By Ginevra Marchesini
1 April 2026
Swords clashed with a metal echo.
Elia stepped back, rage in his eyes as he shot his opponent a hard look.
That was a cheap shot, he thought, shaking his head. His brother, who Elia was currently trying to bring down, had kicked dust into his face to distract him, pushing him back. They had been going at it for a few hours by then, twisting and turning in the mud of the inner yard of the castle.
Elia assessed the boy standing in front of him, studying his movements and trying to predict his next move. This was not the first time they clashed swords and it certainly won’t be the last. They circled each other for a few seconds, neither daring to attack first. He squeezed his eyes and concentrated on the task at hand: making the boy in front of him drop his weapon. The two looked at each other with an intense and challenging look. Neither was going to give up and they both knew it.
Him and Oliver had been going at it for the past two hours, sweat now covered their foreheads. Though they had started quite early in the morning, the hot summer sun was shining down on them. Neither was wearing their fighting armour as it was simply too hot to do so; if they did, their skin would certainly be burning and their fight cut short. Elia looked at Oliver’s feet knowing that the latter always took a small step forward before raising his sword. But his feet were still. He was, rather, bending his knees up and down catching some movement without giving too much away.
Elia’s eyes moved to their surroundings. More people started moving around the castle and some even stopped to take a look at the sight before them.
Suddenly, Oliver took a small step forward. Not expecting such a move from his brother, Elia was startled and jerked back, his feet caught on his discarded shield and he fell on his back. Before he hit the ground he tried to catch onto something but there was nothing near him, Oliver seized this opportunity and lunged at his brother with fierce intensity. He took his staff by one end with both hands and struck down with all of his strength.
Elia, the eldest of the two, was shorter and leaner, but he was quicker and fought with cleverness. Oliver, on the other hand, channeled nothing but determination and strength. And this situation reflected this perfectly, Elia used his quick reflexes to defend against the brute force of his brother.
As Oliver’s staff neared him, Elia got to his hands and knees wanting to reach his sword, but it had fallen too far for him to grab. He struggled to stand, Oliver was too fast, and he turned around just in time to reach his hands out and block his brother.
With two hands on one side of the staff Oliver struck down. Elia caught the weapon a mere inch away from his nose and managed to move it down so that it hovered above his chest and not his face. He exhaled loudly, the force of the strike stealing his breath away from him. As he struggled against the force of his brother, who had Elia’s legs pinned to the ground with his own, Elia shifted his head to the side and noticed that a crowd had gathered around them.
Merchants and bakers coming through the castle for their morning rounds had stopped to witness the scene. Some had smiles on their faces, clearly amused at the fight between the brothers, while others looked more concerned, their brows furrowed. There were also some younger kids that had been running around but slowed down to watch as the two brothers fought on the dirt of the inner yard. As young children often were, they were bewildered by the sight before them. It was not often that the Prince of Despedan was found fighting with his own brother.
Half-brother, to be precise.
The two looked at each other in the eyes, sweat dripped from Oliver’s golden hair onto the dirt. Elia’s hands struggled
“Do you yield?” Oliver yelled. “You’ve no way out of this.”
He sounded almost amused, not that Elia was surprised, his brother was one of the fiercest fighters in all of Despedan.
“You know me, I will never yield.” Elia replied, trying to match the glee in Oliver’s voice but failing miserably and only letting out a breathless response.
“We have an audience now, are you sure you want them to see you lose against a younger fighter?” Trying to get a reaction out of him, Oliver pressed just a bit harder, enough for his staff to lower.
“A younger fighter who so happens to be their beloved Prince.”
“But fighting against a soldier who so happens to be five years his senior. Where is his honour in losing to a less experienced fighter, brother?” Oliver seemed to almost challenge Elia with his words, like he was testing his response. They both knew not to use that last word in public and Oliver was playing a dangerous game doing it with such a crowd gathered.
Elia looked around to make sure no one had heard and that’s when he noticed a figure standing on the gallery that wrapped the inner yard. Hidden in the shade of the early morning, away from privy eyes, was standing Queen Elvira, mother of Oliver and wife to Elia’s father.
Unease grew in Elia, a feeling he often had when the Queen was near. Even from the shadows he could tell she was staring at the two of them fighting, he could feel her scrutinising eyes on his neck, dissecting his every move, inspecting his behaviour. This was never out of care, no. She had always held resentment towards Elia and manifested that through bitterness at his every move or decision. Nothing he did or said was ever acceptable for her, and in the rare occasion that he acted in an adequate way, she would change her mind the day after. It was a never ending battle that Elia had given up fighting a long time ago, but still, unease paralysed his body whenever he felt her eyes on him.
“Be careful with your words, brother. Your mother’s watchful eyes are upon us, she might hear you call me that.”
“Then yield, and save yourself the scrutiny that will doubtless fall upon you should you beat me in this fight. Which, by the way, is never going to happen anyway.”
Blood started dripping from Elia’s hands as he strengthened his grip on Oliver’s staff, the latter continuously attempting to press down harder.
Someone from the crowd gasped. Oliver smirked at the attention. He was having fun with this.
The Queen had now moved closer to the edge of the corridor, her skirts lit but the warm morning sun. In truth, her heart needed warming more than her skirts.
“I yield. I yield!”, Elia shouted. He was driven by his fear, growing more present with every glimpse of Queen Elvira he caught.
He could hear groans of disappointment from the crowd, they wanted to see more. Who could blame them? Prince Oliver rarely trained on castle grounds and, when he did, he certainly did not make a public spectacle of it. And, seeing as the Queen had witnessed what they were up to, she would make sure he never again made the same mistake.
Oliver loosened his grip and removed his staff from his brother’s chest, jumping to his feet. He held out his hand and helped his brother to his feet. Elia took the hand with a smile, an exasperated laugh escaping his lips.
They held their hands out and held each other’s forearms, shaking them as customary after a friendly match. “Good fight,” Oliver said. “Brother.” He whispered that last word, careful not to let anyone hear him call Elia that.
“You too, brother.” Elia replied.
Oliver walked to the benches where they hand kept their water pitchers and dunked some on a clean cloth and wiped his face. The result was a brownish paste of dirt and dry leaves. He took a big gulp of water to quench his thirst and extended it to Elia. When the latter did not take the offer, Oliver met his face and followed where he was looking. Elia was staring at the gallery, at two figures standing by the railing.
Queen Elvira was now joined by King Fredrik, Elia’s father.
Recently, the King’s health had been declined so rapidly that he needed constant support, be it from a walking stick or someone offering him a steading arm. His healers had advised him to walk, each morning and night, at least twice around the castle’s inner yard, and because the sun had already warmed the space to an unbearable degree, the ruler chose to stick to the shadows of the gallery. Next to him was the Queen who offered him her arm, he took it and balanced himself.
The King looked down at where Elia was standing. His unmoving face never conveyed his emotions, not during council meetings, or trading negotiations, or when lives were at stake. He had always held a steady, yet powerful, look. But today, there was a faint trace of something. A slightly furrowed brow. A dullness in his eyes. A look that seemed to portray sympathy. Yet Elia could not decipher his father’s face that day.
The two exchanged a quick nod, the most interaction he had gotten from his father in recent memory.
Where he couldn’t understand the meaning behind his father’s intentions, Queen Elvira’s face was difficult not to understand.
Ever since he was a child, from the very first memories he has of her, Elia could tell that Queen Elvira was not fond of him. He had gotten used to her loathsome looks and disregard, more often than not reciprocating the feeling. He had learnt to ignore her snarky comments and aggressive criticism. The two tried to avoid talking to each other or being in the same room as much as possible, though it did prove hard considering she was the Queen and, as such, ever-present in the castle.
It was a punishing situation.
Queen Elvira pressed a hand on the King’s shoulders, looking up at him with fake admiration. The King’s eyes were still fixed on Elia. He pressed his lips together to form a thin smile, and then turned his face to his wife. The two walked off together.
Oliver cleared his throat and finally spoke. “My tutors are likely awaiting me in the library, I should join before the report me to my mother. Will I see you tonight?”
“Oh… I had not planned to attend.” Elia responded with honesty.
“It is a very important night, not just for me but for you as well.” Oliver replied, a hint of sadness in his voice. Though their relationship had always been limited, Elia hated to disappoint his younger brother
“I will try my best to be there.”
That was enough of a confirmation of attendance for Oliver. Elia’s eyes still lingered in the spot where King Fredrik and Queen Elvira were standing, as if their shadows still lingered. He shook his head and closed his eyes, shaking of the unnerving feeling he felt on his shoulders.
With relief in his voice, Oliver started making his way into the castle, shouting as he ran. “Make sure you take a bath before you do. You stink!”
That spawned a smile on Elia’s face, breaking the tension that he had felt until that moment.
With a cold cloth Elia wiped his face, cleaning off the dirt and sweat from the training session, and slipped on a clean blouse. Making his way through the castle, he found himself drawn to the kitchens, the warm smell of fresh bread and roasted meat drew him there. Located in the western corner of the castle, the kitchens were Elia’s favourite place as he always found something to snack on and someone to talk to.
There were two tables in the center of the room, filled with trays of cakes and biscuits and cheese. Preparations were running hot ahead of that night’s celebrations. Elia entered the kitchens through the main doors, two big archways that opened into the inner corridors, where servants passed to bring food around the castle. As deliveries were still underway, most cooks and bakers were busy elsewhere and Elia found the kitchens almost empty. He made his way towards one of the tables and reached to grab something from a tray.
“Get your hands off my honey buns!”, an elderly voice shouted through the room. Yvette was standing by the fire, watching Elia with careful eyes.
Elia turned around with a smile on his face, “Too late.” He shoved a whole honey bun into his mouth.
Yvette, one of the cooks at Arlene Castle, had been more of a parent to Elia than his own father was. She always slipped him his favourite dessert, lemon bites. No one made them like she did. She had read him stories on sleepless, baked him cakes on his birthdays, mended his clothes with no complaint. She had no children of her own but Elia was close enough to one. Yvette was also one of the few people who knew of Elia’s true parentage, entrusted by the King himself with this information, having once been one of his closest friends.
Yvette left the fire and shot a hard look towards Elia before hitting him not he shoulder with her spoon.
“Hey, you’re ruining my shirt with that dirty spoon,” exclaimed Elia.
“I care not for your shirt, you wretched boy. Touching my freshly baked buns with your dirty sweaty hands.” She shook her head.
Elia knew she was only half serious, she had never actually been angry with Elia.
“Sorry Yvette, I just couldn’t resist,” Elia shot his hands up in defence. “They were sitting there all warm and sweet, how could I not take one?”
Yvette stared at Elia with squinting eyes, unsure whether to reprimand the boy or take his theft as a compliment to her baking. She stayed silent and turned back to the big pot she had on the fire. Yvette had been at the castle for many years and had served many generations of kings and queens in the Arlene castle. More than anyone could count, actually. Even the oldest guards remember her as an older lady with a hunched back and white eyebrows, always wearing a pink apron around her waist.
With a big spoon in her hand, she stirred the stew, big chunks of vegetables and potatoes floating to the surface. Elia took a big breath in, the spices of the kitchen filling his nose with rich goodness.
“And what do we have here?” He asked as he held his hands behind his back and stepped closer to the big pot, peering over Yvette’s shoulder.
“This is potato stew”, she replied, not moving her eyes from the big pot.
Elia leaned back, eyes unmoving form the pot. “Father’s favourite.” He whispered with a thin sadness in his voice. He had to be careful not to let anyone hear him.
“Yes. Thought it might lift his spirits up, Gods know he desperately needs it.”
“I saw him this morning, he could barely stand on his own.” Elia sat on a nearby stool, staring at his hands.
“That bad, is he?”
Elia let out a heavy sigh, unwilling to confirm his worries but aware that not speaking about his father’s health did not improve the situation. “Yes. That bad.” He looked up and stared at the fire.
“I am sorry child, it must not be easy to see him that way.” Yvette stopped stirring the pot and turned to face Elia, taking his hands in a reassuring touch.
She was a whole lot shorter than he was but, with him sitting on the stool, they were almost the same height.
“I know that your father is very dear to you, and that seeing him in this condition is taking a toll on you. Not to mention the limits of your relationship.” She spoke softly, looking around and making sure no one was near.
She tried to catch his eyes, he did not advert his gaze from the fire. “But you must be strong, my child. You must show your immense strength, now more than ever.”
His eyes slowly started filling with tears. She stroked his shoulders, soothing his worry.
“Tonight, there may be some lemon bites being passed around.” She said with a wicked smile.
Elia finally looked up, his face relaxing finally. “You made lemon bites?”
“Of course, my child. I couldn’t let you go without your favourite dessert.”
Elia swung his arms around the elderly woman and said, “Thank you so much.”
Such a small gesture made Elia’s mood shift instantly. He loved lemon bites – or anything lemon flavoured really.
“Now, get your sweaty bum out of my kitchens and take a bath”, she pointed to the door, her voice raising slightly, “you stink.”
People had been saying that to him a lot that morning.
Elia finally took a bath. Or two.
He had to draw the water twice to first get rid of all the dirt and dry leaves from his hair and skin, and then a second one, to actually make sure he was clean and smelled less like a rotten tree and more like a presentable young man.
As the tub filled with warm water for his second bath, he took out the essentials: oils, salts, and flower petals. He liked his baths to smell as good as possible and so he would fill the water with every possible item he could get his hands on. Because what good is a bath if you don’t come out smelling like a garden in the middle of spring?
His bathtub was situated right by the window facing the castle gardens. The space was being decorated for the upcoming guests, pots of flowers and plants placed to create an improvised path leading the ball’s attendees to the main hall.
Elia stepped into the bath, letting the warmth soothe his nerves. He closed his eyes and fully submerged himself in the water.
Then, all of a sudden, a loud bang echoed in his room.
At first, he did not understood where the noise came from, being underwater dulled his hearing. He sat up in the bath and turned towards the door to his room, waiting for the noise to appear again. When it didn’t, he held his breath and prepared to submerge himself.
But then it came again, louder and sharper. Someone was knocking at his door.
With a loud exhale, Elia quickly got out of the bathtub and walked to the door, wearing nothing but the loosely tied towel around his hips. Almost slipping out of the bathroom, he heard more unceasing knocking at the door. Whoever was on the other side was growing impatient.
“Yes. I heard you. I’m coming!” Elia shouted, hoping to put a stop to the impatience.
He heard heavy footsteps follow, growing slightly more distant by the second. Elia swung the door open but saw no standing in front of it.
A prank. How original. He thought.
He was about to close the door when he saw a light blue package on the floor. He picked it up, unsure what to do with it. Elia looked out to the corridor, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever had left it there, to call out after them or question them about the package’s contents, yet he saw nothing but a dark and empty hallway. So he entered his room and slowly closed the door behind him.
Still dripping from his bath, he walked to his bed and placed the box gently atop. The package was wrapped in a light blue fabric with a thin cord tied around it. At one end of the string was a circular medallion about the size of two finger widths. Elia reached for it and turned it around. He let out a small gasp when he saw what was carved on it.
A crown, a feather, an arrow.
Symbols reserved for the royal family’s belongings, their jewels, their books, their clothes, their everything. If something was owned by someone of royal blood, that symbol had to be embedded on it.
This is surely not meant for me, Elia thought.
Given that Elia could not be officially considered part of the royal family, and was actively left out of anything to do with it, he was entirely confused as to why this package had appeared at his door step. Surely someone must have misplaced it.
Before opening the box, he took one look back at the door, half expecting its rightful owner to to come barging in and claim his property. But no one came, no one knocked.
And so Elia opened it.
As he undid the ribbon, the reconsidered his actions. If something was clearly not meant for him, why open it? Why risk the trouble he’d get into if he was found out? Then again, someone had left it at his doorstep, if any blame is to befall someone it is on them.
After the first layer of wrapping, there was a small piece of paper, a note with a short message written in a very messy font.
You have every right to this just as I.
Elia set the note to the side and undid the rest of the wrapping.
When he finally uncovered the contents, he was taken aback.
He pulled out a heavy jacket. It was made of dark blue brocade, woven with intricate and complex patterns. All along the sleeves were detailed designs, embroideries of flowers and plants, all of different shapes and sizes. They were all done with a thin silver thread that caught the light coming through the windows in such a mesmerising way. On the cuffs were beads and pearls, some big and some small, looking like someone had taken rain drops and sew them on directly the jacket. The buttons were big pearls, perfectly round and encased in a small band of silver.
The real beauty was at the back.
The embroidery from the sleeves spilled onto the other side of the jacket, morphing into a complex battle scene. In the middle, there was a young soldier with a sword raised high as he sat on his mighty horse. All around him were other soldiers, some fallen, some still standing. In the background there were scenes depicted of fallen castles and trees burning.
That was a familiar scene to Elia, he had seen it depicted in countless paintings, sung in countless ballads, played in countless recitals. It was Victory Day. When his father had won the final battle against Endorra and saved the people of Despedan.
This had been his father’s jacket.
Elia held the jacket in front of him, staring at the fine garment with awe in his eyes. He looked at it and studied all the fine details of the sleeves, the woven pearls of the buttons, the tiny embroidery. Such a beautiful piece of clothing had never crossed his path before.
He went to the mirror and held the jacket in front of him.
Elia carefully slipped one arm into the sleeve and then the next. With the outmost delicacy, he raised the jacket to his shoulders and closed a few of the buttons. It was a perfect fit. It almost felt like it had been made precisely for him. He smiled wide, clearly pleased with his look.
Maybe he would, indeed, go to the ball that night. One could not pass the opportunity of wearing such a gorgeous jacket.
But first, he needed to find pants.
A few hours later, Elia found himself standing in the shadows of the ball room. He had walked into the ball room with newfound confidence but quickly grew weary of the prominence of his jacket.
The room was filled to the brim with people wearing all sorts of intricate gowns. He saw everything from lace to velvet to shiny jewellery, and even a few hairpieces that he was not entirely sure were made of real hair.
Yet, among all that extravagance, he felt that all eyes were on him.
They weren’t.
So, for the past two hours, Elia had been stuffing his mouth with lemon bites and washing them down with sweetened wine.
The ballroom was a sight to behold, a richly decorated space dedicated solely for the biggest of celebrations. Paintings and busts had been taken out of the vaults and placed all around the room. Queen Elvira had made it her own personal mission to make sure that there was no bare space on the walls, everything had been covered by some kind of art work. Elia was surprised there was even enough space for people to dance around given the sheer number of statues placed around the room.
Elia gulped the last few drops of his drink and set it down on a table behind him. He was still on edge from that morning. His nerves had settled down after his bath but the mysterious appearance of the jacket he was now wearing had set him off once again.
With his gaze he went around the room, his eyes scanning for familiar faces. He found Oliver.
The young prince was talking to two elderly gentlemen, bright green capes on their backs, long shiny swords strapped to their sides. His brother, too, was carrying his sword. Not a real weapon of battle, beaten and damaged, but a decorative one. The family sword.
The one that all heirs to Despedan had wielded at some point or the other. It had a hilt made of red leather, a geometric pattern resembling chainmail sewn on it. At the pommel was incased the head of a lion, forged from the metal of molten crowns. The scabbard, made of red leather as well, was decorated with colourful gems and precious metals, each one representing one region in the Kingdom.
Elia had always found the luxury of such a weapon insulting. A sword was meant to be a soldier’s greatest weapon, an extension of their strength and their courage, something to wield to defend their people and their honour. Not something to show off one’s wealth.
“Enjoying your night, are you?”
Elia spun around quickly, startled by the sudden voice appearing beside him. Yvette was standing there with a new tray of honey buns in her hands.
She looked up at Elia, curiosity in her eyes.
Elia responded with a slight sadness in his voice. “Not as much as I had hoped.”
“That’s a shame.” The older woman looked puzzlingly at Elia, her eyes falling to the jacket he was wearing. A dark look fell across it.
“The lemon bites are helping a great deal,” he said, trying to divert her attention away from his attire. “I think I ate almost every one of them.”
He nudged her shoulder ever so slightly, then said, “You should hide them from me or else the rest of the guests won’t get a chance to eat them.” Yvette pressed her lips in a tight smile. He saw her eyes scanning his body, fixing on the intricate designs of his jacket.
Elia could see that she wanted to say something, he knew from her face, hard lines crossed her forehead. But she did not say anything. She took a deep breath and moved her gaze up to Elia’s face.
“I must get back to the kitchens. Be careful tonight, my child, whatever happens.”
And with that she quickly walked away.
Whatever happens.
What did she mean by that?
Elia wanted to ask her but she had already walked away. He made to follow her but a loud horn filled the room.
Everyone stopped dancing and turned their attention to the southern end of the room.
The King appeared on the platform by the thrones. He looked healthier than that morning. Though he still walked with his cane, he did not have the same pallor on him and his eyes looked more awake. He wore a dark blue jacket the same shade as Elia’s but his was not adorned with pearls and beads. The crown atop his head had enough gems and stones to make up for it.
The crowd turned to look at him, awaiting a speech or a greeting, but the King took a few minutes before he spoke. King Fredrik scanned the room thoroughly as if he was searching for someone. When his gaze reached the corner in which Elia was still standing, he stopped. The two exchanged a long and meaningful look, just as they had that morning. Elia gave a small nod to his father, who then smiled at him solemnly and warmly. Some people in the vicinity looked at him, curious to know who the king was looking at.
Elia felt every gaze on him like bees on honey.
They were definitely looking at him now.
The King took a deep breath and finally spoke, his voice echoing in the hall.
“My dear friends and neighbours, thank you all for joining us on this wonderful night.” He showed no emotion on his face, almost as if he was reciting a script and not speaking his own words. “Thank you for joining me in celebrating another year of my rule. It is only twenty-one years ago that I was chosen by you as your ruler. Though some of you may regret that decision, or not, I have lived every day since with one goal in mind: living for the prosperity of our country.” Some cheers echoed in the room.
“And prospered we have. Though it would have not been possible without the never-ending support of the wise Lords of the King’s council, who provide their opinions and criticism, also when it is uncalled for.” He raised his hand and gestured to his left, to the two older gentlemen that Oliver had been talking to earlier. They both raised their glasses in acknowledgement, toasting together and smiling at the King. A few people clapped and cheered, the energy in the room was palpable.
The King continued. “Though these twenty years have given me everything that a ruler might want, peace, prosperity, enrichment, family.” He looked at Elvira with that last word, her mouth curling into a soft smile that did not reach her eyes. Oliver was standing next to her, breathing hard.
“But it has also given me sadness, anger, sorrow, grief.” With that last word, he looked at Elia once again. Now, the King’s voice had more life in it, as if his scripted words were tossed out the window and he was speaking on his own accord.
Elia’s heart dropped to his stomach, feeling the words his father directed at him, a harsh blow. He had not thought that his father associated such feelings with him. Though they were forced to have a limited relationship, Elia and King Fredrik had always treated each other with respect. Love, too, sometimes.
Elia met his father’s gaze for the briefest moment but then moved his eyes down to his feet, ashamed to show that his eyes filled with tears. No one dared turn around to follow the King’s gaze now.
After a long pause, King Fredrik spoke again, this time his words were even louder.
“I am grateful for all that my rule has given me, whether good or bad, everything has taught me how to be a better King and ruler for you all. I have learnt to be more compassionate but also harsher in my decisions, I learnt that strength is not only physical but mostly mental. I learnt that sometimes your most loyal friends can turn on you and cause you the greatest pain.”
Queen Elvira stepped unto the platform and moved closer to King Fredrik, placing a hand on his shoulder, trying to soothe him. She smiled softly at him, and again, it did not reach her eyes.
King Fredrik ignored his wife’s presence and continued with his speech. “It is no secret that my health has been declining, I am sure you have all heard the rumours, that I am soon to leave this world and join the Old Gods. I do not mean to put these rumours at bay, my health has, indeed, been at risk and it does not seem to be improving.” He was shaking his head, almost as if he was trying to shake away the truth.
Though it is commonly believed that a King should always show strength, admitting to one’s weakness was a much harder task, and in turn, a more honourable one. Elia admired his father’s vulnerability, especially in front of all the guests and noblemen. The King was openly admitting to not being fit to rule anymore. Elia looked over at his brother, who held a puzzled look on his face, equally unsure why their father was talking in such a way.
As the King continued speaking, whispers and murmurs started spreading through the room.
“As per the laws of our great country Despedan, a King must name his heir before his death. And as you are all very aware, for it has been a matter of great controversy throughout my twenty years as reigning King, I have not named my heir. This was not out of lack of options, for there are many wise men that would be fit to rule in my stead, most of all my courageous and compassionate son.”
Son.
Singular. Elia knew that his mere existence was a constant threat to his father and his rule, as he had been born out of wedlock and from a woman of non-royal blood. Though this had not been the first time he was excluded from the family, hearing his father not acknowledge him as a son hurt his heart.
Elia had his gaze fixed ahead, eyes filled with betrayal. In recent months, concern for his health always at the forefront of his mind, but now, he couldn’t help but be angry at his father. He wished that even just once he was seen for who he truly was. And he assumed that receiving the gift of his jacket and meant something, a step towards finally being part of the family he had been pushed away from.
Tonight he was reminded of how empty a hope that was.
Elia wasn’t listening to him anymore, his ears ringing with anger. He studied the tiles on the floor, tracing the edges with the tip of his shoe. He caught some bits of what his father was talking about.
The King was pacing on the stage, his arms crossed behind his back. It did not feel like a King that was speaking to his people, inspiring them with hope and loyalty with strong words. It felt more like a professor teaching his students, reflecting so much on his own words so carefully that it did not seem like he believed them himself.
Suddenly, he stopped pacing. A thought and formed in his head that he seemed to fight against.
He straightened up and pulled his arms to the front, straightening them to his side.
“Tonight I have decided to finally name the person who will rule after me, I have decided my successor.”
Queen Elvira turned to Oliver with a big smile on her face. She lifted her arm and beckoned him forward. Oliver made his way up the steps slowly, waiting for the King to say the final words before stepping onto the stage.
“I chose my son.”
Elia started walking towards the exit, he had had enough.
The crowd erupts in cheers and applause, beaming that the heir, and thus future of their country was now secure. Some people hugged and shook hands, clearly pleased with the choice of the King. But as Oliver made his way to his father to hug him, the King took a step away from him and raised his hand to put some distance between them. The King dared not meet his youngest son’s eyes.
“My son, Elia.”
Ginevra Marchesini 