Coming of Age Ceremony

On the day of the ceremony, Princess Zephyrine stood before her mirror, the final touches of her attire falling into place. Her dress, a rich emerald gown of silk, clung gracefully to her form, the deep color mirroring the intensity of her viridian eyes. Her fiery red hair, delicately braided with strands of pearls, cascaded down her back, shining like rays of sunlight against the dark fabric. The dress had been carefully chosen to match the vivid green of her eyes, accentuating the striking beauty that was uniquely hers. The rich emerald fabric shimmered with every movement, an ethereal reflection of her royal status and the inner strength she carried.

Her ladies-in-waiting, standing around her, could hardly suppress their admiration. Each of them whispered amongst themselves, their voices filled with awe.

"Your Highness, you look like you were born to wear that gown," one said, her eyes wide as she gazed at Zephyrine. "No one could compare to you. The way it accentuates your beauty... it's like the very earth has blessed you with its grace."

Another lady-in-waiting nodded in agreement, her voice soft but sincere. "Indeed, Princess. Your beauty is unmatched. With those eyes, you could captivate every man in the empire. No one could stand a chance against you."

The compliments continued, but it was the youngest of the ladies, a shy, eager girl, who spoke with a hint of sadness in her voice. "It's such a pity, though," she murmured, her eyes lowering to the floor. "With you looking so beautiful, it's a shame you cannot attend the prince's coming-of-age ceremony. Surely, every man in the empire would be smitten with you."

Zephyrine gave a soft, knowing smile, her gaze fixed on her reflection. "Even my mother cannot attend," she said quietly, her voice laced with a touch of melancholy. "Why mention me? I cannot attend the ceremony, but my heart will always be with my brother. That is enough."

It was a custom that the men were excluded from the women's coming of age ceremony and women were excluded from the men's coming of age ceremony.

There was a brief silence before another lady-in-waiting spoke up, her tone more practical. "Your Highness, Her Majesty sent us to ask if you would join her at the temple. She wishes for you to pray for the prince's well-being and success."

Zephyrine nodded, her expression softening. "Thank you. I will go to the temple now. The prayers are as important as the ceremony itself."

With that, she swept from the room.

***

The temple was silent, save for the soft murmurs of whispered prayers. The golden glow of oil lamps flickered against the high stone walls, casting long shadows over the kneeling figures. Women of noble blood, wrapped in flowing silks, sat in perfect order—first the imperial family, then the aristocrats, each bound by centuries of tradition.

At the very front knelt Empress Venetia. Her hands were clasped in prayer, but her mind was elsewhere, sharpened by the weight of the empty cushion at her left.

To her left an empty seat remained.

The cushion beside the Empress was reserved for Princess Zephyrine, yet it remained vacant.

Just beyond the empty space sat Concubine Isolde, her expression carefully schooled, though the tension in her posture betrayed her frustration. Her dark eyes flickered toward the seat before returning to her prayer beads, fingers tightening around them. It was an open insult—for the princess to be late when the Empress herself had arrived on time.

To the right of the Empress, the emperor's sisters prayed dutifully, their expressions unreadable.

Beside Isolde, Lady Althea sat serenely, her delicate hands resting over her slightly protruding belly. The soft curve of her pregnancy was impossible to ignore. Though she appeared peaceful, she was not ignorant of the unease swirling around her.

Then, at last, the princess arrived.

Zephyrine entered the temple with measured grace, her gown trailing behind her. She did not rush, nor did she lower her head in shame for her lateness. Instead, she moved with quiet confidence, ignoring the subtle glances from the other women.

She lowered herself onto the cushion beside her mother, the place that had been waiting for her.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed the Empress's face—approval, perhaps, or amusement—but it was gone in an instant.

Concubine Isolde did not hide her displeasure. The princess's lack of urgency only confirmed what she had long suspected: Zephyrine took her position for granted, knowing that she would always be given the highest place no matter what she did. Isolde, who had fought for every shred of influence she had, found the privilege infuriating.

The prayers continued. The temple remained peaceful.

But the war had already begun.

***

The coming-of-age ceremony for Prince Zoltan was being celebrated with the utmost grandeur. The air was alive with excitement, as the people of Nexaryia, nobles, and royals alike, gathered to honor the prince's transition into adulthood. To mark the occasion, King Aurelius had donated a large sum of money to the citizens of the empire, along with a month's supply of food and clothing—gifts meant to bless the empire as a whole and to show his deep love and care for his son. In addition, the nobles were granted an extended holiday to enjoy the festivities, further elevating the sense of celebration.

The ceremony itself was nothing short of magnificent. The royal family and their extended relations arrived from every corner of Nexaryia. The Emperor's eldest son, Prince Emrys, came with his mother, Concubine Isolde. The Emperor's three sisters, along with their families, also made the journey from distant lands and everyone was eager to witness the sacred event.

Inside the ceremonial hall, Prince Zoltan sat proudly on a high throne-like chair, surrounded by holy priests dressed in ceremonial robes. Behind him stood statues of the gods of Nexaryia, their carved faces watching over the proceedings. Before him, a sacred fire burned brightly, its flames dancing as the head priest carefully placed various offerings into it, each one symbolizing a prayer to the gods.

All the men of the empire—Emperor Aurelius, Prince Emrys, dukes, counts, and other esteemed nobles—stood below the prince, their hands clasped together in reverence as they prayed. With the sound of holy chants, a solemn and powerful atmosphere hanging over the room.

The head priest then approached Zoltan, sprinkling holy water over his head and body as he uttered sacred verses to cleanse him from all evil. The prince stood still, his expression calm and composed as the holy water dripped from his brow. As the priest completed his prayer, the Emperor rose to speak.

"Is the sacrificial animal ready?" the head priest inquired, turning to Emperor Aurelius.

The Emperor nodded, signaling to his soldiers to bring forth the animal. Moments later, a large, majestic bull was dragged into the hall. Despite the efforts of ten soldiers, the animal struggled fiercely, its hooves scraping the stone floor as it resisted the tug of the chains.

Prince Zoltan, watching the scene unfold, frowned. The soldiers forced the bull to its knees before the throne.

Before the Emperor could speak again, Zoltan's voice cut through the tense silence. "No," he said firmly, stepping forward. "This is unnecessary."

The crowd, including the Emperor and the priests, was taken aback. Zoltan's voice was unwavering as he turned to face his father. "The gods do not need blood to be pleased. There is another way."

The head priest's face darkened. "Your Highness, the ceremony will be incomplete without the offering of blood to the gods. It is the way of our ancestors. The ceremony is sacred."

But Zoltan was resolute. His gaze swept over the crowd before settling on the bull. "I will not kill this creature to appease anyone," he said, his voice carrying authority.

Prince Emrys, ever the skeptic, sneered. "How typical of you, Zoltan. Too cowardly to kill an animal for the gods. A true prince would not hesitate."

Zoltan walked slowly toward the bull, its struggle subsiding as his calm presence seemed to soothe it. He placed a hand gently on its head, murmuring to it softly as if to comfort the animal. The bull, sensing the prince's sincerity, stilled under his touch.

Turning to the Emperor, Zoltan said, "If the gods need blood, let it be mine." Without waiting for a response, he took a short knife from one of the soldiers and, with a swift motion, sliced his palm open. The blood flowed freely, dripping into the sacred bowl used for offerings.

Zoltan did not stop until the bowl was filled. His face remained stoic, though the effort was visibly draining him. The head priest, still stunned by the prince's actions, took the bowl and poured the blood into the sacred fire. The flames blazed higher, the offering completed.

The room remained silent and the Emperor looked on, his pride for his son mingling with a deep sense of wonder. This was not the act of a coward, but a prince who sought a different path, one of personal sacrifice over tradition.

As the fire flickered and crackled, the priests continued their chants, and Zoltan stood tall. His coming-of-age ceremony, marked by an act of true devotion, would never be forgotten.