The book felt heavier in my hands than it should have-as if the weight of pages bound with worn leather weighed more than what it should. On the edge of the bed, I flipped it open and ran fingers over the brittle pages. In places, most of the ink had faded; the writing was only just legible in places.
"This better not be useless," I muttered under my breath, flipping to the first page. The words there were just coherent enough to give me a faint glimmer of hope. But the further I read, the worse it got. Sentences broke off midway, words bled into each other like raindrops on wet parchment, and some lines seemed to start in random directions.
I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Who writes like this? Couldn't even keep their thoughts straight."
Flipping to another page, I squinted, trying to make sense of a particularly smudged section. A few phrases leapt out: "faithful sacrifice," "the will of the sword," and something about shadows. But even those were disconnected, like fragments of a broken mirror. My patience was wearing thin.
"Of course, it couldn't just tell me anything useful," I muttered. "No clear instructions, no secrets—just cryptic nonsense."
Page after page passed, each more disjointed than the last. My frustration mounted as I realized I wasn't going to get anything valuable out of this. By the time I neared the end, the text had become nothing but chaotic scrawls. Words spiralled across the pages in circles, crammed together like a madman's scribbles.
"This is absurd," I said, slapping the journal shut for a moment before forcing myself to reopen it. "There has to be something. There has to be."
I reached the final page; my breath caught. Whereas the others were covered from top to bottom in that mad scrawl, this page was almost empty except for.
A pentagram, drawn in sharp black ink, sat boldly in the middle of the page. Unlike the faded writing everywhere else, this symbol was pristine; its lines dark and crisp, as though it had been freshly drawn. I stared at it, the back of my neck tingling.
"Well," I said aloud, "if this doesn't scream 'magic,' I don't know what does."
Something about it felt significant. Tentatively, I reached out and pressed my palm to the symbol. My heartbeat quickened as I waited.
And waited.
Nothing.
I pulled my hand back, frowning. "Of course. Why did I even bother?" Leaning back, I laughed bitterly. "What was I expecting? Lightning? A portal? Some booming voice in my head?
Shaking my head, I closed the book and locked it back in the drawer. "What a waste of time."
I got up and went to the heavy curtains, yanking them open with more force than was called for. Sunlight flooded in and momentarily blinded me. My eyes adjusted, and I saw it-the city.
For the first time, I looked out into the world beyond these walls: a sprawling urban expanse, divided by two massive walls. The outer wall encircled the whole city, while the inner one separated the palace grounds from the rest of the population. Faintly, smoke curled up from chimneys, and tiny figures bustled about in the streets.
I pressed a hand to the window, drinking it all in. "So this is it," I whispered. "The empire I'm supposed to rule. The place I'm supposed to protect."
My eyes fell to the pristine marble streets and orderly rows of buildings. It was beautiful, in a cold, calculated kind of way. Yet, it felt distant, like looking at a painting rather than something real.
Turning back to the room, my eyes roamed over its grand furnishings. Above, the dome ceiling showed a bright mural of the empire's god waging war, his sword above his head as flames ate his enemies. On the left, tall windows stretched from the floor to the ceiling; their heavy curtains pooled onto the floor like dark waterfalls. The desk on the other side of the room was plain but functional, its drawers mostly empty except for the one that was locked.
Something else caught my eye.
Leaned against the bedside table was a sword.
I approached it, curiosity overriding my frustration of a moment before. The hilt shone in the light, bound with threads of gold and silver. A cross intertwined with a blade was etched into the design—an insignia I recognized. It matched the one worn by that older man in the council meeting.
Carefully, I picked it up. The scabbard was of silver and gold, and perfectly crafted. I unsheathed the blade, and felt how light it was. The steel shone in the sun like a shooting star.
"This…" I whispered, touching a finger to the edge of the blade. "This is a weapon fit for a king. Or a tyrant."
I strapped the sword to my side, adjusting the scabbard to rest against my hip. It felt right, as though it belonged there.
I peered down at my coat—red, with complex embroidery—and shook my head. "This is outrageous. I look more like an acrobat than a ruler."
Moving over to the door, I pulled it open and yelled down the hall. "Send the servants in!"
My voice reverberated in the corridors, and I stepped backward into the room, waiting. It was time to begin the day, whether I liked it or not.