A minister's speech came to a halt when the colossal dark oak doors of the throne room slammed open. Seeing who exactly dared to enter without permission, the guards made themselves as silent and unseen as possible. The scuff of black boots on white marble echoed in the otherwise silent chamber. Dried blood flaked off a tattered black cloak, leaving a trail of filth on the otherwise immaculate floor. About a dozen nobles kept their mouths shut and eyes down as a figure in black swaggered through the palace as if he owned it—swinging a severed head by the hair all the while.
The figure came to a stop in front of the dais and gave a mocking bow to the hateful man on the throne, then tossed the severed head onto the royal platform. The head unceremoniously rolled to a stop between the king's feet, and wide, dead eyes met the disgusted and narrowed gaze of the most wretched man in the Ether Kingdom. King Sebastian Ether flicked his gaze to the figure, only to find an arrogant smirk and ice-blue eyes, cold and unfeeling.
"I, Foster Grey, Hero of the kingdom and Commander of the Black Griffon order of knights, present you, King Sebastian Ether, the head of your most hated, the vile evil that plagued your fertile lands. I have slain the Demon lord by your will and the binding vow that compels me." Invoking the vow, a golden brand materialized on Foster's forehead—its whirling pattern, an ancient language of power. Foster had long since deciphered it. To be fair, it was a crude recreation of actual power words—man's pale imitation of Draconic, the tongue of Dragons, or even Demonic cursed speech. Those were real languages of power—they did not just manipulate the ambient Zyph; they were Zyph. Foster would've likely been able to break the vows on his own if someone hadn't secretly reinforced it with life force through human sacrifice.
Human sacrifice. That mystery would not go unsolved much longer—Regina already had her dogs in the church sniffing around the pope's involvement.
"Very well, Hero Foster Grey, by the binding vow, I shall grant you one request. Speak now." The king slightly tightened his grip on the throne's armrest, the only sign he felt anything at all. Foster pinned it as greed—a jockey afraid to let go of his winning stallion.
Foster took a moment to peruse the dais. It wasn't just Sebastian up there—most of the royal family was seated on smaller thrones beside him. Queen Ophelia Ether, promoted from consort to queen after the death of Queen Nadia, was still frowning at the severed head that the king let rest at his feet. She had piano-black hair and a nose that looked more like a beak. Foster could smell the cloying scent of her perfume from where he stood nearly twenty feet away—vanilla and almond. He was surprised her forked tongue didn't have a backhanded compliment for him this morning. Even snakes could have their meals spoiled, he supposed.
A bratty little snot sat to the immediate right of the queen, also staring at the bodiless demon lord and trying his damndest not to spill his breakfast in front of the royal court: Crown Prince Barnik, a sniveling, arrogant, cowardly idiot of seventeen years. Just looking at him irritated Foster. He chose to ignore him, sliding his eyes to the other side of the king where three royal children sat. Randall, August, and Monica Ether. Foster couldn't for the life of him figure out how such a toxic environment could raise such wonderful children—if he had to guess, it was the excellent single-parenting of the late Queen Nadia Ether. Randall was the oldest at twenty-eight, August was slightly younger at twenty-five, and Monica was the same age as Foster at twenty-three. They all had the same famed light lavender-colored hair unique to the royal bloodline, and each of them was a brilliant magic practitioner in their own right.
Randall, the big bear of a man, led one of the three factions vying for political dominance. In his younger days, he was the kind of guy to spend all night in a tavern with his men throwing back barrels of mead like it was water—Foster had spent many a night lugging his heavy ass out of such disreputable establishments and sneaking him back into the palace every time they came back from the war front on leave. Such a past would normally be to the detriment of a candidate for the throne, but he and Monica managed to turn his image from 'hopeless drunk' to 'man of the people'. Foster chuckled openly at the memories, and Randall, the big softie, pretended not to squirm at the attention. The war had raged for a long time before the king pulled Randall and the army from the front however, and he had matured as a result. He did an admirable job of filling the role of political rival for both the king and crown prince.
August hid a snicker at his brother's discomfort. He filled the role of the troublemaker in the royal family—a prolific womanizer with a severe case of wanderlust. He was rarely ever in the capital, often halfway around the world 'plucking exotic flowers' as he liked to put it. Despite his eccentricities, he was a swordsman without peer and a manipulation and transmutation magic specialist. He taught Foster most of what he knew of swordplay—a style unique to August, and those he taught it to, based on the many disciplines he studied on his travels. He was a menace of dueling rings and brothels worldwide and was strangely prouder of the latter.
Then there was Monica. She was a vision up there on her throne—equal parts beautiful and dangerous. She inherited all her late mother's delicate features, yet none of the demure submissiveness the first queen, Zyph rest her weary soul, was known for. Her half-up hair had a braid running just above each small ear, meeting in the back in a bun he knew to be shaped like a rose—her favorite hairstyle. The regal lilac dress, corset-less in the style she popularized among the young social elite, hugged her perfect body through the waist and flared below the knees down to her ankles. When the public asked why she'd chosen to forgo corsets, she simply replied, 'Attractive women shouldn't need a corset if their waist was slim and their posture straight.' Though her specialty lay elsewhere, she was a magical prodigy in the complex fields of illusion, abjuration, and divination. Not even the king knew her real specialization was in the higher-order attribute of reality, and for a good reason—if the king knew, he'd have her chained in a Zyph suppression cell until she spilled all her research to his torturers—like every stellar Father of the year.
As a side note, Monica also had a massive crush on Foster, and damn near everyone in the kingdom knew—all thanks to Randall's loose lips and one barrel of mead too many several years ago. They had been on and off for years since then, neither of them quite willing to commit to a relationship due to her earnest love for her kingdom and her wish to see it thrive. She had no designs for the throne—claiming it would limit her time for magical research. Still, she did want to push the strategically minded Randall into the position of crown prince before abdicating her position in the line of succession. Foster respected her opinion, even if he secretly agreed with August's open disdain for the country and its corruption. Foster honestly didn't see a path forward for the Ether kingdom without open rebellion, and even if he could, he wasn't sure Ether deserved such redemption.
While politics did halt their relationship, it did nothing to stop their increasingly frequent trysts. The palace was a vast place with many empty rooms, and Monica had a private wing in the castle staffed by a small army of loyal maids and butlers devoted to seeing their mistress' love flourish. She paid them all a high salary directly from her pocket instead of her allocated royal allowance, ensuring their loyalty to her and excluding spies as much as possible. Foster caught her eye and winked. She blushed, then scowled… and it looked like she nearly threw him a vulgar gesture before she realized she was on a dais in a room packed with people. That only caused her to blush a brighter shade.
Satisfied, Foster turned back to the king to give him an answer and nearly choked on a laugh when he saw the several throbbing veins snaking up the king's neck. Foster had rarely seen the king so furious—it made the chuckle and the wink worth every ounce of disrespect it showed him. He couldn't wait to get this farce over with. She asked him to discredit the king as much as possible without getting an execution order when they spoke in secret the night before. Foster felt he was doing a terrific job of it so far. He thought this was bad? Sebastian hadn't seen anything yet. When this meeting ended, the king would be too scared to ever look him in the eye again.
There was a gray area in the two binding vows that Foster had sworn. The first one he swore was the one that made him a knight of the Ether kingdom: I shall not cause harm, directly or indirectly, to the king, the royal family, or the court. While a member of the knightage, if I come across a potential threat to the previously listed individuals, I will do everything within my power to end such a crisis. I may not interfere in the kingdom's politics in any way as a knight. I am a sword and a shield of the Ether kingdom, and that is all I am while a member of the knightage. There was an invisible brand over his heart, just like the one on his forehead left as a chain—and as a reminder— of the words he spoke that day.
The second was the one he swore immediately after the first that named him a Hero in an official capacity: I, Foster Grey, take the mantle of Hero of the kingdom. King Sebastian Ether, I shall deliver to you the head of your most hated, the vile evil that plagues your fertile lands. I will slay the Demon lord by your will and the binding vow that compels me. Upon doing so, I may retire my position in the knightage and be granted a single wish within the bounds of reason determined by the spirit of the founder of this nation, former King Andeir Ether. Obliteration of the soul shall be the consequence of either party's betrayal of this vow. The gray area was this: which was stronger, the second vow or the first? If the heroic binding vow was more potent than the one binding him to the knightage, then his wish could theoretically override its stipulations. This theory weighed on his mind ever since he lost faith in the king and attempted to break the vows on his own—nearly killing himself in the process. The secret of human sacrifice reared its ugly head soon after and the vows fought Foster's will, using the sacrificial life force and tormented souls trapped within them. He hoped the paradox he was about to cause would not try to kill him this time, either.
"I wish Your Majesty, King Sebastian Ether, to abdicate the throne in favor of Prince Randall Ether."