"The Ninth Seat has gone missing, Apostles are attacking the Holy Order, and Morgan Blackbriar is meeting with the Deacon of the Deep. I miss anything?"
"That's about it, Uncle."
Not for the first time, Damian considered how the man sitting opposite him didn't look particularly "princely."
Leon Roswald lounged back on his comfortable sofa, a lit cigarette hanging between his lips. A black cat named Janus was curled up beside the roaring fire, one yellow eye watching Damian, blinking lazily.
Leon grunted and blew a stream of smoke towards the high ceilings of his personal quarters. The room was unique in many ways thanks to the peculiarities of its owner, but the most notable differences were in what it lacked.
The fireplace was not Flame-blessed, but instead piled high with charcoal logs, with a functioning chimney that connected to a vent outside. The single chandelier overhead held a dozen candles, their flames flickering merrily. Behind the huge timber desk, a telephone was mounted on the wall; and in the corners of the room, darkness pooled like spilled ink.
Leon swung his legs onto the ground, and casually dropped his cigarette into a pitch-black void, which vanished a moment later.
Damian's uncle cracked his thick neck and scratched the ruddy stubble growing over his cheeks. A thick scar split Leon's right check from lip to eyebrow, giving the grizzled spymaster an even more intimidating appearance. His red hair—the same deep red as his brother's—was long and pulled back in a low ponytail.
"Must you use the Deep's Blessings so casually?"
Damian sighed. He leaned forward and picked up a scone from the low coffee table. The texture was delightfully fluffy, complemented by the tang of strawberry jam spread across one half.
Leon chuckled, his laugh liked gravel.
"Sorry kid, nature of the job, y'know? I spent the better part of a decade living in Tenebrae, you can't knock some habits. Besides, you have to admit—the Deep has some pretty convenient powers."
"I'd suggest you refrain from saying that around the new Captain of the Flameguard. She'd likely run you through on the spot—or maybe just glare you down."
"Hah! Sounds like a woman after my own heart. Think she'd care for an older man?"
"Please don't give me nightmares, Uncle."
Leon guffawed again. He took a tumbler from the table and downed the remainder of his whiskey with a single gulp. He smacked his lips as he put the cup down, another cigarette already in his lips.
"Little help here?"
Damian sighed and leaned over, channelling the Angel's Blessing through his body. A warm sensation rushed through his veins, filling his blood, concentrating in his finger and bursting forth as—
—a small flame, barely larger than his fingertip.
Damian lit his uncle's cigarette before releasing the Angel's Blessing. The warm sensation faded, leaving his finger with the gentlest of aches.
Leon grunted and blew smoke towards the ceiling.
"See, there's nothing wrong with your Blessings. I don't know what the church is crapping on about."
"There's a far cry between parlor tricks and fighting like a true warrior of the Order."
Damian hesitated, a question falling dead on his lips. But his uncle wasn't the Crown's head of intelligence without reason—he clearly noticed the subtle change come over Damian's expression.
"What is it, kid? Tell your ol' Uncle Leon."
Damian gave a wry smile before quietly voicing the question he'd been pondering ever since his run-in with the Deacon earlier in the day.
"Do—Do you ever think I should choose the Deep, like you did? The Angel of the Flame has clearly forsaken me…what kind of king can I be, if I can't even wield the Angel's powers?"
He lowered his gaze, feeling shame sweep through his body. It wasn't the first time he'd considered this, but voicing his doubts made them real—and he realized just how pathetic and weak he sounded.
Leon gave his nephew a deep, appraising look. He took two more drags on his cigarette, before once again disposing of it through a void in the Deep. He stood, empty whiskey glass in hand, and walked over to a wooden buffet table.
"Let me ask you this, kid," Leon said gruffly. He unstoppered a glass decanter and poured a healthy splash of amber liquor into the tumbler. "Who ever said that a king had to be some all-powerful warrior anyway?"
"Well—nobody, really. But every king in Sidralis's history has been blessed by the Angel of the Flame. Xavier III defended our nation from the Rastian hordes at the Heavenshard Pass—"
"And you think that makes him a king?"
Leon slumped back on the couch, his brows furrowed.
"Xavier III paved the streets of Rosweiss with coin he earned from expanding Sidralian trading lanes with our neighbors. Under his guidance, he laid down the first sewers and guided the country through the Great Plague of 199. Do you understand what I'm saying, kid? Your great-grandfather is known as much for installing the shitters as he is stabbing some fucking bandits."
The spymaster sipped his whiskey and placed the tumbler down. Janus meowed and pounced onto the sofa's spare seat, bumping his head against his owner's side. Leon gave the cat a few scratches as he continued speaking.
"Sidralis rose from the ashes of the Starfall on the backs of the two churches, that's true. But if the royal family lies down and lets the Angels give us commands, then we're just a fucking cult. Our kings ruled not with godlike authority, but instead with conviction and strength of mind."
Damian hesitated, the half-eaten scone still in his hand.
"Is… Is that why you're all right with my father dying?"
His question was so quiet he barely even realized he'd given it voice. The moment the words left his mouth, regret filled him. It was insensitive to ask his uncle something like, and he went to apologize—but Leon had already answered.
"Of course I'm not all right with Lautrec dying. It's cruel that a man should lose his wife so young; even crueler to leave his throne behind so early. If I could swap our places, I'd do so in a heartbeat."
Leon stared at Damian, his dark eyes devoid of the amber flecks so famous in the Roswald lineage. The older man gave a hollow laugh that sounded like a rough bark.
"But I'm me, and he's him. Whatever God or Angel or Devil sits in heaven, it doesn't give a shit about any of our lives, that's for sure. That's why I don't think our future king needs to have a strong connection to an Angel. I'm not all right with my brother dying, but if you're asking if I'm all right with you becoming king…?"
Damian flinched as his uncle reached the heart of his question. Leon leaned forward, and placed a huge, rough hand on Damian's slender shoulder.
"Kid, you're gonna make a great fucking king."
Leon grinned wide. His eyes sparkled with the hint of tears unshed, but the spymaster of the royal residence maintained his composure.
"It has always been my honor to serve you—as crown prince, or as my future liege."
Damian's eyes prickled uncomfortably and he awkwardly wiped away his tears with the sleeve of his jacket. When he opened his eyes again, Leon was doing the same, and after a moment, both men broke into fits of awkward laughter.
Leon downed his second glass of whiskey in a single gulp.
"You should get outta here, kid. You've given me a lot of intelligence to mull over, and I hear there's a party tonight. You go enjoy yourself— and don't do anything I wouldn't, yeah?"
"Will you be coming?"
"Nah… I've got plenty of work to keep me busy—and besides, if I have to hear Duke Lombrass give another rambling monologue about the kingdom's future, I think I might puke."
Damian chuckled, and before he knew it, the darkness that had crept over his heart had lifted.
He might not have the best relationship with his father, but Leon had always been there for him, always kept an open door, and above all else, understood what it meant to be a royal without a connection to the Flame.
For that, and more, Damian was forever grateful to his uncle.
He stood and made to leave Leon's quarters, but stopped on the threshold, the door partly open.
"Hey, Uncle Leon?"
"Yeah, kid?"
"I—stay safe, all right?"
Leon looked up from scratching Janus behind the ears, and gave an awkward salute.
"Whatever you say, Your Highness."
Leon let out a loud cackle as Damian flipped him the middle finger, but as he closed the door, there was a broad grin stretched across Damian's face.