EOC Chapter 1: Declaration of War

"The bastards of Dael will drown in their own blood!" Bassal roared, throwing his fists high into the air from his place on the royal balcony. "We will slice their throats, break their bones, take their wealth, and train their children into true warriors of the heaven!"

The crowd stood under the oppressive sun, its rays intensifying the stifling air. The heat scorched their skin, sweat carving rivulets down their faces. But the people ignored all the discomfort as their first prince delivered his speech—a declaration of war and a promise of great glory.

They ate it up like the dumb, battle frenzy peasants that they were.

Kieran leaned on the balcony’s railing, watching his brother’s theatrics from the adjacent castle wall with a mix of bemusement and annoyance. Bassel’s voice boomed through the courtyard, a commanding presence on the royal balcony, flanked by the nobles in their extravagant attire. The balcony, set high above the sea of citizens, was adorned with crimson and gold banners that fluttered in the breeze, barely enough to cool the onlookers below.

Kieran’s eyes narrowed as Bassel’s every dramatic pause seemed to stretch longer, pulling the crowd into his fiery rhetoric. The common folk, packed tightly in the courtyard below, shuffled impatiently, shifting from foot to foot in the blistering heat. They weren’t there to listen to Bassel try his hand at speeches in the King’s absence—they came for war. Honorbound as this Kingdom was, there could be no other answer. 

In the corner of his eye, Kieran caught sight of a child in the crowd, pulling at his mother's dress. A slight grin tugged at his lips. He looked across the other balconies filled with the aristocracy positioned around and just under the royal balcony. They all stood idle, hands cringing and brows furrowed, muttering under their breaths. They seemed bored—unimpressed, perhaps. Kieran doubted they were there for his brother’s words either.

"My people! Citizens. Loyal subjects of Fileatte, tomorrow we head to war!" Bassel’s voice rang out, his broad shoulders squared, and his purple cloak billowing in the wind. His entire body swelled with pride as he thrust his fist into the air. "The people of Dael have dishonored our King in his time of sickness for the final time. Tomorrow, we show those pasty pathetic bastards what it means to poke a giant. Tomorrow, we tear them apart piece by bloody piece until none of them remain!” He ended with a roar, his chest swelling with imagined triumph.

The audience stirred excitedly, clapping and shouting in agreement, their fists raised in a collective gesture of pride and loyalty. The quiet applause quickly grew into a roar as Bassel ended his speech with the declaration of war everyone had awaited. The nobles and peasants alike raised their voices in unison. Kieran grimaced as the castle’s ancient stones shook beneath their thunderous cries. For all their grandeur, the nobles were as swayed by Bassel’s rhetoric as the common folk.

Yet, despite the unity, Kieran couldn't help but feel detached from it all. It was difficult to believe that every one of his people was truly a bloodthirsty hawk, eager for war. He tapped his finger on the balcony’s marble railing, his gaze sweeping over the crowd below. Most of these people had never set foot outside their homeland, let alone seen the chaos of war. Other than the nobles perched on their balconies, most of the citizens crowded below had flocked to Alphagete for the first time in response to Bassel’s call to arms.

Straightening his posture, Kieran turned and exited through the ornate doors, shaking his head in disappointment and disbelief. Bassel had never been the sharpest of their siblings, but that speech had been an utter failure in his eyes. A man who refused war was a coward, but one who sought it out mindlessly was simply a fool.

If he’d been older, he might have bothered to say something. But no one listened to a sixteen year old.

Kieran passed a few of his royal cousins, who were sprinting in circles, playing a carefree game of tag. They had no idea about the men who would soon die for the pleasures and wealth of their family. Kieran hadn’t known about it either until a year ago, when his father fell ill and the royal laws of lineage forced him to step into politics at a young age. Not that he participated much.

Turning a corner, Kieran entered a dimly lit hallway lined with lavish decorations: priceless paintings and an exquisite vase, adorned with jewels and depicting ancient battles. He usually avoided this hallway—it was too close to the rooms where the royal meetings took place. The King and his advisors had chosen that very room to discuss the kingdom's future. The last thing Kieran wanted was to spend another hour surrounded by hypocrites and corrupt nobles.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when a small figure collided with him. A flash of blue hair, followed by the girl quickly stepping back, caught his attention. His gaze dropped to her striking pale yellow eyes, widening in surprise when he noticed her reaction to his own eyes - one blue, one violet.

"Looks like we're two of a kind," Kieran said. When the girl remained silent, he pointed to his eyepatch. “We’re different.”

The average person in Fileatte could lift twice their weight by age ten and had the strength to face a half a dozen monsters by the time they were sixteen. All of them were all built like oxen, fighting with brute force and heavy axes. Kieran , however, had realized early on that he was built differently—slimmer, like a swordsman. He would have been fine if that were the only thing setting him apart, but the violet eye of magic set him apart from everyone else. Not many knew of the magic within the violet eye. If the people of Fileatte ever discovered the truth, he would be branded a Warlock and, at best, put to death.

Only the Kingdom of Dael raised Warlocks.

His light brown hair, falling messily around his shoulders no matter how many times he attempted to tame iit, was another reminder of his difference. Fileattion people had straight, tamable hair that barely required maintenance to maintain its shape. 

Over the years he’d encountered hundreds of rumors regarding his bloodline, though the King had vouched for him each time. Still, it had made him the target of multiple assassination attempts by those that hated the idea of any bloodline except that of the late Queen to rule.

The attempts had all failed, obviously. Each time he’d sensed the approaching danger moments before the dagger had plunged into where he’d been sleeping, or the poison in his dinner.

Unfortunately, his survival had simply encouraged the rumors of his foreign bloodline. 

He’d long since given up trying to fit in. He never would. Besides, being known as the Outcast Prince saved him from the formalities and endless political conferences that came with the title.

"Who are you?" he asked, snapping out of his thoughts. “What are  you doing here? These halls are for royalty only.”

"Cecilia Xavier," she answered meekly, her voice sustaining a slight tremble. 

"You’re the daughter of Lord Xavier?" Kieran observed, recognizing her lineage. That explained the yellow eyes. She was a few years younger than Kieran, if he remembered correctly. Twelve, maybe? "Did you get separated from your father?" The only answer she gave was a small nod. "Are you waiting for someone to pick you up?"

“I’m looking for my maid,” she said, eyes shifting around Kieran. “Bella should be here any second, I promise, prince.”

How did the daughter of a duke get lost? He wondered, eying the girl suspiciously with narrowed eyes. Her dress was slightly too large for her, though it was covered in intricate designs and jewels. The fabric itself was a work of art, much better than anything Kieran owned. Her shoes, simple but adorned with rubies and emeralds, sparkled in the hallway’s relatively dim torchlight.

Something ruffled from around the corner and a figure bolted from where he shadows between areas of light toward him. Kieran instinctively placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, his body alert as the figure approached.

"Cecilia! Where have you been?" a woman scolded, rushing not toward Kieran, but toward the girl. Although the woman seemed to scold Cecilia, her tone was filled with deference. Her clothes were a good quality, but nothing in the realm of Cecilia’s. "Your father’s been worried sick. First Prince Bassel might have you whipped for missing his speech!! You wouldn’t want to be labeled a traitor to the crown, now would you, young lady? You're fortunate your father has such a good relationship with the King.” She grabbed Cecilia’s arm, barely sparing a glance at Kieran . "And you, young man, should be attending your future King’s speech. You risk execution just being here, you know. Only royals and guests are allowed. You should—"

"There’s no need for me to do anything," Kieran interrupted, his voice cold and indifferent. 

The maid froze, every muscle in her body jerking to a sudden halt as her head slowly swiveled back toward Kieran. He felt her eyes land on his violet eye. She instantly released Cecilia’s arm and dropped to the marble floor, her knees slamming against the ground with a thud. She continued forward until her forehead was pressed firmly to the marble in supplication. “I beg your forgiveness, Prince Kieran. I truly meant no disrespect. I was not paying attention, so worried I was about my lady. Please forgive me.” When I didn’t say anything, she began to whisper a prayer just barely loud enough for me to hear over the cheering from outside. “Oh Lady Chaos, please have mercy on your poor servant.”

Kieran’s lips curled into a frown. "It’s not the Lady’s judgment you should fear right now, but mine." He unsheathed his rapier, the sound of the metal scraping against the scabbard filling the hallway. "Though I wonder which of the five ladies you would meet upon death? The Lady of Chaos? The Lady of Peace? Equality? Pleasure? Or..." He let the words hang for a moment before adding, "Death?"

She didn’t look up, instead going completely silent and still.

He tapped the flat of his rapier against her shoulder, gently running it against her neck so that it drew nothing but a single tear of red blood. 

“P-p-please don’t kill her,” Cecilia said, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks.

A twinge of guilt in his gut told Kieran he was pushing the whole situation a bit far for his liking, but the point needed to be made.

“I’m not going to kill the maid,” he said a few moments later. “Look up.” The maid, as ordered, lifted her eyes. “Remember my mercy, today. If you were to have spoken like that to any of my brothers, you would have died on the spot. This is the royal palace of Fileatte, not the duke’s mansion. Do you understand?” He glanced at both of them until they nodded. “Good. And tell the rest of your maids, Lady Xavier. I’m tired of giving this warning.”

This makes the third since I woke up, he thought. Kieran didn’t bother saying goodbye to the aristobrat and her maid. Hopefully they would remember his lesson, but at the end of the day it wasn’t really any of his business. He sheathed his rapier and turned away from them, heading down the hall he’d been originally treading down toward the royal kitchen.

His stomach rumbled at the thought of the savory meat the chef would have ready to serve the royal family and aristocrats following Bassal’s speech. 

If he was lucky, he could intercept one of the servants and grab the food on the way to the dining hall so he wouldn’t have to tolerate all the stares and rude comments that he’d get if he actually attended. His footsteps echoed softly as he made his way down the corridor, taking a sharp right to head toward the flight of descending stairs.

Before he could finish the turn pain radiated through his left eye, the violet one, as an image of the second prince, Ghunyan, flashed through Kieran’s mind’s eye. Kieran winced, but didn’t make a sound.

The pain was familiar. It happened whenever someone was trying to assassinate him. 

Although this time it felt… different. Like his eye was warning him of something else. 

Kieran peered around the corner, spotting Ghunyan carrying a food tray filled with all the savory foods Kieran had been salivating over. The second prince was dressed in fine clothing lined with layers of gold and rubies.

That’s weird, Kieran thought, watching the broad shouldered warrior prince turning another corner toward the ascending stairs. He always eats in the dining hall. 

Tailing Ghunyan was definitely a bad idea. A horrible idea. The worst idea Kieran could have had at that moment. Ghunyan already didn’t like him very much and being caught stalking the older prince would probably not work out for him.

Kieran did it anyway, never one to resist a sudden burst of curiosity. He followed his brother down a few more similarly decorated hallways until Ghunyan took a sharp right, seemed to press something and then vanished.

What in the Abyss?