In the quiet of the red night, stood a men. Once a boy prince, now a king. He passed the GrandGarden, sniffing its flowers. His fingers whispering through the blue flowers. There was a small hint of a smile touching his vim lips. He may have been older than a century, but his body never let him down. A pale old man. He was tall and strong. Shoulders broad, hands firm. Hair long and hoar. Calm, blue eyes. And a small, golden lightning bolt on his forehead.
He was a king, yet wore no crown. He only dressed what his ancestors wore. A black clothing with blue accents which reflects his supreme authority and status.
He inhaled the fresh air. The rain drops falling on his body did not bother him. He was fond of it even. He always liked the rain. He continued his walk, crossing flowers of various shades of colour. He only stopped when he came across an old, unused pergola. It was merely big enough to fit in two lovers, yet large enough to store many memories. Its inside was of gray wood like its exterior.
He stared at it for a brief moment before turning his head to look away. The lingering of the memories did not depart his loneliness. He was here to fight for his realm. A king who answers before the call can happen, yes, that is who he is.
It has been five years since the end of war. A war that lasted over a century. A war that he lived through for his entire life. He stared down at his scarred hands. They were pale, dirty. They were made to kill not to rule. He knew it well, very well indeed. Yet he had also known the best... and the worst.
He took the marble stairs, ascending up the palace. His steps were quiet and injudicious. He passed through the corridors. They were luxurious. Walls white marble with runic designs on them. A red carpet spreading from the start to the end.
As he passed, every servant that was doing their duties paused immediately and greeted the king with a bow. They all trembled beneath him. The king he was, walked through the big gates of the throne chamber, his warriors in the gates lowered themselves before their mighty king.
The room was big and full. Dozens of trophies from the generations of Great House Legia and hundreds of aetheric artifacts collected from the depths of the Death Pits. His steps hardened as he got closer to the golden throne. Lightning runic patterns all around the walls of the room and also on the Storm Throne as well. He sat down, facing ahead and awaiting.
He rested his hand on his cheek, eyes narrowed. Ayame stood next to him. A servant girl who is sullen yet responsible to her duty. Then came in his four mighty marshals, all in their service and loyalty to the one chair for over seven epochs.
The crimson light of the Crimson Moon shined through the windows of the chamber. His daughter`s eyes mirroring the light as she stood before him.
"The Crimson Moon Hunters are on their way to reach the forest," she says, her voice cold. "And the Red Lotus Rebellion is causing the west of the city to riot."
The king nodded his head, turning his gaze to his son.
"The stormfolk demand an explanation from the Dream King. Those pebbles want their wrath all over the city. And House Sangius demands a trial by combat for the life stolen from their sire."
The king weaved his hand in the air, breathing deeply.
"There will be no vendetta." His gaze lingered to one of his marshals for a moment. "The death of Hâkon is not a cause to destroy peace. Tell them, I will discourse the accord myself. And if they refuse my offer, then there won`t be a House Sangius no longer."
The entire room stiffened instantly. His children both bowed.
"Yes, father," both of them uttered.
The king raised his arms, and the azure colored aetheric particles curled around his wrist. Everyone watched him. He shifted in his throne, trying to find any interest in continuing to circle everything again and again. A loop all it was. The old will die and a new king will ascend the throne. Then a great war that will shatter the realm.
"History is like nature actually," he declared, loud, imperious. "As time flows, it heals itself only to be burned once again." His gaze pierced through his children. "Art we dead yet? Wilt our end next yet? The tread of destined death wilt only be a stair for us to climb." He stood up, letting go of the aether around his wrist. "Death comes for us all. Whatever the path, humanity will all slumber equally in death. Alas, only one shall remain untouched. And it is not me, not of you. Awaiting the arrival of 'Fate'. Unless of course, 'he' shouldst be next."