As the fire flickered and crackled, the priests continued their chants, and Zoltan stood tall. His coming-of-age ceremony, marked by an act of true devotion, would never be forgotten.
The ritual was finally over, but the ceremony and true celebration had yet to begin.
Leaving the sacred ceremonial hall, Emperor Aurelius, along with his sons and the gathered aristocrats, stepped into the vast corridors of the imperial palace. The scent of burning incense still clung to their robes, a lingering presence of the gods' watchful gaze.
Inside the palace, another ancient ritual awaited—one as significant as the blood that had been shed in the name of the gods.
The first shave.
Prince Zoltan was led to the center of a grand assembly hall, where the court barber stood waiting with a razor of pure silver. It was a tradition that signified the end of childhood, a passage into adulthood that no prince of Nexaryia could avoid. Zoltan sat upon a ceremonial stool, his posture upright, his face composed, as the barber worked with careful precision. The soft beard that had begun to form along his jawline was removed stroke by stroke, each falling strand marking the departure of youth.
A hushed reverence filled the room. The gathered nobles and warriors—dukes, generals, and scholars alike—watched the transformation in silence. It was a rite that had been carried out for centuries, a moment where a boy became a man before the eyes of the empire.
As the final strand of hair fell, Emperor Aurelius stepped forward. In his hands was a sword, gleaming under the candlelight. Its hilt was encrusted with rubies, it is a weapon of kings and conquerors.
A heavy silence fell over the hall. This was no ordinary sword.
Zoltan stood, his expression unreadable as his father approached. The Emperor held the weapon before him, his deep voice carrying the weight of generations.
"This is not just a weapon," Aurelius said, his gaze locking onto Zoltan's. "This is your honor, your duty, your very soul. A prince must wield it with strength, but also with wisdom. Will you uphold our family's legacy?"
Zoltan's hands tightened around the hilt as he accepted the sword with both hands. The metal was cool against his skin, yet its weight was grounding—real. He lifted his gaze, meeting his father's eyes.
"I will, my Lord."
The moment the words left his lips, the hall erupted into cheers. Nobles raised their goblets in salute, warriors unsheathed their own swords in solidarity. The sound of metal ringing against metal echoed through the vast chamber, a chorus of loyalty and strength.
Zoltan, standing amidst the roaring celebration, raised his sword high.
"Hail Nexaryia!"
The cry was taken up at once. "Hail Nexaryia!" The voices of the men filled the palace, a resounding declaration of unity and power.
The grand hall, adorned with golden banners and intricate carvings of past rulers, bore witness to this historic moment—one that would be remembered for generations.
Yet amidst the sea of raised weapons and clashing goblets, one pair of eyes did not shine with admiration.
Prince Emrys sat stiffly in his seat, his hands curled into fists against the armrests of his gilded chair. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his gaze dark as he stared at the sword in Zoltan's grasp. The very sword he had once believed would be his.
His fingers twitched, itching to take hold of his own blade. A prince must wield his sword with strength, his father had said.
Then why had he chosen him?
That sword—it was no ordinary weapon. It had once belonged to their grandfather, a legendary ruler whose victories had shaped the empire. And now, their father had chosen to bestow it upon him? A younger son, a boy who still reeked of idealism?
Zoltan, still holding the sword high, felt the weight of responsibility settle over him. This was more than a ceremony; it was a declaration. His father had placed his trust in him, and the nobles had witnessed it. He turned slightly, catching Emrys's gaze—dark and unreadable.
Emperor Aurelius stepped forward once more, raising a hand to quiet the hall. "Today, we feast in honor of Prince Zoltan's coming-of-age!" he announced. A wave of applause followed, and servants moved swiftly, preparing the grand banquet.
As the assembly moved toward the great dining hall, Emrys lingered behind. Marquess Renard approached him, her expression unreadable. "Do not let this shake you, my Prince," he murmured. "Your time will come."
Emrys exhaled slowly, forcing a smirk. "Oh, I know it will," he said, before turning on his heel and following the procession.
The great banquet hall of the imperial palace shimmered with golden candlelight, the vast chamber alive with laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets. Servants moved with grace, refilling wine and setting down dishes overflowing with exotic meats, sweetened rice, and fruits glazed with honey.
Dancers twirled in vibrant silks, musicians played melodies of victory, and noble lords clapped one another on the back, toasting the young prince's future.
At the head of the grand table, Zoltan, now dressed in golden robes, sat beside Emperor Aurelius, followed by his four younger brothers and Prince Emrys sat opposite to him, on the other side of the Emperor.
The seat beside him remained empty, reminding Zoltan of his mother and sister, who had gone to the temple. He wondered briefly what Zephyrine was praying for.
As the feast began, nobles raised their goblets, offering toasts in his honour. "To Prince Zoltan!" Duke Gideon bellowed. "May his sword be swift, and his heart unyielding!"
The nobles echoed the toast, their voices ringing through the hall.
"To Prince Zoltan!" the hall echoed, wine spilling over goblets as they clashed together in celebration.
Zoltan smiled but remained composed. He had seen enough courtly games to know that not all who toasted his name did so with sincerity.
Across the table, Emrys swirled the wine in his goblet lazily. "You wear the sword well, brother," he mused, his voice smooth but laced with something sharp. "Tell me, do you feel like a warrior yet?"
Zoltan met his elder brother's gaze steadily. "A warrior is not measured by the weapon he holds, but by the battles he fights."
Emrys smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Wise words. Let us hope you live long enough to prove them."
The meaning was clear. Some of the nobles exchanged glances, sensing the tension beneath the polite words. Emperor Aurelius observed his sons in silence, his expression unreadable. He had ruled long enough to recognize the storm brewing between them.
And so, the feast carried on. Wine flowed, laughter filled the chamber, and songs of victory were sung.
But beneath the golden glow of the palace, shadows of ambition and resentment stirred.
The coming-of-age of Prince Zoltan was meant to be a night of honour, a celebration of legacy. Instead, it may have been the first step toward a battle far greater than any the empire had ever known.