At six months, both my wife and I were called to the capital, against my greater expectations. While to be provided a hand-written letter from Sianto would be to most a great honor, the fanfare that accompanied its arrival was nothing if not overly flamboyant.

  A deaf man could’ve heard the trumpeting of the herald’s carriage from a town away, and the blind could see still the colorful banners that clung to its ribbon-fettered form. And for what, did he spare such expensive, if not to mock my domain, which was quite gray by comparison?

  It was within this moment of contemplation, wherein I was standing on my balcony and watching the procession approach from a distance, that I realized my thoughts had escaped me. It was unlike me to be so bitter, or so I had always thought. But, situations are often altered when one’s brother is king, I find.

  With its arrival, my wife and I had so narrowly escaped the staircase steps before we were bombarded with music and whimsy. Dozens of men poured out of the carriage like a dancing troupe, holding any number of foreign instruments, and blowing or strumming them in such a way that any possible rhythm was drowned out by the gasps of the poor bards coming up for air. In their center, there stood a tall, lanky man, whose face was likely filled with the same remorseful bewilderment as my own. He approached, and with a bow, finally delivered the much-lauded letter.

  My wife rested her hand upon my forearm to support herself, as she read over my shoulder.

  It spoke of an imperial summons, of mediocre importance, for which "all descendants of the late Grand King Heitlan must attend." My grandfather. Underlined beneath my brother’s cursive prose, were the select two words of “family reunion.” In the corner of the message, there sat a thoughtless doodle of two stick-men, one with a gaping grin and crown, and the other with a stoic, downtrodden expression. It was a caricature, no more advanced than that of a child, and was since smeared from how the letter was folded.

  I had looked to the messenger with a raised eyebrow, clearly intending to inquire if this was truly by the king’s own hand. The boy nodded solemnly, then flinched as some cursed amalgamation of a horn was blown directly into his ear.

  I had my wife join me for this expedition, on the slim worry that she would somehow harm herself going about her duties while not by my side. My concern for her was gradually becoming more genuine as she increased in size— I considered it remiss to leave her alone, for however long this “reunion” may stretch.

  While on the carriage ride back to the capital, a trip that was to be around two days without rest, my wife brought with her an assorted care package put together by Isolde. My half-sister had indeed followed us to our new estate in Weiyst, but denied my invitation to join us in the capital. She claimed to have no part in any “reunion” between our dynasty, and disappointed though I may be, I knew she was correct. But, she did perform diligently as my wife’s handmaiden, and was appropriately familiar with the process of caring for an expecting mother. Within the care package, she had provided healing herbs, balms, chewing mints, and other apothecaric remedies, accompanied by a handwritten book on “all things pregnancy and labor,” she had claimed. As we were met with little entertainment, my wife and I read her book from cover to cover whenever we found ourselves becoming snippy. While I appreciated the change, the outspokenness stirred within the woman during her pregnancy was a conflict I had not prepared for. Of course, it was that, included with the fact we had been sitting for many hours now— I could not fault her for that.

  However, with the upcoming view of Bryant Cathedral’s towering spire over a hilltop, I knew we were to arrive in Casture soon. We had now reached the outskirts of the city, just outside the wall— it was mainly the residence of many farmers, shepherds, or other husbandmen. The field stretched out for miles in any direction, as did the flat plains, interrupted only occasionally by some poor man’s hovel or a walking band of beggars, who may from time to time be caught chewing on some unripe berry bush or fruit tree.

  My wife had been resting when she was started awake by the barking and subsequent muffling of a hound.

  The carriage had been halted for a few minutes now, and while men muttered around and dogs whimpered outside, our carriage doors remained curtained and shut.

  I pushed aside the fabric covering to see a small gathering of guards, creating a confrontation around a farmer and his two dogs, who had been herding a round of lambs that now skipped off in any distance. The man had toppled on the road, and there he now lay beside the carriage, his leg twisted terribly in an unnatural direction. Whether by our own causing or not, he and his animals had clearly been approached in some aggressive manner, and now seemed quite batted and bruised. One dog lay beside him, licking his newly clubbed foot, while the more excitable of the two tussled in the arms of a guard, who had muzzled it using a rope.

  I had been staring for too long, clearly, as my wife leaned inward to peek outside, but quickly sat back in her seat with a gasp. It was indeed a gruesome sight, especially when not seen in full frame. She clearly saw only the restrained mutt and the injured man, and quickly assumed the worst of my men. Her gloved hands stretched out to cover her mouth, while the petrified stare she shot me bored its hole directly into my skull.

  And I, seeing her reaction, quickly leaned out the window and prompted the soldiers to leave him be.

  Those not directly engaged in the situation returned to their posts, surrounding the carriage, while the sound of a whip on the horses started our movement again. From where I sat, I could see the two guards who remained near the farmer, one of which had dropped the dog he had previously held, and the other who had held a sword up to the man’s throat. As the farmer left my sight over the hills, the two men rejoined the march and we continued onwards.

  We stopped again, not much later, to allow my wife the chance to save her dignity, and purge her primarily empty stomach of whatever remained of supper within the privacy of a distant bush.

  We arrived at the palace early that next morning, and were paid an expectedly reasonable commotion given to a visit from a prince. We had stopped in the dark of night, before arrival, at a small outpost on the outskirts of town for my wife and I to redress ourselves in proper ceremonial attire. The clothing, while comfortably insulated for early winter, was restricting, but indeed grand. My wife founded a much–anticipated calmness in being so decorated, citing an “intense appreciation for the fineries she had donned.”

  Thus, by the morning, we were both in a remarkably chipper mood, and rode upon two white stallions side-by-side as the bards performed their racketlike symphony behind us. The peasants were clearly used to this “music,” for their accepting tolerance of such tumult was plain as day on each woman and child’s face.

  At the doorstep, we were received by the entourage of my eldest sister, and the only daughter of father’s first queen, Stephania de Myr. She was named in honor of her mother, Queen Stephania, who has also been Sianto's mother. Stephania had been the first of my sisters to get married, occurring in quick succession after my own. She, as the eldest daughter, was expected to, but had failed in producing any legitimate children in the time between her marriage and then. Although news had spread through the high society of one new royal bastard residing somewhere in the palace since I had left. I suspected, if anyone were to know of these stories, it would be Stephania.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  For this reason, to hopefully inspire small talk while she toured us in the halls of my own childhood home, I inquired to her on the local gossip of the palace. She was a very excitable lady, even when she was young, but her social fervor seemed to often misdirect her into vulnerable conversations. Fortunately for her, my curiosity stemmed from simple inquiry, and I conducted myself as such.

  Although, soon as the conversation guided itself into bastardry, she, remarkably, confessed wholly to the crime in full earnest, after very little prompting.

  “There was a son, yes.” Her expression became hard as stone at the mention of the boy. “Romeo was his name.”

  “Was?” I had inquired. “Well, how does he fare now?”

  A coldly sour pucker pulled at the upper cheeks of the princess, in such a manner that she looked almost repulsed.

  “I dare not recount. It was a changeling, brother. I would swear on all of Father’s gold that it was.”

  Superstition had haunted my sister Stephania from a very young age, ever since a very young Sianto had convinced her that she was possessed by her late mother’s spirit. It was one of the cruelest things I had ever acknowledged Sianto to have done, despite how I practically worshipped each action he conducted.

  Stephania had recounted the possession story many times over to me in childhood, as a preface to her other ghostly tales. She still believed to this day in ghosts, goblins, and clearly, changelings.

  Perhaps most detrimentally, the fear of changelings in this modern era was as prevalent as ever before. So, Stephania’s irrationally was naught but encouraged by all her staff and servants.

  “I could not bear to see its face,” she whispered to me, “the demon who took my first child from me. I see only a monster when I look at the wretched beast… an incarnate of evil itself.” Any word she did not hiss, she spat out as if even mentioning the boy left cursed her tongue from which she spoke. "It shall not ever touch my palace again, so long as I live."

  To hopefully spare my poor partner the weight of any more imperial baggage, I attempted to sway Stephania away from the topic I had regrettably begun. She quickly and eagerly altered her tune when I introduced the two, and fawned over my wife's enlarged stomach, as perhaps a collecter would for a rare trinket he’d been searching for.

  “It’s such a wonder. To be a woman, that is. To be able to grow life within us…” Stephania crouched, and solemnly stroked my wife’s belly, while whispering a soft prayer beneath her breath.

  “I am, truly, so happy for you, my dear. For all of us.”

  When we were later settled into my room, and I assisted my wife in undressing, I ensured that she was aware Stephania was, in fact, the strangest of all my sisters. “Disregard her comments as you would a peasant fortune teller,” I told her. “She is not a woman of a peaceful mind, but her intentions are pure, I guarantee.”

  By her expression, I concluded that I had failed at not intimidating my wife of my family on their first meeting. Perhaps Stephania was not the ideal candidate to be her first taste of my lineage.

  She and I welcomed a night of silence after the last few days. Such tumultuous tasks as being sedentary within a carriage for two days, wearing uncomfortable clothing, and talking with my sisters for a prolonged period of time were all experiences that my wife was quite amateur at. It showed in her look of pained exhaustion, not just one of an ailing mother-to-be, but that of an exhausted child returning from a day of tutoring to a mountain of homework. She knew that much more was to come in the following fortnight, the duration of our reunion.

  I offered to her a moment alone, while I went to fetch her a cold compress, to which she consented eagerly. It had been a long while since I had the chance to meader through my childhood home, so I chose to not let such an opportunity pass me by.

  Assuming they still used the kitchen they had in my youth for storage, I walked silently through the halls that led toward my goal. On my way there, I had instinctually led myself to the dumbwaiter where Sianto used to drop me, so many years ago. The ill-defined outline of my head was, as a matter of fact, still clear as day, though the frame of the box had been newly painted since. I could no longer dream of fitting myself into such a small space, so I progressed onwards down the halls.

  With each turn I took, there were new, subtle changes to analyze. An old, dusty wallpaper had been changed out. There was a new mirror hither or thither, or a window that had been replaced to don a new, more modern crystalline finish. It was a cloudless night, and though I had carried with me a small candle as my companion, its dim flame paled in comparison to the beautiful shine of the moon, whose radiance guided my path. Down a staircase, two turns to the left, and through an old, rustic door to my left, which had always led towards the servants’ quarters. Their area had not changed one bit, if not possibly for a new tool they could use to simplify some obscure task, I presume.

  Though, as I made the turn to reach the old kitchen, I saw two figures I did not expect to see. In fact, who I had least wanted to see in this whole grand palace— Michal and Sianto, in a full-form embrace, leaning against a wall in the far corner. Michal, whose back had been pressed against the wall by Sianto, perhaps might have spotted me had I not swiftly departed upon seeing the two.

  Many thoughts were running through my head after this. While I had not prepared myself to welcome the sight of my childhood flame so erotically making love to my brother in my childhood kitchen— I was aware that they would’ve formed quite the partnership by now. And, just as I was, they were a married couple. Not only a married couple, but the king and queen of a nation— it should have been a comfort to see them in love.

  It was simply the residual burns of a long extinguished fire that stung at my ribcage, and the shock of seeing such scandal so suddenly that triggered my heartbeat to resound within my skull. Or, perhaps, the fear of being discovered by either of the two, neither of whom was in a position to use past or present relationships as an excuse to allow me to leave silently.

  My brother and king, Sianto, who was a man of great possessiveness and passion, just as my father had been. To picture his fingers intertwined within Michal’s hair, his arms hugging her body so tightly, and to see her accept his love so willingly. It was frustrating in words that no man nor poet could ever put into being. And to have any reconciliation— any hope that she might have still harbored affections for me somewhere within her heart— it was a selfish wish.

  I was a wedded man. I was to be a father soon. I was not some lovesick, foolish adolescent who had no greater wish than to be seen by his playground crush. And in reminding myself that, my heartbeat slowed, and I returned to my previously composed demeanor.

  I would purge any image I saw tonight as some dream of fantasy. It was unfitting for a subject to see his king in such an act.

  Returning to my bedroom, I was met with silence once again. My wife had retired to the bed already, and I was once again left alone to only the crackle of the fireplace, the settling of the castle, and the droll of an unforgettable scene replaying in my mind.

  I strived not to hear her melodic voice in my head, as I settled into bed alongside my wife. Not to crave her touch, which had once been so easily accessible.

  I flinched only slightly as my life slowly adjusted to lay facing my back, and reached her arm out to trace my spine. “I was waiting for you,” she told me. I was filled with such shame and guilt, I could not bear to face her, but the pitiful tone of her voice thrashed at my conscious with such vigor that I could not dare ignore her any longer. I turned to look at her sadly, as if she knew of my thoughts, knew I had been thinking of another while she laid beside me, carrying my child.

  She only smiled slightly at seeing my expression. “You look as if you’ve returned from war. Does this place spark such terrible memories for you?” She questioned me, reaching up to run a hand through my hair. Her fingers were swollen, a mark of her labor for me.

  “I dare not say,” I told her, truthfully. “But there are many things I have seen within these walls that I wish to never see again.”

  I fear, I have been a very selfish man. That I dare to find comfort in a woman I do not love, as I have done so many times before, I am repentant. But to reflect on the devotion she had given me in turn, for which I needed more than ever in that moment, I will always be indebted to her.

  Perhaps I was more like my father than I thought.