Vesper
_______
The balcony's stone burns under my palms, warm from the desert sun, and the air chokes me with salt and dust. I lean out, eyes shut against the fading glare, letting my mind slip back to where it always goes: the throne room I haven't seen in seven cursed years.
In that shadowed hall, a crown sits heavy on my brow, cold and sharp, its edges biting my flesh like a warning. Power surges through me, a dark current fed by the priests' chants beyond the walls—hymns that sing of my triumphs, my conquests, my name carved into eternity. I see it clear as day: tall windows spilling gold across the chamber, framing the city I ruled. Below, my subjects swarm like ants, their voices rising in worship, their loyalty soothing the restless ache in my soul. Beyond the walls, emerald hills stretch to the horizon, sliced by rivers gleaming like silver veins through ancient redwoods. The mosaic floor hums under my boots, etched with the deeds of dead kings, their energy pulsing into me. Above, the ceiling soars—marble and amethyst, a vault fit for gods.
To my left, statues and portraits of my ancestors glare down, their victories mere whispers next to the roar I'll unleash. At the room's heart squats the throne, black as midnight, forged from some lost metal, its arms carved with the names of shattered kingdoms and slaughtered kings. I can almost taste it, sinking into that cold seat: the rush of command, the power to end lives with a flick of my wrist. With a mere wave of my hand, I can snuff out lives.
"Prince Vesper, a letter for you." The voice is soft, timid, slicing through my reverie like a dull blade.
I groan, eyes snapping open, and the vision shatters. The Great City of Jade sprawls before me, capital of this wretched Zephyrian Empire, its buildings glinting in the desert haze. The Rose Sea shimmers beyond, a cruel mockery of the homeland I lost. Seven years I've rotted here, a prisoner in a gilded cage, and the sight only twists the knife deeper. They call this city a jewel, founded by some empress with raven-black hair, betrayed and gutted by her own handmaidens after three years. Scholars still prattle about her, puzzling over why her servants turned on her. I don't give a damn. Women were never meant to rule. Their weakness invites ruin.
"Every time I find peace, some fool ruins it," I mutter, spinning from the balcony. Lucinda, my aide, trembles in the doorway, a scroll clutched in her bare hands. I snatch it from her, scowling. "What did I tell you? Gloves, girl! I'll not have your filthy fingers fouling my chambers."
She flinches, eyes glued to the floor, as I stalk back to the balcony and unroll the parchment. My blood boils as I read. "The year is 1112 AC, and these false kings squabble over my lands like I'm already rotting," I spit, venom lacing every word. The words sear: more petty wars, more usurpers claiming what's mine by right. "No good news, ever! I should have my spies flayed—Lucinda!" I whirl on her, my glare sharp enough to cut. She quakes, hands twisting, unable to face me.
"I should toss you over this ledge for bringing such filth," I snarl, stepping closer. Before I can decide her fate, the steel doors groan open, and Zephyr IV, Sultan of Zephyria, strides in, trailed by guards and fawning servants. His silks and gold gleam like a peacock's tail.
"You will not harm my spies nor touch my servants, Prince Vesper," Zephyr says, his voice steady as stone. "You are a guest in my house. Remember it."
My jaw clenches, rage simmering under my skin. This strutting lord dares command me, the rightful king of the West? I swallow the retort, bowing my head with a mockery of respect. "Your house, my apologies." One day you'll kneel, Sultan. Soon.
I clear my throat and stride to the cluttered desk, sitting as Zephyr settles opposite. Our eyes lock, a silent clash of wills. "What do you want to discuss?" I ask, voice sharp. "War, perhaps, with those bastards across the sea?"
"I've told you, Prince, it's unwise to wage war against multiple kings," Zephyr replies.
"Multiple false kings!" I slam my fists on the table, surging to my feet. His guards, clad in gilded armor, edge closer, hands on swords. Zephyr raises a hand, but his gaze stays fixed.
"False kings, then," he says, voice hardening. "Still, my fleet is small, my army thinner. We muster fifty thousand at best. The Isles of Ivory alone—one of the six kingdoms you'd have me fight—raised sixty thousand in three days to face King Damien the Lost. Three days, Vesper, and they outnumber us."
Silence falls, heavy as a noose. The guards watch, tense as hounds. My throat tightens, but I force a smirk. "So that's a no?"
Zephyr's patience frays, his jaw clenching as he rises. "I nearly forgot," he says, pausing at the door. He tosses a scroll onto the desk with a flick of his wrist. "A boy calling himself King John I arrives tomorrow to seek your sister's hand. I meant to turn him away, but… circumstances shift. She will wed him, whether you approve or not."
Shock steals my breath, my arrogance crumbling. The gall of this man! Zephyr chuckles, a low, smug sound, and sweeps out, the doors slamming behind him.
I stare at the scroll, fury rising like bile. I'll finish what the sun started with his people and burn them alive.
In my chambers, I pace like a caged beast, the day dragging on. I vent my rage to a whore Lucinda fetched after Zephyr's exit, her dark skin glistening in the lamplight. I down glass after glass of their "finest" red wine, sourced from the city's vineyards. They call it prestigious, but it tastes like every other swill I've had.
Two pitchers in, my head swims, and I'm buried inside her, a woman from the people I despise. "I can't tell if it's the wine," I slur, fingers grazing her dark nipple, "or if I've gone mad, but your skin's warm, golden, and your eyes… they steal my soul." I flash a smile, all charm.
She frowns, then blushes, falling for the lie. Her hands rest on my sides, her Zephyrian accent thick. "They say the Prince from across the sea is vile. But with you, I see the opposite."
I chuckle, fingers tightening on her nipple. "It's astonishing," I sneer, "how you desert rats are so naive."
I twist hard, her scream piercing the air. Hovering over her, I grab Heart Grabber from the nightstand, its weight thrilling in my hand. I unsheathe it and slice off her flesh, her agony fueling my laughter. I toss the blade aside and clamp my hands around her throat, crushing her trachea. She thrashes, but my weight pins her down.
"You're a fucking whore!" I hiss, pressing against her, forcing her legs apart and plunging back inside. Her body spasms, clinging to life. I lean close, whispering, "Where are your gods now? Did they abandon you?"
Her dignity crumbles under my words, and I revel in it. Minutes later, I finish, rolling off her as my consciousness fades. Sprawled in sweat and blood, I mutter, "I'll regret this tomorrow. But it was fun."
The next day, exhaustion gnaws at me. Disposing of the girl was grim—bribes to guards, lies to mask the stench of death. But I played the penitent well before Zephyr, spinning a tale of regret that kept King John's ships at bay, for now. Smirking, I stride to Elysia's chambers, my cloak billowing like a storm. The guards part, and I find her at the window, golden hair glowing in the dusk.
"Vesper," she murmurs, turning to me, her sheer gown stirring unwanted heat in me. "Is all well? The guards spoke of… a killing."
"A thief, nothing more," I lie, meeting her hazel stare. She searches my face, and I pray she drops it.
The doors burst open, Zephyr storming in, gesturing to the window. "They're here."
"The gods?" I ask, glancing over before glaring at him.
"No, the boy king and his fleet."
I rush to the window, heart sinking. Dozens of ships, yellow banners of House Barelli slicing the horizon. "For fuck's sake! I thought you sent word Elysia's hand wasn't for marriage!" I snap.
"I did!" Zephyr retorts, his own anger flaring.
A deep horn blares, shaking the city. "I want you downstairs, Vesper," Zephyr orders, striding out.
My jaw clenches. "He'll not have her," I mutter. Not while I breathe.
The horn's wail rattles my bones as I pace the pier, boots pounding the creaking planks. The yellow banners of House Barelli loom closer, their sails like a beast's teeth. My fingers itch for Heart Grabber's hilt, its weight grounding me against the fury in my chest.
Zephyr stands nearby, arms crossed, his eyes flicking between me and the fleet. His warriors, armored in gold and steel, stand rigid. The wind carries salt and rot, tugging at my cloak as I round on him.
"I thought you turned them away!" I snarl. "You swore Elysia's hand was safe!"
"I did," Zephyr snaps. "A ship carried my refusal, sealed by my hand. Yet here they are." His eyes narrow at the ships. "Either my message was lost, or this boy king spits on my word."
I laugh, bitter and cold. "Boy king with a fleet like that? John Barelli's no child—he's a viper, come for my bloodline, my throne." I jab a finger at the sea. "I'll drown him before he steps ashore."
"You'll do no such thing," Zephyr says, stepping closer, his voice sharp. "We meet with words, not blades. This is my city, Vesper, and I'll not see it bleed for your temper."
"Words?" I spit. "Words won't stop a usurper. He wants Elysia, and through her, my birthright. I'll not stand here while he claims it."
Zephyr's jaw tightens, but he stays calm. "I'll not risk my people in a war we can't win. Look at those ships—galleys, carracks, crawling with men. We've no fleet to match, no army to hold if they storm us. Want your throne? Use your head."
His words sting, and my nails bite my palm. I hate his reason, hate this exile, hate the power slipping away. I turn to the sea, the banners growing larger in the twilight. The lead ship's bear figurehead snarls, oars slicing the water to a warlike drumbeat.
"Your weapons?" Zephyr asks, cutting through my rage.
"Of course," I snap, patting Heart Grabber. "A prince is always ready."
His lips twitch. "And those you love?"
I freeze, then turn, eyes narrowing. "Elysia needs no blade of mine. She's safe behind your walls, isn't she? Or do you doubt your guards?" I step closer, voice low. "Why this sudden care for my sister, Sultan? What's your game?"
Zephyr meets my gaze. "She's a piece on this board, like you. If she falls, we all suffer. But you'd let her burn for your pride. She's trouble, you say, yet useful."
"If she comes to harm, she's earned it," I retort, shrugging. "She's always been a thorn." I stalk down the pier, leaving Zephyr muttering about the ignorance of young princes.
The sun's gone, and torchlight pierces the city's shroud. I stand at the pier's end, the sea lapping below, mocking my racing heart. The Barelli fleet anchors a league out, lanterns twinkling like fallen stars. No boats row ashore, no banners challenge—yet. I count the masts: thirty, maybe forty. Enough for an army, enough to siege this city.
"They'll not dock tonight," Zephyr says, joining me. "They wait for dawn, for their grand entrance. Gives us time."
"Time for what?" I growl, eyes fixed on the ships. "To polish your excuses? To braid Elysia's hair for her wedding?"
"To plan," he says, ignoring my barb. "John Barelli's no fool. He's brought force, but he'll talk first—secure his claim through marriage, not steel. We can use that."
I snort, but he continues. "I've summoned my captains. We meet at midnight in the war chamber, map their numbers, gauge their intent. You'll be there, Vesper, and you'll listen. Rage won't win this."
I nod, a sharp jerk. "Fine. Midnight. But if it comes to blades, I won't hesitate."
Zephyr inclines his head, a glint of approval in his eyes. "Nor should you. But let's not rush to slaughter."
We turn from the pier, the city's lights sprawling like a glowing net. As we climb the palace steps, a cry pierces the air—a sharp sound from the cliffs. My hand flies to my dagger, but Zephyr stops me.
"A hawk," he says, peering up. "Hunting in the dark."
I spot its wings against the stars. "An omen," I mutter. "Blood's coming, one way or another."
Zephyr's silence says enough. We ascend into the palace, the night's weight pressing on me like a crown I can't wear or escape.