The heavy oak doors of the dining hall swung open, and Akira stepped inside. The air was warm with the aroma of freshly baked bread, roasted meats, and the faint tang of brewed tea.
At the head of the long polished table sat King Masadora, posture as rigid as the sword that once made his name legendary. Beside him, Queen Reika carried herself with her usual poise, her hands moving with effortless elegance as she raised her cup of tea.
To the king's right, Crown Prince Ryouma, Akira's elder brother sat in silence, already halfway through his meal, his every movement sharp and disciplined. Across from him sat a smaller figure, her silver utensils glinting under the chandelier: Princess Yuna, Akira's younger sister, whose curious eyes seemed to brighten the otherwise solemn atmosphere.
Akira walked quietly to his place, the empty chair beside Ryouma, and took his seat. A servant immediately placed a plate before him, the dishes arranged with flawless precision, eggs, toast, a delicate cut of steak, and a small assortment of fruit.
The family ate in silence, broken only by the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain. Conversation was rare during these meals. To dine in the Yagami household was as much a display of etiquette as it was nourishment.
Akira matched their pace, every gesture measured, every bite practiced. He had long since grown used to the suffocating elegance of palace dining, though a part of him still longed for the carefree meals of his past life.
When the plates were cleared and only glasses of water and tea remained, Akira dabbed his mouth with the folded handkerchief placed neatly at his side. He set it back on the table, mirroring the quiet finality of his brother's movements.
It was then that King placed his glass down with a deliberate motion. His gaze, sharp and steady, swept across the table.
"Today," he said, his deep voice filling the hall, "is no ordinary day."
Ryouma straightened at once, his disciplined nature showing even in the smallest gestures. Yuna tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. Akira, though outwardly calm, felt the weight in his father's words settle heavily in the room.
"There are many matters at hand," Masadora said, his eyes steady, sharp. He allowed the silence to stretch, heavy and deliberate, before his gaze shifted toward his sons. First to Ryouma, who met it with the calm certainty of an heir. Then to Akira, whose face remained neutral, though the weight of his father's stare pressed against him all the same.
"Matters," the king repeated, "that will shape the future of Yamatozia."
The words settled, final and immovable, like stone. No further explanation came. Instead, the scrape of his chair against the floor signaled the end of breakfast, and the servants moved in perfect rhythm to clear the remnants of the meal.
---
The palace courtyard was alive with activity. Horses, brushed until their coats gleamed, stamped their hooves impatiently. Guards in ceremonial armor lined the stone steps, their polished helms catching the morning sun. Beyond the gates, the murmur of the gathered crowds swelled like the distant rush of waves.
Akira adjusted the cuffs of his formal attire as he stepped out into the light. The weight of the occasion pressed on his shoulders, but his expression gave nothing away. Ryouma was already there, speaking briefly with the captain of the guard, his every movement precise and assured.
A groom led forward two horses, their bridles adorned with silver, black and crimson — the colors of Yagami's line. Akira took the reins of his mount, resting a gloved hand against its neck before swinging into the saddle with practiced ease.
The horns sounded. Deep, resonant, echoing across the city.
The great gates of the palace opened, and sunlight spilled across the stone road beyond. On either side, citizens of Yamatozia gathered, their voices rising in cheer as the royal procession began.
First came the guards, their armor gleaming as they marched in perfect formation. Then the nobles, riding with practiced dignity. And finally, the princes.
Ryouma rode at the forefront, posture flawless, gaze set forward as though he bore the kingdom itself upon his shoulders. Akira followed at his side, offering a faint smile and a nod to the crowd, though inwardly his thoughts wandered.
The cheers, the banners waving in the wind, the endless sea of faces, it was meant to inspire pride. To Akira, it was little more than routine, another display of grandeur in a life that often felt scripted.
His eyes drifted across the crowd, catching glimpses of children waving flags, merchants shouting greetings, and townsfolk craning their necks just to catch a glimpse of royalty. There was warmth in their voices, a sincerity that tugged faintly at him despite his boredom.
Still, as he straightened his glasses against the morning sun, a single thought escaped him, unspoken beneath the smile he offered the people.
'This is going to be a long day.'
The parade wound slowly through the capital, the clatter of hooves ringing against the cobblestone streets. Akira kept his posture straight, though he could already feel the stiffness settling in his shoulders. Ryouma, unbothered as always, rode ahead with the ease of someone born for public ceremony.
Banners of red, silver, and black fluttered from windows and lampposts. Families pressed close to the barricades, cheering, waving small flags, and tossing petals onto the road. The air was thick with the scent of flowers and the crisp undertone of early morning air.
Akira responded with soft nods and polite smiles, the sort expected of a prince. His thoughts drifted as the parade moved forward.
At least the weather is good, he mused, adjusting his glasses as sunlight glinted on the lenses.
After nearly half an hour of slow procession, the path widened into the great square of the capital. Stone arches towered overhead, carved with scenes of Yamatozia's history — warriors, emperors, explorers, and finally, the symbol of their dynasty: a rising sun behind a lone sword.
A grand stage stood at the center of the square, draped in ceremonial red cloth. Rows of officials, nobles, and foreign guests filled the seats around it, their colorful attire forming a mosaic of cultures.
As the princes approached, attendants hurried over to take the horses. Akira dismounted, stretching his fingers subtly once his gloves were off. He followed behind Ryouma and their parents as they made their way toward the steps of the stage.
The crowd quieted gradually, a hush sweeping across the square like a wave. The king's presence commanded attention even before he spoke.
Akira took his position beside Ryouma, the two brothers standing a step behind their father as protocol dictated. Yuna stood beside their mother, her small hands folded neatly in front of her, her eyes wide at the sight of so many people.
A single gong resonated across the square.
Then King Masadora stepped forward.
"People of Yamatozia," he began, his voice deep, steady, and unmistakably authoritative. "Today, we honor not only our nation's founding, but the path we continue to walk together."
The crowd listened in reverent silence.
Akira's gaze wandered slightly, to the towering flags, to the rows of performers preparing for their turn, to the distant hum of cameras capturing the scene for television. He could already imagine the syndicated broadcasts the palace staff would rewatch tonight.
King Masadora's speech continued, filled with history, unity, and the ideals of their kingdom. Akira knew most of it by heart; it barely changed from year to year.
Then, at last, the king spoke the words that signaled the next part of the program:
"And now, let the celebration of our people begin."
A chorus of drums thundered to life. The square erupted with applause. Performers took their places, musicians readied their instruments, and dancers prepared for their routine.
Akira inhaled slowly, the familiar fatigue of ritual settling over him.
The day was only beginning.