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Prologue.

Music:

The Royal Ball: https://youtu.be/ej0AAivOfrw

 

The Fanfare: https://youtu.be/2lmk_wq8iyU

 

Finding The Heir: https://youtu.be/27jFRs55l5g

All music belongs to their respective artists.

 

--- 

Bramsea, Marisalia. Jan 5,1418. 1900 PET

Bramsea Palace. The 299th Founders Day Ball is in progress.  

 

Despite being a full hour into the event, the floor of the Great Hall is choked with swirling pairs of dancers. The waltz being played by a large orchestra in the corner is far too loud for any chance of conversation. At the front of the hall, a long line of distinguished-looking ladies and gentlemen in evening dress receive guests as they enter. The receiving line ends with a gentleman whose evening dress has the addition of a gold-fabric sash of medals and a gold cord under his right arm. He looks to be on the younger side of 50 years old. He has salt and pepper hair and blue eyes that seem to wander, even if they are staring at you. Despite his glamor and cheerful attitude towards his guests, he struggles to hide the stresses of his work.  

This man is Alexander Moore, the ruler of The Kingdom of Marisalia and the host of this evening’s soiree.

The line moves quickly—a small handshake here, a few polite greetings there, and a bow to the king. After roughly a half-hour, the receiving line breaks apart to mill among the crowd. Another gentleman, his office of Executive Chancellor marked by a silver-fabric sash, approaches the king and his aide. His aide is a wizened yet still somehow spry gentleman with white hair, green eyes, and a gold crown pin on his right lapel (the symbol of The Minister of The Crown). The Executive Chancellor, Edwin, makes a deep dow to the king and a small and courteous nod to the minister, who nods back.

“Time for your opening speech, Your Majesty, ” Edwin says as he looks throughout the crowd.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Alexander silently motions to a nearby guard in full dress uniform. The guard nods and slowly begins to clear a path through the crowd to a stairway, allowing the leaders to pass uninhibited. The stairway is blocked by a gold ribbon, tied from opposite ends at the bottom step. Two guards, dressed like their path-finding comrade, stand guard at the foot of the stairs to prevent any mischievous guests from removing the ribbon. The stairway curves upwards to a second-floor balcony which wraps around the Great Hall, and its railing is lined at regular intervals with the national flag. The ceiling above is host to the banners representing the 46 municipal counties of the kingdom, all hanging and waving gently in the man-made breeze.

The group unties the banner and proceeds up the stairs. About halfway up, the music from the orchestra changes to a royal fanfare. The dancing on the floor stops, and heads slowly turn to face the rear balcony. This section of the balcony houses a small podium and two guards on either side. The fanfare ends just as Alexander approaches the podium. The crowd breaks into respectful applause, but he holds his hands out for silence, which soon follows.

“Greetings, one and all!” his voice booms across the hall. “Welcome to this, our two hundred and ninety-ninth Founders’ Day ball! On this day, we celebrate the founding of this great nation and toast the future of our -ahem- home!” A small, dry cough soon begins to show, and the aide brings over a bottle of water. The king silently accepts it and takes a quick swig before handing it back to the aide.

“It sounds like I could use something stronger to wet my whistle,” Alexander says with a wry smile. The remark relaxes the crowd and even draws laughter from a few guests. However, it doesn’t fool his aide, Jacoby Howell, or Edwin. Worried looks cross their faces and disappear just as quickly as a waiter brings a glass of champagne from the Alastair Vineyards.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and esteemed guests allow me to propose a toast,” Alexander says after taking a small sip from the glass.

“To another prosperous and safe year in the Kingdom of Maris—” As he raises his glass, the cough returns, this time with a vengeance. The cough becomes violent and audible, and the king doubles over as he tries to gasp for air.

The chancellor and aide rush to the king’s side and help the king to rise. Nearby guards open the door to a hallway and escort the group out of view of the crowd.

The conductor quickly strikes up the orchestra, and the dances resume.

---

The royal bedroom overlooks the stone entrance courtyard, but the view is quickly obscured as servants draw the curtains. The room is made of dark oak, velvet, and gold trimmings. The group gently sets the king on the bed. The coughing has subsided, but the damage is already done. A picture of health and political might has been reduced to a heap of bones because of a hacking cough.

After a few minutes, a physician enters the room. He wears attire appropriate to his office, but despite the modern age, he bears the round spectacles and the pocket watch of a bygone. An armband on his right arm bears a red cross, the symbol of a court physician. He patiently takes this king's vitals, assisting him when he coughs during a breathing exercise and then speaks with Jacoby and Edwin in the hallway.

“Is it poison?” Edwin asks, making his counterpart roll his eyes.

“If it were poison,” Jacoby states. “He would be dead by now. I’ve served with three different rulers, and poison works far too quickly.”

“Well then what is-“

“It’s old age.” The physician replies. The calm response draws stares from the aide and the chancellor.

“Well, what can we do now?” Jacoby asks, glancing worriedly at the door.

“You can all relax,” The physician says. “He still has a few years left. However, I would think twice about letting him out in public. I understand he has a son, who is undergoing his conscription. Is he prepared to have him return to Bramsea and rule?”

“I don’t think he has a choice,” Edwin says as he furrows his brow. “The boy needs to learn how to do this job. I’ll have him draw up the orders.”

As he says this, he returns to the king's bedroom. The music can be heard faintly down the hall. Fittingly the tune is a slow and somber one. After a short time, Edwin returns with an envelope, which he gives to Jacoby.

“Jonathan is stationed at the 1st Mountain Division in Totford County,” Edwin whispers. “You can make it there and back before midnight if you take the trains.”

The aide nods and puts the envelope in his pocket as he quickly walks away from the group

Sometime later, the main gates of the palace open, and an electric car quietly speeds down the Kingsroad towards a private train depot.

---

Totford County, Marisalia. Jan 5, 1418. 2200 PET

Baker Company Barracks
2nd Brigade Combat Team
1st Mountain Division
Cavendish Army Base, Totford

The barracks room is hazy with cigarette smoke, and the air reeks of alcohol, despite the open window. Three men and a woman sit at a small card table, eyeing each other and the hands they’ve been dealt. After a few seconds, the men drop their cards.

“Fold,” they say in turn as the woman chuckles and collects the poker chips from the men.

“That’s, what, the tenth hand?” she grins. “You guys just give up now?”

“Yep,” One of the men says, slowly getting up and grabbing his beer. “That’s the last of my betting money anyways.”

“Oh, come on!” the woman chides, “Don’t you have a rare coin collection, Johnny?”

 “Like hell, I’m giving it to you.” Jonathan grins as he hikes a thumb at a small safe under his bed.

The young man wobbles a bit from the influence, and his speech is slightly slurred. But no one can deny that he looks like their current king if the king was much younger and was wearing the uniform of The Royal Marisalian Army while working. The resemblance isn’t a coincidence. He is the Crown Prince, after all.

After grabbing another beer, he waddles over to the card table and clumsily sits down. He fumbles with the cards to shuffle them but pauses when he hears a knock on the door. One of the players rolls their eyes as he gets up to open the door.

“Atten-tion!” He shouts as their company commander and an aide from the palace enter. The occupants quickly drop everything and stand at attention. The captain waves the smoke away and holds his nose as he surveys the occupants.

“I’m here for Sergeant Jonathan Moore,” he says. “Where is he?”

“That’s me, sir,” Jonathan says as he steps forward. The captain motions for him to follow outside. In the clear air of the hallway, the sergeant recognizes the palace aide. Jacoby helped to raise him during his younger years. The fact that he was here now wasn’t a good sign.

Jacoby places the envelope in Jonathan’s hands. Jonathan opens it and reads the letter to himself.

Dear Jonathan,

I have been told that I do not have much more time left in this world. Your presence is now required at Bramsea Palace, to continue ruling in my stead until my death.

Do not fear if you feel you are unprepared for the throne. All rulers are at some point, but you will be trained and taught by the best politicians and scholars that the nation can offer.

Therefore I, King Alexander Michael Moore IV, King of Marisalia, name you King Regent of The Realm. I confer upon you the titles, privileges, and services appropriate to your station and are, as a result of this, released from your period of conscription.

You are to return to the capital city of Bramsea and assume your duties immediately.

Your loving father,

Alexander

The words swim and dance on the page as he reads them. Both the alcohol and nervousness about his father are setting in.

“You’ll need to pack a bag,” the captain says. “We’ll ship the rest of your stuff to you later on.”

Jonathan nods, feeling numb as he packs a bag with some civilian clothes and other necessities. He’s silent as the gets in the car and then the train.

The train is a private one with specially designed cars. After boarding it, it sounds a lonely whistle blast and slowly pulls out of the depot. The second to last car is a sort of office, which Jonathan enters and sits behind the desk. On the desk is a red envelope, thick with papers. Emblazoned on the front is a crown, with the letters HMTK below it.

The work begins for His Majesty, The King.

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