✦ The Flame Crown: Gilgamesh of the Vollachian Throne ✦
I. Discovery in the Wastes
The Vollachian desert did not forgive. It did not yield. It did not nurture.
And yet there he was—a child with skin like burnished gold, seated cross-legged atop a pillar of ancient stone, surrounded by the bleached bones and rusted weapons of those who had sought the temple's treasures. Unmoving. Unblinking. His eyes were the color of molten metal, reflecting the merciless sun overhead as though it were a pale imitation of his own inner light.
Emperor Drizen Vollachia had not come to this forsaken place seeking a child. He had come in pursuit of power—rumors of ancient magic, weapons that could sever the very strings of fate. His expedition had lost seventeen men to the desert's traps and beasts. The Divine General Groovy Gumlet walked at his side, expression hidden behind his ceremonial mask, but his discomfort evident in the rigid set of his shoulders.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Groovy murmured. "We should not linger. Something is... wrong with this place."
The Emperor did not acknowledge the warning. His attention remained fixed on the child, who had yet to acknowledge their approach. The ruins around them bore inscriptions in no language known to the Empire's scholars, symbols that seemed to shift and change when viewed too long.
"Boy," the Emperor called out, his voice carrying the weight of command that had broken nations. "Who are you? Where are your people?"
The child's head turned, the movement unnaturally smooth. When he spoke, his voice resonated with impossible depth, as though each syllable carried the weight of centuries:
"I am Gil. And I have been waiting."
Something ancient stirred in the Emperor's blood—a recognition that transcended reason. This child was no ordinary orphan, no lost desert tribe's offspring. The golden light that seemed to emanate from his very pores, the eyes that held judgment and authority beyond his years...
"Waiting for what?" the Emperor demanded.
The boy—Gil—smiled. It was not the smile of a child, but of something old and knowing.
"For you to recognize what stands before you."
Later, as they departed the ruins, the child walking between the Emperor and his Divine General, Drizen spoke words that would reshape the Empire's future:
"This child will not bend to fate. Perhaps he will teach my heirs how to stand above it."
Groovy, ever the pragmatist, dared to question: "Your Majesty, bringing an unknown element into the Imperial Palace—"
"Is precisely what will prevent stagnation," the Emperor cut him off. "The blood of Vollachia grows predictable. Our children learn to kill, to scheme, to survive—but they remain bound by the same cycles. This one..." He glanced down at the golden child who matched their pace without effort despite his small stature. "This one exists outside those cycles."
The child smiled again, and this time, even the hardened Divine General felt a chill race down his spine.
II. The Gilded Outsider
The Imperial Palace was a monument to power—not beauty, though it possessed that in abundance—but raw, uncompromising strength. Its walls had witnessed centuries of bloodshed, its corridors echoing with the dying breaths of failed contenders and the triumphant declarations of new emperors.
Into this den of wolves stepped a lion cub with a mane of gold.
"Father has brought home another stray," Lamia Godwin observed from the shadows of the grand corridor. At fifteen, she was already a master strategist, her dark eyes calculating odds and probabilities with each breath. "Though this one seems... different."
Vincent Abellux, thirteen and already carrying himself with the cold dignity of a ruler, studied the newcomer with undisguised interest. "Not a stray. Look at how he walks. He expects the ground to rise to meet his feet."
Between them, their youngest half-sister peered with unconcealed fascination. Prisca Benedict, only ten years old but already displaying the haughty demeanor that would one day become legendary, tilted her head like a curious bird of prey.
"He shines," she declared, her voice carrying further than intended. The golden boy's gaze snapped to her, and for a moment, imperial princess though she was, Prisca felt herself pinned beneath the weight of ages.
Then the moment passed, and the boy's lips curled into a smile that was both invitation and challenge.
Emperor Drizen's voice boomed through the hall: "Children. Meet your new brother."
The collective intake of breath was audible. Brother. Not ward, not hostage, not pawn—brother. In the treacherous waters of Vollachian politics, such a designation carried both privilege and lethal danger.
Vincent was the first to step forward, ever the pragmatist. "Welcome to the family," he said, extending a hand in the imperial greeting. "I am Vincent Abellux."
The golden boy looked at the offered hand as though it were a curious artifact, then took it with unexpected formality. "I am Gil. You may address me as such."
Not "you may call me" but "you may address me"—the distinction was not lost on Vincent, whose eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Lamia remained where she was, evaluating. "What bloodline?" she asked bluntly. "What house claims you?"
Gil turned those molten eyes toward her. "I claim myself. That is sufficient."
It was Prisca who broke protocol first, pushing past her siblings to stand directly before the newcomer. She was small for her age, but what she lacked in stature she more than compensated for with presence.
"You speak as though you're important," she said, challenging. "Are you?"
Gil regarded her for a long moment, and then—to the shock of all present—he laughed. It was not the laugh of a child, but something rolling and thunderous, filled with genuine amusement.
"Little princess with eyes of fire," he said when his mirth subsided. "Among all your father's treasures, you may prove the most interesting."
Prisca's cheeks colored with indignation, but before she could respond, the Emperor clapped his hands once, the sound like a thundercrack in the vaulted chamber.
"Gil will join you in your studies and training," he announced. "He will learn our ways, and perhaps..." His gaze lingered on the golden child. "Perhaps you will learn something of his."
As the imperial siblings dispersed, whispers already spreading through the palace like wildfire, Vincent held back, watching as Gil studied the palace architecture with the air of a connoisseur rather than a newcomer.
"You should know," Vincent said quietly, "that in Vollachia, we do not extend mercy to the weak. If you cannot defend what is yours, it will be taken."
Gil did not turn to face him, instead running a finger along an ancient battle scene carved into a marble column.
"Young prince," he replied, voice rich with amusement, "I do not defend what is mine. Everything I see already belongs to me—some things simply don't know it yet."
III. The Education of Kings
"Again."
The training yard echoed with the clash of steel as Prisca Benedict, now twelve, lunged at her opponent. Her technique was flawless—the product of relentless drilling and natural talent—but her blade met only air as Gil sidestepped with supernatural grace.
"You telegraph your intentions," the golden boy observed, still not drawing his own weapon. "Your eyes reveal your target before your body moves."
Prisca hissed in frustration, crimson eyes flashing. "Fight properly! Draw your sword!"
Gil, now appearing to be fourteen though no one quite knew his true age, chuckled. "Why should I need steel when you offer me such delightful entertainment with yours?"
From the edge of the training yard, Vincent watched the exchange with calculated interest. Two years had passed since the golden child's arrival, and still, Vincent could not decide whether Gil was threat or asset. Unlike the other imperial children, Gil displayed no obvious ambition for the throne—and yet, there was something in his manner that suggested he viewed it as beneath him rather than beyond him.
"He still refuses to truly spar," Cecilus Segmunt observed, materializing beside Vincent with the silent precision that had earned him his place as the prince's bodyguard despite his youth. At sixteen, Cecilus was already considered the empire's most formidable swordsman. "It's quite vexing."
Vincent's eyes narrowed. "Have you challenged him yourself?"
Cecilus's smile was serene but his eyes glittered with barely contained battle-lust. "Thrice. Each time, he calls it 'premature' and offers me wine instead. As if I were some common drunkard rather than the Strongest Sword Saint!"
"And you accepted the wine?"
"Of course. It was exceptional—from no vineyard I recognize."
Vincent filed this information away. Another oddity: Gil occasionally produced items of extraordinary quality—wines, fabrics, even weapons—though he was never seen to receive deliveries or visitors.
Across the yard, Prisca had abandoned form altogether, attacking with pure fury. Her blade sang through the air in deadly arcs, yet Gil continued to move just beyond her reach, his expression one of indulgent amusement.
"Young lioness," he called to her, "your ferocity is commendable, but misplaced. Save your claws for those who would deny you your rightful place."
"My place," Prisca snarled between strikes, "is wherever I declare it to be! And right now, it should be standing over your defeated form!"
Gil laughed, the sound cascading like golden bells. "Your spirit is worthy of my attention, Princess of Ambition. Perhaps that is why I permit these sessions to continue."
"You permit—!" Prisca's outrage manifested in a particularly reckless lunge, which Gil sidestepped easily. As she stumbled past, he finally drew his weapon—not to strike, but to tap her lightly on the back with the flat of a blade that gleamed with unnatural luster.
"Point," he declared. "And match."
Prisca whirled, her face flushed with exertion and humiliation. For a moment, it seemed she might attack again, protocol be damned. Instead, she straightened her spine, sheathed her sword with deliberate precision, and offered a bow so minimally correct it bordered on insult.
"Onii-sama," she said, the familial term dripping with mockery, "your generosity in these lessons overwhelms me."
Gil's smile widened, recognizing the barb for what it was—not surrender, but a temporary tactical retreat. Of all the imperial children, only Prisca dared address him with such calculated disrespect. The others maintained careful distance: Vincent with his pragmatic caution, Lamia with her cold assessment, the lesser siblings with varying degrees of fear or obsequiousness.
But Prisca—fierce, proud Prisca—had chosen confrontation from the start.
"Run along, little princess," Gil replied, sheathing his own blade in a scabbard that seemed to shimmer between visibility and shadow. "Your tutors await. Do try to pay attention to today's lessons on imperial diplomacy. Your current approach lacks... finesse."
As Prisca stormed from the training yard, dignity intact despite her defeat, Vincent approached with measured steps.
"You provoke her deliberately," he observed, neither accusation nor approval in his tone.
Gil turned those molten eyes on Vincent, studying him as one might an interesting chess piece. "I strengthen her. The flames of her spirit burn bright but wild. She requires focusing."
"To what end?" Vincent asked, the question that had lingered since Gil's arrival finally voiced. "What game do you play here, among us?"
Gil gazed past Vincent, toward the imperial palace with its imposing spires. For a moment—just a moment—something ancient and terrible flashed across his youthful features.
"The only game worth playing, Prince of Foresight," he answered. "The game of kings."
IV. Shadows of Succession
The imperial library was ostensibly restricted to those of royal blood and their designated scholars. In practice, access depended entirely on one's ability to navigate the palace's labyrinthine politics—or, in Chisha Gold's case, to move unseen through its shadows.
The young spymaster paused at the threshold, surprised to find the vast chamber already occupied at this late hour. Gil sat alone at the central table, surrounded by ancient texts in languages Chisha recognized as extinct. The golden youth did not look up from his reading, but spoke as though he had been expecting the intrusion.
"The Emperor's eyes and ears grace me with their presence," Gil remarked, turning a page with deliberate care. "Have you come to read, or to report?"
Chisha stiffened. His role as Emperor Drizen's informant was not officially acknowledged, his youth and apparent scholarly focus serving as effective cover for his true purpose.
"Both activities benefit from quiet contemplation," Chisha replied carefully, adjusting his spectacles. "I wouldn't presume to disturb yours."
Gil finally looked up, those unsettling golden eyes seeming to pierce through Chisha's carefully constructed persona. "You may approach. Your footsteps are lighter than most, and your mind sharper."
It was not quite an invitation, but Chisha recognized that it was the closest thing to one that Gil offered. He moved to the table, noting with interest the texts spread before the golden youth—treatises on ancient kingdom-building, military conquest, and divine right.
"Light reading?" he inquired.
"Remedial," Gil corrected with a dismissive wave. "Your historians have such limited perspective."
Chisha selected his next words with precision. "History tends to be written by the victors."
"And rewritten by the ignorant," Gil countered. "These accounts speak of the Divine Dragon's pact as though it were the beginning of ordered civilization. A charming provincial view."
The casual blasphemy against one of the world's foundational beliefs should have shocked Chisha. Instead, he found himself curious—a dangerous feeling for one in his position.
"You speak as though you witnessed something prior."
Gil's smile was sphinx-like. "Perhaps I did."
Before Chisha could pursue this unsettling line of thought, the library door opened again, admitting Vincent Abellux. The imperial prince moved with characteristic purpose, his expression betraying nothing when he discovered he was not alone.
"Chisha. Gil." Vincent acknowledged them both with equal measure, a calculated neutrality. "I see great minds think alike at this hour."
"Or perhaps we each have different reasons to avoid sleep," Gil suggested, his gaze now fixed on Vincent with uncomfortable intensity. "Dreams can be... revealing."
Something unspoken passed between them—a reference Chisha was not privy to. Vincent's jaw tightened momentarily before he regained his composure.
"Indeed. Which is why I prefer action to dreaming." Vincent turned to Chisha. "The documents I requested?"
Chisha produced a sealed scroll from within his robes. "The provincial reports, as requested. Including the... anomalies... you noted along the eastern border."
Vincent took the scroll, his fingers brushing Chisha's in a gesture that might have seemed accidental to anyone who didn't know better. A signal: We'll speak privately later.
"The stirrings of rebellion?" Gil inquired, though his tone suggested it was not truly a question. "How predictable. Every garden must occasionally be pruned of weeds."
Vincent's eyes narrowed fractionally. "You seem well-informed for someone who spends his days reading dusty tomes and tormenting my sister."
"Information flows to those who know how to listen," Gil replied cryptically. "And young Prisca torments herself quite effectively. I merely provide the mirror."
The tension in the air thickened, two dominant personalities pressing against each other like storm fronts. Chisha, ever sensitive to the currents of power, prepared to tactfully withdraw when the library door swung open a third time.
Prisca Benedict entered, her crimson nightgown sweeping behind her like a trail of blood. At thirteen, she already carried herself with the imperious confidence of one born to command.
"What a charming midnight gathering," she declared, surveying the three of them with undisguised suspicion. "Plotting treason, are we?"
"Merely comparing notes on statecraft," Vincent replied smoothly. "Shouldn't you be abed, sister? Tomorrow's military exercises begin early."
Prisca's smile was sharp as a dagger. "I could ask the same of you, brother. Or perhaps you fear I might outshine you before the generals again?"
The sibling rivalry was a familiar dance, but Chisha noted how Prisca's gaze kept straying to Gil, as though his reaction was the one that truly mattered to her. For his part, the golden youth watched the exchange with the amused detachment of one observing insects beneath glass.
"The little princess seeks knowledge before battle," Gil observed. "Wise. Though I wonder which battle concerns you more—tomorrow's military display, or the longer game being played within these walls?"
Prisca lifted her chin. "I prepare for all challenges equally, Onii-sama." The honorific dripped with her particular blend of mockery and reluctant acknowledgment. "Some of us cannot rely on mysterious origins and Father's inexplicable favor."
"Mysterious?" Gil echoed, amusement dancing in his eyes. "There is no mystery. I am simply superior."
The breathtaking arrogance of the statement hung in the air. Chisha watched Vincent's reaction carefully—how his eyes calculated, assessed, revised whatever mental model he maintained of the golden interloper. Prisca, meanwhile, seemed torn between outrage and fascination.
"Superior beings still bleed when cut," she noted airily. "Or so I assume. You've been remarkably careful never to shed blood in our training."
Gil's smile widened, revealing teeth too perfect, too white. "Perhaps one day, young lioness, you will earn the right to see it."
The implied challenge lingered as Chisha felt a subtle shift in the room's atmosphere—something electric and dangerous building between these three extraordinary youths. Vincent, ever the pragmatist; Prisca, burning with ambition; and Gil, the golden unknown quantity who played by rules only he seemed to understand.
The succession war will not follow predictable lines this generation, Chisha realized with sudden clarity. And for the first time in his service to the Emperor, he wasn't certain he could accurately predict the outcome.
V. The Desert's Gift
The Vollachian desert stretched before them, a sea of burning sand beneath an unforgiving sun. Emperor Drizen had declared a royal hunt—ostensibly a celebration of the summer solstice, but in reality, another test for his potential heirs. Survival, tracking, combat, cooperation under duress—all would be evaluated by the Divine Generals who accompanied the imperial party.
For three days, they had pursued the legendary Crimson Manticore, a beast said to appear only once a decade. Its hide was impervious to common weapons, its venom capable of dissolving armor and flesh alike. A worthy adversary for those who would rule the empire of strength.
"We should split into groups," Vincent suggested, his practical nature asserting itself as they made camp on the third evening. "Cover more ground before the trail goes cold."
"Trying to steal the glory for yourself, brother?" Lamia inquired, her tone mild but her eyes sharp. At seventeen, she had grown into a formidable strategist, her slender build belying lethal precision with knives and poisons.
Vincent didn't rise to the bait. "Glory means nothing if the beast escapes altogether. I suggest three hunting parties: myself and Cecilus to the north, Lamia and her knights to the east, and Prisca—"
"I'll take Gil," Prisca interjected, shooting a challenging look at the golden youth who sat slightly apart from the group, seemingly unbothered by the desert heat while others sweated profusely. "Unless Onii-sama fears the desert's wrath?"
Gil's laugh rolled across the dunes. "The desert and I are old acquaintances, little princess. It holds no terrors for me."
Divine General Groovy Gumlet, who had remained stoically silent throughout most of the journey, stirred at this. "The boy was found in the deep desert," he reminded them, his masked face turning toward Gil. "Perhaps he remembers more than he has shared about that place."
A moment of tension stretched as Gil met the Divine General's hidden gaze without flinching. "Perhaps," he allowed. "Or perhaps the desert remembers me."
"Enough mystical posturing," Prisca declared, rising to her feet with characteristic impatience. "The beast will be at the oasis by dawn to drink. I intend to be there waiting."
"And how could you possibly know that?" Lamia challenged.
Prisca smiled, tapping her temple. "Unlike some, I actually listened to the desert scouts' reports. The beast follows a pattern—three days hunting, one day drinking. Tomorrow marks the fourth day."
Vincent nodded, acknowledging the sound reasoning. "Then we proceed at first light—"
"No," Prisca countered. "We move now, under cover of darkness. The Crimson Manticore has superior vision in daylight. Night offers the only advantage we're likely to get."
It was a bold strategy—perhaps reckless—but none could fault its logic. The imperial siblings made their preparations, servants scurrying to ready weapons and provisions for the night journey. Throughout it all, Gil watched with that same inscrutable half-smile, as though privy to a joke no one else understood.
When the hunting parties departed, Prisca and Gil headed southwest, toward the hidden oasis known only to Vollachian royalty and their most trusted scouts. They traveled in silence for the first hour, the moonlight casting everything in silver and shadow.
"You could have gone with Vincent," Prisca said finally, breaking the silence. "He actually respects you, you know. In his way."
Gil walked beside her, his movements effortlessly graceful even across shifting sands. "Vincent calculates my value, as he does with all things. That is not respect—it is prudence."
"And do I not calculate your value, Onii-sama?" The question held an edge beneath its mocking surface.
Gil glanced at her, golden eyes gleaming in the darkness. "You feel my value, Princess of Ambition. The difference is significant."
Prisca scoffed, but did not dispute the observation. They continued in silence until the oasis appeared before them—a dark smudge against the silver landscape, date palms swaying gently in the night breeze.
"We should secure high ground," Prisca decided, gesturing toward a rocky outcropping that overlooked the water. "And set the trap before—"
"It's already here," Gil interrupted, his voice suddenly carrying a weight that stopped Prisca mid-sentence.
The air shifted. A scent like iron and spice wafted toward them. And then—movement. Something massive detached itself from the shadows of the palms, something that should not have been able to hide its bulk so effectively.
The Crimson Manticore stood before them, its scorpion tail arched high over its leonine body. In the moonlight, its red hide appeared almost black, but its eyes gleamed with terrible intelligence as it regarded the two young hunters.
Prisca reached for her sword with admirable steadiness, her training overriding instinctive fear. "Well," she said, voice carefully controlled, "it seems the glory will be ours after all."
Gil made no move toward his own weapon. Instead, he stepped forward, placing himself slightly ahead of Prisca in a gesture she might have interpreted as protective had it come from anyone else.
"You should not be here," Gil said, but he was not addressing Prisca.
The Manticore's ears flattened against its skull. It made a sound—not a roar, but a low rumble that seemed to vibrate the very air.
And then, to Prisca's astonishment, Gil responded in kind—a series of sounds no human throat should have been able to produce. The Manticore's tail lowered fractionally.
"What are you doing?" Prisca hissed, sword still at the ready. "If you're trying to negotiate with a beast—"
"Silence," Gil commanded, and there was such authority in his voice that Prisca found herself obeying despite herself.
The strange exchange continued, Gil's inhuman vocalizations met by the Manticore's rumbling responses. Moments stretched into minutes, and Prisca's arms began to ache from maintaining her defensive stance. Just as she was considering a swift attack to end this bizarre standoff, Gil turned to her.
"Sheathe your weapon," he said.
"Have you lost your mind?" Prisca demanded. "That thing could—"
"It will not harm us," Gil assured her, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "This one remembers the old covenant."
"What covenant? What are you talking about?"
Gil's expression shifted, something ancient and terrible briefly visible beneath his youthful features. "There was a time when such creatures acknowledged their rightful king. Some memories run deeper than others."
Before Prisca could process this cryptic statement, the Manticore suddenly bowed its massive head, pressing its forehead against the desert sand in a gesture unmistakably like obeisance. Then, with fluid grace that belied its size, it turned and disappeared into the night, leaving no trace of its passing save for faint imprints in the sand.
Silence stretched between them as Prisca struggled to comprehend what she had witnessed. Finally, she sheathed her sword with deliberate precision.
"You will explain," she said, her tone making it clear this was not a request. "Now."
Gil studied her, those golden eyes reflecting moonlight like twin stars. For once, his customary mockery was absent, replaced by something more considering.
"You are not ready for all truths, Princess of Ambition," he said finally. "But I will give you this: I am older than I appear, and my dominion once extended beyond the reckoning of your historians."
Prisca's breath caught. Any other person making such a claim would have earned her scorn or concern for their sanity. But after what she had just witnessed...
"Are you..." She hesitated, searching for words. "Not human?"
Gil's smile returned, sharp and brilliant. "I am more human than humanity remembers how to be. The question you should ask, little princess, is not what I am, but why I am here, now, among you."
"And the answer?"
"Is something you must discover for yourself." He gestured toward the oasis. "We should water the horses. The others will be expecting us to return with a trophy."
Prisca's eyes narrowed. "The beast is gone. We have nothing to show for this hunt."
"Don't we?" Gil reached into the folds of his desert clothing and withdrew something that gleamed even in the dim light—a scale the size of his palm, crimson as fresh blood. "A gift freely given is worth more than a trophy taken by force. Remember that, Princess of Ambition, when the time comes for you to decide what kind of ruler you wish to be."
As they made their way toward the water, Prisca found herself reevaluating everything she thought she knew about the golden interloper who had disrupted the imperial succession with his mere presence. For the first time, she wondered if perhaps the throne of Vollachia was indeed too small a stage for whatever Gil truly was.
And for the first time, something like genuine respect flickered in her heart alongside the familiar flames of rivalry and fascination.
VI. The Imperial Selection
The day of reckoning arrived sooner than anyone expected.
Emperor Drizen Vollachia collapsed during a military review, blood flowing freely from his lips as he clutched at his chest. Poison, the court physicians declared—slow-acting, untraceable, but unmistakably lethal. The Emperor had perhaps days to live, hours if the strain proved too great for his failing heart.
Tradition demanded the Imperial Selection Ceremony commence immediately. No Vollachian ruler was permitted a peaceful death or transition—strength must assert itself, must prove worthy even as weakness was purged from the imperial bloodline.
The Ceremonial Hall echoed with tense silence as the imperial offspring gathered. At sixteen, Prisca stood tall and proud, her crimson battle-dress flowing around her like liquid fire. Vincent, eighteen now and hardened by years of preparation, wore simple black garments that emphasized his lean strength. Lamia and the lesser siblings arranged themselves according to their perceived chances—some openly displaying weapons, others concealing them within ornate robes.
Only Gil seemed untouched by the gravity of the moment. He lounged against a marble column, dressed in attire that somehow managed to be both simple and ostentatious—white and gold fabrics that caught the light, a single ruby earring that matched Prisca's eyes.
The Sword of Selection was brought forth, a blade said to carry the divine mandate of the Dragon. Tradition held that only one worthy of rule could fully draw it from its ancient scabbard. In practice, those who managed the feat still had to defeat their rivals in combat—divine favor was merely the first hurdle in the bloody race for the throne.
"Onii-sama," Prisca approached Gil while others whispered strategy among themselves. "Will you participate in the selection?"
Gil regarded her with those molten eyes that had lost none of their unsettling power over the years. "I have no need to prove my worthiness to lesser beings."
The familiar arrogance might once have provoked her to anger. Now, Prisca merely smiled. "Then as a favor to me—your most entertaining sibling—will you bear witness to my ascension?"
"Bold words, little princess." But his tone held something almost like pride. "Very well. I shall observe your performance with interest."
The ceremony began with the eldest siblings approaching the sword. One by one, they attempted to draw the blade, with varying degrees of success. Some managed to extract it partially before the weight became impossible; others could barely budge it at all.
Lamia surprised many by drawing the sword nearly three-quarters from its scabbard—an impressive feat that earned murmurs of approval from the assembled Divine Generals. Her triumph was short-lived, however, as Vincent stepped forward next.
With fluid grace that spoke of countless hours of training, Vincent drew the blade completely, holding it aloft as sunlight streamed through the high windows to catch on its spotless edge. The Sword of Selection hummed with power in his grip, acknowledging his worthiness.
Tradition dictated that all eligible siblings still had the right to challenge, sword or no sword. As Vincent turned to face his potential challengers, his gaze swept over them—calculating, as always, the likeliest threats.
When Prisca stepped forward, a hush fell over the assembly. Though young, her skill was legendary among the imperial tutors. More than one Divine General had privately acknowledged that her raw talent might surpass even Vincent's, though she lacked his cold discipline.
"Brother," she addressed him formally, according her full respect as the sword-bearer. "I challenge your claim to the Vollachian throne."
Vincent inclined his head. "I accept your challenge, sister. Let steel decide where blood is shared."
As they took their positions in the ceremonial circle, Prisca caught Gil's eye. The golden youth had straightened from his lounging posture, watching with unexpected intensity. He gave her the slightest of nods—acknowledgment, not encouragement—but somehow, it steadied her resolve.
The duel that followed would be recounted in Vollachian military academies for generations. Vincent's technique was flawless, his strategy impeccable as he leveraged his greater reach and strength. Prisca countered with blinding speed and unpredictable patterns, moving as though the restrictive ceremonial floor were as vast as an open battlefield.
Blood was drawn on both sides—Prisca's shoulder laid open by a precise cut, Vincent's cheek marked by a darting riposte that had slipped past his guard. Neither yielded. Neither showed weakness.
As the duel entered its third hour, whispers began among the observers. Never had an Imperial Selection lasted so long between two combatants. Never had siblings been so evenly matched.
It was then that Vincent made his move—a feint followed by a disarming technique taught only to the Emperor's firstborn. Prisca's sword went spinning from her grip, clattering across the marble floor as Vincent brought his blade to her throat.
"Yield," he commanded, his voice betraying none of the exhaustion he must have felt.
Prisca's crimson eyes blazed with defiance. "A ruler of Vollachia yields to no one," she quoted from their father's teachings.
"Then die with dignity," Vincent replied, the ritual response.
The blade began its arc toward her exposed neck—a killing blow that would end her challenge permanently.
And stopped.
Not because Vincent had stayed his hand, but because another blade intercepted it—a golden sword that had not been there a moment before, wielded by Gil who now stood between them. The clash of metal rang through the hall like a death knell.
"Enough," Gil declared, his voice carrying an authority that silenced even the Divine Generals' protests at this breach of sacred tradition.
Vincent's eyes narrowed dangerously. "This is not your place. The ceremony—"
"Is unworthy of her," Gil cut him off. "And of you."
With a twist of his wrist, he disarmed Vincent as effortlessly as a parent might take a toy from a child. The Sword of Selection clattered to the floor beside Prisca's weapon.
Outrage erupted among the observers. The Divine General Groovy stepped forward, hand on his own blade. "This is sacrilege! The selection cannot be interrupted!"
Gil turned those burning eyes toward the masked warrior. "Your rituals are meaningless to me, as are your objections." He gestured toward the two exhausted siblings. "These two are the finest Vollachia has produced in generations. To have either destroy the other serves no purpose save your bloodthirsty traditions."
"Our traditions preserve strength!" another General countered.
"Your traditions waste it," Gil corrected coldly. "Strength lies not merely in the ability to kill, but in knowing when killing serves no purpose."
In the stunned silence that followed, Cecilus Segmunt stepped into the circle, his perpetual smile widening with interest. "The golden one makes a point worthy of consideration," he declared, his casual tone belying the tension in the room. "I've served both these siblings in training. Killing either would be... such a waste of exceptional material."
Vincent's gaze shifted between Gil and Cecilus, his brilliant mind reassessing the situation with lightning speed. "You forget yourself, Sword Saint," he said, though without true rebuke in his tone. "Your duty is to observe, not intervene."
"My duty," Cecilus replied with his unsettling smile, "is to serve the strongest. At present, that position seems... interestingly contested."
Prisca, still breathing heavily from the duel, rose to her full height. Blood trickled down her arm, but she stood unbowed. "What exactly are you proposing, Onii-sama?" she addressed Gil, ignoring the Divine Generals' growing murmurs of discontent.
Gil's golden sword vanished as inexplicably as it had appeared. He surveyed the assembled nobility and warriors with the air of a king addressing subjects rather than an interloper disrupting sacred tradition.
"A new way forward," he declared. "Vincent has drawn the sword. By your customs, this grants him the right to rule. But Prisca has demonstrated equal valor in combat." He turned to face the eldest Divine General directly. "Tell me, does Vollachia truly benefit from halving its strength? Or would the empire be better served by harnessing both?"
"Blasphemy," someone muttered from the gallery.
Gil's laugh echoed through the hall—rich, contemptuous, and somehow ancient. "Your empire is but a child compared to the kingdoms I have ruled. Your 'blasphemy' is merely inflexibility in the face of superior alternatives."
Vincent, ever the pragmatist, had already calculated the shifting power dynamics. "What alternative do you suggest? Vollachia cannot have two rulers."
"Can it not?" Gil's eyes gleamed with challenge. "The throne belongs to the strongest. Perhaps the strongest solution is one your traditions have never permitted you to consider."
A heavy silence fell as the implications sank in. Dual rulership—a concept so foreign to Vollachian philosophy it bordered on incomprehensible. The empire had been built on the premise that power consolidated in a single, supreme authority was the ultimate expression of strength.
Yet here stood Gil—the golden outsider who had defied categorization from the moment of his arrival—suggesting that the truest strength might lie in alliance rather than elimination.
Before the Divine Generals could voice further objections, the heavy doors to the ceremony hall swung open. A palace physician entered, his face grave.
"The Emperor demands the presence of the victor," he announced. "His Majesty's condition deteriorates rapidly."
All eyes turned to the siblings—and to the gilded figure standing between them.
"It seems," Gil observed with casual authority, "that your decision must be made quickly."
VII. Divine Bloodshed
Emperor Drizen Vollachia lay dying in the Imperial Bedchamber, surrounded by precious little of the pomp that had defined his reign. Death stripped away pretense, leaving only the harsh truth of mortality—even for one who had ruled through strength and fear.
Vincent and Prisca entered together, an unprecedented sight that caused the Emperor's eyebrows to rise fractionally despite his weakened state. Behind them walked Gil, his golden presence seeming almost to illuminate the somber chamber.
"So," the Emperor rasped, blood staining his lips, "have you determined succession, or must I expire before witnessing which of my blood proved strongest?"
Vincent stepped forward, his posture formal. "I drew the Sword of Selection, Father."
The Emperor's eyes moved to Prisca, noting her battle wounds. "Yet your sister lives. Sentiment at the final moment, my son?"
Before Vincent could respond, Gil moved to stand at the foot of the imperial bed. "I intervened."
The dying Emperor's laugh was a wet, terrible sound. "Of course you did. Always playing your own game, weren't you, golden one?" He coughed violently, more blood spattering the silk sheets. "From the moment I found you in that desert ruin... I knew you would either elevate this empire or tear it asunder."
"Perhaps both," Gil acknowledged with a slight incline of his head. "The greatest structures must sometimes be broken before they can be rebuilt properly."
Emperor Drizen's gaze shifted between his children. "And what structure do you propose, foundling? My son has claimed the sword, by rights he—"
"By rights," Gil interrupted, "this empire should have crumbled centuries ago under the weight of its own shortsightedness. You cull your strongest offspring like a farmer thinning crops, never allowing the full harvest to flourish."
Remarkably, the Emperor did not rage at this insolence. Instead, a spark of interest kindled in his fading eyes. "You propose an alternative to our traditions?"
Vincent stepped closer to the bed. "A dual regency, Father. Myself as Emperor, with Prisca as Imperial Strategist and equal voice in governance."
"Heresy," the Emperor whispered, though without heat.
"Evolution," Prisca countered, joining her brother. "The strength of two exceptional rulers instead of one."
Emperor Drizen studied them both with the calculating gaze that had terrorized enemies and allies alike for decades. "And the Divine Generals? They have permitted this... innovation?"
"They will adapt," Gil stated with such certainty that it sounded less like prediction and more like command. "Or they will be replaced by those who can."
A tense silence fell, broken only by the Emperor's labored breathing. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed again—this time with something almost like genuine amusement.
"Even dying, I find myself curious," he admitted, turning his gaze to Gil. "What are you, truly? No desert orphan speaks as you do, carries himself as you do."
Gil's expression softened fractionally—perhaps the closest thing to respect he had shown any Vollachian since his arrival. "I am what I have always been: a king. The first and greatest, from whom all concepts of kingship descend."
In another context, such a statement might have seemed madness or delusion. But in that chamber, with death's shadow lengthening across the imperial bed, even Vincent and Prisca felt the weight of truth in Gil's words.
"A king without a throne," the Emperor observed.
"A king who chooses his kingdoms," Gil corrected. "And who occasionally finds students worthy of his guidance."
Emperor Drizen's gaze moved once more to his children—Vincent, composed and calculating even in this moment of transition; Prisca, fierce and proud, concealing her grief beneath imperial dignity. For perhaps the first time, he looked at them not as competitors in his brutal inheritance game, but as the extraordinary individuals they had become.
"Very well," he declared, his voice suddenly stronger, infused with final authority. "Let it be recorded that I, Drizen Vollachia, seventy-sixth Emperor of the Vollachian Empire, sanction this... experiment." Blood bubbled at his lips as he continued. "Vincent Abellux shall ascend as Emperor, with Prisca Benedict as Imperial Strategist, holding equal authority in matters of state."
The siblings exchanged glances—not of triumph, but of shared understanding. The path ahead would not be easy, would require strength of a different sort than their upbringing had prepared them for.
"Approach," the Emperor commanded, and they moved to either side of his bed. With trembling hands, he removed the imperial signet ring from his finger and pressed it into Vincent's palm. From around his neck, he withdrew a ruby pendant—the ancient symbol of the imperial bloodline—and placed it in Prisca's hand.
"Split authority," he murmured, "but unified purpose. Perhaps... perhaps the golden one is right." His gaze drifted to Gil once more. "Watch over them," he instructed, the words somewhere between command and plea. "Whatever you are... whatever game you play... see that they do not destroy what they might build together."
Gil inclined his head, a gesture so regal it seemed momentarily as though the Emperor was addressing an equal—or perhaps a superior.
"I give you my word," Gil replied, and something in his tone suggested that such a promise was rarer and more valuable than any treasure in the imperial vaults.
Satisfied, Emperor Drizen Vollachia closed his eyes. His breathing slowed, then stopped altogether. For a moment, the chamber remained perfectly still, the transition of power suspended between heartbeats.
Then Vincent slipped the imperial signet onto his finger, while Prisca fastened the ruby pendant around her neck. Without words, they turned toward the door, prepared to face the Divine Generals and announce the unprecedented change to Vollachian governance.
Gil remained behind briefly, studying the body of the man who had brought him into the imperial fold. "You chose better than you knew, old king," he murmured. "Your children may yet build something worthy of remembrance."
With that, he turned and followed the siblings, his golden presence lending legitimacy to their unconventional ascension even before they crossed the threshold.
VIII. Crowns of Fire and Shadow
The coronation of Vincent Abellux as the seventy-seventh Emperor of Vollachia proceeded according to ancient tradition—save for one unprecedented addition. As the Crown of Conquest was placed upon his head, Prisca stepped forward to receive the newly-forged Circlet of Strategy, its ruby centerpiece catching the light like a drop of frozen blood.
The whispers throughout the Imperial Cathedral were impossible to silence completely. Dual authority—even with clear delineation of responsibilities—violated centuries of Vollachian philosophy. That both siblings still lived following the Selection was scandal enough; that they would rule together was revolutionary.
Yet none dared voice open objection. The Divine Generals had acquiesced, some more grudgingly than others, to Emperor Drizen's final decree. More significantly, they had witnessed Gil's intervention in the Selection Ceremony—witnessed the ease with which he had disarmed both siblings, the authority with which he had spoken, and the inexplicable golden blade that had appeared in his hand without warning.
Vincent rose from the Throne of Conquest, his expression composed as he addressed the assembled nobility and military leaders.
"The strength of Vollachia has always been its adaptability," he declared, his voice carrying to every corner of the vast cathedral. "Our ancestors conquered these lands not through rigid adherence to tradition, but through innovation in warfare, governance, and the application of power."
Murmurs of cautious agreement rustled through the crowd.
"Today, we honor that legacy of innovation," Vincent continued. "Strength need not always manifest as a single fist—sometimes, it takes the form of two hands working in concert."
Prisca stepped forward, her crimson gown echoing the ruby in her circlet. "I stand before you not as a separate authority, but as the strategic mind to complement my brother's tactical brilliance. Together, we shall expand Vollachia's dominion beyond the dreams of our forefathers."
The promise of conquest—of expansion and glory—struck the perfect note. Vollachian culture might resist changes to internal governance, but the prospect of external triumph could override such concerns.
From his position near the dais, Gil observed the proceedings with the subtle smile that had become his trademark. He had chosen to dress simply for the occasion—white robes accented with gold that somehow managed to outshine the elaborate ceremonial attire of the highest nobles without appearing to try.
As the formal oaths concluded and the assembly moved toward the grand banquet that would follow, Cecilus Segmunt materialized at Gil's side.
"Quite the performance," the Sword Saint remarked, his perpetual smile mirroring Gil's own. "Though I can't help wondering about the final act."
Gil's golden eyes flicked to Cecilus. "You think this is merely theater?"
"I think," Cecilus replied, his voice dropping to ensure privacy, "that nothing involving you is ever quite what it appears. The question is whether our new rulers understand that as well as I do."
"Our young Emperor and his Strategist are learning," Gil acknowledged. "Though some lessons must be experienced rather than taught."
Cecilus laughed softly. "Speaking of experiences, I'm still waiting for our true duel. You've denied me long enough, don't you think?"
Before Gil could respond, they were interrupted by the arrival of Chisha Gold, newly appointed as Vincent's personal advisor.
"The Emperor requests your presence at the high table," Chisha informed Gil, carefully avoiding Cecilus's gaze. The relationship between the imperial advisor and the Sword Saint had grown increasingly strained as Vincent's ascension approached.
"And what of me?" Cecilus inquired, his smile unchanged though his eyes sharpened. "Am I not the First of the Divine Generals, worthy of imperial attention?"
Chisha adjusted his spectacles with precise movements. "The Divine Generals will be seated according to rank, as tradition dictates. If you'll follow the chamberlain—"
"I know where to sit, little spider," Cecilus interrupted, using the nickname that never failed to make Chisha stiffen. "I simply find it interesting that our golden friend merits special consideration above established hierarchy."
"Some beings exist outside hierarchy altogether," Gil observed mildly. "As you well know, Sword Saint."
Something passed between them—recognition of a shared otherness, perhaps. Cecilus's smile widened fractionally before he offered an exaggerated bow and departed toward the banquet hall.
Chisha waited until he was out of earshot before speaking again. "He grows more unpredictable."
"On the contrary," Gil replied. "Cecilus is perfectly predictable once you understand his nature. He serves strength, and for now, he perceives Vincent as the strongest ruler. But his true allegiance is to the thrill of challenge—he will follow whoever promises the most exhilarating path."
"And you? Where do your allegiances lie?" Chisha dared to ask, emboldened by his new position.
Gil's smile was sphinx-like. "I have watched empires rise and fall like tides, little scholar. My interest is in those rare souls who might transcend the cycle—who might build something worthy of my attention."
"And you believe Vincent and Prisca might be such souls?"
"I believe," Gil said carefully, "that they have potential I have not witnessed in this land before. Whether they fulfill it remains to be seen."
At the high table, Vincent and Prisca presided over the feast with the perfect balance of authority and grace expected of Vollachian royalty. To casual observers, they appeared entirely at ease with their shared power. Only those closest to them—Gil among them—could detect the underlying tension: two exceptional individuals accustomed to competition now forced to collaborate.
As Gil took his place at Vincent's right hand (a position that raised more than a few aristocratic eyebrows), Prisca leaned forward slightly.
"Enjoying the spectacle, Onii-sama?" she inquired, using the familiar mock-honorific that had become her personal address for him. "It was your machination, after all."
"A king does not machinate," Gil corrected her, accepting a goblet of wine from a nervous servant. "He merely illuminates possibilities others lack the vision to perceive."
Vincent's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. "And what possibilities do you perceive for our reign, Gil? Now that you've engineered this unprecedented arrangement."
Gil sampled the wine, finding it predictably inferior to the vintages he occasionally produced from his mysterious personal collection. "Possibility is merely potential. What matters is application." He set down the goblet with deliberate precision. "You have been granted something no Vollachian ruler has possessed before: a true equal to challenge and complement your thinking. The question is whether your ambitions are grand enough to justify such an advantage."
"Our ambitions extend beyond mere conquest," Vincent assured him. "Though that will certainly be part of our legacy."
"The unification of the continent under Vollachian rule within our lifetime," Prisca added, her crimson eyes gleaming with barely contained fire. "Beginning with the annexation of the eastern territories and culminating with Lugunica itself."
Gil's expression remained unchanged, though something in his posture suggested heightened interest. "Ambitious indeed. Yet conquest without purpose is merely destruction on a larger scale. What empire would you build atop these conquered lands?"
It was a question that caught both siblings off guard—not because they hadn't considered it, but because it struck at the heart of their unspoken differences. Vincent's vision of empire emphasized efficiency and control; Prisca's burned with ideals of glory and transformation.
Before either could respond, a commotion erupted at the far end of the banquet hall. The massive doors swung open with unnecessary force, admitting a party of warriors bearing unfamiliar insignia—curved swords at their sides and expressions of cold determination on their faces.
The leader, a woman whose beauty was matched only by the deadly grace with which she moved, strode directly toward the high table. The Divine Generals tensed, hands moving to weapons, but Vincent raised a hand to stay them. Diplomatic incidents at a coronation were to be avoided if possible.
"Emperor Vincent Abellux," the woman declared, her accent marking her as from the eastern desert kingdoms. "I bring greetings from the Sovereign of the Seven Sands, and a question that has burned in our hearts for eight years."
Vincent inclined his head with measured courtesy. "The Vollachian Empire welcomes the representatives of the Seven Sands. State your question, and we shall consider whether it merits answer."
The woman's eyes, dark as midnight, shifted unexpectedly to Gil. "Our question is for him. The Golden One who was taken from the Temple of Eternal Sand. The child our seers foretold would either save our kingdoms or return them to dust."
A ripple of shock ran through the assembly. Gil, however, appeared supremely untroubled by this dramatic revelation. He sipped his wine again before acknowledging the woman with the barest nod.
"Priestess Zhaleh," he greeted her. "You've ventured far from your sacred oasis."
"Eight years of searching," she replied, her voice tight with controlled emotion. "Eight years since Emperor Drizen Vollachia removed you from the sacred grounds. The temple guardians died defending your chamber."
Vincent's gaze snapped to Gil, reassessing yet again the mysterious youth who had shaped the imperial succession. "You neglected to mention this detail of your... discovery."
"You neglected to ask the right questions," Gil countered smoothly. To the priestess, he added, "What is your purpose here, Daughter of the Sand? Surely not retrieval—that opportunity has long passed."
Priestess Zhaleh straightened her spine, dignity overcoming whatever complex emotions churned beneath her formal exterior. "The Conclave of Seven wishes to know your intentions, Golden One. Our oldest texts speak of your awakening as either salvation or doom. Which have you chosen for our people?"
The entire banquet hall had fallen silent, hundreds of eyes fixed on the exchange. Even Cecilus had abandoned his characteristic nonchalance, watching with undisguised fascination.
Gil rose from his seat with fluid grace, his simple white garments somehow commanding more attention than all the elaborate finery surrounding him. When he spoke, his voice carried effortlessly to every corner of the vast space.
"I choose neither," he declared. "Your prophecies are echoes of truths too vast for your scribes to capture accurately. I am not your salvation, Priestess, nor your doom. I am simply myself—as I have been since before your first ancestors named the stars."
Prisca and Vincent exchanged glances, silent communication passing between them. Whatever Gil was, whatever power he represented, it had just become clear that his presence in their court carried implications far beyond Vollachian politics.
"Then why are you here?" the priestess pressed, her composure cracking slightly. "Why among these... conquerors, these believers in strength above all?"
Gil's smile was terrible in its beauty—the smile of something ancient and powerful amusing itself with the concerns of mortals.
"Because," he said simply, "I was curious. It has been millennia since I walked among humanity's kingdoms. I wished to see what you had built in my absence, whether any among you might prove worthy of my interest." His gaze shifted to Vincent and Prisca. "I found potential. Whether it blooms or withers remains to be seen."
The priestess studied him for a long moment, then slowly sank to one knee in a gesture of profound respect. "The Seven Kingdoms await your judgment, Golden One. When you deem us worthy of your return, our temples will welcome you."
"Rise," Gil commanded gently. "I have no need of temples or worship. Return to your people and tell them this: The age of waiting for divine intervention has passed. Build your own greatness or face your own destruction—your fate rests in your hands alone."
As the priestess rose and backed away, maintaining formal respect despite the shocking nature of his pronouncement, Prisca leaned close to Gil.
"What exactly are you?" she whispered, all mockery gone from her tone. "A god? A spirit? Some ancient being preserved by magic?"
Gil turned those golden eyes on her, and for a moment—just a moment—she glimpsed something behind them that stretched beyond human comprehension: endless gardens beneath twin suns, cities of white stone and gold that defied architectural possibility, treasures beyond imagining locked in vaults that answered to no key but his voice.
"I am Gil," he said simply. "The first hero, the first king, the template from which all rulers are but pale reflections. I walked this world when your ancestors huddled in caves, and I shall walk it long after your empire has crumbled to dust. But for now—" His expression softened almost imperceptibly. "For now, I find myself interested in what you and your brother might accomplish."
Vincent, who had overheard every word, studied Gil with new understanding. "And if we disappoint your expectations?"
"Then I shall move on," Gil replied with elegant indifference. "As I have countless times before. But if you exceed them..." He smiled, and this time there was genuine warmth beneath the ancient power. "Then perhaps this age might produce something worthy of remembrance after all."
As the banquet resumed around them, the three extraordinary figures at the high table regarded one another with new awareness. The game had changed. The stakes had expanded beyond mere imperial succession or continental conquest.
Whatever Gil truly was—god or myth made flesh or something else entirely—he had chosen to cast his lot with the twin rulers of Vollachia. And in that choice lay both unprecedented opportunity and unimaginable danger.
For a throne might be claimed through strength and held through cunning, but to capture the interest of a being who had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations—that was a challenge worthy of even Prisca's boundless ambition and Vincent's matchless intellect.
The Age of the Flame Crown had begun.
IX. Epilogue: The Gates of Babylon
Three years later, Prisca Benedict stood alone on the balcony of the Imperial Solarium, watching the sunset paint Vollachia's capital in shades of fire and gold. Under the shared rule of herself and Vincent, the empire had expanded its borders, reformed its most brutal practices while maintaining its philosophy of strength, and begun to transform from merely the most feared nation on the continent to potentially the most respected.
Yet tonight, her thoughts were not on policy or conquest or the endless political maneuvering that filled her days. They were on absence—specifically, the absence of a golden-haired figure who had shaped her life more profoundly than she cared to admit.
"Admiring your handiwork, Imperial Strategist?" Vincent's voice came from behind her.
Prisca didn't turn, but her lips curved in a small smile. "Our handiwork, brother. Though I take full credit for the new eastern aqueduct system."
Vincent joined her at the balcony rail, his imperial regalia exchanged for simpler attire after a day of formal audiences. "Gil would approve, I think. He always did appreciate functionality married to beauty."
The mention of their absent mentor—for that was what he had become, though neither would have used the term—hung in the air between them.
"Six months," Prisca noted. "No word, no sign. Do you think he'll return?"
Vincent considered the question with his characteristic thoroughness. "He said he had business in the north. Something about 'an old friend stirring before his time.'"
"He has a remarkable number of 'old friends' for someone who claims to have walked alone through history."
"Perhaps it's less literal than we assume," Vincent suggested. "Concepts can be friends or enemies as readily as people, to one such as him."
Prisca nodded thoughtfully. In the years since Gil's true nature had been partially revealed at their coronation, they had gleaned fragments of his history—or perhaps mythology—through occasional cryptic references and rare moments of reminiscence. They knew he had ruled a great civilization in pre-history, possessed a treasury of impossible artifacts, and viewed most human concerns with the detached amusement of one who had seen it all before.
But they also knew he had grown genuinely fond of them—in his way. He had guided their early rule with surprising patience, taught them perspectives on governance that no Vollachian text contained, and gradually shifted from mysterious interloper to trusted advisor.
Until his abrupt departure six months earlier, with only a cryptic reference to northern business and a promise that "worthy endeavors never go unobserved for long."
"The delegates from Lugunica arrive tomorrow," Vincent noted, changing the subject. "Their new Sword Saint is among them."
Prisca's eyes narrowed. "Reinhard van Astrea. Gil mentioned him once—called him 'a sword that thinks itself a shield.'"
"High praise, coming from him."
"Or criticism. With Gil, it's often difficult to tell the difference."
They lapsed into comfortable silence, watching as the last sliver of sun disappeared behind the western mountains. Just as the first stars began to appear, a flash of golden light illuminated the balcony.
Both siblings turned, expressions carefully controlled despite the surge of anticipation each felt.
Gil stood before them, unchanged as always, though his white and gold garments showed signs of what might have been battle—if any opponent could challenge him enough to leave marks.
"The prodigal mentor returns," Prisca remarked, her tone deliberately casual despite the gladness she couldn't quite conceal. "Was your northern business concluded satisfactorily?"
Gil's smile was enigmatic as ever. "An old adversary required reminder of his place in the order of things. Nothing that need concern Vollachia."
Vincent studied him with the penetrating gaze that had made more than one foreign ambassador confess secrets they had sworn to keep. "Yet you've returned at a rather convenient moment—on the eve of our most significant diplomatic summit."
"Coincidence is for those without the vision to perceive patterns," Gil replied cryptically. He moved to the balcony rail, looking out over the capital with proprietary satisfaction. "You've been busy in my absence."
"The unified judiciary was Prisca's initiative," Vincent noted. "As was the eastern expansion."
"While my brother's reforms to the Divine General selection process have already yielded stronger leadership," Prisca added. "We've implemented much of what you taught us about sustainable strength versus momentary power."
Gil nodded, genuine approval in his golden eyes. "You've begun well. But beginnings are the easy part—it's the middle chapters of a civilization's story that determine whether it's remembered as a footnote or a foundation."
"And what chapter would you say Vollachia is entering now?" Vincent inquired.
Gil turned to face them fully, his expression more serious than usual. "The chapter where you must decide whether to remain a nation among nations, or to become something more. The Lugnica delegation represents a crossroads—continue as conquerors, or pioneer a new form of strength through alliance."
Prisca's eyes widened slightly. "You're suggesting we pursue peaceful relations with Lugnica? The kingdom our father swore to subjugate?"
"I suggest nothing," Gil corrected her. "I merely observe that the truly great rulers in history are remembered not only for the territories they claimed, but for the new orders they established." He paused, golden eyes gleaming in the gathering darkness. "I knew a king once who built walls not to keep others out, but to protect what he had come to value. His name endured when empires ten times the size of Vollachia crumbled to dust."
The siblings exchanged glances, years of shared rule having forged an ability to communicate volumes with the slightest expressions.
"We'll consider your observation," Vincent said finally. "Though the council will require convincing."
"Fortunately," Prisca added with a predatory smile, "convincing others is what we do best."
Gil laughed, the sound as rich and warming as it had been on the first day they met. "Indeed it is, Princess of Ambition. Indeed it is."
As night settled fully over the Vollachian capital, the three extraordinary figures remained on the balcony, bound by something stronger than blood or politics—a shared vision of greatness that transcended the brutal traditions from which it had emerged.
And if, in the sky above them, stars occasionally shifted to form patterns unknown to Vollachian astronomers—constellations from a time before recorded history—only Gil noticed, his golden eyes reflecting light from epochs long past.
The Flame Crown had found worthy bearers at last.
~ Fin ~