He ran his mottled fingers over his dry lips. “Tell the patriarchs to bring their most eligible women, and prepare them to impress me.”
The couriers dropped to one knee, accepting their orders. The eldest one rose first, receiving the invitation he would bring to Vincent’s warmongering rival, Clan Pella. He tucked the parchment into his tanned, leather satchel and backed out of the throne room, making sure to never show his back to the king.
Waiting outside the castle was a train of royal carriages carrying barrels of wine and tightly-packed bricks of opium—the Balthumans’ latest export. Each carriage was pulled by two black horses, their tack trimmed in blood-red rubies. It was a show of wealth and power, meant to impress and shame Clan Pella at the same time. After generations of fighting, Vincent had finally claimed the throne, and he never missed a chance to remind them of his victory.
The second courier would go north to the winter country, delivering his letter to Clan Malborg, who had a chilly relationship with the king. The third would go to Clan Singh in the fertile Eastern wetlands. The fourth would go to the southern orchards, summoning the peach-scented women of Clan Lamont.
One by one, the couriers departed the throne room to join their traveling party and review the cargo. Each pile of gifts was smaller than the last, reflecting Vincent’s waning respect from clan to clan. If his plan worked, each patriarch would arrive at Balthuman castle for the festivities, gossip about the gifts they had received, and realize their hierarchy in the king’s eyes. It was a petty way to force the lower clans to negotiate a better dowry, ensuring that Vincent would have his pick of women without having to empty his coffers.
The fifth courier was still kneeling, waiting for his letter. Vincent watched him surreptitiously count the carriages: one, two, three, four. The young man crooked his head quizzically. There was no fifth carriage, which meant the Clan he was visiting hadn’t even warranted a bottle of corked wine.
“You, Damien, will have the farthest to travel.” Vincent ran his yellowed fingernails over the edge of the final envelope. “Bring this to the river country, and find whoever remains of Clan Wilkes.”
“Wilkes?” Damien's voice trembled. “Didn’t that family disappear after the war?”
“That is the lore.” Vincent rolled his eyes. “Though I’m sure the truth is not so dramatic.”
Damien's face blanched as he held the letter in both hands. “Nobody has seen or heard from them in twenty years. Do they even exist?”
“The last I heard, there was a daughter who took up residence in the woods.” Vincent ran his fingers over the courier’s head, ignoring Damien's wince as a lock of his hair got caught between Vincent's gold rings. “I want you to find her.”
Damien offered the king a long blink. His hands tightened around the envelope, and he slowly opened his satchel. The letter fluttered into his bag. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Vincent gave him a tight smile. “Good boy."
The courier bowed deeply, hunching his shoulders as he backed out of the throne room toward the single horse waiting for him outside the sprawling stone castle. He eyed the saddlebags laden with three ropes of salted meat and two jugs of water. It was enough for three days of travel, maybe four, and the river country was at least a week’s ride.
Damien cast a wary glance over his shoulder. Vincent winked.
As all five couriers departed into the waning sunset, Vincent turned to find his throne already occupied by the ghost of his youth. His son was reclining in the golden seat, legs poised over the armrest. He was dressed in a white tunic and breeches, with a navy blue scarf tucked into his collar. The blue silk made his aquamarine eyes glow.
Vincent felt a deep pang of jealousy. There had been a time when he was the most desirable man in the room, but it was no longer true. He hated it.
“Are you lost, Quincey?”
“No, but Damien will be.” Quincey ran a hand through his flaxen hair. “Did you at least warn him about the bandits plaguing the country roads?”
“No need.” Vincent slithered toward his son, pulling the blue scarf free of his collar and letting the fabric slip over his hands like water. “I’ve just received word from Tora. He cleared the final outpost. Our bandit problem is solved.”
“Does that mean you’re finally letting him come home?”
“Would you think better of me if I said yes?”
“No.” Quincey snatched the scarf away. “But it’s a start.”
“Then yes, I’ve whistled for your guard dog. He should be on his way home, starved and covered in fleas.”
“And whose fault is that?” Quincey let his leather boots slam onto the floor. “He didn’t send himself into the wilderness for the last ten months.”
“That's enough out of you—!” Vincent spread his fingers across his wrinkled forehead and clamped his eyes shut. “I don’t have time for this. I need to prepare for the party."
Quincey scoffed. “So you can find a young bird to warm your bed?”
“Yes.” Vincent pointed his finger like an arrow aimed at Quincey’s heart. “So I can finally replace you with someone worthy of my name.”