His boots clicked sharply against the polished marble floor of the great hall as he paced forward. Minstrels, parasites, and whatever other fools chanced to meet his gaze quickly flashed a well-practiced smile and offered a low bow.

Basil replied in kind, his nods precise and smooth. There was absolutely no reason to break appearances here; in a room like this, the mask mattered far more than the ugly truth hidden behind it.

Yet right now, he couldn’t help but think he would have infinitely preferred clashing blunt steel out in the muddy courtyard with the old commander of the Golden Steed. The legendary order had recently been broken apart and reinvented, absorbed as a heavy cavalry vanguard within the legions’ apparatus. After a long, grueling two decades of iron service to the crown, the old commander had finally been given a sprawling mansion, a sturdy stone castle, and a handful of productive agrarian villages to secure his retirement.

With no sons born to his name, only a few distant, grasping nephews, the old soldier had promptly left his new property in the care of a crown-appointed steward and remained at court.

You’d think he was given a plate of shit, by how sour the old knight looked whenever it was time to clash.

The man had seemingly begrudged even that massive reward. Perhaps he was still sour about what had become of his proud knights, though Basil couldn’t fathom many men remaining bitter after receiving lands and high honors. The old rider only appeared truly satisfied when Alpheo handed him the task of teaching the young prince about swordplay

Perhaps the old man simply wished to feel the familiar weight of steel in his hands again, desperately denying the inevitable decay of his own aging body.Or maybe it was just the honor to bruise a boy of royal blood, without repercussions, of course...

Whatever the case, he was a masterly teacher and an unforgiving fighter. These days, Basil was waking up every single morning sore, his skin mottled with dark purple bruises spanning his arms, legs, and back.

"Keep your goddamn shield up!"

That was the only phrase the old man ever seemed to yell at him. Yet, as the heavy, judging eyes of Archon Vesperian finally fell upon him, Basil couldn’t help but think that the old knight was entirely right. In this court, they all desperately needed to keep their shields up.

When the Archon slowly turned his head toward the prince, the holy Star of the Five dangling over his plain tunic like some knight’s lethal morningstar, Basil could practically feel those pale blue eyes roaming over his frame. The priest was taking everything in all at once. It was thoroughly unpleasing.

"Your Excellency," Basil said, offering a small, measured nod. He may have been a prince, but he was not yet a sovereign ruler; so his was the duty to greet first.

"Your Grace," the Archon whispered. His voice was a dry, scraping sound, like two heavy pieces of granite grinding against one another in a tomb.

Vesperian slowly extended a withered hand, upon which sat a massive signet ring deeply engraved with the holy star. Basil leaned forward, letting his lips brush the cold metal for a mandatory second before pulling back to his full height.

"We are deeply honored to host the chosen envoy of His Holy Eminence," Basil began smoothly, successfully gaining his courtly bearings. "I pray the Holy Father remains in excellent health?"

"So we pray as well, young prince," the Archon replied, his eyes never wavering. "The gods, in their infinite wisdom, still do not see fit to call their humble servant to join their heavenly flock. I am entirely certain the Holy Father will be pleased to hear that a prince of Yarzat prays so fervently for his breath."

It was a beautiful lie, and they both knew it. Neither of them meant a single word. The holy church might not have been a traditional kingdom, but the power it wielded was very real. The moment the old man at the top finally dropped dead, the vultures would instantly begin circling the spires, screaming at one another to see who could swallow the bones and plant their arse upon the golden chair.

In truth, succession matters within the high temple were a great deal more treacherous and complicated than in a secular kingdom with a clear line of blood. To elect a new Pontifex, every living archon had to cast a vote for a specific candidate. The only exception was for those ambitious prelates who wished to make a run for the holy white garb themselves, in which case they were legally forced to relinquish their own vote.

It was an agonizingly long, bloodless war of ink and coin. To rise to the station of Pontifex, a candidate needed to secure a strict three-fifths majority of the entire college. And just like with great kings and greedy regional lords, every single archon had his own hidden interests, ancestral lands of origins, and private accounts to uphold.

Pontifex Marileio had held the supreme keys for twenty-three winters now. He had been raised to the holy garb at the remarkably young age of forty-one, a staggering anomaly in a church that usually preferred its leaders on the brink of the grave. It was entirely useless to say aloud that if a man ever managed to lift the pristine white hem of the Holy Father’s robes, he would instantly smell the black rot festering beneath.

Not that the fat man at the top ever tried particularly hard to hide his vices. At this point in history, it had become an unofficial, universally understood rule of the realm: whenever you wished to ask the Holy Father for a papal decree, a border dispensation, or a royal blessing, you had best wrap your parchment around a very nice, very heavy chest of gold and silver.

The church was rotten to its absolute core, though the corruption had most certainly not started with Marileio. The fat Pontifex was simply a symptom of the disease, not the cause.

"I see you have made yourself acquainted with the legate of the First?" Basil attempted, steering the conversation toward safer, less theological waters.

"It is always a warmth to the heart to see a member of the flock where one would least expect it," Vesperian replied, his voice maintaining that low, rhythmic scraping sound. "He is the living proof that even old age does not bring ineffable wisdom. I must confess, even a man of my winters can still find himself trapped by the illusions of the eyes."

Basil didn’t care enough to ask whatever the hell that meant. "I hope you have found Yarzat to your liking, Your Excellency?"

"Much better than when I first beheld it," the Archon replied. His blue eyes drifted to the towering, arched window for a brief moment, watching the gray winter clouds, before peering sharply back down at the prince. "It has been quite long since I last laid eyes on you as well, Your Grace."

That caught Basil off guard, a sudden jolt of surprise breaking through his courtly mask. "Have we met before, Your Excellency?"

"You were a small child then," Vesperian murmured, a faint, ancient shadow of a smile touching his sagging lips. "I had come south to lay judgment on a fallen sheep of the holy flock, that unfortunate, war-mongering priest. You were a pleasant added surprise, I think.

After the trial, I was asked by Her Majesty the Queen to grant a special blessing to her young son. Are you perhaps wishing for it again?"

"I would never be against receiving the favor of the Five, Your Excellency," Basil replied smoothly. ’’We are in need of light on our path.’’

He dropped his shoulders and dipped his head, playing the part of the pious prince to perfection. The Archon’s fingers, shockingly cold, like skeletal iron, reached out and pressed against his forehead, tracing the Star of the Five. He then mumbled a few dry, rapid words in old Romelian, the sacred tongue of the high temple sounding like a funeral rite in the chilly air.

The blessing went as fast as it came. Basil straightened his spine, feeling entirely unchanged.

I suppose I take after my father more than I think, he reflected dryly, offering a polite word of gratitude to the old man. The gods had never saw fit to warm his bones, and a priest’s cold fingers certainly weren’t about to start.

"I hope Your Excellency enjoys a pleasant stay at our court," Basil added, preparing to make his graceful exit.

"I most certainly wish for so as well. It was my own explicit choice to come here, after all."

That brought Basil’s eyes snapping back to the Archon, his curiosity piqued despite himself. "Is that so? May I ask what spurred your interest in our halls?"

"I could give you a dozen reasons, Your Grace, ranging from the most mundane to the most apt," Vesperian said. He smiled then, a slow, thin wrinkling of his spotted skin, as if someone had just told a particularly clever joke. "You could say I simply wished to lay eyes on the King of Yarzat once more, and have a proper conversation with him before anointed him as king. I know some of your father’s more... zealous soldiers have begun to name him as a creature born of god’s blood."

"Have those wild words reached all the way to Romelia?" Basil asked, offering a light, indifferent shrug. "Well, no matter. I assure you my father pays very little mind to the more fervent of his followers. I believe he is a great man, though most sons would say the same of their sires. But he is nonetheless still a man, and he conducts himself entirely as one."

Basil flashed the Archon the exact same practiced, empty smile that was currently plastered on the old priest’s sagging face. "I am entirely certain he would be happy to relay such words to you himself. He is most eager for your presence at the coronation."

Or so it would make you think, Basil knew his father didn’t give a damn about the Archon’s theological opinions. Alpheo was only interested in whether the old man’s withered arms were strong enough to lift a heavy gold crown and place it on his head without dropping it. For the rest of the priest’s holy baggage, the King cared less than nothing.

"It is remarkably good to hear that His Majesty is not blinded by the fatal sin of hubris," Vesperian noted, his head nodding in slow approval. "So many men of sudden, monumental power are consumed by it. They forget they are made of common dust and that they will one day return to it."

The Archon paused, his judging eyes softening just a fraction as he looked the prince up and down. "You carry yourself well, young prince. You are a proper, exceptionally composed young man. I must confess, when I was exactly your age, I was a much more naughty creature. My youth was entirely filled with wild rebellions and deep, agonizing doubts."

The old priest leaned in slightly, the heavy silver star dangling between them. "Tell me, Your Grace... do you have any such doubts of your own? Any lingering worries you wish to speak of to an old servant of the Five?"

Basil shook his head instantly, his courtly smile never wavering. "None at all, Your Excellency. My path is entirely clear on that regard"

Beneath his calm exterior, however, Basil’s thoughts were less clear. He knew little good would ever come from admitting his real, exhausting worries to a vulture of the high temple.

He supposed every man had his own baggage to carry, and some of it would always remain untold. For most boy it probably was crancking the old roster, for him it was hearing voices...

"Such a rare thing," Vesperian murmured, his gaze remaining locked onto Basil’s face. "Even now, at my advanced age, I must admit I have not entirely discarded myself of doubt."

He blinked slowly, like an old owl weighing the weight of a mouse. "In truth, some of these lingering worries are related directly to your father’s sudden reign, worries I deeply desire to dispell by the end of my visit, as soon as I am finally admitted to Your Father’s royal presence. These are exceptionally hard, deceptive times for us all, I fear. Even for those whom Luck currently seems to shine brightly upon."

The Archon touched the heavy ornament dangling against his plain white tunic, letting his thin fingers trace its points. He gave a small, thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "There is, after all, an old Romelian saying about that particular star, though I fear it is not proper to say."

Basil knew those words.

Luck is a fickle whore; she grants her caress generously today, only to cut your throat with the very same hand tomorrow

Indeed, Basil really and truly did not like him.