Act I: Kingdom of Nobodies
Chapter III: The First Crown
Ambrose Anderfell. I was granted this name by my father and deceased mother. If it meant but a thing to me in the past, it does not now. For my father is a dirty bastard. A king who does not deserve his throne. And I shall stand judge to that.
So were the thoughts that coursed through my head as the taunting sound of a carriage on pavement blooded my brain. It gnawed at my ears, a sense of false equilibrium that pretended to heal the kingdom in a way it wouldn't be. I tried to string together thoughts twice – even three times as mature as I. If someone had told me not to, would I listen? Surely not. I am not so naïve as to bend at another's words. If they had told me to be a child, I may have grown even greater.
"A mere twelve year old child should not be brought along to poke at war. I truly respect this man as much as a swine."
The horses had been drawn only a matter of hours ago and yet homesickness had already begun to creep up the back of my throat like bile. I longed to be with my siblings – the quadruplets, Amarinda, even Aurelia with her endless teasing. I wished to be back in the nursery, awkwardly attempting to hold all six in my embrace. I longed for the mess of it, the warmth of it. Even the noise.
Anger towards my father began to resurge in me once more. Even resting in rough travel would have been better than dealing with a throbbing headache and constant scrutiny. Yet I could not even do that. "A prince should not stoop so low as to lay in a carriage. You shall sleep upright." I had been lectured in the same fashion enough times to know a "yes and no" before it need happen.
Through the slit windows of this vessel, the world outside passed in a smudged blur. I saw what looked to be golden wheat and grassy fields. It contrasted completely with the rich royal blue of the carriage laces held together by the gold of equal quality. I favored the naturality of the sky and crops, wind and soil.
"Ambrose," my fathers voice boomed. "You would do well so as to fix your posture and gaze. We are soon to meet one the dukes of Fallowmere. One of your status should-" I allowed my thoughts to trail off and ignore my fathers words, white noise the only thing entering my ears now. I'd rather be alone with my studies.
For days on end the road was the only thing around. The sun would set and the moon would rise, only for it to happen again. An occasional tavern meal or night of rest would have been enough to restore my patience. That if I hadn't need deal with being trophised. As well as preached upon each time.
And yet I survived the ten-day trip. A trip I had not requested. A trip I was never consulted on. A trip that reeked of politics.
At long last, the towers of Braerhold came into view. They did not rise proudly like the spires of our own estate, but squatted against the horizon, stunted and gray. The whole building had an old look as though the stone itself had tired of standing. The carriage creaked to a stop, the wheels groaning against the rutted northern road. I leaned slightly to catch my first sight of my soon to be prison.
Father straightened at once, adjusting his cloak and smoothing his beard as though the journey had been nothing more than a pleasant trot through the countryside. He looked every bit the king, regal and unbothered, while I sat stiff and aching, wishing I could vanish into the fields we had passed. Before I could be scrutinized on my appearance, I decided to fix up.
As the gates creaked open before us, the first faces appeared. Rows of servants were lined along the path, bowing low enough to scrape their noses against the dry autumn pavement. The falseness of it all stung me worse than the cold. They showed respect not out of love, but fear. Not out of devotion, but compulsion. I wondered if Father saw the difference. I wondered if he cared. No, he must have grown accustomed to this feeling.
The carriage lurched to a halt before the manor's doors. Father turned to me, one brow arched in that imperious way that meant. "Smile, boy, play your part.". I couldn't give a Moon cycle what he wanted and responded with not a twitch of my lips.
And then the entrance swung wide, spilling torchlight onto the gravel. Several stiff servants bravely allowed us into the building, each stride of Father's boots making them cringe. As we turned into the lounge, we were greeted with the cloying voice of our host—
"Welcome, my liege! I truly cannot express how grateful I am to hold King Alaric Anderfell himself, along with Prince Ambrose!" The obsequious fool spoke as he welcomed us into his luxurious parlour. It was of little impression compared to the one at the Anderfell estate, but I knew to grant praise where praise was deserved.
As my father conversed with Duke Izod, I looked around this grand room. It was not much like ours. The parlor here at Braerhold was narrower than any of the ones back home. Its paneling was darker, carved in a dull, overworked northern style – swirls, thorns and heraldry chiseled to the extremes with symbolism. Every inch of the chamber screamed of a family desperate to seem older than it was. And that's all this was, wasn't it? A display. A statement. "We are ancient. We are relevant. We matter." All said without so much as a word.
My father stood in the center of it all, beaming like the sun, acting as though this whole performance wasn't for him. But of course it was. He thrived on being the man others bent toward, the person that they had to please.
I turned to the tall windows instead, hoping I'd find more interest in them then the people around me. They framed the land beyond like a musty picture – silver fog curling over low ridges and haggard working fields. Hills scared with shriveled trees drove as far as the eye could see. This was the eastern edge of Elandor, far from the coast, where the wind blew cruelly and the bloodlines were thicker than common sense.
I already hated it here.
"Ambrose," my father's voice called from across the room, smooth and commanding. "Come, greet the Duke properly."
I obeyed. I almost always obeyed.
Duke Izod Dyter was short and red-cheeked, with eyes that never stopped moving – seeming a man more merchant than noble. He bowed so deeply I half-expected his back to give out. "My prince," he gushed, "they say you've already bested your tutors in rhetoric and statecraft!"
I offered the faintest bow. "I manage."
Izod's laugh rang uncomfortably loud. "Ah, humble as well! The realm is in good hands, Lord Anderfell."
My father grinned with an expression of pride. "He still has much to learn."
A silent exchange passed between them. One of those subtle, sharpened looks that always said more than any words could. It was obvious my father was leveraging something. A favor – maybe a debt. He always was. And I was simply part of the bargain – the bright young son brought along as proof of dynastic glory. A living symbol.
I hate being a symbol.
Dinner that evening was long and stuffed with flatteries. My father took up most of the room with his voice, regaling the table with tales of his youth and courtship, punctuated by over-loud laughter. The duke often chimed in, both discussing the struggles of running the country alongside other dukes as well as dotting on every adventure my father spoke of with praise and agreement, even when it didn't make sense. I sat between two lesser lords whose names I didn't care to recall, picking at roasted fowl and listening to grown men lie to each other.
I watched my father closely.
He told a story of the Western War – how he'd ridden at the head of five thousand and broken a siege at the Gates of Thirun. I'd read the actual accounts. He hadn't broken the siege. He'd fought at the rearguard of the legion, striking the final blow and making sure he was in the painting afterward. That's what he was best at — being seen.
He looked pleased with himself now, glass in hand, grinning like a hero. I wondered if he believed his own version.
When at last I was dismissed, I returned to the quarters prepared for me – an overstuffed suite of velvet and brass, as if gaudiness were a substitute for taste. I left the guards outside and lit a small candle beside the bed. Dead of night stared me in the eye as gears began to turn deep in my head.
I wasn't likely to get much sleep tonight.
I had yet to be informed of the length of my stay as of yet which often signified a longer period of time. I hated to think as much when I had a lone stepmother at home with six children as smart as my left pinky toe, but I was sure that she was fine – she is quite a wonderful mother afterall. But I worried for my own sanity just as much, as I wasn't sure just how long I could tolerate being alone with stuck up nobility before my father committed me to something I would regret.
My head hit the pillow as I blew out the nightstand light I had set just moments before. The quilt blanket massaged my tiered body in a way I wished it hadn't. All the tenseness within me began to seep out along with my consciousness. Before I knew it, I was asleep.
***
It had only been ten days and this country had already begun to rot away at my sanity with a vehement pageantry. I had thought the Tarwyn capital, Fallowmere, was infected, but the provinces were no better. Every wall, every banner, every inch of their estates clung to some half-remembered ancestor like a child to a toy.
Duke Izod, for all his talk of piety and heritage, was clearly angling a favor – likely to secure the southern trade routes when the next charter is signed. Father knew. Of course he did. That's why he brought me.
I wonder if Aurelia would laugh at all this. I think she might.
Amarinda wouldn't. She'd sit quietly, watching. Taking it all in.
The quadruplets were likely being bathed right now. Or breaking something. God, I miss them.
I wish I were home.
No, it didn't have to be home. It could be somewhere else. Just somewhere real.
Noon passed after what felt like centuries, and I was quickly pardoned to allow the adults to discuss topics "Not of your concern,". As if I believed that.
I lit my candle as always, perching atop a windowsill in attempts to productively read on the history of this estate. However, each time I started, I was interrupted by a constant attack of anxiety. Again and again. I just wanted to go home.
The next day, we toured the outer farmlands. I rode just behind my father and the Duke as they meandered through the countryside, nodding solemnly at the state of things. The land here was colder, the soil thinner. Wheat stood stunted and pale under a weak sky. The commoners bowed low as we passed. I noticed the way they hunched from more than respect — bones bent from labor and cold and not enough meals.
"This region's suffered no small hardship," the Duke said, gesturing to the fields. "Last winter bit deeper than expected."
My father gave a sympathetic nod. "We'll see what aid we can grant, after review."
I doubted he would.
He never remembered these things after the wine and flattery of evening feasts. People were concepts to him. Problems or praise. Never lives.
I saw a child at the roadside, clinging to their mother's skirt. They looked up at our banners as if they were seeing the stars. Their eyes were wide with hope. It hurt to look at them.
Every time I saw someone like that, my heart cracked one shard more. It questioned my worth and fought my beliefs. It wasn't as though I had really done anything to deserve this name, this horse, these silks. If I was born in a different way, any other way, that child could have been me. The difference between the wealthy and the poor was like that of the Sun and Moon.
That's why I had to be king. That was why I studied like I did. That was why I acted like I did. That is why I am who I am. Not for pride and not for legacy, but to make something real out of all this pretense.
And so I took off to the library as soon as we were back. It wasn't much. Mostly religious histories and local records. But I needed quiet. I needed peace. Whether it was by reading about the Stars or Mornhal, all I asked was space. Even if I didn't have anything else, I wanted to at the very least have my own intellect. That would be how I'd spend my time in this unknown hellhole. That was the only way I could survive it here
I sat on the floor between two shelves and let the dust settle around me. My mind began to drift not only to the things I had just read, but the world I was supposed to help rule.
The Kingdom of Eldenmark – named for a sword that no longer exists. A land fractured by lineage, faith, and pride, held together by silk strings and performance. A crown passed through men who measure their worth in obedience, not wisdom. A realm pretending it has not already begun to collapse.
We can call ourselves the Sunless Light. We can call our king the Warden of the Divine. But I have seen the capital's slums. I have read the tax ledgers. I have traded notes with foreign scholars – ones my father warned me not to engage.
There are kingdoms across the sea who see us as a relic. A crumbling empire in denial.
And yet my siblings smile at me like I'm their hero. My tutors still bow too low. My father parades me as the future of Anderfell.
I don't want it.
But I also cannot ignore it.
I thought again of my mother. Or what I remember of her. A few soft songs. A quiet voice. Fingers tracing my hair in the dead of night.
They say I have her eyes. But what does that really mean? What does it mean to inherit a gaze from someone I barely knew? What did it mean to carry features belonging to a woman I couldn't remember in full? Sometimes I wonder if I've imagined a fake version of her. That the softness, the calm in my mind when I think of her, is just wishful thinking carved out of grief. I do remember her laugh, though. It was quiet and sudden, like a secret only I was allowed to hear.
They speak of her as if she were sainted. Gentle. Wise. Tragic. Always in past tense, always through gritted smiles and lowered voices. No one ever says what she thought. What she wanted. How she truly felt about people. Is it possible that silence could be anything other than negative?
If she had lived, I wonder if I would feel differently.
Was it possible I could look up to my father? Sometimes I think it's only because she died that he became what he is – a king of cold silks and forged smiles. He wasn't always like this, or so the old stewards say. He once laughed like a real man, cracked jokes like a brother, and wept openly when Mother went into labor. But then she vanished from the world, and what remained was a man who armored his soul. A man who hardened like stone around the wound.
And now I live in the echo of that grief, molded not by memory, but by absence.
Would I still follow this path if I had grown up with her hands in mine? Would that be the case if she had whispered truths into my ear when no one else dared to? Would I still hate the court with this same intensity? Would I still feel so much older than I am?
Or maybe she would've been just another part of the throne – gentle but powerless. A queen without a voice.
That thought frightens me most of all.
Because if even she couldn't speak against the evil around us, what chance do I have?
I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to push the thoughts away, but they stayed – deep and disgusting.
The world sees me only as a prince. A future king. An heir blessed by divine favor and bloodline.
But in reality, I am just a boy in a borrowed room, sitting beneath borrowed books, hoping to steal away enough time to make sense of who I am – at least before they crown a stranger in my place.
I wonder if I would still want my crown had she lived.
But that's not a concern to me anymore, just as making up idealistic situations wouldn't bring her back. The only way I could become the person in those dreams was if I were to work for it. It's not something that comes to everyone, certainly to almost no one but me. And so what did the people worse off than myself deserve if not a truthful king?
The door to the library crashed open with a smash of noise that only stood to push me on faster. Everytime that I felt myself at this exact line of thought, I was brought to one of two places. It was usually the room I had left behind, but there were occasions where that simply wasn't good enough. Only then would I leave the richness I was familiar with behind and instead meet among those I was doing this for.
And just that had been my plan, at least until I was stopped. I had just reached one of the halls bordering the exit when I felt a gaze much similar to my own fall upon me. It took a few moments before I was able to recognize where the glare originated.
It was a girl. A girl just my age. I could have sworn I'd seen her face before.
Peering at me from the peak of the landing above, she spoke in a voice that was far more mature than her voice. "Ambrose Anderfell. To what do I owe the honor?" Her voice was as thick with loathing as my thoughts were with inspiration. Even a newborn child would find it obvious that this was not something that I could wriggle my way out of.
"I appreciate your courtesy. But I do beg your pardon as I don't believe I know your name." Kindness and formalities seemed to always work in getting out of unnecessary conversations, and yet the moment I opened my mouth in response, it was clear that wouldn't be the case.
"You know, I am quite offended about that, but I do suppose I could allow it if only this once. I am Cecilia Dyter, daughter to Izod Dyter, the man who is allowing you to stay here only from the goodness of his own heart. And yet you couldn't even identify so much as his daughter. It really is such a shame." I couldn't tell how much of what she was saying was serious – either way I had messed up.
At a second glance, it was obvious who she was. Her hair dropped to around her elbows – its color a shade of red just like her fathers. Her cheeks were a similar red and body almost as thin; however, her facial features were far rounder and appealing than her fathers. Whether it was the slight rounding of her eyes or the shape of her cheeks, she was the most attractive girl I'd ever seen.
"Oh, I see. I had a feeling I recognized you, though I couldn't quite place a name to a face." Cecilia came down the stairs so as to meet me. Her anger was all but boiling over the surface, and yet I couldn't see why. I may have mistaken her, but it wasn't as though I had done anything else that was inherently bad. It wasn't as though I had cursed her bloodline, so why was it that her glare seemed as though it wanted to pierce through my heart?
"Well, it really was an honor." Cecilia said with a straight face and a slight courtesy of almost as much disrespect. I bowed in exchange as I watched her leave me behind.
"Such a shame. She was a pretty girl and yet she seemed only to hate me to my very core. I wish I could just live the life of a regular boy, fantasizing about girls my age instead of worrying for the future of my country."
With a final glance at the girl who had stormed off, I turned to do what I had set my mind to.
Helping the people around me.
***
The people of Fallowmere never seemed to rest. No matter where I looked they were always in motion. Whether it was with work or assisting another, I couldn't find time to break into their schedule. It felt as thought standing still in the middle of it was enough to bring ruin to their efficient structure.
"Excuse me ma'am," I asked an older woman struggling to hang a wooden sign in front of her shop. "Would you like me to help you with that?"
She turned toward me with a kind smile, deep lines creasing her face. "Thank you, dear. I would appreciate that very much."
I smiled back in return and reached for the sign. It was far heavier than it looked, made of solid oak that smelled of old varnish. I lifted the sign into place before securing it into the wall with a few nails. I stepped back to validate my skill as the woman nodded with approval.
"You do mighty fine work, boy," she said. "Come, let me pay you." She shuffled into her shop and came out with a small bundle of coins. "Will a prayer's worth of silver be enough?"
"Oh, you needn't pay me!" I said quickly, shaking my head. "I have enough dignity and security at home to not take a prayer from a lady. I simply wanted to help."
The woman chuckled and patted my shoulder, a proud grin on her face. "A gentleman, then! I had thought King Anderfell had only led our fair Eldenmark into greed, but it seems I was mistaken! Tell me your name, lad."
Her words cut sharper than she could hope to know. It was clear I could not tell her the truth as she criticized my father. "I'm Gabriel, ma'am," I lied smoothly, choosing the name of one of the palace servants. "May I ask the same?"
"Fabrissa," she replied warmly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Gabriel." She said as she offered her hand. It was far frailer than I had imagined. It felt wrong - how delicate her bones were beneath my grip. It was as though I was holding a stick covered in rotting skin.
"Are the people of Fallowmere struggling the same as the ones on the outskirts of Kestfell? I'm sure my father is aware of the situation in all the cities around Eldenmark, so why hasn't he helped yet? Everyone near Ebonhold has more than enough resources to survive, so why does everyone else live in poverty?"
I stepped back and looked around with new eyes. The truth had always been there, I just hadn't wanted to truly see it. Beggers lined the walls, dreaming for their stomachs to be filled by those above them, even if just barely. Whether it be a fully clothed young man or Fabrissa who I had just met, each and every one of them looked to be in pain.
The walls of buildings were cracked and patched with mismatched stones. Roofs staggered under their own weight. The street were narrow views of mud, pulsing with life that barely clung. Each breath seemed more damp than the last. A long clothes line strung between two crooked houses swayed in the wind, the fibers of the cord pricked up sharply.
And still, they lived as though this was alright.
Even in this broken place, life refused to die. And I, an intruder, stood among them. My lungs breather the same air, yet I was still apart from it.
It hit me all at once: this was the sight that would change me forever. The poor were not merely unfortunate, they were abandoned - dying while the rich polished their walls with gold and laughter.
I'm sure this would be a sight that would change the way I view the world forever. It was awful. The poor were dying and the rich wouldn't do so much as toss them a prayer until the Eclipse killed them all. Was I the same? I had known how bad reality was, commenting to myself about it many times. And yet it was only now that I saw the truth.
Was I any different from those very same nobles I despised? I always spoke of justice, of change, of truth - but I had never seen it like this. I had lived above them, but now I understood. My fantasies had convinced me those around me were meant to be saved, not helped. Never did I imagine myself as a boy wanting, instead a messiah with complete power over his people - prejudice had dug itself into my mind.
Of course, it had never been possible for us to truly be equals. And yet, was that something I truly wanted? Did I wish to be the same as them or someone to be praised? If anything at all, did I wish to help out of kindness at all?
We weren't living above them.
No.
We were the only ones living at all.
"Gabriel? Are you alright, boy?" As always, I was snapped from my thoughts by someone I viewed as below myself.
"Gabriel? Are you alright, boy?" Fabrissa's voice snapped me from my thoughts. I turned toward her, startled. Her eyes were full of worry.
Before I could answer, a rough hand clamped down on my shoulder. I flinched, twisting around to find a tall, broad man standing behind me. His arms were thick with muscles and old scars. His hair was sun-bleached blond, his eyes sharp and steady. Scabs covered his bare feet and his clothes were torn up, yet he didn't seem to care.
"You went stiff as a corpse," he said. "Didn't hear not a word she said. I thought you must'a fainted."
"I'm fine," I said quickly, "Just lost in thought. Happens more than I'd like to admit."
Fabrissa sighed in relief and gave a small wave as she returned into her shop. The man me a moment longer. his expression unreadable. Then, with a grin, he clapped me on the shoulder again.
"Well then, lad," he said, "you seem like a boy who's not afraid of a little work. Care to lend a hand on my farm? I saw you helping Fabrissa."
I hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Of course, sir. I'd love to help. What is it that you want me to do?"
He smiled, and for the first time that day, I felt something close to warmth. A feeling so human that it reminded me of all that I cared for.
As we walked, he told me about himself. Harlen was his name - very fitting of his character if I was to be asked. He lived just beyond the town's edge, where he cottages lessened and the hills opened up into fields as far as the eye could see. The path there was quite, the only sounds being the creak of his car and the distant bleating of sheep. I followed in silence, watching how his shoulders shifted with each step.
As we reached the farm, I saw two children kneeling in the dirt, plucking weeds between the rows. They looked up as we approached, their eyes sharp and thin, likely just a few years younger than mine.
"This is Gabriel," Harlen announced, "He's going to help with the irrigation trench." The girl replied with a polite nod as the boy merely starred.
I took the spade Harlen handed me and began to dig. The soul was dense, heavy with thick clay that clung to my boots. After only a few minutes, my arms began to ache, and yet there was something almost cleansing about the work. The sound of steel cutting earth, the smell of mud, the faint warmth of the sun slipping away under the clouds. This was something that would never be expected of me - and maybe that was what made it all the more satisfying.
As the day wore on, Harlen told me stories between each grunt of his efforts. He spoke of how his father built his home with his own hands. How the taxes had wisen each year until hanf his harvest went to the crown. How soldiers had once taken his horse and never returned it.
I listened intently without interrupting. Each and every word was a nail driven deeper into the coffin of my ignorance.
When the trench was done, we sat on overturned buckets, passing around a clay jug of water. The children laughed softly nearby, tossing pebbles at one another.
"You're not from around here, now are you," Harlen said suddenly.
"What makes you say that?"
He smirked. "Hands 're too clean. Posture too straight. You've worked today, that may be true - but I take it this is quite the rare occasion."
I replied nothing in return. The truth hovered between us, a bed of needles that threatened to bite if I retaliated.
"Doesn't matter none," he added after a moment, heading off towards his home. "You helped, and that's more than I can say for most."
I sat alone in silence, repeating his final words endlessly. There wasn't any double meaning or elegance laced into them, so why did they make me so giddy? Surely I wasn't childish enough to have my heart fly away due to a compliment. However, it was obvious that was the truth.
Dusk began to fall as I sat deep in these fields. The lights within Harlen's house were bright as the morning, a place of comfort to his children and himself. Priceless laughter filled my ears, my lips upturning at the melody.
"Excuse me," I must have drifted deep into thought again as I nearly jumped from my skin as a small voice spoke out. "Sorry to scare you, but you were sitting out here all 'lone."
I turned sharply to see Harlen's daughter stood a few steps away, holding a small piece of bread and a bowl of stew. Her hair was far darker than her father and brother's, tied back messily in a way that added to the bright curiosity in her eyes.
"Y-you're quite alright. Was there something that you needed?" I said, my heart still racing a little.
She giggled a little before handing me the food. "Father said to thank you. You helped us a lot tonight."
I accepted it carefully, the warmth of the bowl seeping into my palms. "You're very welcome. This is very kind of you."
She glanced over me, studying me a moment. "You talk funny. Not like the people here."
"You're father said the same," I smiled faintly. "I've just traveled a bit."
She nodded, easily accepting my lie as fact. Her grin turned mischievous a moment later.
"W-what is it?" I asked, my tone as uncertain as my words.
"You're very pretty."
I blinked, caught off guard. "Pretty?"
"Yeah," she said with a shrug. "All the boy's 'round here look like cows. You look like... well, I don't know... you look like someone who would be in a storybook."
Her honesty made me laugh - quiet and genuine. "Thank you," I said softly. "That's a very kind thing of you to say."
She smiled, then darted back towards the house before I could reply any further. The door swung closed behind her just an instant later.
For another long while after, I sat in the fields with the newly empty bowl in my hands. Her words lingered in my mind - that along with her father's. They did not come out of vanity, only out of the unguarded kindness of their hearts. It was truth without fear, similar to how Aurelia spoke to me.
The thought hadn't yet faded as the sound of hooves thundred down the road behind me. I turned just as a royal guard appeared at the far end of the street, his armor glinting in the dying light.
"Prince Ambrose Anderfell," he said, bowing deeply, his voice echoing across the empty lands. "His Majesty the King has announced that he is to return to Kestfell, and that he is to send you to Eldenglen allows to deal with the arrangement there. Preparations are underway for your departure. You are to leave tomorrow for the continent of Mornhal - alone."
The world seemed to still around me. Father had told me I was to come along with him to Eldenglen so as to witness the process of treaty building, and yet I was now being told I was the one to be doing it - alone. Everything blurred into pastel colors, filled with the silence of everything but my thoughts.
"Understood," I said softly.
The guard gave me a curt nod, mounted his horse once more, and rode off toward the Braerhold manor.
I stood there a moment longer, watching the dust settle. Around me, life resumed as if nothing had changed. It wasn't as though I could do anything to stop it either. I looked down at dark puddle of water, and whispered to myself:
"Mornhal awaits."