Chapter Text
1656.
The terror beyond the castle’s walls was audible to those who resided within the castle’s hold. Another attempt was made every hour to break down the castle’s defences. The sound of different types of artillery rang through the halls, the screams of women and children. Castles stood as impregnable fortresses, defending their inhabitants during turbulent times. Alwyn was no longer sure he believed this fact.
The shock of the attack, or the putrid swelling upon his neck that had claimed him at last (diphtheria, some whispered), ceased to matter now. The king had succumbed, leaving Alwyn poised to ascend the throne—if indeed there would be a throne to ascend come morning.
The crown knights were away until nightfall, defending the ramparts until they either fell in battle or took respite. Thus, the throne room lay deserted, the court jester had fallen in combat, and only maids tending to the king's remains. In this tranquil emptiness, Alwyn found a fleeting solace.
His lineage, touched by a dark pact, now crumbled around him, the deep winter adding a grim backdrop. His whispered prayers wished the cold might end it all, eyes fixed upon the vacant throne as he paced. The burden of impending kingship loomed heavy. What fate awaited his people, realm, and bloodline if this war was not won? His father's teachings on kingship, magic, and the devil's pact now seemed distant echoes, unprepared for the harsh reality now pressing upon him.
He wondered, almost bashfully, if the crown would fit his brow or slip down his neck as it had in childhood. But those were thoughts of an eight-year-old, not a twenty-nine-year-old prince.
The creak of the throne room door snapped him back to the present, a soldier's urgent entrance disrupting his reverie. "My prince, I must speak with the king immediately—"
"You will speak to me," Alwyn interjected with a weary sigh. "Remove your helmet; I must know to whom I speak."
The soldier stood frozen, momentarily stunned by Alwyn's request. After a brief pause, he complied, revealing a face Alwyn recognized from his father's court—Praxis, commander of companies three and four. Alwyn recalled watching him train with his company the few times he had ridden his horse to the pastures. He recalled how the afternoon sun glinted off the soldier’s armour, highlighting the powerful contours of his physique. Alwyn’s eyes always lingered on how Praxis moved—graceful yet strong, a dance of practised skill and raw strength.
"Praxis, my Prince," the commander began, his voice steady despite the urgency in his words. "The enemy advances swiftly upon our castle walls. Their numbers are formidable—no less than three thousand strong. They march with disciplined speed and bring cavalry and siege engines. The countryside has been pillaged."
Alwyn furrowed his brows in concern at the report, raising a hand to rub his eyes. "They will not cease until we are all laid low."
"Have all the vassals mustered their men?”
"Aye, my lord," the soldier replied.
"And the neighbouring kingdom to the east?"
"One of my men is already on the journey east. If he survives the difficult path, reinforcements will not arrive for at least a fortnight." Praxis paused before continuing, “My Prince, I must speak to the king. He must be made aware of our plight. We must act swiftly—"
"We are acting," Alwyn cut him off. "You speak to me. Is that not sufficient?"
Praxis shifted uneasily but pressed on, “Forgive me, my Prince, but the gravity of our situation demands the king’s direct command. Our forces are strained, and the enemy shows no mercy.”
Alwyn’s expression remained unchanged at Praxis’s concern. “Your loyalty and urgency do you credit, but for now, the command falls to me.”
“As you wish, my Prince. What are your orders?”
Alwyn pondered the situation. What could be done? He paced slowly, back and forth, his eyes eventually fixing on the small windows within the courtroom walls. Beyond, the snow lay like a vast white blanket, stretching for miles.
Was this to be his life now? To give orders? To be compelled into marriage with a queen and sire an heir? Would he be bound to continue the pact his lineage had made with this accursed devil? Green eyes gazed down at his hands, the power that flowed through his veins.
Would he heed this call?
“We shall fortify our defences and prepare for a protracted siege. Send word to the Western allies; their aid may turn the tide. Ensure the men are well-rested and provisions are rationed wisely. We must endure until reinforcements arrive.”
Hesitance.
Alwyn waited.
“My prince, we still have the catapults at our disposal,” Praxis began walking towards him. “The remaining gunpowder and oil lie unused. We could strike now—we must strike now! I am certain the king would agree!”
“Kneel.”
The word rumbled from Alwyn’s throat, deep and guttural, imbued with magic so potent it seemed to draw directly from the infernal depths. It was a command that echoed with an unnatural power, compelling obedience through sheer force of will.
Praxis felt the weight of the command as if an invisible hand pressed him down. He sank to his knees slowly, almost against his will, before Alwyn.
“The king is dead,” Alwyn intoned, his voice still resonating with that dark power. “You will refer to me as ‘my liege’ or ‘my majesty.’ My command is now your command.”
Praxis struggled, his muscles tensing as he fought the compulsion. His mind raced, grappling with the sudden shift in power and the realization that Alwyn was now king. Slowly, against his will, he sank to his knees before Alwyn, the magical force too strong to resist.
“My liege…,” Praxis whispered, his voice trembling with defiance and submission. He bowed his head, acknowledging Alwyn’s authority even as he struggled to accept it.
Alwyn knew little of Praxis beyond his rank and station. He was aware that the commander was a decade his senior and had once been the son of a shepherd before his father had conscripted him into service.
The intensity of this shared moment was shattered as the doors to the throne room swung open. Alwyn looked up, catching the gaze of his father’s adviser. Abel stood there, a thin-bodied man with a prominent gut, his long face twisted in irritation.
“Abel,” Alwyn began, his voice steady, but he was cut off as the adviser spoke over him. “I haven’t any time to play games with you, Alwyn. Where is your father? His chambers are sealed.”
Abel’s disdain for Alwyn was palpable, his eyes narrowing as he saw the young prince. He had never believed Alwyn suitable for the throne, often expressing his doubts in hushed whispers that Alwyn had learned to overhear. To Abel, the prince was inexperienced, lacking the wisdom and strength to rule.
Alwyn clenched his jaw, his mind flashing back to the bitter memory of the wheat blight. Abel had advised his father wrongly, insisting on a course of action that had led to the destruction of the harvest. Hundreds had perished from the resulting famine, including Alwyn’s childhood best friend. The grief and anger from that loss had never truly faded, and seeing Abel now only rekindled the embers of his resentment.
“You overstep, Abel,” Alwyn said, his voice cold. “My father is dead. You will speak to me with the respect due to your king.”
While kneeling and witnessing the exchange, Praxis felt the tension crackling in the air. He knew of the silent feud between Alwyn and Abel, and now he saw it bare before him. Despite the kneeling position forced upon him by Alwyn’s command, he could sense the strength and authority in the young prince, a glimmer of the king he was destined to become.
Whether the sudden news had fallen on deaf ears or if Abel was refusing to acknowledge it Alwyn couldn’t have known. The adviser sneered, unwilling to back down. “Respect? You have yet to earn it, boy. Your father’s decisions were wise, even if you choose to remember them otherwise.”
“Do not speak of wisdom when your counsel led to so many deaths. Your folly costs lives, and it is a debt that remains unpaid.”
Abel quickly met him head-on in this argument, but Alwyn was no longer listening. It dawned on him that this pompous rat would remain his adviser if he were king. He could not envision a future burdened with such a man at his side.
As king, it was his right to assemble a council of trusted and honourable men and women. What was the purpose of his power if not to reshape the world around him, to seek compensation against those who had failed him one too many times?
“Praxis,” Alwyn began, speaking over Abel as if he were no more significant than a bird chirping on a distant branch.
Drawing upon the infernal magical energy within him, Alwyn raised his pointer finger to Abel. His voice grew deep and guttural as he gave the soldier his command.
“Kill.”
Praxis felt a chill run down his spine as the word left Alwyn’s lips, the command laden with dark, oppressive power. His body moved almost against his will, muscles tightening as he struggled to resist the order. His sword, already bloodied from the earlier battle, felt unbearably heavy in his hand as he rose, turned and began to take steps toward Abel.
Alwyn turned away from them both. He stepped closer to the courtroom windows, busying his eyes with the winter snow as he walked up to the throne.
Abel’s sneer faltered as he saw the knight approaching, understanding dawning too late. “You cannot be serious,” he hissed, stepping back in a futile attempt to escape his fate.
Praxis’s heart pounded in his chest, and each step was a battle between his conscience and the irresistible command of his king. He had served the royal family with unwavering loyalty, but this… this felt wrong. To strike down an unarmed man, even one as despised as Abel, went against every knightly code he held dear.
“Please, my liege,” Praxis begged, his voice cracking. “Do not make me do this.”
“You are bound to serve me, Praxis. My command is absolute.” Alwyn’s fingers looped around the royal Crown, carefully picking it up from its resting spot on the throne chair.
Tears of frustration and helplessness welled in Praxis’s eyes as he raised his sword. Abel’s eyes widened in fear, the realization of his impending doom etched across his face. Praxis’s hand shook, the sword quivering as he struggled to hold back the fatal blow.
But the power was too strong, and with a cry of anguish, Praxis struck. The blade found its mark, and Abel crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood pooling around him. The sneer was gone, replaced by a look of shock and disbelief.
Praxis stood over the fallen adviser, his chest heaving with the effort of the struggle and the weight of what he had just done.
Alwyn looked behind him passively at the sight. The crown adorned his head, a perfect fit.
“You have done well, Praxis,” he said, his voice now gentle, the dark power receding. “Your loyalty is commendable.”
Praxis looked up at his king, a stray tear sliding down his cheek. “But at what cost, my liege? What kind of king commands such unrighteous acts?”
Alwyn’s expression softened, a flicker of the boy he once was shining through the hardened exterior. “A king who must secure his reign and protect his people, no matter the personal cost. It is a burden we both must bear.”
Praxis bowed his head, feeling the heavy weight of his new allegiance. He was bound to Alwyn, not just by duty, but by the dark, infernal magic that now ruled his king. And in that moment, he realized that his service to the crown would demand sacrifices he had never imagined.
“Come, my knight. We have a war to win.”