Stolas made a point of looking miserable. "I could pass for the court fool," he complained, making a huffing noise while raising his arms in a forlorn protest, although the stuffy weight of silk and iron constrained their movements. Even the ermine pelts cloaking him rippled on the floor as if the creatures themselves were bristling in fury. It took another quarter-hour to tie everything together, but the result, at least to any commoner, befit an imperial prince. They swept-back and dampened his dark wavy locks, revealing delicate, refined features, inky black eyes, thick round brows, and white skin. The Lazerian coat of arms, a black dragon cradled by red roses, brandished his chest plate in ornate detail, complemented by the rest of its matching set. Framing him was the white hide cloak that trailed still even when he stood. Yet he felt the circlet that crowned him to be the most prominent and important piece. Forged in pure silver and encrusted with rubies and black diamonds. "How long will this last?" he posed the question to his maids, but a far deeper voice than expected replied, making him flinch.
"As long as you take to produce enough livestock to last the winter." the King grinned. Unlike Stolas, he had fair hair, scars with stories behind them, and an athletic build trained to perfection through various wars and vigorous training. A model warrior.
"Good afternoon, father. I'm glad you appreciate my efforts," said Stolas as he bit his lip. A thank-you would be nice, he thought. Not to his surprise, his father dressed for the occasion. Somehow, he carried a far more regal and terrifying authority than usual.
"You have the means and your duty as a royal is to care for your country, is it not? The people will appreciate you." the King clapped and drew the attention of the room. "Let us go." Stolas realised the maids left and his brother replaced them, standing quietly in the doorway.
Upon entering the centre room, the buzz of the crowd who gathered below greeted them. It was a cheerful sound and one fuelled by hope. Told of a grand announcement and little else, they had speculated daft and dangerous rumours which spread uncontrolled like the plague. "Are you ready?" pressed the King, his eyebrows knitted together. Stolas opened his mouth to reply, but the words fell short and settled as a lump in the back of his throat. As he stared longer at the curtain between him and the masses, it became distorted, and the noise of the crowd became a dulled, distant hum. Doubt seeped into his mind. The concept of public failure a daunting one... and scarlet tinted memories possessed his thoughts. He sensed the cold spread within him as they engulfed him. The deep crimson of the curtain writhed into scenes of warped flesh replaying repeatedly that he worked hard to repress. His hands trembled and his breathing reduced to a shudder.
"Stolas, is everything alright?" his older brother Kalou appeared next to him with a sympathetic smile, snapping him out of it. Stolas gripped hold of his emotions. Meek, yet with forced confidence, he nodded.
"Yes." The family gathered. Stolas took a deep breath and Kalou flashed him a wink. Drawing back the curtains, they stepped onto the balcony, beckoning an uproar. A cacophony of cheers and whistles rang out as the royals basked in their praise. The King stepped forward and addressed them.
"I need not remind you of the Trade," In an instant the air soured and the lively atmosphere died. Never had his father been one for long and laborious speeches, but truthful and to the point. Lazeria, as they were all so painfully aware, suffered the curse of a harsh climate where food was scarce. "This Kingdom survives by exchanging our blood for basic sustenance. It is a cruel existence we have withstood for nigh on a century. We struggle, fight, and face challenges we would not wish our children to endure." Upon those words, the courtyard diminished into a sad pit of mourning. His tone softened as he grasped a hold of the balcony, his eyes gentler. "My son has felt the burden more than I ever wanted." Stolas stiffened. "So, it is time this torturous cycle comes to its overdue end. This announcement is to inform you that forty-one days ago we sent word to Lohur that the deal is over. Abolished. For a time after this age of death, we have found our ultimate solution." The noise picked up. The King shouted through it. "I tell you, my loyal people, we are liberated from the clutches of the foul monster that stole your family from you. This is the beginning of a new era of freedom and prosperity for Lazeria; no longer will you starve and live impoverished in broken homes. I promise you. It is over, and the work is done!"
From the outside, he appeared frozen rigid. Stolas embedded himself deep into his mind, severing sensory invasion. The blank canvas in his mind had no start, no end, no height, no depth, no fabric. Only silence and peace. In this environment of meditation, he retreated further and acutely focused on processing the complete makeup of hundreds of animals by binding the intertwining intricacies of a soul and constructing each corresponding body like a jigsaw. Piece by infinitesimal piece. He saved each specimen in its own corner of this void, segmented and ordered into a mental filing system, and contemplated them all at once. Years of hard practise and failure led up to this moment, yet it all ended in a matter of seconds. His eyes flicked open, bloodshot and streaming crimson rivers. Stolas cast his fist forward and released his grip, expelling each creature into reality. In every farmer's pen in and around the city, cows, sheep, goats, and pigs materialised from nothing. Immediately, the sound of life radiated throughout Nurbaldir, and the people stood stupefied. "Go," cried the King. "Look upon the power of his royal highness Stolas Ira Innovia!"
The square fell into pandemonium. Stolas reached to wipe away the blood in his eyes and stumbled. It was if his head had clouded and smoke consumed all coherent thought, muddling everything together, building pressure until the pain overtook his consciousness. His vision swam and his muscles weakened until standing became too much and he lost his footing.
"Stolas!" Kalou called out. Surrendering to the call of exhaustion, he collapsed, falling into his brother's arms.
"Are you sure you are alright?" asked Kalou as he demolished a mutton shank. Since the revelation three hours ago, the people gathered once more and made a festival of the whole affair. They set up dining tables and makeshift cooking stations in the square. Bunting banners now spread from house to house and music rang out all over the capital. In the palace, nobles gathered for a grand banquet. At the head table, Stolas sat a dejected hero.
"I'm fine," he grumbled
"Very well then..." Kalou still sat studying his brother for any signs of injury, ready to catch him again. Stolas turned his attention to their guests. They sat, their scowls suppressed behind thin smiles, and stared at their full plates in disdain. Insulted. The luxury of fresh meat reserved only for the rich is now available to everyone and, as a result, their pedestal of wealth shrunk. How impudent, Stolas thought, resting his head in his hands. His dislike of people and their inevitable judgement only fuelled his discomfort further.
The sound of scraping metal hinges captured his attention - cutting his doleful musing short - as the back door to the hall swung open and a man barged in, breathless and red-faced.
"I have a letter for you, your majesty. An urgent word from her Imperial Majesty the Empress Julienne of Lohur." The man appeared rough and weathered, grateful to be resting on one knee. The King snatched up the letter and dismissed him with instruction to join the festivities. As he rushed off, Stolas and Kalou began peering over their father's shoulder. The King cut away the seal, opening the envelope.
Stolas recoiled.
He read the words over again until their implications sunk into his mind. Acid pooled under his tongue, and tears glossed over his eyes. "Dear Lord," he uttered. The King instantly crumpled the letter and threw it into the fire behind him, watching as it burned to ash, vowing no one would lay eyes on it again. Kalou sat deathly still. The nobles didn't notice the shift in the royals' demeanour, yet. Stolas turned to the King, grasping his shoulder. "Father, where are they?"
"They should arrive soon, Stolas, do not fret." lied the King with a gentle smile, his eyes squinted and piercing, asserting the urgency for discretion. Stolas jolted, as if pricked.
"Then if you'll excuse me. Kalou, I would like to speak with you," Stolas rose from his chair and, unlike Kalou who seemed all but weakened from the matter, his blood boiled. He struggled to bury his anger as he stormed out of the banquet hall, all but slamming the door behind him. "How did this-" Kalou cut him off, pressing him to the wall and cupping his mouth.
"We are not discussing matters of the state in a damned hallway." Stolas frowned and slapped his hand away.
"Then the library."
"It is a mess in there," said Kalou.
"How do you know?"
"Because that's where you live."
The doors creaked open, and the brothers met with the pungent odours of must dust and rotting old fruit. As Kalou entered the room, he stumbled on a pile of apple cores and grape stalks stacked against the wall, disguised with a dusty sheet. Blankets and pillows worked to mask the floor completely, and it seemed as if a spider had woven a web of ladders between the bookshelves, each counting century's worth of manuscripts and ancient tomes. On the third-floor balcony was a giant cocoon made of linens and duvets, shrouded behind thin silks hung from the overhead bannister. Most disconcerting, however, was the state of the chandelier reconstructed into a pulley system, the makeshift contraption able to haul large numbers of books to and from Stolas' bed. Stolas winced at the look on his brother's face as he took in the sight before him. The library became a nest. "Somehow, you have exceeded my expectations," Kalou paused, drawing a deep breath. "This is so much worse than I thought it would be."
"Enough about my living conditions," snapped Stolas, as he sat himself down on a smaller stack of books. It was a topic he wanted to avoid and one they didn't have time for. "Now, shall we figure out who stole seventy-five of our people from under our noses?" Kalou frowned, mulling over the contents of the letter.
"Well, we know two things for sure. First, Lohur sent a letter themselves cancelling the Trade three months ago and that letter never arrived. Second, we sent off our last shipment of soldiers forty-eight days ago to individuals we believed to be Lohurian officers." Stolas let go of his anger a little and willed himself to focus on the facts.
"These people would have had to have gathered livestock and saved up grain for a long time. While the amount we got wasn't enough, it was still a lot for anyone. They also knew the exact quantities agreed on, and the timing for the trade-off itself. They planned this."
"And meant it to be long term," Kalou interjected. "Both we and Lohur used human messengers for the last two letters. They almost always use dragons, which makes me think that is most likely the reason today's letter arrived. The perpetrators meant for us to continue the Trade without ever learning the deal was void."
"That may be the case. But how did our letter get to Lohur? They would have been watching us, they would expect our use of humans, would they not?" Kalou grinned.
"Ours must have slipped them," Stolas noticed a certain pride there. Kalou trained Nurbaldir's soldiers, after all. "But either way, what's the motive? A slave trade, or soldiers for militant forces."
"The logistics change nothing. I foiled their operation," said Stolas, his voice laced with a subtle inkling of pride. "What we need to do is track the thieves down, execute them, and bring as many of our people home as we can."
"Why track them when they'll be coming for the Trade again in twelve days? We can ambush them and get the location of our missing citizens. Our chief concern is making sure no one finds out before we resolve this," Stolas responded with a curt nod. At least we have a plan, he thought, relieved. His anxiety-fuelled anger now ebbed away, leaving him drained. "Come, let's return to the hall and enjoy ourselves as best as we can. Then we can fill in our father on our deductions."
The brothers spent the rest of the day grazing and gossiping among the nobles. Although Stolas inconvenienced them, the King still received endless praise regarding his prodigious sons. The military genius heir to the throne and a freakish phenomenon. The chore of rejecting advances Kalou alone endured until now. This evening Stolas shared that torture. Although their father commended their work (a rare occurrence) in producing a plan to retrieve their missing people, overall, Stolas found the entire affair unpleasant and exhausting.
Drunk with fatigue and a healthy dose of wine, Stolas fumbled his way up the ladder to his bed. He could no longer keep his eyes open and instead chose to blindly rip off his armour, scattering the plates about the floor. Still in the chain mail tunic, he crawled into his cocoon and promptly collapsed, falling into a sleep lasting throughout the next day.
Stolas roused from a sudden chill. He cracked open his eyes and felt for his missing covers, struggling to adjust to the darkness. The cold light of the moon left the room in a hazy twilight. Through mumbled curses and moderate flailing, he hooked the blanket on his foot and pulled it forwards. It caught, and Stolas lost his grip. With a deep sigh and balled fists, he sat up and grasped it, hauling it over him with every ounce of strength he could muster. It tore. "What?" he grumbled. Stolas crawled to the corner of his bed. Something clenched the blanket taught. Something frozen and lifeless. Perhaps my armour, he wondered, now noticing he forgot to get undressed. But it didn't shine. It looked thick and possessed a bizarre silhouette, like a ridged sphere. He traced the item, and blood trickled from his thumb as he brushed past a claw. Stolas panicked. He succumbed to the tight grip of suffocating fear and couldn't move. A sinister presence dominated the room. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he looked beyond his bed. A twisted form barely resembling a human stood so still it seemed carved in stone. Black rags hung from the decrepit form, held together with a thin belt wrapped around its emaciated waist. Its metallic skin stretching over the protruding bones of its limbs. "The fuck," Stolas sat staring. Motionless.
The tension snapped.
It lurched forward at an incomprehensible speed and hooked itself into Stolas's chest. He screamed as it burrowed its claws into his flesh. "Get off!" Stolas yelled as he struck it across the head, pain shooting up his arm and weakening the blow. It did nothing. The creature emanated a deep, hollow growl and ripped out its hands from under his arms, making Stolas cry out once more. It silenced him as it clutched his throat and squeezed. Stolas clawed at his attacker and let out mangled cries and gasps for air. It pressed harder. His vision blackened around the edges, and the throbbing intensified. Feeling in his fingers dissipated. Stolas only processed the stench of the creature atop him. A musty, acrid scent he could solely describe as something ancient that made his stomach turn. What is this thing? Stolas questioned. It is not human.
As he sensed his limbs falling limp, a slam echoed out below. The creature jumped. It lost the hold on his neck. Stolas heaved, gulping down air. Guards stormed the library, followed by his brother dressed in boots and a nightshirt, wielding an unsheathed sword. Following the sound of Stolas struggling for air, they launched into action, climbing every ladder available to reach him. Through glazed vision, Stolas saw the creature reach for its blade and sprint towards the great south window, a pane stretching the length of the tower. It threw itself at it. Like lighting forks, the fissures spread, and at once the whole thing shattered. Moonlight lit the shards as they rained down onto the men below.