Throughout his long, blood-greased ascent, there had not been many souls Alpheo cared to love, nor many he had ever allowed inside the quiet sanctuary of his inner sanctum. There were the few who had stood unyielding at his side since the absolute genesis of everything, and there were those he had ruthlessly dragged along the way, or who had chanced to meet him across the many crimson, corpse-strewn roads that brought him to the high throne where he now sat.

His was not a life devoid of regrets. No man who had waded through a sea of bodies to forge a crown could ever be so monstrously arrogant as to claim that. Yet, alongside the sharp, enduring pain, there had been flashes of profound joy; alongside absolute desperation, a stubborn green shoot of hope had always managed to find purchase.

Whenever he cast his mind backward to look at the boy he had once been and the sovereign he was not, he realized with unsettling clarity just how violently he had changed. Mostly, he hoped, for the better.

It had been neither a short nor a merciful road, but he had walked it regardless of how deeply the thorns tore at his flesh. And in the final tally of a man’s life, that was the only metric that truly mattered: that he had possessed the terrible will to keep walking.

Now, the cold, creeping hands of age were beginning to settle heavily upon his frame. He was barely thirty-one , yet the bone-deep weariness in his joints made him feel as though he were an old man of sixty.

It wasn’t the reflection in the polished glass that truly showed him how the years were eroding his foundation, but rather the rapid, startling transformation of the people around him.

Alpheo’s hands trembled slightly where they rested against the rich fabric of his tunic as he looked down at the young man kneeling upon the freezing marble floor before him.

How much the lad had changed.

Alpheo could still vividly recall the muddy, half-wild urchin he had first encountered, starved beyond all human reason, with long, gangly limbs and a dangerously brave heart. That boy’s brownish, stable-hay hair had transformed over the years into a magnificent, pure wheat yellow. The gaunt, hollow face of his youth had settled into a long, aristocratic oval that made him look slightly like a fine-bred warhorse, but any harshness in the line was completely redeemed by the two most breathtakingly beautiful blue eyes Alpheo had ever beheld in the continent,eyes whose striking clarity easily surpassed even the gazes of Egil or Merelao.

But the most magnificent thing about the young man was his smile. It was a radiant, blinding expression, looking for all the world as though he had just caught a fleeting glimpse through the gates of heaven and realized he didn’t need to die to taste its peace. He looked like a man of Greek’s tragedy.

The lad didn’t even need to speak his intent aloud. The sheer, vibrant joy radiating from him told the entire story.

"I am happy for you, my boy," Alpheo said, his voice softer and more thoroughly honest than it had been in a very long time. It was a truly remarkable, humbling thing to watch a soul you had dragged out of the dirt grow ahead of you, survive the meat-grinder of the world, and successfully find their own pocket of happiness.

"I will never be able to repay a fraction of what you did for me, Sire. Not even if I dedicate the remaining breaths of my life to that singular end," the young man whispered. Alpheo could read the absolute, unyielding sincerity in those striking blue eyes; these were not the cheap, hollow words of a courtier speaking for air’s sake. "From the very hour you picked me off the street, fed me, taught me how to hold iron, and gifted me this life... When I was nothing but a boy in the gutters, I truly believed all of existence was merely a brutal struggle just for the sake of struggling even harder on the morrow. I did not know the world could hold such joy. I did not know a man could possess such peace."

"Have you already broken these tidings to the Queen?" Alpheo asked, a slight, knowing smile playing at the corner of his lips.

Instantly, the young man’s radiant smile dwindled a bit, his posture stiffening. "I... I have not, Sire. I..." He let out a nervous, dry cough, his eyes darting toward the heavy tapestry on the wall. "We were desperately hoping you might be persuaded to intercede on our behalf. She is... she is an exceptionally terrifying woman, your royal wife."

You do not need to preach the laws of the gods to the priest, boy, Alpheo thought with a sharp touch of inner amusement and self-consciousness. Alpheo cleared his throat, leaning forward in his chair. "As terrifying as my Queen might appear to the court, she has very little actual power over the destiny of your union. I can completely reassure you of that."

As much as Jasmine was a queen fiercely protective of her bloodline, both the young man and her sister Lysandra desperately desired this match, and they now possessed Alpheo’s blessing. Beside the matter of affection, the match was not so far-fetched.

The blond youngster before him was more than a worthy match; he would soon be raised to the rank of royall legate, and a wealthy lordship would follow shortly thereafter. More importantly, he was a soul Alpheo would never have to look behind his back in fear of, there would be no treacherous factions brewing in his shadow. Alpheo knew with absolute certainty that this youngster would sooner plunge a dagger into his own throat than ever raise his hand against the man who had made him.

"Even if the Queen harbors an initial distaste for the match, she will eventually come around to it," Alpheo continued, taking a slow sip of water from the silver cup at his side. "You are a thoroughly good man, and I am entirely certain you will make a leal, loving husband and a protective father, that is much more than many women can attest to. Besides, my wife cares deeply for her sister’s future; she has done nothing but nag my ears off for three winters about finding Lysandra a suitable match. She has very little logical reason, or actual political means, for that matter, to oppose this. Still, I shall speak fiercely in your favor if she attempts to raise a storm."

As a cold matter of fact, Alpheo knew the Queen had several exceptionally valid, aristocratic reasons to oppose the marriage.

Namely, the highly unconventional nature of the union they intended to forge. It would be a civil contract, not a holy marriage sanctified under the high altars of the Faith. In the rigid, unforgiving eyes of the nobility, such a union meant that any children born from their bed would, strictly speaking, be regarded as legal bastards. That stain alone would be a black mark upon the newly forged Yarzat royal family, a drop of ink in the milk that any of the ancient, prideful houses of the south would find incredibly difficult to wash away or respect.

But the Aveloni-isha were not so proud.Or at least Alpheo was not.

As Alpheo stared down at the young man’s hopeful face, a profound, cynical philosophy settled deep into his chest. What is the earthly use of striking stone against stone until both shatter?

The pristine, mythical bloodlines of the great southern dynasties had already been thoroughly soiled with common, low-born blood the exact moment Alpheo had seized the principality. The very heir to his own crown was half low-born himself. At this late stage in the game, any pristine, flawless aristocratic image the realm could have clung to had already been utterly thwarted and rewritten by the edge of a sword. So who in all the five hells cared if the sister of the Queen bore children who lacked a priest’s holy parchment? It wasn’t as if Alpheo was going to permit anyone to mistreat them.

"You will have your chance to present your case to my wife tomorrow at dinner," Alpheo said, setting his silver cup down with a definitive click. "The whole family will be there, so you will have the distinct advantage of getting the support of the others as well."

With the united backing of the other high echelons in the military vanguard, the Queen would have very little choice but to ultimately grant her consent. Ironically, strictly speaking, the biggest obstacle to this entire match was not even the Queen herself, but rather Lysandra. Surprisingly, the girl had accepted the young legate’s clumsy advances.

"I counsel you to don your absolute best clothes tomorrow, and to firmly plug your ears," Alpheo advised, his tone shifting into a rare, practical piece of fatherly wisdom. "You may hear a great many words across the table, a great deal of them entirely unworthy of your character, and perhaps a few worthy ones. Let them all go smoothly in through one ear and directly out the other. Do not allow yourself to be daunted by her storm, Ratto. This is your life you are fighting for, not theirs."

"I will, Sire," Ratto said with a resolute nod. He rose to his feet from the cold marble, adjusting his tunic before muttering softly, "Thank you. For everything."

"Do not waste your breath thanking me just yet, boy. Go get yourself properly ready for the gauntlet," Alpheo replied, waving a dismissive hand. "In case the dinner goes entirely to shit, I will personally step in and take care of it."

"Of course, Sire," Ratto said, a bit shyly, a familiar warmth returning to his features. "You always are a step ahead of the rest of us."

The young legate turned on his heel, making his way toward the heavy oak doors of the chamber.

"And Ratto? Don’t look so sour," Alpheo muttered, a slow, triumphant smirk breaking across his face. "At the very least, there is one particular arena where you managed to move much faster than me."

Ratto paused at the threshold, turning around in absolute confusion. "Sire?"

’’The next time you decide to afford yourself some pleasant company in the estate, take the western route through the high gardens. The boxwood hedges are twice as thick, and the guardsmen use it the least.Still walk proudly with head held high, even your king did not manage to sway his queen to such proclivities."

The new legate had, at the very least, the decency to look utterly mortified as he led himself out.