Long Live the King
T he entire kingdom had gathered around the castle of Dana. Fae and humans alike clustered together to look up at Prince Valerio as he stood before them all in his best robes. His cutting features glared furiously across the crowd. They looked up at him, some stoically, some smiling. He could feel the eagerness vibrating through them as he slowly knelt to the ground and bowed his head low.
He had lived through this once before. Back when he had assumed his father had died. Back when he’d taken up the mantle of King Regent, hoping against all odds that his father was alive. He’d thought his father dead once. It had cleaved him from the inside out, but that was absolutely nothing compared to what he was feeling right then.
He’d lost his father twice, and the second time was no easier than the first.
It was harder, because this time he could not even hold onto the feeling of hope that he really was alive. Not when he had seen his father’s head dangling from Weylyn’s fingertips. Not when he had seen the way his body slumped against the throne. Not when he’d seen his own reflection in the pool of blood at his feet.
His father was truly dead.
And he could not help but wonder that maybe he’d been the one to bring it into existence. He had grown angry at his father for taking Valerio’s conquests as his own and shunning Valerio at every turn. There were moments when he wished he was king still, so he could rule their subjects. So he could no longer face the scrutiny of the Fae who had done nothing but hate him since his birth.
But now that he’d gotten his wish, he did not know how to contend with that fact. He could not rejoice, for rejoicing in his coronation would mean being glad at his father’s death.
And if he felt that, then what type of monster would that make him? Was he as much a monster as his father? For he had seen Weylyn’s memories. He had felt the other Fae’s pain as though it were his own. He had seen his father laugh cruelly as they struck down a young Unseelie woman. He had witnessed the cruelty for himself.
He had always known something monstrous lived and breathed within his father. He had witnessed it himself. In the snap of whips against his back, against Uric’s. It had lived in those cutting words, in the hatred that had oozed from every pore.
He had been a hateful, cruel Fae. He’d killed without remorse. An evil had lived and breathed within his body. Valerio had known of its existence, but sometimes he tried to remain ignorant to its extent. Until he was faced with the cruel reality of what he’d done. Of who he’d hurt. And the lengths Weylyn had gone through to get his revenge.
Swallowing that truth was not easy.
He barely heard the traditional words that echoed through the kingdom of Dana, but he did feel when the crown was placed upon his head. It seemed to weigh him down, the expectations of it, but how he’d come to earn it was an even greater burden that he did not want to contemplate.
He held his breath as they told him to stand.
He did as he was told, staring down at the subjects with tears burning behind his eyelids and hatred overflowing in his heart.
“Long live King Valerio Ashera!”
“Long live King Valerio Ashera!”
There were claps and cheers and there was celebration, but Valerio’s own mood was a somber, dead thing.
He was king now, and his crown could not be taken from him by anyone.
So why did Valerio feel so dead inside?