Prologue
Death of the Old Emperor
The news of the royal emperor’s passing was long overdue. At the brittle age of 97, the Emperor became a living (more or less) symbol of royalty and less of a respected ruler. He has not held an audience for over a decade, leaving most of the important decisions to be made in his name by his court of advisors. He often confused time and recalled events that happened decades before. He had more frequent conversations with himself than his court servants.
As other royals often do, he always found himself well-fed, heavily guarded, and free of any trivial labor that might have caused his delicate body significant harm or advanced his date of passing. During peacetime, a much too common way for a royal to part with their throne is inevitable and inescapable old age. This thought regularly brought a sly smile to many a court servant who often replaced the Emperor’s bedpan, trimmed his nails, or wiped the softened food off his beard. The envy of witnessing the painless and catered life of a royal firsthand was vast, but death, the most uncompromising equalizer, favors no one. No matter how often their highness got their feet washed or how delicately their silk robes spilled over their marble throne, death made royalty equal to a mere commoner.
There was constant hidden eagerness in the court gossip when it came to the Emperor’s death. Every week a new false alarm dispelled by the court physician who was called to check on the eldest member of the royal family. The emperor often coughed a little too dry or too suddenly; his fingers have been observed to be unnaturally blue, his head too decorated with moles and therefore raised strong concerns, and his interest in his concubine seemed lower this month than the same month last year. Yet, it took almost two days for the royal staff to gain awareness of Emperor Koe’s departure from the physical world.
This crowned royal would often assume a position of utmost stillness and statue-like poise that looked too much like death if it wasn’t for an occasional hack or shifting of an eyeball. The heavy sagging of the skin around his face obstructed the Emperor’s vision, and his eyes appeared closed even when they were open. This left him partially blind. His loyal servants, on the other hand, were left in a perpetual state of confusion, questioning whether he was awake or asleep. As the royal vessel was considered sacred, the Emperor, unfortunately, could not be touched or shaken awake. Not even the royal concubine, whose delicate company the emperor enjoyed almost twice daily, was aware of his passing. (She was rather disturbed about that for many months after.)
The discovery was made by the humble court jester, who was performing the periodic routine that involved a dozen ornate feather masks. The emperor seemed to be fond of birds, but the jester was never truly sure. It was during the second costume change that he noticed a peculiar smell in the throne room. He had lived outside the palace walls since he was a child, and he knew to recognize the familiar smell of rot and decay.
Be that as it may, to utter “I smell death” in the presence of a crowned royal who could be very much alive or… perhaps on a brick of passing would be an indecent offense against the Emperor, punishable by death. So the jester sang and danced and told stories to what he was sure to be a corpse for the remainder of the afternoon, just like he did the day before.
For an agonizing four hours, his eyes watered and burned as he cackled like a buffoon and pranced like a wild lion. His beautifully painted face has started to dissolve into a terrifying grimace of desperation, the black and gold paint around his eyes dripping and peeling off his skin. For a man who spent his entire life dedicated to pleasing the court that loved to feast on the weak and intimidate their subjects with grandeur and power, he found the smell to be surprisingly overpowering. When an opportune moment presented itself, he vomited behind a stone column while the royal guard just outside the entrance was answering the call of nature.
He promptly requested an audience with the chief advisor after finishing his “performance” act. The jester, whose entire profession depended on meticulously tip-toeing around volatile subject matters with predatory vigilance, discretely hinted at the smell of death he found in the throne room. He did so several times, in different variations and with the utmost care, while the chief advisor found himself to be quite distracted by the performer’s sweaty and stressed-out appearance.
The jester appeared to be positively melting.
Thankfully, the chief advisor’s shrewd nature soon took over, and he started to get a whiff of what the jester was trying to carefully incline. He was wearing the same stoic expression as he did on his wedding day and the birth of his first son, but he called on the court physician in a matter of minutes.
The doors to the palace were locked for the first time in 24 years. No audiences were held, no feasts were thrown, and no concubines were heard laughing through the halls of the Perfumed Quarters. This officially signaled the coming of the Marble Seizure. A period of time in which any person from the royal family is permitted to make a claim for the throne. The first one to seize (or, to be exact, sit in) the throne becomes the next crowned emperor.
The Marble Seizure lasts exactly seven days, as a large marble orb gets released at the top of the tower and slowly makes its way downward. The throne will remain vacant to anyone except those with royal blood. If a royal does not seize the throne by the time it reaches the bottom of the tower, the palace walls will be opened for Public Seizure, and anyone brave enough to attempt to seize the throne will have a chance at becoming the next Emperor. They, whoever they may be, will become the head of the new royal bloodline and rule the four cities of the island.
Customarily, the seven-day rule would not raise much regard or attract attention. The noble family has rarely left the premises of the Imperial grounds. They were prohibited from associating with the commoners and spent the majority of their lives within the palace. As soon as an opportunity presented itself and the word of the Crowned Emperor’s passing reached them, one (or many) of the Emperor’s heirs made haste to seize the throne.
This, however, was a rare and curious situation. The great Emperor Koe had three living contenders: his son Kaeden and his two estranged grandchildren Kyran and Kael. The royal son was once an active ruler during his youth but relinquished his throne back to his father. In his late adulthood, he became a recluse in the east wing of the palace and was known to have subjugated mental health. Upon hearing of his father’s death, he continued to sweep the yellowing leaves around the stone bench with the palm of his hand in his small garden. (A task no one has ever required him to do) and muttered to himself: “It won’t be long before the peach tree is in blossom again”.
The eldest grandson, Kyran, was banished to Wayward Islands due to unforgivable crimes he committed in his youth. While he still remained in good health, Emperor Koe swore never to have his grandson touch foot in the royal city again. If he were ever to be found on the islands again, it would be considered treason. Of course, who is to enforce the rules now, with the Emperor dead and the future so uncertain?
It was common knowledge that Kyran was still hungry for the power and riches of the throne. After all, it was his birthright as the firstborn son. His few but devoted supporters had long waited for his grandfather to pass. This was his only chance to claim the throne and, in turn, be acquitted of all crimes in the past, present, or future as an Emperor.
The exact whereabouts of the youngest grandson were unknown for almost two years. Or they were known, but they were constantly in flux, changing like the wind. In what was known to commoners as a “foolish act of rebellion”, the Prince has left the imperial court, abandoned his distinguished palace life and education, and has not been heard of since. (Except for the monthly request for expense allowance, which was forwarded to the chief advisor.)
Many accounts of his travels were often contradictory. He was a martyr and protector of the less fortunate. He was also known to be careless with money, spirits, and women. His persona was praised for being the one of an intellectual and well-regarded modern inventor. The prince was also accused of being a demented child of royal lunatics who cross-bred too many times to keep his wits intact. Which accounts were true was yet to be seen, but the public indulged themselves in gossip and scandals plenty.
The Emperor also had a daughter known to be fond of travel and throwing lavish parties. But she showed very little interest in political affairs, even though she lived in the neighboring Summer Palace. It appeared that her husband, who was away on the latest sea voyage, would also not have a chance of claiming the throne.
Moments after the palace closed its doors and the marble orb spun slowly between the tower’s walls, the panic about the uncertain future started to slip into the restless minds of the commoners. What good is a royalty if there are none to enforce the law and keep the city from erupting into utter chaos.
What good is a Prince if he is not there to claim the throne?
