In a kingdom bathed in perennial snow and moonlight, where the moon is always out and the sun is a myth from foreign lands, the king grows ill.
"Seraphiel, you must pay attention and keep your head out of the clouds and in these workbooks," his tutor languidly remarks as the boy, no older than sixteen and no younger than fourteen, sits in evident reverie at the table.
"Oh no, I was just considering what you just said, yes, the… royal light."
"You ought to pay more attention. You know you are the sole heir after the king passes, and his lurgy this time around is serious. Lest you become a ruler by circumstance without being fit, the crown will not give its guidance to you. Here, it is royal rite, not light."
The tutor slams a leather tome in front of the lad. Seraphiel squints his remaining eye at the dusty old cover, stained with a dry, coppery liquid.
"There are three tiers of royalty in Cairnreach: the nobles, the royal auxiliaries, and royalty. These titles aren't given out arbitrarily. There is an order. A selection."
Seraphiel glances toward his missing eye and frowns.
"Our ancestors, the founding fathers of Cairnreach many moons ago, made a Faustian pact. They asked for the moon's veil over the kingdom and the snow as its dressing. They regarded beauty as the highest pleasure."
"Do you know what was taken in exchange?"
"Yes," the boy replies flatly. "A defining human feature."
"How's that!" the tutor exclaims, overjoyed. "In exchange for the beauty of their kingdom, the hidden bargain was their own beauty not just in appearance, but in human essence. No one of blessed lineage is a whole human. They are all missing something."
Perhaps it was a poor choice of words. Seraphiel snickers, squinting at his tutor with a strange expression, one the man does not notice.
"Who did they even make this deal with?" Seraphiel asks. "Who would make a deal without knowing what they were offering?"
"We don't know what the deal was made with," the tutor answers. "But it worked, and that seems to be enough. We do know, however, that the crown or the one who sends its orders through it is perhaps the same entity."
That is enough history for the boy. He is far too concerned with his father's illness. It is not known what part was taken from the king, but a scar across his abdomen reveals that the offering was internal. Not a missing digit like a noble, nor missing teeth like a royal auxiliary, something deeper, a sign of rank.
The king was always frail and sickly, but now his time is surely near. Constant fevers. Loss of consciousness. Seizures. Foaming at the mouth. He has little time left.
An heir is necessary, and they needn't wait long.
A man, frail and lacking all five senses, emerges and slides a letter across the classroom floor. The tutor picks it up and reads.
"The king is no more."
So suddenly, so abruptly, the funeral procession is held.
Seraphiel sobs with remorse, fear, and regret. He is now in uncharted territory. As a boy, he is not fit to do the crown's will. Even as the blood heir, he is nothing but a pawn.
Pacing his room, hands gripping his head, he cries, "What a wretched curse, beauty for the kingdom while we lose our most valuable possessions. All to become pawns of the crown at best, our lives disposed of. I would rather be a commoner, keeping all faculties and living a life of my own choosing. This royal façade is something no one would truly desire."
Later, Seraphiel shudders as he approaches the king's chambers, where the crown rests on a pillow, awaiting the blood heir to wear it and receive its commands.
A light tap touches his shoulder. The frail, mute man presses a letter into his hand.
"This is the new king's chambers. You cannot enter without his permission."
"What are you talking about?" Seraphiel snaps. "That's me. I am the new king, the sole heir. Get out of my way."
He barges past him and storms inside, terror barely concealed.
Before him, seated on the throne with his back turned, is a figure wearing the crown. The room is cold. The air is stagnant, as if long unoccupied. Seraphiel feels a deep loneliness he cannot explain.
This should not be possible. Only an heir can wear the crown. Otherwise, it tightens, burns, cleaves, curses, it kills the usurper.
Guards seize him, dragging him from the chamber and throwing him into the castle courtyard.
"What is going on? How dare you touch me!"
"The king, no, the crown has granted your wish," a guard says. "You are no longer a royal. You are now a commoner."
They kick him onto the streets. "No commoners on the grounds," they snigger, locking the gates behind them.
A parade celebrates the new king's coronation. Few seem to care about the former king's death.
Seraphiel looks around, alienated. Colours he has never seen. Smells he has never smelled. Sounds he has never heard. He was a stranger in his own kingdom.
A man emerges onto a balcony, plain-faced, uncrowned.
"A message from the king," he announces. "Delivered through his representative. He thanks you for your jubilation. Custom calls for a banquet, but the king has informed us of a shortage of mead, bread, and meat. This is unfortunate, but the crown knows best."
The crowd falls silent. Disappointed murmurs ripple through the square.
People begin to notice the one-eyed boy standing among them.
Seraphiel knows the lie. In Cairnreach's cold rooms, food never spoils. Stockpiles are kept for this very occasion.
A dishonest king is nothing unusual. But the crown does not lie. A king does not defy its traditions without consequence.
This has never happened before.
"A final note," the representative continues. "The king calls for volunteers to advance medical research. One hundred crowns a year, with lodging in the guard dormitories."
"What are you talking about?" Seraphiel shouts. "Guards sleep where they stand. There are no dormitories!"
"Shut it," the crowd roars as eager youths rush the gates, desperate for this miraculous offer.