The Aschan Testament

Trade

Stolas launched a squealing pig at her head, adding to the confusion of farm animals gathering in the hallway. The maid tip-toed and meandered her way through the growing crowd in pursuit of the prince, who pledged to never wear his armour again. "I am a scholar. I need my nightshirt," he said, summoning a cow taking up the width of the passage. She couldn't vault over it to harass him further.

"Yes, your royal highness," she said between deep breaths, speaking in a voice hoarse from exercise. "You are nervous, but the king commands you to face them... dressed. Do you not want their gratitude?" he tightened his defiant stare. She hesitated, flashing a worried glance at the carpet the congregation of livestock mistook for food. "Alright, fine," She let out an exasperated sigh and pressed her hand flat to her forehead, fed up. "I will fetch your brother."

For the next hour and a half of painstaking preparations where they dressed, geared and adorned him with trinkets of every kind, Stolas made a point of looking miserable. "I could pass for the court fool," he complained, making a huffing noise while raising his arms in forlorn protest, although the stuffy weight of silk and iron constrained their movements. Even the ermine pelts cloaking him rippled on the floor as if the creatures themselves were bristling in fury. It took another quarter-hour to tie everything together, but the result, at least to any commoner, befits a prince. They swept-back and dampened his dark wavy locks, revealing delicate, refined features; inky black eyes, thick round brows, and white skin with a subtle dusting of freckles. The Lazerian coat of arms, a black dragon cradled by red roses, brandished his chest plate in ornate detail, complemented by the rest of its matching set. Framing him was the white hide cloak that trailed still even when he stood. Yet he felt the circlet that crowned him to be the most prominent and important piece. Forged in pure silver and encrusted with rubies and black diamonds. "How long will this last?" he posed the question to his maids, but a far deeper voice than expected replied, making him flinch.

"As long as you take to produce enough livestock to last the winter." the King grinned. Unlike Stolas, he had fair hair, scars with stories behind them, and an athletic build trained to perfection through various wars and vigorous training. A model warrior.

"Good afternoon, father. I'm glad you appreciate my efforts," said Stolas as he bit his lip. A thank-you would be nice, he thought. Not to his surprise, his father dressed for the occasion. Somehow he carried a far more regal and terrifying authority than usual.

"You have the means and your duty as a royal is to care for your country, is it not? The people will appreciate you." the King clapped and drew the attention of the room. "Let us go." Stolas realised the maids had left and his brother had replaced them, standing quietly in the doorway.

Upon entering the centre room, the buzz of the crowd who gathered below greeted them. It was a cheerful sound and one fuelled by hope. Told of a grand announcement and little else, they had speculated daft and dangerous rumours which spread uncontrolled like the plague. "Are you ready?" pressed the King, his eyebrows knitted together. Stolas opened his mouth to reply, but the words fell short and settled as a lump in the back of his throat. As he stared longer at the curtain between him and the masses, it became distorted and the noise of the crowd became a dulled, distant hum. Doubt seeped into his mind. The concept of failure was a daunting one... and scarlet tinted memories possessed his thoughts. He sensed the cold spread within him as they engulfed him, scenes of warped flesh replaying repeatedly that he worked hard to repress. His hands trembled and his breathing reduced to a shudder.

"Stolas? Is everything alright?" his older brother Kalou appeared next to him with a sympathetic smile, snapping him out of it. Stolas gripped hold of his emotions. Meek, yet with forced confidence, he nodded.

"Yes, sorry." The family gathered together, Stolas taking a deep breath and Kalou flashing him a wink. Drawing back the curtains, they stepped onto the balcony, beckoning an uproar. A cacophony of cheers and whistles rang out as the royals basked in the crowd's vitality. The King stepped forward and addressed them.