The king returned from the Ground, his steps heavy as he headed back to the Manor, a pristine white fortress that stood stark against the crimson flags fluttering in the wind the banners of his rule over this sector. The red flags were a symbol of authority and fear, a reminder that in the Deadlands, loyalty and power were the only currencies that mattered.
Inside, a woman sat in her office, quietly sipping tea, her posture composed as though nothing in the world could disturb her calm. A man entered, bowing slightly as he handed her a folded letter. She took it, unfolding the parchment carefully.
The king strode into the room, shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto a nearby chair. His gaze briefly flicked to the woman before returning to his office.
"Jacob sent his message," the woman said, her voice even, keeping her expression unreadable. "He has finally become the third Sovereign."
The king arched a brow, not particularly impressed. "Oh? Is that so?"
"Well," she continued, sipping her tea with delicate precision, "that's not really why I called you here. You may take as many wives as you wish, it's none of my business."
"Shit yourself, Lola," the king muttered, irritation evident in his tone, as he left the office to make his way toward his own chambers.
A waiter approached, bowing as he handed the king a small cup. "Your drink, my Sovereign," he said.
The king lifted the cup to his lips, only to cough violently, blood staining the rim. His hands trembled, shaking uncontrollably as Lola walked in, concern flashing across her face.
"Another symptom," she said softly, her voice betraying worry. "It seems to be getting worse each day."
"It seems so," the king replied, his tone subdued.
"You need to rest," Lola urged, stepping closer. "Let Ryan take the reins for some time."
"Is that so?" the king muttered, rolling a pill between his fingers, unease settling in his chest.
"We have talked about giving him some responsibility. We cannot let him goof off all day," Lola pressed, her voice sharp and keen.
"So that's what you came here for using my illness as an excuse?" the king responded, his voice edged with suspicion.
"He is your only heir," Lola said calmly, "and he must be ready to succeed you when you give up your crown."
"As I've said before, power in the Deadlands is not inherited. It is taken," the king said firmly.
"Is that so?" she countered, her eyes cold yet calculating. "Perhaps you want him to kill you in your sleep, or cut off your head, or poison your heart one day? That would suit you well, right?"
"I wish he could," the king admitted quietly, almost to himself. "I've tried to shape him into a man worthy of my crown… yet he cannot even become a Razor. How could he ever succeed me?"
"Perhaps you should try harder," Lola said, leaning slightly closer. "He is your blood, your only son the one you can truly boast about."
"Yeah," the king said, shaking his head, frustration and sorrow mingling in his expression. "He is my son, I never said otherwise. But we both know, deep down, he doesn't have what it takes to survive in the Deadlands."
"After everything that boy has sacrificed to earn your favor even though he failed the Razor trials he has done his best. I will not allow you to abandon him again, as you did in the past. I know he is still only seventeen, but I will not let you forsake him," Lola said, her voice steady, unwavering.
The king remained silent, staring at the crimson flags through the tall windows, the weight of his empire pressing down on his shoulders.
"I just wanted to say this," Lola continued, straightening her posture. "I have no ill will against that boy, Sunny. But I hope you are not thinking of making him your successor. Think it well, for I will take my leave."
With that, Lola turned and walked out of the room, leaving the king alone with his thoughts, the pill rolling silently between his fingers as he contemplated the future of the Deadlands, the Razor prodigy who had already made waves at seventeen, and the fragile balance of power that seemed to teeter on the edge of every decision.