The Man in the tower (An Ostracon Story)

A frustrated king

Intro

Hey there and thanks for clicking on this story. I'm Jack and I'm the creator of Ostracon, a worldbuilding exercise I have recently undertaken. I decided early on , writing short stories would be a fun way to show the world and ideas I have in a digestible way. I am not a writer, and apart from high school, this is the first story I have ever written, so im sure it will be terrible! But it will only get better in time, I have alot of ideas for Ostracon and this is a long term project, so if you are here, all i can do is hope you join me on this journey!

This story is actually set way in the past from where I my current time setting, i thought it would be a good way to experiment with writing without causing too many problems down the line. I will try and release a chapter every few days. So lets have some fun :)

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Another day, another fruitless meeting. The king surveyed the opulent office, noting the presence of his advisor and a nervous servant. He loathed these gatherings—the relentless struggle with the council, the frustration of depending on twelve people to sanction his ideas. Today marked another setback; the king's proposal to raise funds for a new magic university in the capital had failed. Though the project was costly, the king was passionate about magic. The council, however, balked at the notion of spending a quarter of the year's taxes on a magical school, leaving him one vote shy of the seven needed.

His advisor, a stern-looking man, had convened this meeting to devise a strategy to sway the councilors. The king longed for the days when he could be on the battlefield, as he had been twenty years ago, but those days were gone. "Your Majesty, I believe we can persuade the councilman from Bronja to support us," his advisor, Geras, suggested. "What sort of persuasion are we talking about?" the king asked. "Gold," Geras replied swiftly. "How much?" "Five hundred, Your Majesty."

The king was torn between laughter and despair; five hundred gold would nearly bankrupt him. "I'll think it over, Geras," he said. With that, the meeting concluded. Seeking clarity, he decided to go for a walk.

Walking through the castle, the king found himself in the ancient wing, built long before the kingdom's records began. The strange markings on the walls and inscriptions in unknown languages exuded a sense of lost power. A cold wind swept through the area, despite the windows being shut tight. The animals stayed away—except for the rats, of course. This place, currently used as a storeroom and rarely visited by staff, was where the king could finally think. "What to do, what to do," he muttered. The gold he could afford, but it would make a bad impression on the rest of the councilmen. He wasn't a powerful mage; apart from the crown on his head, he wasn't really good at anything. The school would make the money back in time, he thought. As he was lost in thought, he noticed something odd: the room had started to get dark, very dark. It was still midday; why was it dark? Looking around for answers, he noticed a faint glow on one of the shelves.

He walked over to the shelf and spotted something that resembled a key. Instead of the usual three prongs, it ended in a sphere covered with thousands of tiny spikes. An inscription, indecipherable, ran down its length. The key exuded an aura of power, almost palpable. Unsure of its purpose, the king picked up the strange object, intending to examine it more closely. In that instant, his body froze, gripped by terror and immobility. He began to sweat as his veins turned icy and his eyes were forced shut. Plunged into total darkness, he lost all sensation except for his breath.

From the void came a booming voice, "OPEN THE GATEWAY." It felt as though the speaker was mere inches away. Suddenly, the paralysis lifted. The king dropped the key and collapsed to the ground. Panting, he looked around frantically for the source of the voice, but there was no one. It was just him and the rats, as before.

He quickly exited the storage room, retracing his steps past the office and into the throne room. The words "Open the Gateway" echoed in his mind. Which gateway was it referring to? There was the old gateway in the courtyard, but that was sacred, untouchable. Surely it must be the stress playing games with his mind. He had many questions and, lacking magic ability and knowledge, he needed help. The king could only think of one man who could assist him. Though he didn't want to speak to him after their last encounter, he had no other choice. The man the king sought was an enemy of the kingdom, held in their most secure facility—a floating island accessible only by the king's personal mage staff.

On the short journey to the island, the king had time to reflect. The last time he saw Bon, they were friends, fighting on the front lines of the last Ostra Tear, battling both Angels and Demons alike. But that was twenty years ago. Now Bon sat locked away. How had it come to this? As the king was flown up to the island, he looked back and saw Renjau, the capital, on the horizon. The stark contrast between the ancient and the new was striking—the brickwork, style, even color showed how far the kingdom had come from ancient times. Whether for better or worse, it was hard to tell. All he knew was that he lived in an amazing place.

Landing on the island, the prison was a magnificent sight, built by the best Builder Mages of the kingdom. It was a foreboding structure, rising 2,000 feet straight into the air, with spikes jutting from its sides and a few small Brontas flying around the perimeter, keeping watch. The tower was dotted with small barred openings—presumably windows, but they hardly let in enough light to see. The true wonder was at the top of the tower: a pure ball of mana, glowing like a small sun, used to power the shield field that surrounded the entire island. Inescapable. After landing, the king met with the chief prison guard. The king looked at the guard intensely, as a memory started to form. "Do I know you from somewhere?" the king inquired. "Yes, Your Majesty, I was in your battalion, leading the anti-demon bomber squad." "I remember now, you were damn good at your job." "Thank you, Your Majesty," the guard bowed. "How is he?" "How is Bon, Your Majesty? Well, it's better if you just see him yourself." The king nodded. "Take me to him."

Anxiety began to grow in the king. He couldn't remember the last time he and Bon had spoken—five, maybe ten years. He should have done better; Bon was his friend, but also his subject. On the short walk to the tower, the king felt a sharp pain in the hand with which he had picked up the key. Looking down, he noticed a burn. This was definitely not stress.