Chapter 1: The Reluctant Coronation
The grand hall of Deylon’s palace gleamed under the midday sun, banners fluttering, guards at attention, and courtiers whispering like startled birds. At the center of the spectacle stood Alistair Deylon—fifth prince, a man whose greatest ambition was to never be important enough to be noticed, to sip his morning chocolate, and occasionally indulge in a clandestine midnight run to the tavern.
Today, however, that dream lay in ruins.
“And thus, by the will of His—h-his Majesty the King,” stammered the Grand Chamberlain, trembling so violently that the heavy parchment shook in his hands, “I hereby declare the next ruler of Deylon… the F-fifth Prince!”
A collective gasp swept through the hall. Alistair’s carefully composed posture remained impeccable, though inside, a slow, creeping horror took root.
Fifth Prince? …That’s me.
“Err… I—I mean,” the Grand Chamberlain sputtered, cheeks flaming scarlet, “the—uh—the First Prince! Yes! Of course, the First Prince!”
Alistair’s brow lifted imperceptibly.
Oh. He’s correcting it… isn’t he? Excellent.
But the Chamberlain, now glaring as if Alistair’s very eyes threatened his dignity, stiffened. “No! N-nonsense. The Fifth Prince shall ascend the throne! A—a tradition of… strategic succession!”
The hall froze.
Murmurs rose like a tide, rippling through silk and steel alike. And Alistair—King Alistair now, whether he liked it or not—felt his entire life of leisure crumble into dust.
The First Prince, Victor, practically erupted, his face red enough to rival the palace banners. “What madness is this? Fifth Prince? I—I am the heir! This is preposterous!” His hands waved violently, scattering ceremonial papers and nearly knocking over a candle.
The Second Prince, Leo, merely grunted, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I don’t care. My men are waiting on the battlefield anyway. Let him have the throne. Less paperwork for me.” With that, he strode off, already lost in his campaigns.
The Third Prince, Casimir, leaned back, a faint, amused smirk curling his lips. “Well, this will make family dinners… interesting.” His wives whispered behind him, delighting in the unfolding drama as though it were entertainment.
And then there was the Fourth Prince.
Evan.
Frail, pale, and seated slightly apart, he observed Alistair with sharp, calculating eyes. As he whispered something into one of his maids’ ears, Alistair’s blood ran cold as he realized one thing.
He’s already plotting. I need someone clever enough to counter him.
And then, as if summoned by sheer desperation, he remembered the words of his late tutor, Johanna Clara Louise.
“Young Prince, a king is but a conductor of many hands. The music of a kingdom need not be played by thee alone.”
His mind clicked.
Delegation. Strategy. Outsourcing the impossible.
Let the incompetents squabble.
A polite cough drew his attention. The court waited. They expected a speech.
He opened his mouth.
And promptly froze.
“Ah… er…” Alistair’s lips moved, producing a sound somewhere between a proper greeting and a mild choking fit.
Speak, King Alistair. Speak as if thou wert not on the verge of losing thy mind entirely.
He cleared his throat, adopting the most solemn expression he could muster.
“I… humbly accept this crown… and shall endeavor to…” He faltered. “…to uphold the dignity and… um… the… well, the responsibilities of my station.”
A pause.
Silence.
Perfect, he thought, already noting which individuals might be convinced to run the treasury, command the guard, and—if fortune truly smiled upon him—allow him to live the life of a very well-dressed, very lazy king.
And somewhere in the shadows of the gilded chamber, Alistair swore he could hear the faint rustle of plotting—or perhaps it was merely the echo of his brothers.
Either way, the game of delegation had begun.
The princes wasted no time leaving.
The First Prince, Victor, shot Alistair a glare sharp enough to cut. His jaw was tight, hands clenched as though restraining a storm. Victor’s pride was palpable, but he wisely held his tongue, storming past with a swish of his crimson cloak.
Noted, Alistair thought. Attempted coup potential: high. Must find competent—and preferably loyal—hands quickly.
The Second Prince had already vanished.
The Third Prince glided past with a lazy smirk, winking at Alistair. “I don’t much care which one of you rules, as long as I keep getting my allowance. Have fun ruling the kingdom, dear brother~”
Ah, yes. No threat, so long as he’s paid.
Lastly, the Fourth Prince, Evan, rose with difficulty, aided by his two maids. He offered a measured bow.
“May your reign be long and prosperous, Brother…”
His voice was soft.
His eyes were not.
Quiet. Observant. Dangerous.
I’ll need to account for him.
The hall emptied, leaving Alistair alone with the lingering echoes of a coronation no one—least of all him—had expected.
He let out a slow breath, straightening the heavy cloak.
Now we begin, he thought. Let us see who is capable… and who can be persuaded to do the work for me.
No sooner had the last prince departed than the Grand Chamberlain cleared his throat, bowing deeply.
“Your Majesty… I… wish to announce my retirement,” he stammered, clutching a rolled parchment tightly against his chest.
Alistair’s brow lifted imperceptibly.
Retirement? At a time like this?
The man’s hands twitched as he discreetly slid the late King’s final will into his sleeve, hiding it as though the paper itself were a dagger.
Of course. Trust no one.
Alistair’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Chamberlain gone. Ministers wavering. Brothers hostile.
Excellent. The kingdom was dissolving faster than expected.
The new king settled onto the throne, letting the heavy velvet cushion swallow him.
“Leave me,” he said with a small wave. “I want to be alone.”
One by one, the servants departed.
Silence.
The weight of the crown pressed down—not gold, but expectation.
“First the generals, now the Chamberlain…” he muttered. “I can’t rule a kingdom with ghosts.”
His gaze drifted to the stained-glass window where his governess once stood.
Her voice echoed in his mind.
“If you have no allies, then make some.”
He froze.
“You’re forgetting an entire group of highly qualified and often overlooked people, are you not?”
“…Of course,” he breathed.
His eyes sharpened.
“The Otherworlders.”
“They’re like her,” he murmured. “Full of knowledge… beyond imagination.”
A spark lit within him.
“If I can rally them…”
His smile returned—dangerous this time.
“…this kingdom can enter a new age.”
The doors opened. Ministers entered.
“I wish to announce my first royal decree.”
Silence fell.
“I hereby decree that all Otherworlders are to be welcomed within our kingdom.”
Horror answered him.
“Then I will,” Alistair finished calmly.
“If one Otherworlder could shape a king…”
He let the words settle.
“…imagine what a hundred could do for a kingdom.”
For the first time since the crown touched his head—
he understood exactly what this decision would cost him.
He did not take it back.
End of Chapter 1...
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