The capital of Brunel was bustling with life, its citizens were celebrating their day of work, and drinking merrily at their local taverns. The air was filled with music, and the scent of grilled meat and spices wafted from the various stalls lining the streets.
At a distance, the royal castle was lit up by the light of the full moon, its golden spires reflecting the stars above. It was a breathtaking sight, one that was marveled at by the citizens, who could not believe their luck to have been born in such a prosperous city, and to have such a magnificent view to enjoy.
Steam, gears, and the sound of the ever-turning cog echoed throughout the night, as the machines worked tirelessly to provide warmth to the residents. The city was the pinnacle of the latest technological advancements. And it showed in the quality of their life.
However, not everyone was content. Not when a storm had been brewing in the capital...
Alistair gazed from the distance, the sounds of celebration and drunken revelry fading from his ears as he was lost in thought, his eyes locked on the castle.
It had been a long time since he'd set foot in the capital. Years had passed, but nothing much had changed, save for a few minor renovations and expansions.
He ran his hand through his hair, and he closed his eyes. A crowd had formed around him. People were murmuring to themselves, gossiping and speculating about his sudden return, and the bold statement that he'd made during the Rite. Many were wondering if he had gone insane from the shock of being exiled, and if that had led him to make a spectacle of himself.
Tomatoes and stones were being hurled in his direction, which he welcomed with open arms, letting the projectiles hit him and staining his clothes. Some called him a dog, others spat on him. He took a deep breath and sighed. He was used to this. Used to the hatred and abuse that people threw his way. Used to the looks of disgust and disdain. These things had never bothered him before, and they still didn't bother him. After all, to him, it was just noise and air. Words could never hurt him, not even the sharpest blade or the deadliest poison.
"What are insults compared to a spear aimed at the heart?" He asked no one in particular. No one in the vicinity understood the meaning of his words. They were just empty, hollow, and meaningless to their ears. But to Alistair, they were the truth.
—And, Alistair was that storm. The tempest that had come to sweep the capital off its feet.
He had not come alone, of course.
"Your Highness," someone spoke from behind. It was a woman with a soft, feminine voice, tinged with concern and a tinge of sadness. A gentle soul, and a beautiful one at that.
Alistair did not have to look back to recognize the owner of the voice, it belonged to a young girl. She wore a white cloak that hid her appearance, her figure, and her identity from the crowd. The only visible features were her blue eyes that were a bit red and moist from crying. Her pale skin, smooth as silk. And her golden hair that seemed to radiate in the moonlight, like a halo around her face. "Why are you doing this, Alistair?"
Everytime a stone or food were to hit the girl, it would always magically find its way to the crown prince's head. The reason was simple. He had decided it himself, to take the blow in her place and so, he used one of his abilities. An ability that could have been better suited for protecting a king from his enemies, but no, instead he decided to use it to shield his companion from a tomato, and other rotten food. The irony was not lost upon him.
"My my, it seems that my beloved people are more bloodthirsty than the reports let on." Alistair said, wiping the juice and slime of a fruit that had managed to hit his right cheek. His left eye, that had gotten hit, began to sting.
"Still... not a bad scent. It's been a while since I had tomatoes—even if this one's a little too ripe." Alistair's lips curled up. A small smile adorned his scarred face, the dimple on his right cheeks appearing before he caught one and bite on it. The sour taste, mixed with his saliva, was enough to make him cringe. "This is the first time that a citizen of mine had given me a present, and for that I am eternally grateful. Thank you very much."
His sarcasm was lost in the grandiose bow he did to the citizens, who responded with a chorus of boos and jeers. They had expected him to retaliate, to fight back, to curse at them, to show his true colors, but the First Prince remained unbothered. Instead, he simply laughed it off and smiled.
"Alistair..." The girl's voice quivered. Her gaze fell upon her feet. Guilt had taken root in her soul. She felt horrible for having allowed herself to be protected, to be shielded from the cruel reality that surrounded her. She felt that she should have stood beside him, and suffered the same humiliation, the same abuse.
"Don't think like that. I am doing this of my own volition, no one forced my hand, or pressured me." Alistair reassured her. He gently held her shoulders and lifted her chin, so she was facing him. Their eyes met. "Besides, this is a nice feeling. Being the center of attention and all that, even though I'm sure that most of these people would gladly watch me burn at the stake."
"Your Highness..."
"I told you already, call me Alistair. No lord stands above his people. Not in Brunel. Not in the world I intend to build. And no man, or woman for that matter is beneath the heavens. Though, one day, I may shatter those very same heavens. So, just drop the formalities. You have the permission to do so. Consider it a privilege granted only to those that are truly worthy."
The young lady's eyes widened in surprise. "Is that an order?" she asked hesitantly.
"If it's the only way to make you stop calling me that." Alistair replied, his tone playful, yet sincere, "then yes, that is an order." The girl giggled at that, and her worries and guilt slowly vanished, replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling of happiness. That was a lie. She was not happy. In fact, the emotions she was experiencing at the moment were all contradictory. Sad, lonely, worried, anxious, scared, and frustrated, and yet, at the same time, she was happy and grateful.
"Thank you, Your H-"
"No, no, no. What did I just say?"
"Thank you... A-Ali-ali-s-st-air. Yes, thank you, Ali—" the girl couldn't bring herself to address the man in such an informal manner. He was a royalty afterall. It was unheard of, the sheer audacity, the impudence. The mere idea of referring to him as 'Ali', made her blush in embarrassment.
He let out a soft sigh. This was going to be harder than he anticipated. He was about to scold her, when a loud explosion echoed from afar, and screams and cries followed shortly after. The crowd that had surrounded him immediately dispersed, running for their lives in every possible direction.
Machineries were destroyed in the process. Cogwheels flying, and steel plates clanging on the stone pavement. Fire had begun spreading, smoke was rising to the air. And a lone figure stood out the flames that were slowly devouring the nearby houses. A figure, that Alistair had known very well. A figure that could not be mistaken for any other.
"How troublesome." he clicked his tongue and muttered, the smile on his face was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a look of pure annoyance and boredom on his features.
The figure was wearing a full suit of black plate armor. A cape of crimson, a tabard of white and gold, a shield and sword on his side, and his helmet had horns on both ends. He had a great sword on his back. Its length was the same as the height of its master, and its width, almost a meter in size. There was also an engraving of a dragon, breathing fire, on its surface. Flames danced around the edges, giving off an ominous aura.
The figure's presence was imposing and intimidating, his eyes glowed bright red in the darkness of the night, and he was easily recognizable as a member of the royal army, or rather, its general.
"Alistair, that person..."
"Yes, I'm afraid so."
"Lord, should I take the lead in this battle? My body and life, belo—." She did not get the chance to finish her sentence as Alistair interrupted her.
"I'm the leading man." Alistair said. His voice was cold and emotionless. He was serious, dead serious, and there wasn't a hint of a smile on his face. "And the leading man should be the first to greet the audience. Am I correct? Or are we following some kind of unspoken rule of etiquette here?"
She took a few steps backwards, her head hung low in defeat. She knew that he would not allow her to fight. She had seen it coming. Alistair had always had a habit of taking on the most difficult and challenging tasks, while leaving the more mundane and routine duties to others.
"How long has it been, Little Prince?" A deep baritone voice boomed, echoing throughout the burning streets of the capital. "It's good to see you. Alive and kicking, that is. Though, I am not surprised. You have the luck of a cat, nine lives, and the resilience of a rat."
"That is quite rude of you to assume. I have only six lives remaining." The First Prince retorted. His expression remained stoic, even though a part of him wanted to break out into a smile, and laugh. "But, it is not a pleasure to see you again, Sir Garth. Last I remember, I have done nothing to meet someone like yourself, especially one who's sworn to serve and protect the people of Brunel."
"Ah, don't get me wrong, Alistair. I have no particular hatred toward you, or the commoners, for that matter. It is simply that I have a job to do. And that is to put a leash on the rabid dog that is the First Prince, or kill it. If it cannot be controlled, then, the next best option is to end its miserable existence." the man replied. He drew his sword and pointed its tip at him. "And, as you know, the crown prince is the only heir to the throne, and his words are the law."
Alistair raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his answer. "Are you trying to tell me that my youngest sister, Eulalia, had sent an entire division to capture or kill me the moment that I entered the capital? That seems... rather excessive, doesn't it? Even for her."
"Ah, it's not your siblings." He shook his head in denial. "Rather, your Father, though, officially I'm nothing but a rogue knight. A defector that had betrayed the kingdom of his own will, a madman that is a danger to the crown and its people."
"So that's how it is." He sighed, and a look of disappointment appeared on his features. "My own family wants me dead, huh?" Alistair mused, a bitter smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Very well then. Come at me. All of you at once, I shall give each and every last one of you the death you all seek and desire."
The sound of a few dozen weapons unsheathing echoed, the tension in the air thickened, the silence that followed was deafening. Everyone present knew that this was a challenge, a declaration of war. And they were ready to accept it. Without hesitation, they charged forward, and attacked the lone prince—out of respect, they never dared to attack the girl.
Garth, however, did not participate. Instead, he remained standing on the same spot. He observed, watched, analyzed. A slight frown appeared on his forehead, as he saw the young man, no older than 22, fighting against his soldiers.
'What was he planning? What was his strategy? How was he going to deal with over so many armed soldiers and knights? Was he insane? Did he think that he could win against such odds? Just surrender, Alistair. I do not want to hurt you, nor kill you, not if I can help it.' He thought to himself. But then, something unexpected happened. One of the soldiers that were attacking him stopped, his weapon lowered, his knees buckled, his eyes went wide in fear and shock, his body trembled.
Shadows enveloped the soldier, tendrils of darkness crawled up his legs and torso. It wrapped itself around him like a snake coiling around its prey, and then, in an instant, it consumed him. Not a trace remained of his presence, and the next thing the rest of his companions knew, the shadows disappeared.
One soldier was gone.
"What the hell did you just do, you bastard!?"
"Bring him back!"
"You'll pay for this, monster!" The rest of them shouted. Their anger was palpable. But, their fury was short-lived, for another one of their number disappeared, swallowed by the abyss.
Two were already gone, and soon enough, the number grew. The shadows continued to spread, devouring anyone unlucky enough to get caught in its grasp.
And amidst this chaos, the prince was still calm, collected, and composed. His eyes remained closed, and a small, barely noticeable smile crept onto his lips, as though the events unfolding in front of him were merely a source of amusement. Never, did he unsheathe his weapon, or raise his hands, or feet. He didn't need to.
"Weaklings. To think that they would dare to call themselves members of the Royal Guard," Garth muttered, disappointed in the quality of his subordinates. He gripped the handle of his blade tighter and took a step towards the prince. He was the only one who wasn't afraid. The only one, who wasn't cowering in fear.
The battle that unfolded that night would forever remain engraved in the memories of the people that had bore witness.
"When a man has nothing, he wears his pride like a crown. And sometimes, that crown cuts deeper than any blade."
— Excerpt from "Ashes of the First King"