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“An invitation from his Excellence,” the black-clad messenger bowed from the waist. “Your Majesty’s presence is requested at dinner this evening.”
King Villem the First attempted to hide his eagerness, affecting a kingly detachment as he dismissed the messenger with a nod. He’d demanded a meeting with Grand Chancellor aep Dahy the previous day and was pleased to see his command followed with such haste. He was a king, after all. A king who acted in tandem with his Nilfgaardian advisors, but a king nonetheless. He would be treated as such.
Dinner was a grand affair, attended by members of the council of peers, aep Dahy, his officers, and two sullen Nilfgaardian envoys. Villem wore furs and velvet, embroidered thread glinting in the light of the roaring hearth as he sat at the general’s side. He took small, careful sips from a heavy crystal goblet filled to the brim with dark wine. He’d been allowed wine at dinner before, of course, he was nearly a man grown. But he never developed a taste for it. Bitterness coated his teeth and by the time a second glass had been foisted upon him by the gregarious Count Caldwell his head felt heavy and dull, his tongue loosened.
Aep Dahy listened intently to the newly crowned king's requests, sought his advice, and reaffirmed his commitment to act not only in the interests of the empire, but in those of the twin kingdoms. Villem retired to his mother’s- his private chambers, smug satisfaction soothing his nagging conscience. He had done the right thing. Plunging the kingdoms into a war they could never hope to win would have been pure reckless folly. Surely his mother knew that, wherever she was.
King Villem the First’s royal duties consumed his days. His evenings were spent in the company of aep Dahy as they oversaw Nilfgaard’s newest vassal states together. Reports poured in; the exiled former queen of Lyria and Rivia was traveling to Rosberg with a growing band of partisans. They would find only ashes, aep Dahy promised. “You were wise to negotiate, your Grace,” he said to Villem. “Demavend refused, and now his people are dying for his folly.” Villem nodded, eyes darting over to a map. Painted wooden figures represented Nilfgaardian troops, swarming towards Aedirn.
As the campaign progressed, Villem was drawn into a series of thorny discussions regarding trade policy and taxation under the empire. He struggled to keep up with the unfamiliar terminology, the conflicting demands of powerful interest groups. Lyria castle’s library replaced his private study as he spent hours pouring over dense tomes to close the gulf in his knowledge. He sacrificed all his leisure time, as a good ruler should. He hadn’t left the castle in weeks. He was slacking on his training; his sword and armor neglected in the training yard, but he had never been much of a swordsman.
On a rare day that he had some time to himself, the king visited the temple of Melitele where his coronation had taken place. Without a throng of spectators, the high-ceilinged structure seemed eerily deserted. Footsteps echoed off the walls. Sunlight streamed through the elaborate stained glass in the narrow windows, spilling pools of color across the stone floor. Villem knelt at the altar where he’d received his crown. He prayed to the mother goddess for wisdom, for the safety of his people.
A week went by without a single meeting with his imperial advisors. Then a second. A month passed. King Villem the First penned pages upon pages of policy proposals, reforms, new laws. He was doing good work, he assured himself, important work. For the good of the realms. For the good of his subjects. He dispatched missives to aep Dahy through Caldwell. He requested a meeting. It was granted, then rescheduled. After a second delay, King Villem the First put his royal foot down and insisted on a private summit with the Grand Chancellor. He was a king, after all.
Aep Dahy approved his reforms without argument, a rare victory for the young king. He waited for news of their success or failure. He waited for another meeting with the Grand Chancellor. He waited.
Another month dragged on in the rule of King Villem the First. Perhaps things were settling into place, he reasoned. There was no need for him to work himself into exhaustion. Yet his advisors seemed as busy as ever. Hushed, frantic conversations in Nilfgaardian carried down corridors, halting abruptly when Villem approached.
Bored and restless, he visited the training grounds. His armor was gone, his longsword replaced by a blunted training weapon. An inquiry about the location of his sword yielded a promise to locate the blade, but no result. The next time he visited the grounds, they were locked.
Restlessness grew into suspicion. When the king attempted to schedule a royal visit outside the capitol, he found himself waylaid by an emergency meeting of the council of peers. They discussed nothing of import. The king’s personal guards were gradually reassigned elsewhere in the castle, replaced by Nilfgaardian soldiers.
“I wish to see my brother,” Villem declared to a bored, half-drunk council of peers.
“Prince Anséis is in Rivia for his own safety. If you can’t see why, perhaps you’re as dense as your mother,” Caldwell sneered.
In his office, Villem paged through a pile of correspondence, noting that not a single letter or report was delivered to him with the seal unbroken. A series of strange letters arrived, signed by his mother’s advisor, Count Reynard. When Villem inquired about the events alluded to in the letters, Caldwell dismissed them as a blatant attempt to manipulate the king’s sympathies. He began to see winged helmets and black steel plate in every corner.
Finally he received another summons from aep Dahy. He donned his finest clothes, dabbed cologne on the insides of his wrists, and settled a heavy gold circlet atop his golden hair. A scrawny, frightened boy with a wispy mustache peered out at him from the mirror in his bedchamber. The crown slumped clumsily over his forehead.
Seated between Caldwell and aep Dahy at dinner, Villem expected his peers to offer an explanation of their long absence from his council. Instead they plied him with wine. Villem drank. Bleary-eyed and swaying, he was the first to leave the dinner table. Everyone else was consumed with the drinking and feasting, boisterous and loud. Before departing, Villem swiped a paring knife from a wooden platter of cheeses and cured meats, wrapped it in a silk napkin, and tucked it inside his sleeve.
The armory was locked. The library was locked. Villem stumbled his way into the temple. Trembling fingers lit a candle. He prayed to the mother goddess. Begged for help. Begged Melitele to protect his subjects. He did not know how they were faring, if the rumors of forced labor and relocation were true. Nobody would tell him. Nobody would tell him anything.
A full moon threw cold beams through the colored glass, blues and greens rippling like flowing water over Villem’s skin. Hunched over, he drew the paring knife from his sleeve and watched moonlight glint off the polished metal. Turning the blade over in his hand, he ran through a list of the places he could stick it: between the ridges of aep Dahy’s spine, the side of Caldwell’s neck, his own flesh.
He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade, bracing for a bright flash of pain, ready for it. It was dull. Blunted. Useless. Armored footsteps clattered into the temple, his Nilfgaardian minders having decided that the King of Lyria and Rivia had gone unsupervised for long enough.
Villem wiped away tears with his fur-trimmed sleeves and tucked the knife back into its hiding place. Jaw clenched, posture stiff, he rose to his feet and turned to face the guards moving to flank him. They saluted him as he descended the steps away from the altar. He was a king, after all.