under pressure (2)

"Shit."

The words washed over Damian, their meaning sinking into his mind slowly and insidiously, like a poison gripping his heart. He turned away, running a hand through his still-damp hair. When he brought his arm down, his fingers were trembling. 

A year. Less than a year until my father passes and I assume the throne.

"The Priests can ease your father's pain with their Blessings, but the cancer has advanced quickly. It appears that time is running out. I understand that Princess Laura and Prince Leon have made their peace with this already but... Your Highness, if I may be so impertinent, you should speak with your father while you have the chance. I am a father myself, and I fear you will regret—"

"Enough, Gunther! Just...let me go at my own pace."

Gunther bowed. "You have my sincerest apologies, young master. I was out of line."

Damian loosed another shaky breath. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, pushing down the emotions threatening to rise from the pit of his stomach. The new information didn't change the truth he'd always known; and it wouldn't change how Damian felt about the situation.

"All the people ask of their King is a firm hand to pull them up in times of crisis. But to do so, first you must stand firmly yourself."

His mother's words drifted to him from a decade ago, and he swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. He couldn't let this affect him, nor his duties as Crown Prince. With great effort, Damian pushed the thoughts of his father's condition down, and stowed them in the locked box deep within his heart.

He looked back up at Gunther. If the old butler knew that Damian's smile was fake, or that the darkness in his eyes belied tears threatening to fall, he said nothing of it. 

"What else of today? Is the ball still going ahead?"

"Ah, indeed," Gunther said, also willing to move the conversation along. "The guest list has been finalized and the Flameguard are satisfied with the security arrangements. I believe the festivities shall begin at six o'clock."

"I'll be there at seven, then."

"Very good. Another thing, sire. Mariabelle has hired a new maid who will be assigned to you. She suggested a meeting between you both?"

Damian waved his hand dismissively. "You and Mariabelle can teach her everything she needs to know. I trust your judgment."

"Very good, sire. Time for breakfast, then?"

"I think so. I worked up quite the appetite this morning."

Gunther opened the door and the Crown Prince followed, straightening his jacket by the hem. A busy day ahead, it seemed, but the thought of some light socializing in the evening put a spring in his step. 

So long as he could bury the dark thoughts with some drink—and meeting some lovely ladies of the high society—he could keep the sorrow from claiming his heart.

But Gunther's warnings about the High Table still lingered on his mind as he ate breakfast. As usual, his meal was relatively light—mostly fruit and grains, with a few slices of meat—and he used the time to inspect a handful of documents from his aides. 

Though Damian didn't rule Sidralis, the king's illness had necessitated a transfer of power to the Crown Prince and to various other government officials. Since his aunt, Princess Laura, was in fact the Duchess of Caldith through marriage, she lived in the far northern stretches of the kingdom. Prince Leon—the king's youngest brother—had his hands full as the royal spymaster, so naturally, most of the other work fell to Damian.

As the king's only child, and the heir apparent to Sidralis, Damian was often hounded for press conferences and media interviews. There, he faced the consequences of his "Playboy Prince" nickname, along with dissent from the Order's most ardent supporters who viewed his lack of Blessings as proof he wasn't fit to rule. 

Relatively peaceful days like today were a rarity, and likely to get even rarer in the future. 

When he pushed his food away, a pretty young maid—perhaps the very one Gunther had been talking about—rushed forward to pour him a cup of green tea. Another aide positioned two morning newspapers in front of him.

Damian had largely repeated this morning routine for the past six years or so, since he'd been old enough to take responsibility for his family's standing. Though the Roswald family had reigned since the Starfall itself, there were always dissenting voices throughout the kingdom. Damian believed that the royal family could only continue to govern if they paid attention to all voices—even the ones with nasty things to say.

"'Tax Reform Hides Bleeding Coffers,'" Damian murmured, reading out the headline of the most popular newspaper, The Daily Press. Arguably a bunch of hack journalists with less brain cells put together than mold in the sewers, but that didn't stop a few million people from thoughtlessly devouring their words.

Damian skimmed both the papers. There was more on his father's plans to increase shipping taxes; but most worryingly, a handful of headlines about clashes between Apostles of the Collective and Priests of the Order.

"What do you make of this, Gunther?" 

Damian slid the newspaper across the table.

Nobody else sat with Damian. The king took his meals in his room—all the better for his health, according to the doctors—and since Queen Amelia's passing, the royal family had mostly split apart like a fraying blanket. Aides and other staff bustled in and out of the dining hall, but for the most part, the sixteen-seater table was occupied by only two men.

Gunther glanced at the newspaper as it hit the rim of his coffee cup. He picked up the paper, flicked it once, and narrowed his eyes as he read the article.

A moment later, he crisply folded the paper and sent it sliding back Damian's way.

"Concerning, but if the issue was as grave as the papers suggest, surely the Flameguard would have mentioned the issue to His Majesty. If we entertained every back alley brawl, we'd run out of police before we ran out of patience."

Damian drummed his fingers on the table. The Flameguard served the royal family for two purposes—firstly, as protectors of the Crown skilled in a variety of Blessings, particularly combat and healing arts. But secondly, and perhaps most importantly, the Flameguard acted as a bridge between the Crown and the Holy Order themselves. 

The Kingdom of Sidralis was not a faith-based kingdom, so to speak, but the Holy Order certainly carried a great deal of sway, especially when Sidralians' way of life rested on the Flame's Blessings. This relationship between the Crown and the Order had caused no shortage of complaints and protests throughout history. 

But usually, conflict among adherents was directed towards their religious rivals—such was the combative nature of each church's teachings.

"Five dead in a back alley brawl is rather grave to me, Gunther. All five dead were from the Order, too. If the Collective can't control their Apostles…"

"A matter for the High Table, for now. You are due to visit the Cathedral tomorrow, anyway. Perhaps you can raise this with Bishop Obediah."

"Perhaps I will." 

Something didn't feel quite right to him, but he couldn't put a finger on his unease. 

Followers of the Deep and the Flame had been clashing since the Starfall, and probably before that, too, before their respective churches had even formed. Not only were their ideologies opposed, but their Blessings were natural counterparts, and the deities they worshipped were supposedly at war with one another. There was no way that their peoples could be expected to live in harmony without some kind of confrontation.

Damian only wished he could do something—as prince or king—to ease the bloodlust in his city's streets.

A problem for another day.

With a heavy sigh, Damian pushed his chair back.

"Thank you for your counsel, as always, Gunther."

The old man blinked twice, then inclined his head.

"My opinion is always yours to seek, young master. Stay safe. I shall await your return."

Damian nodded, then turned and left the dining room, his heels clacking sharply against the floor.