A minister's speech halted as the throne room doors slammed open. The guards, posted on either side, stiffened upon sight of the dark figure striding in; black boots scuffing on white marble, the only echo in the silent hall. A trail of filth and dried blood flaked off a worn cloak and marked the path they cut through the vaulted space. A dozen nobles cast their gazes to the floor and kept their tongues locked behind a cage of teeth as the figure in black swaggered past—swinging a severed head all the while.
The figure came to a stop in front of the dais and gave a mocking bow to the hateful man on the throne, then tossed the severed head onto the royal platform. The head unceremoniously rolled to a stop between the king's feet, and wide, dead eyes met the gaze of the utterly unmoved King Sebastian Ether—the heart of the rot consuming the Kingdom from the inside. Sebastian flicked his gaze to the figure, only to find a head of short chestnut locks, an arrogant smirk, and ice-blue eyes, cold and unfeeling.
"I, Foster Grey, ordained as Hero of the kingdom and Commander of the Black Griffon order of knights, present you, King Sebastian Ether, the head of your most hated, the vile evil that plagued your fertile lands. I have slain the Demon lord by your will and the binding vow that compels me." Invoking the vow, a golden brand materialized on Foster's forehead—its whirling pattern, an ancient language of power. Foster had long since deciphered it. To be fair, it was a crude recreation of actual power words—man's pale imitation of Draconic, the tongue of Dragons, or even Demonic cursed speech. Those were real languages of power—they did not just manipulate the ambient Zyph; they were Zyph.
Foster might've broken the vow on his own—if someone hadn't secretly fed it with stolen life. Blood sacrifice. Human, by the feel of it. That mystery had Regina's dogs in the church sniffing around the Pope already.
"Very well, Hero Foster Grey, by the heroic binding vow, I shall grant you one request. Speak now." The king slightly tightened his grip on the throne's armrest, the only sign he felt anything at all. Foster pinned it as greed—a jockey afraid to let go of his winning stallion.
Foster took a moment to peruse the dais. It wasn't just Sebastian up there—the important members of the royal family was seated on smaller thrones beside him. Queen Ophilia Ether, once a mere consort, only frowned down at the head that lay at her husband's feet. With piano-black hair and a nose like a beak, she smelled of vanilla and almond—sickly sweet even from twenty feet away. Foster watched her, surprised she had no backhanded quip to launch at him. Perhaps even snakes can have their meals spoiled, he supposed.
Crown Prince Barnik sat stiffly beside the queen, his knee bouncing nervously as he clutched a hand to his mouth, trying his damndest to keep from spilling his stomach in front of the entire royal court. Seventeen years old, and he still looked like a boy playing dress-up in royal purple. Foster's gaze slid off him. He'd already wasted enough time loathing the bratty little snot.
On the other side of the king sat the famed royal trio—Randall, August, and Monica. Foster still considered it a miracle that the late Queen Nadia, Zyph rest her weary soul, managed to raise the tyrant's spawn into the best friends he'd ever had.
Randall, the eldest, sat with his back straight as a sword—every inch the hulking bear he'd always been. The big-brother softness was buried under a hardened, political front wrapped in martial severity. Younger and dumber, Foster remembered countless nights spent dragging his drunk ass out of taverns. He couldn't suppress the laugh—it slipped out before he could stop it.
Now? Nothing packs on the years like commanding a warfront. He looked like a soldier, not a diplomat—but that didn't mean he wasn't damn good at politics.
Next to him, August—second-born to the royal line—slouched on his throne like it was a tavern couch. Elbows propped, legs sprawled, and offering only the vaguest flicker of interest in the bodyless Demon Lord. He'd been everywhere, yet had nowhere to be.
Tan skin, sun-bleached lavender hair, and a sly sort of grin—he spent his time usually in one of three places: on the road, in a dueling arena, or in a bed, plucking an 'exotic flower.' Foster used to joke that August didn't chase women—he just kept walking until he tripped over one.
And yet, despite all that, the bastard held a sword like he was born with one already in hand. He collected obscure fighting styles—one bout with him always taught Foster more than any Knight of Ether ever could.
Then there was Monica—the third and last child born to the late queen, and easily the most dangerous. She wielded barbed words almost as well as she did magic—reality-shaping magic, to be specific. She was a vision in purple, all poise and polished royal bearing, her half-up braid woven into that rose-shaped bun she liked—an elegant middle finger to every noble who expected a corset and a curtsy.
She caught Foster's eye. He winked. She flushed, then scowled—one twitch from a vulgar gesture before remembering she sat on a throne in a room full of people. Her scowl deepened.
He grinned back at her.
Satisfied, Foster turned back to the king to give him an answer and nearly choked on a laugh when he saw the several throbbing veins snaking up the king's neck. Foster had rarely seen the king so furious. That alone made the chuckle and wink worth every ounce of disrespect. He couldn't wait to get this farce over with. Monica asked him to discredit the king as much as possible without getting an execution order when they spoke in secret the night before. Foster felt he was doing a terrific job of it so far. He thought this was bad? Sebastian hadn't seen anything yet. When this meeting ended, the king would be too scared to ever look him in the eye again.
Ever since the head of the Demon Lord rolled off his shoulders, Foster felt a schism—a fracture in the vows that bound him to the throne in magic chains made of words. Sebastian—and by extension, the knight's oath—demanded obedience. Demanded immutable service.
But the Heroic vow, the one written by the legendary Hero King and founder of Ether Kingdom, Andeir Ether… It wanted to be respected. It called for its due pay for a job well done. Like any hero, it whispered in his ear to dream bigger—to hope for a brighter tomorrow.
Then, the marble of the vaulted hall echoed the words that might very well cascade into the future far further than Foster could ever imagine.
In his booming voice, he spoke:
"My wish, Your Majesty," Silence fell as Foster chose his words, "is for you to abdicate the throne in favor of Prince Randall Ether."