Majesty

The tale of Rafa began with the end of Kali. She had been Queen of the Mouth and Guardian of Pran, mother of the Black Prince Zogu, and one of the richest humans to have lived. She spent the prime of her life leading the Numi Golden Age. Her final words were, “After fifteen years, I will finally see my Zogu again.”

Rafa’s coronation was delayed for three days by rain and fog. Mud and dung clung to the boots of the people of Pran as they watched him take the crown and scepter of House Numi. The crowd was small for a coronation of this magnitude, but understandable— the Red Plague had nearly wiped out half the city. Rafa’s makeup hid his own scars from the pestilence. He looked out at the populace gathered in the dull yellow–tiled plaza and delivered a short speech. There was clapping, then the singing of the dynasty’s song, and finally the royal entourage made its way to the palace.

Rafa should have been giddy with joy, or burning with the hunger to shape the world as he saw fit. Instead, the new king sulked in his buggy as he passed the wet, filthy streets of Pran. The old majesty of the city’s buildings was buried beneath mud and rot. Some structures were missing entire walls, their brickwork exposed in a rugged, shameful way. The city Rafa inherited was breathing its last breath, and he knew it. The trade winds no longer carried travelers to the Mouth—the beautiful bay that had been the center of the world for two centuries. War loomed on the horizon as the Tritan Empire pushed into Numi borders.

“I am the King of the Dead,” he muttered. “The Golden Age died with my brother.”

Lyra looked at her husband with concern. She knew he didn’t want this. No one did—not his mother, not their subjects, and certainly not her. She and Rafa had dreamt of seeing what lay beyond Pran, of getting lost in distant cities, collecting stories to tell their children. A quiet life. But here they were, twisted into fate’s design.

The procession arrived at the Palace of Kamat, another legacy of a great king now withering under erosion. Minister Shamsi opened the carriage door and prostrated before the new King and Queen. He was a ghastly man, a skeleton held together by skin, his face corroded by decades of self‑experimentation. A relic of a forgotten era, his ambition clung to him like a leech.

“Your Majesties, there is still much ceremony left. Balls and dinners have been arranged for the next three nights. The dukes of Ziha, Jifa, and the Sonder Isles have requested private meetings with the King. The counts of their duchies expect an address during tonight’s dinner. Diplomats from Tauria, Cannal, and Mistuban also request a private audience. They will attend tonight’s dinner and dance.”

As the minister spoke, his cat‑like eyes shimmered, waves of rainbow color flooding through them—another side effect of his experiments. It always perplexed Lyra how a man with no children or family could sacrifice so much for nothing at all. Power was a filthy ambition. This was one thing she admired about her husband: Rafa had recognized the stench of the throne early in life. He had never vied for its poison.

“Cancel the balls,” Rafa said. “I will meet the dukes and counts now. Arrange a meeting with our allies this evening.”

“My king, the dukes will not appreciate being addressed at the same time as their subordinates—or in the same place.”

Rafa sighed. “Have the dukes meet me in my apartment. Set up a meeting with the counts in the throne room. One more thing—where is the Duke of the Farlands?”

“He has joined the Tritans, Your Majesty.”

“Was my mother aware of this?”

“General Hosunlu was deployed to deal with the traitor.”

“Any word from him?”

“His legions were ambushed by the rebels. That is the last message we received.”

The infamous throne was already baring its fangs at her husband. He held firm before his subjects, but Lyra could see the decay setting in.

Their apartment sat empty, all the furniture and art moved to the royal quarters. Still, she insisted they spend one last night here. This had been their home for seven years—the place where she had lain with her groom on their wedding night. She had become a woman here; he had become a man. These walls were the only witnesses to their growth. A knock disturbed her thoughts. She veiled herself and slipped into the bedroom.

Rafa watched his wife disappear, then turned to the visitors. The Dukes of Ziha, Jifa, and the Sonder Isles entered and prostrated before him.

“Stand, good lords Ziha, Jifa, and Sonder. On this day I am charged with your protection and your posterity’s. What troubles do you bring?”

Ziha, clad in crimson robes decorated with the silver of his duchy, spoke first. “Your Majesty, since the Farlands’ rebellion, Ziha bleeds dry of her silver. Tritans raid deep into our lands, looting our prosperity and enslaving our women and children. We cannot send our levy to the Mouth this year. Shamefully, we request additional soldiers and arms.”

Jifa, gold ornaments shimmering on his violet drape, followed. “Your Majesty, our wine production has doubled. The harvest was bountiful, and we are willing to share with our friends in Ziha. However, we too require muscle and armaments. Trita and the rebels encroach on our borders daily. Recently, our scouts found the remnants of General Hosunlu’s forces in the Waterside Forest of the Farlands. This will embolden our enemies to launch a full‑scale invasion into Jifa.”

Sonder, swathed in indigo with pearls from his duchy glinting in the afternoon light, bowed. “Your Majesty, our fleet continues to command the Bay of the Mouth. The sea still blesses us with her fruits. We can share our pickled fish and pearls with Ziha. Our concern is trade—our tariffs have evaporated. The harbors of the Isles and the Mouth need investment. Ships are larger now, and more numerous. Our ports lack capacity, and their design ensures congestion.”

“Thank you for raising your concerns, my lords. I will address them in the general assembly today. If you or your counts remain unsatisfied, arrange to meet me tomorrow. We will have solutions before you return to your holds.”

Rafa stared out onto the bay. Waves licked the ancient shoreline his ancestors had carved out in blood. He felt like a moth trapped in the web of history. His only comfort was his wife's embrace. Their dreams had been claimed by responsibility, yet she accepted this reality with him. She walked out to him, unveiling her face, which shimmered with the faintest jewels. Her skin was as deep as the sea, her eyes almonds of quiet hope, her lips two rose-soft petals, and her embrace held the warmth of a winter hearth. The two stood submerged in a quite moment.

The throne room was a grand, archaic chamber still echoing bygone glory. Its gold had been stripped away in his mother's time. The silver, jewels, and pearls had followed. Only the naked grey stone stood, ornamented with royal banners, flowers, and tapestries of stories whose characters had long faded into myth. The throne itself remained unchanged, a seat made of marble with an obsidian base. Two sentries stood on either side, fanning the new ruler. The jade crown pressed heavily onto his skull. The dukes and ministers stood evenly on either side of the throne. The counts, officers, and lesser ministers gathered in the pit facing the throne. Guards stood at attention flanking the pit, their iron armor glinting in the late‑afternoon light. A trumpeter stood between the king, and his audience.

He blared his horn. “Lords of the realm, commanders of her armies, and ministers of His Majesty, gathered here to celebrate the ascension of King Rafa of House Numi to the throne of the Mouth. Blessed are we to hear the first words of His Most Excellent Majesty.”

The king stood, "Hyenas have encircled our pride. But the rule of the lion is unquestionable. The armies of the Mouth will march to defend our vassals, and punish the traitors who have stolen our generosity. All ports in the realm will be refurbished, expanded, and modernized. All food surplus across all duchies will be shipped to the Mouth. Tariffs will be halved across all goods, levies will be doubled for two years on the nobility of the realm."

Looks darted across the room as this final line was uttered.

The dining hall had the same bare grey stone, ornamented minimally by heraldry. Sentries stood alert by the two entrances set parallel to one another. An ancient ebony table dominated the room, with antediluvian chairs of the same heartwood arrayed around it. At the head sat Rafa; at the opposite end sat Lyra. Diplomatic entourages sat on either flank, arranged in seniority with the elders near the king. Their consorts sat at the other end with the queen. Torches cast grim shadows over the assembled company.

Eseli Orush, the weathering Taurian garbed in a flowing white tunic and tapered trousers, spoke first. “Tauria wishes long health and glory to Your Majesty. King Sebas is eager to renew our alliance—on firmer terms. The drought in the Northern Plains has strained our coffers. His Excellency requests increased grain shipments and reduced tariffs on Taurian caravans. Your sister, Queen Raia, sends her warmest regards and blessings.”

Rafa inclined his head. “Send His Highness’s terms in the morning. A private audience will be arranged the day after.”

The Taurian delegation bowed, their relief thinly veiled. They needed food more than friendship.

Mesab Haga, shimmering in youth and golden threads, stepped forward next. “The Prince of Cannal wishes fortune upon your house, sire. With new rulers in both our realms, our treaties must be reaffirmed. Cannal will honor its naval patrols—if the Mouth maintains its pledge to suppress piracy in the Sunrise Sea. If I may have your word, we can proceed tonight.”

Rafa’s voice cooled. “We will need time and consultation.”

Mesab pressed. “Your brother and mother were decisive. Prince Hashun Haga is a decisive man. What word may I send him, sire?”

Rafa did not blink. “A quarter ton of gold and a hundred tons of silver will guarantee our continued support in Cannal’s campaign.”

The Cannalman’s smile was a mask of diplomacy and insult. His delegation rose and left the hall.

Sukunder Kham, a middle‑aged warrior bearing scars of countless conflicts, stepped forward. “The Republic of Mistuban recognizes your ascension and the sovereignty of the Mouth. The Council of Tribunes and the High Warden wish to maintain our mutual defense pact and tariff‑free trade. But the Council requests clarity on your kingdom’s new military posture.”

Rafa nodded. “We will discuss further tomorrow evening. There are modifications we request of the Council and the High Warden.”

The Mistubani bowed and returned to their seats.

Across the table, Lyra sat among the consorts, their chatter sharpened into prongs disguised as courtesy. Their smiles were lacquered, their questions barbed, their glances slicing toward her like quiet verdicts. She held her posture with practiced grace, but Rafa saw the strain in her fingers—how they tightened around her goblet, how her breath thinned each time a consort mentioned “the expectations of a queen.”

This was not the life she had chosen. It was the inheritance of blood‑soaked duty, a crown placed on two souls who had once known gentler dreams. And as the torches cast grim shadows over the hall, Rafa felt the weight of rulership corroding them both—slowly, inevitably.