“What is this place?” I ask.
“This is where our merchants lived,” Ophelia explains. “When they died trying to sell their wares in the city, their families they left behind tried to rekindle the businesses, but bandit groups have thwarted their efforts. Their homes have been ransacked and destroyed, and most of the families have fled or died.” Ophelia shakes her head. “The crime rates have risen astronomically since the civil war has begun. Everyone is scrambling just to survive. The only reason our village hasn’t suffered total collapse is because I’ve organized our people and sent teams to Derrigard to buy food and split it equally among our people.”
“You’ve done exceedingly well. I know my fellow aristocrats back at home would have never pulled together like your village has. You must be a strong leader,” I remark.
Ophelia turns to give me a grateful smile. “I appreciate the praise, but I am not worthy of it. The people of Krasta have always valued empathy and community above all. For our capital to break out in civil war is an act we Krastans hold in the lowest regard. The lack of consideration for our fellow countryman is criminal, in our eyes. For them to take each other’s lives over a petty fight is even more unforgivable.”
Ophelia’s expression darkens, the warmth in her eyes running cold as she takes me down a side street and stops at the end. When I see the field before me, my eyes fly wide, and I scarcely avoid dislodging the contents of my stomach.
There are grave markers as far as the eye can see. Clusters of them. Some are proper gravestones, with family insignias and surnames placed side by side, but most of them—notably, the most recent ones—are only makeshift wooden stakes, likely carved out of tree branches, with barely legible names and dates inscribed into them. There are at least two hundred of them scattered across the field.
“Gods above,” I breathe. “What is this madness?”
“This is the result of our nobility’s ultimate sin,” Ophelia says quietly. “They have turned their back on their community, and for that, the gods will show them no mercy when they pass on. But until they meet their fates, we must suffer in the wake of their treason.”
I walk among the gravestones in a daze, my head so fuzzy I can’t pull all my feelings into coherent thoughts. I brush my fingers across the wooden stakes, trying and failing to read the names of the deceased, my chest tightening with every forgotten, nameless soul buried beneath my feet. The only meaning in their sacrifice is to return what meager energy they possessed to the earth.
I pause before a cluster of five wooden stakes, these bearing more legible names. I kneel beside them, staring at the small mound marked by the stakes, my hands shaking unexpectedly as I run my hands through the grass that has already grown tall over the burial site.
“That was one of the families of our merchants, the Kuralacs,” Ophelia murmurs. “They were robbed in the middle of the night. The eldest son tried to defend his family, but he was slain, and the house set ablaze. He was only sixteen. His mother died holding the three younger daughters in her arms as the house collapsed overhead. There was nothing any of us could do; it was the middle of summer, and we had to run long distances to fetch water during that dry season.”
I find myself clutching the grass in my hands, the strands threatening to break as I squeeze my hands tighter and tighter. The pure, unadulterated hatred searing through me is powerful enough to ignite a fire. My heart rate is up so high, I can barely feel it beating anymore.
Innocent people have died. Children have lost their lives. And what has Krasta done for their people?
They’ve stood by, watched them suffer, and carried on with their petty political games. I’ll bet some of them even laughed.
I can’t stand by. This is beyond inhumane; this is animalistic, sick, and demonic, and those are the nicest terms I can use. I don’t find many things worth my time, but those who are willing to step on innocent, hard working people to get what they want set my blood to boiling.
“Ophelia?”
“Yes?”
“I have something to say.” I stand up, turn around to face her, and look her dead in the eyes, my hands balled into fists at my sides. “As the future King of Celestia, I will do everything within my power to make these bastards pay. Your nobles will pay for this, with their bodies, with their money, with their families, and even their blood, if need be—even if it’s the last thing I do.”
A tear runs down Ophelia’s face. With her jaw set, she gives me an approving nod.
“Thank you, Aurelio. I look forward to it.”
I look back across the field one more time, taking in the damage. Before, I thought I could take a backseat, do whatever I want, and leave everything to my queen. Now, I know that there are detrimental implications of complacency in royalty. I will never allow myself to become the careless royal. I will give my people everything I have, even if it kills me, if only to see them smile. I can take vacations as much as I’d like in peacetime, but until I know that each and every person in my kingdom and my ally’s kingdoms are safe, healthy, full, and happy, I will not rest.
Prince Aurelio will not be the backseat deadbeat patriarch of Celestia.
He will be the benevolent ruler that takes care of his own.
Right as we start the journey out of the graveyard, I see a pair of people round the corner of a nearby house and walk up the side street toward us. It’s Daelia, and there’s a child with her, a little boy no older than seven. Although he’s on crutches, his legs shaking with every precarious step, he skips along beside Daelia, grinning giddily.
“Come on! I want you to meet my dad!” he laughs.
I get a sinking sensation in my gut as he says that. Sure enough, I stop to watch in utter horror as he leads Daelia to one of the makeshift burial mounds, kneels before it, and says a quick prayer to the gods.
“Dad, I’d like you to meet someone,” he says, the carefree grin still etched into his face. “This is Daelia, my new best friend. She’s the Hero of Celestia. She saved our village, and she’s going to come back with a bunch of other heroes to help us out! Isn’t that cool?”
Daelia smiles at him warmly, gives his shoulder a squeeze, and then kneels down to pray beside him.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Sir,” she says. “You have a beautiful, kind son.”
“Dad used to farm with my mom in the fields,” the boy says. “He would come home every day all sweaty and gross and give mom a hug just to make her laugh. He liked tossing apples with me and teaching me how to shoot a bow, and he said he would teach me how to hunt when I turn eight, but now my mom’s going to teach me.” The boy turns to beam at Daelia. “He would have loved you. You know how to do all sorts of cool things!”
